Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Excerpts from the Log of the Hillsdale Paranormal Society

Who you gonna call? Gordy Weaver! Yeah, that's right, ghosts. Get all scared and shit.

10-21, 3:00, at the Howard house
Shit's getting cold outside, bros. I get a call right in the middle of playing Destiny with my homeboy Art, and I damn-near don't answer it, 'cause a man needs his gaming time, if you know what I'm saying. Some lady has seen our ad in the paper, and she needs assistance with a spook or specter that keeps her up at night. I wake up Trent, who's sleeping in Art's bed, 'cause he's lazy and basically lives at the Howard house. "Gentlemen," I say, "Let's get the gear together. We got ourselves a case," which got them excited, 'cause we haven't had a case in like two months. "I want to get paid this time," says Art. "I've been living off of nothing but corndogs and baked potatoes." "Well, this lady sounds like she has a ton of cash," I say, just to get their spirits up. That's the job of a leader, you know. Gotta keep morale at a healthy level.

5:30 at the site
It being winter and all, the sky starts getting dark a little earlier than we're used to. We pull up to the place, the Funky Bunch blaring on the stereo, (tried to play a little Hollywood Undead, but Art put an end to that shit) all of us sipping cappuccinos like we're a bunch of frat-boy yuppies about to go on a group date with one chick, if you know what I'm saying. Trent likes his goddamn coffee; he's a little sissy boy, though the dude needs to eat more, he's getting to look like Gollum after a two week heroin binge. The place doesn't look that scary--it's got a white picket fence and dead flowers in the yard, and you can tell that despite its age and enormity, it's been kept up. A black Escalade sits in the drive. We get our gear together and get out.

So we knock on the door, and a middle-aged lady answers, and she's dressed in a black slip that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. I take a look at Art, and he gives me a look like "What the fuck?" and we leave it at that. "What can I help you boys with?" she asks. "We're the Hillsdale Paranormal Society," I say, and she says "I'm sure you are. Come on in." She sits us down in the living room, which is nice and decorated with antiques. "Do you want any beer?" she asks us, which isn't a normal question we get from customers. "Uh, yeah," says Art. Trent shakes his head, he being a teetotaler. She gets us two Bud Lights and gives Trent a Red Bull, and sits down across from us, crossing her bare legs, and I can just tell right now that this shit's gonna go down like Basic Instinct. "So tell us about your ghost problem, ma'am," I ask. "I have some coke upstairs. Why don't we go look?" she replies. "Okay," we reply in unison.

We do a thorough check of the upstairs, even though the lady keeps wanting us to look at the bed room. I mean, she's a good-looking chick for her age, but what the hell, I ain't down with an orgy. Trent would do something weird, and Art's damn-near queer, and I really don't know if I can keep a boner with those two jabronis looking at me. We don't find much upstairs besides a sex swing and a leather gimp costume. We all stare at it in terror. "Want to try it on?" asks the lady. Art and I shake our heads vehemently, but lo and behold, Trent wakes from his 24/7 stupor and proceeds to put that shit on. We don't know what to do.

Art and I just watch as the lady beats the hell out of Trent with a black leather whip. Dude just takes it, doesn't even make a sound. "What are we doing here?" mouths Art, and I shrug my shoulders, not knowing what to do. It's pretty obvious that there are no ghosts, and this lady just wanted somebody to sex in her dungeon. We're about to leave Trent to his fate when we hear the door open downstairs. "Shit," says the lady. "You all better hide." She shoves us into the room with the sex swing and locks the door. Trent's still kneeling, panting like a dog, the freaky motherfucker. We look out the window and there's a burly dude yelling from the porch, and soon he's coming up the stairs, his footsteps sounding like the approach of God. "Let's jump out the window," suggests Art, but it's too high. The door swings open. The burly dude has on a pair of overalls and nothing else, and he holds nipple clamps in his hands. "Let's party!" he says. I grab Trent's skinny ass, and push him toward the burly dude, and Art and I tear ass down the stairs. Thankfully, this ain't the script to a horror movie, and the car starts. "We didn't get paid," says Art, as we peel out of the driveway. We haven't seen Trent in a week. 

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