Mad Love

Chapter Two: Infiltration

"...What...the fuck?" Beetlejuice grumbled, rubbing his aching skull as he found himself face-down on the floor at his place. He idly watched a cockroach scurry across the carpet, angrily slamming his hand on the unfortunate creature and devouring it whole.

Spitting a particularly unsavory leg out, he stumbled to his feet, in complete awe of how he actually made it home in one piece. The last memory he had was of being in the bar way too late, when only the pathetic, depressed old dudes were in there (Wait, was he one of those ? Nah, no way!). And there was that chick - not the half-cooked bitch - the really hot one! He remembered watching her play the piano for the longest time, and she saw him, and...Why did she look so damned familiar? Maybe she'd be back there tonight?

Swiftly deciding to further investigate that matter in the night hours, he turned his attention to his ever-evolving plans to get out. He grabbed his trusty old newspaper, hoping for some fresh new stiffs to dawn the obits again. He hadn't been on the prowl in quite some time, and he had the itch. Perhaps he could offer up his services like he did last time, and maybe even strike that deal with a more willing breather while he was at it - one that wouldn't leave his ass to get devoured by a freakin' sandworm.

Hopefully the bargain would go better than it did with Poe's daughter - the lyin' little hag! If past experiences were the judge of future ones, he determined that he was royally fucked. Not that he hadn't tried again by any means necessary to be summoned. He tried picking on the weak ones, and since the kid hadn't worked out, he tried to go the opposite route.

He remembered invading the dreams of that old woman and letting his name slip into her subconscious. Of course, he didn't take into account that she was senile as hell, and spent nearly a month barking his name out in continuous bouts. One day he'd been popped into and out of earthly existence eighty-four fucking times! Eighty-four! It was a damned good thing he was already dead! He had to sneak back into her dreams and replace it with another word, and then Nana's grandchildren wondered why in the hell she screamed the word dildo consecutively for hours. Oh, the look on the parent's faces when they had to explain (or perhaps figure out) why granny decidedly chose that particular word. Ah, the living - so easy to manipulate!

Of course, however humorous that was, it didn't get him any closer to being hitched to a breather. Granny couldn't keep her trap shut long enough for him to coax her into the deed.

Then there was that weird-ass fortune teller chick. He thought she'd be crazy enough to succumb to the idea, but she couldn't get it out of her head that he was the spirit of none other than the King of Rock n Roll, reaching out to her from the great beyond. Crazy broad, that one - had that wierd obsession with Elvis - with the snow globes and the collector's plates and shit. That didn't pan out in the least.

There were other attempts, all equal amounts pitiful and painful, and yet the little goth chick had come the closest to sealing the deal with him. Just a few more seconds - mere seconds - and he could've been free! He cringed internally, gripping the newspaper tightly in his fists, still feeling the sting of over a decade ago. She was damned lucky ole' Babs intervened, and thus was the center of most of his rage. Adam, too - that pussy whipped dweeb! Of course, though most of his animosity was geared toward the two unfortunate Maitlands, he still had plenty left over for little what's her face.

Lydia was the name, he recalled briefly. Recently, he tried finding her and paying her a little visit. He'd searched everywhere he figured her type would dwell - weird underground nightclubs, seances, cemetaries, the morgue. Much to his distaste, he had yet to find the little twit. Even more to his distaste, he had yet to scare the living shit out of her.

Truly, though, he had not the slightest clue where the girl, or likely woman (she was grown by now, right?) had taken off to. Outside of her former home in Winter Rivers, he really didn't know where to look. Not that he cared or anything, he was simply curious to what happened to that chick that still technically owed him one. And if said chick was to be found, then she really would owe him. And, of course, she'd have to pay up.

"Well, well, well..." Beetlejuice snickered, his thoughts brought back to the present by a shiny new obituary. The man was middle aged and portly, complete with glasses and a plaid shirt. Perfect. Another dweeb. Pathetic! Probably completely out of touch with any haunting capabilities he possessed. "Gerald Lunder..." he chuckled, scheming to himself. "Well, well, ole' Jerry...You've been dead a good week or two...Maybe you have some unwanted visitors by now, eh? And you sure as hell ain't scarin' 'em out, are ya?"

Beetlejuice slung the old newspaper carelessly to the side, greedily rubbing his grimy hands together at the thought of another chance to have a little fun. A lit cigarette formed in the air over his head, as he snatched it up, taking a long, satisfying drag. He slowly let the smoke leave his lips, forming a skull in the air, while he took a shot of whiskey. "Yeah, that's it...Gotta get warmed up..." Of course, he wouldn't meet one-on-one with the nerd until he planted those blessed seeds of desperation first.

Gerald Lunder wiped beads of cold sweat from his forehead, attempting to read the Handbook for the Recently Deceased. His old apartment, which had once been a quiet, peaceful retreat for his frequently frayed nerves, was now nothing short of a madhouse. In record time, Gerald had died from a heart attack, his belongings vacated and his former appartment cleaned, with the new arrival of the present company.

