Dispatches from the wilds of Proseambique – Moan

This is so bullshit. Everything today is all vampire-this or werewolf-that or, of course, zombies, zombies, zombies. Nobody remembers the ghosts. Think about it; when was the last time you saw a ghost movie? Or read a ghost book, or played a ghost video-game? I can answer that last one: it was god-damn Pacman.

Ghosts have been around for thousands of years. And I don’t mean as a concept; I mean some of them are individually thousands of years old. Do you know how hard it is for an Assyrian basket-weaver to adjust to a world of iPhones and microwave dinners? Vampires may moan about how hard it is to deal with immortality, but those lazy whingers rarely hit 300 before immolating themselves. And none of them ever come back as ghosts, either – which I suppose is actually one of the small mercies of the job.

And werewolves – ‘Oh, my life is a thinly-veiled allegory for the menstrual cycle! Woe is me!’ sack up, you babies. Your lives are practically normal.

As for zombies… well, I hate to break it to you, but they don’t even exist.

Not to mention the fact that these lazy dilettantes are all free to do whatever the hell they want. They’re not assigned the task of avenging their unjust death, or delivering a message from the beyond, or… trust me, you don’t want to know some of the batshit-crazy reasons some of us are still around. No, they get to just mince around in all-black or motorcycle jackets, doing whatever they feel like – they sure as hell don’t work for their unliving. They know nothing of the gnawing futility of trying to reveal a millennia-old crime that happened in a city no-one even knows existed, when the only language you speak has been dead almost as long as you.

And do you know how hard it is affecting physical change when you’re non-corporeal? Go on, try it. Just try and think that cup into your hand. It’s cool, I’ll wait. This is what your nights are filled with: hours of concentrated effort just to make a door slam, or a vase fall off a table. And if you do manage to go bump in the night, most people will just think you’re a cat, or the wind, or maybe if you’re lucky, a burglar. Just consider an eternity spent working with people who ignore your very existence – it’s almost as bad as working in retail.

So naturally, of course, ghosts form support groups. You get together and reminisce about the seance-craze of the mid 80’s and bitch about work… well, mostly you bitch; your fellow ghosts just float there, pointing wordlessly off into the distance. Occasionally they might let out a wooooooo, but you can never tell if they’re trying to say something, or just passing gas.

And that’s probably the worst thing about the job: the people you work with are all a bunch of fucking morons.

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Published in: on April 21, 2011 at 4:35 pm  Comments (2)  
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