Ole’ Beetlejuice was absent this Valentine’s Day, off tom-cattin’.
Fightin’, fuckin’, gettin’ into trouble.
It was much like that vintage scene in the movie—Beetlejuice off waltzin’ up to the whorehouse. For even a dead guy can get “a bit stiff” and need to air-out his rotted libido at the adult side of town.
Whores, strippers—“Jerry Springer” land.
Or even the adult shop ON THE FAR EDGE of town.
Unsubtle, crude—that’s the way it works.
Or just adventurous, open-minded?
“We like to meet people. . . . .”
Such as it is on the cratered moon-scape of Brandy Station apartments.
People coming and going, the sound of cicadas out in the inert, sleepy parking lot. Nightlife is sitting scrunched in a bar until a stranger picks you up, you get “knocked-up”, and then you marry and divorce him—taking his money, his truck, and his life savings with alimony.
Sounds like trouble. . . . .
And there, a woman stands by the parking exit in a long strap-dress, her legs spread and her hair beating in the soft, muggy breeze.
A handful of pills—half a pint of booze. . . . . hundred million reasons why you were born to lose. . . . . .
“Someone could drive a drain up that pussy”, a bystander nods.
Commotion by the railing. . . . . . a sheepish boyfriend sneaking out of the house as his girlfriend yells at him.
“And take those filthy toys with you!”, as she flings a box in the street and dildos go rolling everywhere.
You see the high class of people, here.
Beetlejuice falls for a ransomware clickbait—“1001 nudes” in 10 minutes. Now his computer is locked up.
Unfortunate, because that’s where he does his new-fangled futures trading on the electronic stockmarket. Too late to cancel a trade—which he doesn’t really understand—and soon a delivery truck will pour a big pile of corn in front of his seedy residence.
And hog futures? Shortly into the future. . . . . a bunch of pigs squeal in the front yard and eat up the corn.
Seedy, bargain-basement dysfunction has he flips on the CB radio.
Among other things, truckers and whores speak in “code-talk” and a pair of women on a channel say they want “some Pepsi”, fading in and out of the whipsaw static.
And so Beetlejuice literally went driving to pick up some bottles of Pepsi soda and meet them on the side of the road. . . . . . but it all drifted out of range like a bad fart in the wind.
Sin town. . . . . sex-shops. The second-best option.
A disreputable palour of sin. Up front, a “no refunds” policy as he grumpy man in his fifties’ tries to return a “Chicks with Dicks” video. Why did he buy it? He thought they would encounter one, or something. He rages to the ceiling and throws the video box down before storming off to his car.
“Easy come, easy go” Beetlejuice figures.
The “group-rate”, back rooms for couples below the main floor of porno memorabilia.
Threadbare rooms, towel-dispensers, and a trash can. Happy hour!
Feelin’ frisky, dicks out of pockets as swingers and misfits sit around in a big circle-jerk.
Thumping boots, drawn guns. You never count on the Jefferson County’s Sherriff Department making a raid, just then.
Beetlejuice is handcuffed and laying face-down on the grungy floor. A public health hazard, as it is laying there. A threat to health, wealth, and morals. . . . . their faces will be run across the evening news, up on highway billboards to set a moral example to local commuters.
“You get what you pay for”.