Two college-aged girls had moved into this modest appartment (most likely the rent was cheaper now since he'd kicked the bucket in there, he figured) and had completely been trashing the place. Gerald's once peaceful, quiet nights reading mystery novels were rudely interrupted by a steady flow of drunken parties, boys, and general debauchery that Gerald held no liking for in the least.

The only room that remained untouched was his small study - the room he'd died in. Fortunately, the two girls were too wary to set foot around that place, and for that Gerald was immensely grateful.

"Goodness, not again..." Gerald grumbled, sighing as the loud ringing of music and laughter began pulsing through the walls. "This thing is hard enough to understand as it is..."

Feeling defeated, Gerald laid the handbook down on his desk, deciding to go for a more entertaining read. He picked one of his many murder mysteries off of the desk, and firmly stuck his nose in the book, focusing very hard as to distract himself from the girlish squeals and unwelcome music. However, the power of drunken tomfoolery prevailed, sending him to throw his book on the desk in frustration.

"Ugh...Fine!" Gerald turned to a small, antique radio on his bookshelf, turning it on in hopes to drown some of the noise out with something more to his taste. Classical music filled the room, somehow overpowering the loud, obnoxious flow of sound from the other rooms. Funny, he thought, since when did that little old radio turn up so loud? He certainly never remembered it having such volume when he was alive. Perhaps it was an afterlife thing, he mused.

Gerald promptly composed himself, sitting on his comfortable chair and closing his eyes, allowing the soft embrace of the beautiful orchestra to relax him. That was, until the music began to distort and scramble, with a strange static buzzing through the old speakers.

"Hmmm..." Gerald quirked an eyebrow, attempting to tune the radio to a different station in hopes of fixing the nuisance. However, every station was the same, dead buzzing noise. "Ugh...I give up..." he finally admitted, rubbing his forehead in defeat.

Suddenly, the tuner began to move by itself, catching Gerald's eye. He startled, growing tense as his eyes grew wide. What was this? It finally stopped on a station, as booming big band music began to play from the speakers. Trumpets blared and drums beat swiftly, as Gerald heard someone clear their throat. Actually, it became more of a wheezing, hacking cough. Kind of unprofessional, he mused.

"Heya...This thing on?!" a strange, gravelly voice muttered from the speakers. "Er...Eh-HEM!"

Gerald listened, his eyes the size of saucers as the voice began, now turning from the rough, deep growl to a more soothing, refined sound.

"Have you recently experienced an untimely death? Terminal illness? Homicide?" the voice began, as Gerald, in awe, slowly nodded in hearing the words.

"Have you been living in sweet, solitary confines of your afterlife, only to be encroached upon by the living? Are you missing your peace and quiet?" the cultured voice calmly continued.

"W-what is this? How is this happening?" Gerald's brow furrowed, taking a step back from the radio.

"Whaddya mean how is this happenin' ole' Jerry?!" the voice suddenly became harsh and manic once more. "HAHAHA! You, my friend, are dead as a door nail! Know what I mean, Jer-"

"Wh-who are you? And my name is not Jerry, it's Gerald." he interrupted the ghostly voice, completely uneasy by the events taking place.

"Sure it is, Jerry! As far as me, well I'm glad you asked! I'm the ghost with the most! Introducing the afterlife's number one bio-exorcist! My services offer possessions, conjurations, incantations, apparitions, and out of body experiences! Licensed and recognized in the plane of the living, Limbo, Purgatory, and every single level of Hell! You want those horny, drunken chicks outta here? Well, I'll take 'em off yer hands, Jer! Hell, I'll take 'em any way I can get 'em, if ya know whaddimean! Heh, but all jokes aside, Jerry, I can scare the livin' hell out of 'em! You'll be back to the dweeby life of yer dreams, my boy! The only woman you'll have to look at is the kind you jerk off to in naughty books, son!" the manic, possibly homicidally insane voice bellowed out. Gerald could only gape in a mixture of disbelief and horror.

"Of course..." the voice began to calm down, as if holding back. "The ghost with the most understands that his customers need to have some space, relax, chill, take their time on makin' any decisions. Of course, I'll be here anytime! Day or night! Rain or shine! Just say the name three times, folks! That's the only way it works! Just remember Orion's right shoulder, second brightest star, and your cares will be scared away!"

Suddenly, the voice and the music came to a screeching halt as the radio clicked off. Gerald was alone, with nothing but the grating noise to keep him company. He licked his dry lips, seating himself while he wiped at the sweat beading on his brow once more. Anxiety licked at his insides - it did seem like a good idea to rid the house of those pesky intruders. But then again, whoever belonged to that crazy voice had to be just as loony as they sounded.

A small picture fell off the wall of the study, as a crash from another room jolted the wall. Gritting his teeth, Gerald browsed his collection of books, tracing his fingers on the spines until he found the one he wanted to take a look at. He opened the beginner's astronomy book, flipping through the pages until he stopped at the constellation Orion. He didn't feel quite brave enough to summon the madman on the other end of the radio, but Gerald didn't see the harm in learning his name.