Death Wish

Chapter 7

Turns out "Bob's idea" isn't one to put much confidence into. His "idea" of where Mikey is . . . is where all of the other ghosts spend their time.

I make a face at the wooden sign that hangs over the entrance to a rickety old bar. Cars and bikes are crammed all around to get into the pit stop that hardly seems above average.

"The Drunken Damned." I say skeptically.

"It's where everyone goes." Bob says.

Great. All of this work for the Dead Universe's dumbest piece of advice. I fold my arms and look to Frank, "I thought you said this guy was serious?" I say.

"You have any better ideas?" Frank replies.

"We were about to go do it with those Fallen Angels!" I complain, "C'mon, does this guy even know Mikey?"

"I do, I swear I do," Bob cuts in desperately, "I kept tabs on everybody for those angels, I definitely know where the damned are."

"And he's in a ghost bar." I raise my brows at him.

"It does have the word 'damned' in it." Bob smiles nervously.

Silence settles as I try not to slap the ghost aside the head. I suck in a deep breath to calm down, but my hand still threatens to raise. The bitch slap wants what the bitch slap wants.

Ray moves in, gently putting a hand on my arm to keep it down. "Let's just try it. It can't be that bad in there." He says.

~ ~ ~

Bob leads us in. The ghost bar is flooded with transparent dead and sprinkled with a small variety of other species. Not many aside from ghosts come into the bar - finding vampires, zombies, werewolves, or witches is rare, but having somebody like me and Frank coming in is a myth.

Yet here we are, peering through the crowd for my dead brother.

"You see him anywhere?" Ray asks.

"No," I sigh and get on my tiptoes to oversee the crowd, "You?"

Ray shakes his head. I flop my heels back to the ground and turn my head, "You ready to go back to the Fallen Angels, Frank -"

I stop when I see Frank isn't at my side. I frown and look about the area before spotting him casually walking from table to table to get to the bar.

"Hey, 'scuse me, 'scuse me . . . well, you're not a ghost, sorry for kicking your head . . ."

I grimace and hurry through to go catch up with him. I phase through a few ghosts, causing them to gasp in startlement and throw a few rude comments, before drifting away.

"Frank, what're you doing?" I glare.

He finally steps off one of the set tables to land on the edge of the bar countertop. He smirks, "It's a little rude to go through people."

"C'mon, we're wasting time." I wilt.

"Hey, get off of that!" The witch bartender barks and swipes at Frank's legs to try and get him down. He hops over the bartender's swinging arms casually and continues conversation, "Gimme a sec, maybe these ghosts know Mikey. He has been here for three years, after all."

The bartender scowls and finally gets a good thwack at Frank's legs, sweeping him off his feet. He yelps and falls back behind the bar with a following clash.

The ghosts all lean from their barstools to laugh and watch the bartender throw a fit and try to grab the teenager.

I crack a smile, my mood finally lifts with Frank's antics. The guy never ceases to make things a little more bearable . . . and make sense out of things, more importantly. He made a good point before, maybe these ghosts do know something.