A Ghost Of A Chance

Disclaimer- All characters and events appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. Dedicated to Ghost: The host we love to hate to love and tolerate.

Chapter 1: True Capitalist

Ghost slammed his half empty beer bottle onto the table in rage.

“I am Goddamn sick and tired of you over feminised, fruit bowl ‘bronies’ phoning me up, okay!” he yelled down the microphone in frustration. “This is a serious show, assholes, and so help me God, If you phone this line one more Goddamn time, I will personally come to your house, beat your sorry ass, kick your dog, and drown your goldfish! YOU HEAR ME!” His face was turning purple from a mixture of aggravation and embarrassment. ‘What the hell do these people want from me?’ he thought sulkily. This was a serious radio show, and he got nothing but trollers, audio splicers and these freakin’ ‘Bronies’ calling in and making a damned fool of him. Constantly spamming him with stupid musical remixes of his voice, making Goddamned youtube videos of him sayin’ things he never said, and worst of all, accusing him of watching ‘My Little Pony: Friends are Adorable’ or some stupid shit. Well, he was just sick and tired of ‘em! They were all on his shit list! It was no wonder that America was being flushed down the crapper with douchbags like these around these days! Ghost removed his cowboy hat which he always wore without fail, and fanned himself with it. It was a boiling hot day, even for Texas standards, which was strange considering the fact that it was steadily approaching Christmas.  “Get somebody else on the line, Goddamnit!” he called angrily in to the engineer, receiving a slurred mumble in reply.  “Ok, who have we got here? (Jesus Christ.) ‘Equestria4thewin?’ You’re through to Radio Graffiti.” Ghost listened down the line at complete silence for a few seconds. “Okay, you’re taking too Goddamn long, for Christ’s sake. Who else we got...?” He was interrupted by a sudden burst of music from the other line.

‘You’re a mean one, Mr...’

The next word, ‘Ghost,’ had obviously been spliced into the song, replacing the word ‘Grinch’. Ghost’s anger exploded even before the first line had finished.  ‘Every Christmas, EVERY FREAKIN’ CHRISTMAS’ he burst out, uncontrollably, ‘Some stupid sack of crap plays that shit! I’m not a GRINCH, GODDAMNIT!” he swung his fist to the side in blinding rage, knocking over a large pile of cans that had conveniently been stacked in a pyramid formation beside his desk. The cans fell clattering to the floor, the crushing sound of metal meeting wooden floorboards. “I just hate Christmas! Every freakin’ year I got stupid asshole family members mooching presents offa’ me, people who don’t give a crap about me all year long suddenly pretending to be my friends!” The Texan felt his eyes filling up. “When was the last time somebody bought me a Goddamn present? Never!” his voice cracked slightly. He blinked away tears and continued. “Well, I’m not doing this bullshit anymore, you hear me?  Screw all you stupid Brony assnuggets, okay, ‘cos I’m outta here! I’m going on down to 6th street, right now!” He turned his mouth away from the microphone. “Engineer, let me outta’ here, for Christ’s sake!” The engineer removed his headphones and rose from the equipment he monitored, walking over to the door to the room which housed the angry Texan Capitalist. He twisted the bronze door knob, turning it one way, then the other.

“Huhmughuhnanana!” he called through the glass window.

“What the hell do you mean the door is jammed?” replied Ghost, somehow understanding the gibberish that the engineer had just mumbled.

“Mmmhunchnaganaga!”

“Goddamnit, engineer! Shove it up your ass!” he flung his hat off of his head and trampled it, jumping up and down upon it, swearing consistently. “Stupid Goddamned Bronies! Death to all Bronies, you hear me! This is all your fault, ya’ fruitbowls! Screw all of you! I’m gonna’...” he ceased his rant suddenly; his flushed red face twisted in confusion and horror. His breathing began to speed up, taking long, exasperated gulps, heaving heavily. His flailing arms instinctively grasped at his heaving chest, which felt as though it was burning up. “Huuuuuuhhhhh....huuuuuuuhhhh...” he gasped, sweat blinding him. He felt his heart fluttering around in his chest, beating uncontrollably and getting faster still.

‘Oh my God,’ he thought. ‘I’m having a heart attack.’

‘I’m going to die.’

‘I’m going to die.’

The engineer looked on helplessly through the small window in horror as Ghost began to stumble backwards and forwards in the small office, staggering blindly around the room and clutching his chest.

‘I’m going to die.’

‘Jesus Christ. I’m dying.’

Ghost suddenly felt extremely light, almost as though he was lighter than air. His eyes rolled back in his head as he felt himself falling backwards, directly into an awaiting pile of stacked cans, towering upwards toward the ceiling.

The last thing he saw was an avalanche of metal cans hurtling towards him.

And then...nothing.