It’s a 4am on a Tuesday morning. It’s dark and quiet as I tiptoe to the fridge to grab a Smirnoff Ice to help me sleep. ‘Fuck’ I say, as I trip over a chair. Then as I pick myself up, a creepy sound echoes from the bathroom. ‘Cooooome here,’ it says. Then again, ‘cooooome over here’. I start to shit myself. But as I grab the aforementioned chair to twat the intruder, I make out its face hovering above the toilet… fuck me: it’s the ghost of Notorious B.I.G!
Understandably, the shock of encountering Biggie’s ghost in my bathroom made me scream. Ghost Biggie just rolled his eyes and waited for me to man up. ‘Have yoooooou finished, you pussy?’ he asked. Bit harsh, I thought; but yes – I’d finished. ‘What are you doing here, Biggie?’ I asked. ‘Fancy a Smirnoff Ice?’. ‘I’m here to haunt that dick, Piers Mooooorgan, but thought I’d come say hello. And I’ve brought a couple of friends…’
Ghost Biggie gestures towards my bathtub. As I turn my head, two long-faced ghouls leap towards me, cackling. I scream and grab my hand-towel to whip the supernatural bastards, then realise… fuck me: it’s the ghosts of Tupac and Michael Jackson!
It’s 4.20am now, as me and the ghosts of Notorious B.I.G, Tupac and Michael Jackson take a stroll around Victoria Park – each of us with a Smirnoff Ice.
‘Tell me of the spirit world,’ I say. ‘Is there a God? Is there a heaven?’
‘It’s complicated,’ replies Michael, while, slightly off-puttingly, doing a ghost-moonwalk above my head.
‘It’s weird, homie’ says Tupac – still sporting that same vest and bandana he always used to wear, but with the bottom half of a ghost instead of legs. ‘But that’s just the way it is. Things will never be the same.’
As we turn the corner of the park, a couple are kissing on the bench. ‘Check this out’ says Ghost Biggie with a mischievous look in his eye. He flies over and glides past the face of the male kisser, prompting him to lift his head in shock. ‘Don’t worry, baby’ says the lady kisser. ‘It’s just wind, it’s not my boyfriend or anything!’ They both start to laugh until WHOOSH! Ghost Biggie swoops right into their faces! They both scream and clamber over the bench. The man trips on his jeans, which were slightly unfastened, most likely for handjob purposes. She helps him up and they run off into the distance, terrified, crying and confused; as the ghosts of Tupac and Michael cackle loudly next to me.
‘You evil bastard, Biggie’ I say. ‘You really are notorious.’
The three of us walk and talk for some time, debating some of the big moments on earth that have occurred since their untimely deaths: Obama, the Olympics, Kim Kardashian’s arse selfie – all of it. We enjoyed each other’s company as if there was no physical or spiritual barrier between us. We may have only known each other for a couple of hours, but in a way – these ghosts of famous people were my friends. But as we finished our Smirnoff Ices and the two bottles of wine we bought from the Texaco garage, the time came for us to say goodbye.
‘Good luck scaring that bell-end Piers Morgan,’ I say. ‘Thanks homes,’ Tupac replies. ‘You guys should come visit it us one Friday night at The Dolphin, you’d love it.’
‘We’re there every fucking Friday,’ replies Ghost Biggie. ‘The Dolphin heals the world,’ adds Michael, ‘it makes it a better place. For you and for me and the entire human race.’ I nod in agreement. And with that, they’re gone.
On my walk home, a freak gust of wind blows me into a hole. ‘FUUUUUCK!’ I cry as I fall deeper into the hole, ‘what the fuck is this hole?’. And then… I wake up. It was just a scary dream.
I go to my bathroom for a piss. And as I piss, the thought of Ghost Biggie scaring that couple makes me smile. What an awesome nightmare. I turn to wash my hands, and as I raise my head to look in the mirror… AAAAAAAAAARGH! The ghost of Nate Dogg is floating right behind me.
Happy fucking Halloween.
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