Future Ghost Story

It’s snowing like a bastard outside and there’s nothing to do but make chili and pretend to be a stately yet perhaps slightly lonesome bachelor living retired in the woods, eternally grateful to the strong handsome and kindhearted lumberjack who comes by to chop wood and check that his neighbor is keeping warm, while often pausing work to enjoy the odd bit of conversation, cup of coffee, and hot meal (in this case chili).

Haha, this is glorious. Their interactions are so witty and entertaining to read, but also Montecinos is genuinely scary. I can just imagine the pin-drop moment after “Whose ASAP?” where Montecinos is perhaps contemplating the pros and cons of being a widower.

Can’t spell snow without “no”

On MIBs and federal shutdowns

With apologies to the 800k furloughed federal workers and gratitude to @ultimaromanorum for the concept and the twitter account.

“Fuck outta here!”

The Trashmagician’s eyebrows bounced on her head. She spread her fingers wide and fit the mouths of four beer bottles between her fingers, squeezing tight as she balanced the cheese plate on the other hand.

“Nec–”

“Invasion!” the Necromancer snapped, standing in the foyer with her hands on her hips. “Are you offering them aid and comfort?”

“They’re not hostile foreign actors, dude. Be cool.”

“I will not be cool! They’re in my living room!”

The pair of MIBs cast doleful looks from the armchairs. The one with the ponytail – the Trashmagician’s favorite – had dark circles under his eyes. The other one was wearing an Aloha shirt. Without the Vantablack sunglasses, both men looked extremely statistically average.

“There’s nowhere for them to go,” the Trashmagician said. “I’m just keeping an eye out for the sake of the community. Take a little pity on them. Worker solidarity, mate.”

“Snoopy interfering bastards,” the Necromancer seethed. “They can come back when they’ve got a– oh.”

“Yah.”

The Necromancer shifted her weight. “… s'pose DOJ is down, after all, aren’t they?”

“Yah.” The Trashmagician offered her one of the beers and walked into the living room. The Necromancer meekly trailed in her wake.

“You boys are non-essential?” the Necromancer asked.

“That’s classified,” said the MIB with the ponytail.

“It’s obviously not,” said the one in the Aloha shirt. Ponytail gave him a betrayed look. “Waiting to hear from the office if we have to work without pay, at present.”

“Fuckers,” said the Trashmagician. She held out a gherkin pickle like she was feeding giraffes at the zoo. Aloha Shirt took it and pushed it into his bottle of beer. “You think it’s going to happen?”

Aloha Shirt shrugged. “You two are still out making weird shit happen. That means there are still civilians to menace into silence. Figure we’ll hear from Atlanta any day now.”

“It’s classified.”

“Dude,” said Aloha Shirt.

“You’re not even wearing black,” Ponytail cried. “One paycheck and you lose all self-respect!”

“I’m going to have to sell off my grandma’s stamp collection! Hell no I’m not wearing the uniform!”

The Trashmagician and Necromancer both darted a glance downward. The MIBs were both wearing fed shoes. You could take the boy out of the farm…

“It’s an identity,” Ponytail snarled, “it’s a vocation. This is who I am – I was made for this! I can’t understand how you can go around in casual wear and act like you’re keeping it together!”

Aloha Shirt opened his top button. Ponytail threw a pickle at him.

“You weren’t snooping around here, were you?” the Necromancer asked. “When Our Lady of Merciful Beer Runs let you in?”

“That’s classified,” the MIBs said in unison.

“They weren’t,” the Trashmagician said. “I texted ‘em. Charleston doesn’t have a lot of federal workers and I didn’t think they’d be getting much backup from civilians.”

“Real decent of you.” The Necromancer ran her itinerary through her mind. She had a bidder coming over to look at an china cabinet at 2 and a bidder coming over to look at whatever was left of Joe’s last project at 2:45. Basement stuff. She’d just pull the door to.

She sat back on the sofa. “Holding pattern, then.”

“Pretty much,” Aloha Shirt agreed. “This’d be the moment for an uptick in spooky shit, but these days, who can tell what’s remarkable.”

“I hear that. Hey, be honest. Mitch McConnell’s actually one of Nec’s projects run loose, isn’t he?”

The Necromancer spat out her beer. “How dare you–!”

“You wanna know the dish?” said Aloha Shirt.

“His real name’s Addison,” said Ponytail.

“How is that not classified?”

There was a knock on the door. The Necromancer checked her wristwatch and got to her feet.

“Act like people for a sec, boys. I’m going to make a sale.”

But the bidder was not at the door. Instead there were three very small people and a hulking furry monster with a case of Corona Extra under one arm.

“No,” said the Necromancer.

“Clive vas tveeting about Sozzern hospitality,” said the Krampus.

“Clive?” the Necromancer demanded. In the living room, the MIBs gave her identical stone faces. “Damn it!”

“Since when do MIBs fucking tweet?” the Trashmagician asked. “Not cool, man.”

“He runs ze @alt_BPRD account.”

“But there’s no such—”

“Exactly,” said Clive. “People think it’s fic.”

“Your ass is class(ified) and I’m gonna redact it,” the Necromancer snapped. She turned back to the Krampus and the elves. “So what makes you think it’s okay to turn up with Christmas '18 not yet cold in its grave?”

“Ve haf had no pay since ze 22nd,” the Krampus said. “Zhere is nozzing for us to do at vork so zhey sent us home. Ve vere bored. D.C. is a ghost town.”

“Rosslyn’s worse,” said an elf.

“Can we please come and drink in your living room?” said another one. “Please? We brought a peace offering.”

“Maybe the last Coronas ve vill haf, if zhe Democrats cave,” said the Krampus.

The Necromancer drummed her fingers on the door jam. It was a fair point. “Hmm. I thought you like virgin’s blood.”

The Krampus shrugged. “If you haf got a little, I vouldn’t say no.”

“Where’s the wizard?”

“Vorking vizzout pay.”

“Just like a commie.” She stared them down a little longer, then sighed. “Curse this big heart of mine.”

“When’d you get that?” the Trashmagician asked.

“C'mon, then,” the Necromancer said, stepping aside. “Get in here.”

The elves jingled in. 

“Hey! Hats off when you enter a building. Who raised you?”