He’s “The Ghost with the Most”– our favorite supernatural “flea-bag” and local character study in bargain-basement ignorance. What is he– the bone-collector, fly-by-night repair-man, or just a yard-sale fiend in search of prey– though he’s really “his own victim”. Gluttonous for slashed-prices, driving the truck on the way up the scratchy, tangled hill like the town weirdo, the discount table pervert you’d see sleazing his way around a flea-market as life is mildewed quilts, Elvis portraits, and dog-shit (– and not necessarily in that order).
Find a rotted rotisserie-chicken on the floor, warmed-over and “still good” as he scoops it off the floor and takes a bite– like some of the worse “home-visits” the city health department would take, neighbors down the hill complaining about the smell. You’ll find rags and bits of string and broken-down furniture of every description– as you don[t know whether to call the archeological society or maybe just pay to have it all hauled-off and burned.
You’d find Jimmy Hoffa’s body in there, maybe– or the Shroud of Turin– or old, funky electrical equipment (– think: Tesla coils) and other sort of farmer’s junk and spiritual medium’s equipment in every stripe of pseudoscience– crumpled, pickled bats in jars and maybe even a squashed, severed head mushed-up against the glass.
“What will you give me for this spread?”
Well, it’s more like the property’s been seized for back-taxes– and he owes them. Maybe bulldoze the whole house, under– built on the remains of an old Indian burial-ground and mashed-down even further and more miserably for accursed “bad karma” as a mean stench hangs over everything– and even the dog brushes its paw over its nose at this insult.
Shit happens, or “maybe just compost” with the black, reeking crud of history as beetles, lice, roaches, and rolly-pollies come slithering out of the ground– ashes to maggots, and decay into dust. . . . . shameless. Swimming through a sea of crushed, crinkling soda-cans and toward the front porch where Beetlejuice sits out there in his rocking-chair, telling stories to all who will sit down, cover their noses, and listen.
Do you know anyone who lives like this? Better call “the house-keeper” and turn this from becoming too much a mix of facts and fiction. Going so soon? Rummaging around for a beer, the refrigerator door falls off a hinge and betells of the starving writer’s lifestyle.
I’ve seen worse, and so probably have you. Excuseless– though it makes for a good yarn. But hey– are you going to keep that old couch? Beetlejuice will throw a sheet over it and make love to a stumpy, toothless hooker, straddling him and making this picture “look worse”. It’s life unto bargain-basement derangement– and you’ll find it frightening.
Until next time– or if the local townsfolk don’t show-up with torches & pitchforks, first. You’ve been a clean-crowd.