Ouiji World

In a world full of fucked-off ghosts the living are just livestock.

In fuckin Ouiji World.

And so it was in 3333, the year of the fuck-off haunted feast.

Up till now I'd managed to duck and dive and stay out of those hungry fuckers way.

But they'd upped the ante. 

There was going to be a fuckin feast for phantoms.

A feast of people. Those of us who were still alive.

The ghosts were greedy bastards too. Not content with basically doing fuck all all day long, they couldn't stand the thought of us remaining mortals having fun. Oh no! We all had to be dead just to make those plasmic twats feel better.

OK, I grant you, the remaining million people were immortal. 

The tough fag-end of humanity. 

We were never going to die naturally. We'd never be spectres.

This really stuck in the ghosts' craw. I mean, c'mon, we were like the opposite of those dead beats, living life to the full - well some were - and as long as we weren't dismembered, drawn and quartered we'd live forever!

That's were those fucking jealous spectres came in. They just wanted us to lie down and RIP and worst of all, they were carnivorous.

Ghosts had become predators.

Like fuckin tigers at a seance, they prowled round us living dolls and when we weren't looking in our mirrors they'd pounce and eat us there and then.

Fuckin rotten apparitions that stank as well. 

Besides the stench, which varied from ghost to ghost, the only way to spot the fuckers was in a mirror. All mortals carried a head mirror giving front and rear views and every building was encased in mirrored glass. We basically lived on a planet of reflections and all those bastard mirrors played tricks on our brains to the point were we couldn't tell reality and reflection apart.

What we did know for sure that ghosts hate their mirrored selves and squirm like shit, making it real easy to spot them and get out of their way pronto.

The only places without the damn glass panels were churches. Ghosts can't abide the sacred gaffs and stay well clear. If you can get in a church you're well safe and if you can doss for a week all the better.

But first there's the graveyards. Fuck me, they're basically fuckin dorms for ghosts, fuckin hundreds, if not thousands, pretending to sleep in the graves. They couldn't give a fuck whose grave it was as long as they could bed down. Some preferred night haunting and some day so essentially graveyards were a no-go area the whole goddamn time.

Cemeteries were far worse, like bastard ghotels. I mean mega chock-full of the ecto fuckers, goddamn dead and breakfasts that no sane immortal would go near.

Yep, churches, chapels, altars, presbytery's, vicarages, cathedrals, hermitages, friaries, abbeys, nunneries, convents and priories were you're absolute best bet for a decent bit of unhaunted kip and three square meals which stayed down, away from those stinking phenomena cruising the streets. If you landed in a holy place with staff like a priest and some deacons you were laughing. That was like winning the lottery and staying in the Hilton, 'cause those righteous boys would treat you like fuckin' royalty for at least two weeks before you had to move out to let some other poor fucker live it up. God, how I loved those staffed bits of Heaven!

Anyways, those bastard ghosts could kill the million. Immortal or not, we could be ended through various unpleasant means, all inconveniently gruesome and dreadfully fuckin fatal. We were only immortal as long we weren't murdered by fuckin phantoms.

I was a good 250 years old, not bad by today's standards. When I started out  it was all hand mirrors and silver foil cadged from the houses of the dead, as I hid among the empty houses dodging the bullets from beyond the grave.

Nowadays, if you can afford it, it's mirrored Kevlar suits blessed by the Vatican with synced satellite reflectors to Segway round on. Basically a bubble of otherness for fancy rich fuckers to swan around in like pope mobiles.

Peasants like me make for the churches. Basically fuckin alter boys and choir girls daubing ourselves in holy water like it's fuckin Chanel. Makes life a lot easier running between the holies if we stink of religion. The dead don't pray no more and hate the smell. Like fuckin catnip for spectres. I'd shower on it if I could to stop those fuckin phenomena tripping me up and eating me whole.

That's the other problem. Holes. Ghosts ate you inside out by getting in through our fuckin holes. Ears, nose, mouth, dick, slit, arse. Even cuts were bad news. Get those fuckin lacerations bandaged up or you'll be nachos for the non-living before you can say salsa.

Sometimes it all gets too much for the peasants like me and the occasional sorry immortal saddo loses the plot and gives themselves up to the famished fuckin afterlifes. I've seen it happen. No holy water for days, no communion, no church wine, no Goddamn religious food of any kind and presto! Undress in a public park away from any mirrors, exposed the holes and bingo! You're cheese for the fuckin dead. It's a gruesome sight, ingested from within like a jellyfish supper. Jeez, not for me, no way.

Nope, I'm making my way to Italy. To the Vatican City. It's fuckin Holiday Inn for the living there. So fuckin holy that the bastard ghosts have nightmares about it. Yep, I'm seeking sanctuary in the holy see and I'll do whatever the Pontiff wants to get it.

Trouble is, I've cocked up. In my haste to get to Rome I've boarded a flight in a rush, not checking the passenger list first. God dammit, everyone else is dead already including the pilot and crew. It's a fuckin plane wreck reliving the the dream.

Pinching my nose from the stinking departed, I read the airline menu card.

The in-flight meal ...

For fucks sake!

It was me!