THE GHOST III

No longer confined to that JanSport (thankfully)—it smelled like burnt cabbage in there. Now, I’m being shipped in a FedEx box. My destination? No clue.

Some uniformed guy opened my box, probably suspecting a drug shipment. He took one look inside, saw my shiny bones, and noped outta there.

As a ghost, when my bones are scattered out and about voodoo-style, I can see everything from a cool top-corner-of-the-room perspective. Them’s phantom rules. But when I’m stuck in this infernal box? Nada.

I hear everything, though.

“You see this?”

“Are those bones?”

“They damn sure look like bones.”

“They look like a lot of paperwork, is what they look like.”

“Yeah.”

“Tape it up and push it through. I’ma take my shhhhmoke break. Back in ten.”

“Aight.”

I’ve been on planes, trains, and in the trunks of several automobiles. It’s been a journey. The devil—who surprisingly loves talking fast-fashion trends with anyone who will listen—keeps trying to coax me down, way down there with him.

Keeps telling me we’ll be “flat mates,” which had me all, the fuck? Satan’s British?

I always thought, like, probably German. German with a 7’8” goat-man aesthetic; motherfucker giving I Got Red Fur and a Lumpy Ass, But No One Gives Me The Straight Facts Cuzza Who I Am energy. You didn’t hear that from me.

Maybe it’s not the devil. Who’s to say there even is a devil? The voice in bolded red could belong to anybody! But maybe if I just give up and admit I led a shitty, immoral life, I’ll pass some cosmic test. I won’t transcend nor will I be damned; I’ll just blink out of existence and be free of the Purg at last.

I’ve been on the run

Drivin’ in the sun

Lookin’ out for number one

California here we come

I don’t wanna chance it. Imagine I go all repentant and then find myself back in ninth grade with my pants full of shit and cum after being tasered from behind, surrounded by fire and hate and gross body horror stuff? Sounds terrible.

The box life ain’t glamorous, but it beats eternal damnation.

STRONK, the man who drowned me and got away with it, didn’t even bother to give me a proper burial. Even my cousin Lowell, a reputed colossal scumbag, suggested cremation. But Godson misunderstood, thinking Lowell was talking about overcooking a steak, which STRONK quickly dismissed—he likes his meat bloody and rare.

For some reason, I was transferred to this box.

One day, I’ll have my chance to confront the man who did me wrong.

I keep hoping I can somehow Inception the idea in STRONK to hold a seance or fuck around with an Ouija board. Right after I transitioned, I tried to invade STRONK’s dreams. If I succeeded, his dreams are nothing but a black abyss. But I don’t know; I may not have passed through. Likely bounced off. I’ve gotten stronger in the weeks and months since, however; it may yet be worth another shot.

Wherever I’m headed, I only hope it’s in his direction…