Ghostly Gertie and the Flying Tacos of Terror
By Scott Crowder
Published by r[E]volution Press at Smashwords
Contents copyright © 2011 Scott Crowder / r[E]volution Press
All rights reserved. Any reproduction, sale, or commercial use of this book without express written permission of the author is strictly forbidden.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, people, or tacos, alive, dead, or only pretending to be either one, is entirely coincidental.
Cover image was found on the internet and I make no claim of ownership to it. If it’s yours and you’d like it removed, please contact me at zombieapocalypse [at] earthlink [dot] net.
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* * *
Now, as Hallow's Eve closes in fast,
it's time for stories of Halloweens Past
We find 'mongst the tales waiting to be related
the story of Gertie, a ghost most frustrated.
She loved her profession and her lot in death;
she wasn't distressed that she had no more breath.
For she loved to haunt houses, the old and forgotten
whose windows were broken and shutters were rotten.
Gertie enjoyed making loose floorboards creak
and through crumbling flues the night wind to shriek.
Dead trees in the yard she'd wave fro and to
and, as deep as she could, down staircases moan boo!
She felt most alive, as odd as that sounds,
while clanking about and haunting the grounds
of spooky old houses and spooky old lawns
from the sun's evening rays to the dawning of dawn.
And that, gentle listeners, brings us up to the present.
Gertie looked forward to haunts most unpleasant
during the approaching Halloween season.
It was, after all, her vocation and reason.
On needles and pins she awaited her next post
from her union's next-highest head-honcho ghost.
Would it be the Marsten House, vile and decrepit
whose dark lonely halls were for none but the intrepid?
Or the infamous Belasco House in northern Maine
whose timbers were soaked in blood and pain?
It didn't matter; there were options galore.
Surely she'd be assigned to one she would adore.
That's why she found herself confused and befuddled
when Assistant Vice-Deputy Director von Duddle
told her the name of the place she'd be next haunting.
The choice of it, really, left her quite wanting.
A place not too dreary, solemn, or fell.
Instead she would haunt the local Taco Bell.
* * *
She visited the kitchen and doubted her employment.
Surely this assignment would bring no enjoyment.
There was nothing at all here spooky or vile.
It was all countertops, freezers, concrete and tile.
Even the restrooms weren't too scary
They were often cleaned thoroughly by a porter named Gary.
And though the Mid-west decor was muy bonito,
there was nothing too scary about bean burritos.
So she floated through the prep area, hopeless, unhappy,
the sheets that she wore hanging limp and unflappy.
She cast a boo here, a half-hearted moan there,
unable to put heart in the miserable affair.
The workers all joked, shrugged, walked on by,
and after a few days Gertie wanted to cry.
What had she done to get put in this place?
Would von Duddle dare tell her straight to her face?
So she sulked near the salsa and moped by the mops.
She gave herself days to keep working, tops.
She wandered the stock room, the boxed taco shells,
and wished that von Duddle would go straight to...
"Hello," Gertie said as von Duddle arrived
for a quick spot inspection and a round of high fives.
Instead she found Gertie's ghostly cold shoulder
and silence as large as an unbroken boulder.
"What's wrong?" von Duddle asked. "Don't you like your new post?"
"But I'm not a fry cook. I'm a good ghost,"
Gertie told her and she started to cry,
but instead wiped tears from her ectoplasmic eyes.
"There's nothing else for me? No fun place to haunt
instead of this boring fast-food restaurant?"
"My dear," said von Duddle. "I must tell you the truth.
The fact is that you are too short in the tooth.
Let those of us wiser than you make these choices
and meanwhile you practice your good ghostly voices."
Then she patted Gertie's head and she floated on out
and it was all Gertie could do not to holler and shout.
Her anger was angry, her eyes they did swell
"I'm not a young ghostling, At my job I excel.
You want good ghostly voices, you sour old haint?
You think you've seen scary? Well, lady, you ain't!"
And with that, she got busy in her new Taco Bell,
trying her best to be scary as...well, you know.
* * *
The Taco Bell manager's name was Belinda
and when the first taco screamed she near jumped through a window.
The burritos, they shrieked; the chalupas, they bled.
A cheese quesadilla grew two bullfrog heads.
The cinnamon twists turned to icky earthworms
and crawled through the lettuce, trailing slime and bad germs.
Soft taco shells became flapping black bats
and flew through the air knocking off people's hats.
Big tubs of sour cream turned into blood
and seasoned ground beef became cold graveyard mud.
Screaming and howling, the customers fled
while gordita supremes tried to bite off their heads.
It didn't take long for the store to clear out
with a thunder of feet and one lingering shout.
Then Gertie looked round at the big empty store.
She'd never been quite so terrifying before.
A strange sort of pride welled up in her heart;
it may be that she'd just raised fright to an art.
The half-eaten tacos, spilled cups and their lids;
all left behind by scared parents and kids.
And Gertie asked herself, "Am I scary enough now?
"How 'bout it, von Duddle, you ghostly old cow?"
And then Gertie went home in the dim evening gloom
smiling as she recalled the enchiladas of doom.
* * *
Next morning she woke looking forward to work,
thinking maybe von Duddle wasn't quite such a jerk.
But once there she found von Duddle impatiently waiting
and that ended all thoughts she had of celebrating.
"My dear," von Duddle said in a tone of command.
"Yesterday, it appears, got quite out of hand.
Our job is merely to frighten and fluster.
Who will they call? Why, they'll call the Ghostbusters
if their screams are too screamy, and if our scares are too scary
we'll be exorcised, so you'd best be wary.
Listen up now and pay close attention:
young ghostlings like you are hardly worth mention.
But we who are older deserve much respect
and unlike you young ghostlings, we're usually correct.
So you do as I say and you tone it back down
before we are banished right on out of town."
Then the old ghost turned smartly and floated back out,
leaving Gertie alone to stew and to pout.
But her own words returned quickly: I'm a good ghost.
That's what she'd said earlier to her obstinate host.
And of course it was true; she did her dead best;
cardiopulmonary arrest
is what she could cause when she honestly tried.
Why else would she be a ghost after she died?
She'd be the best ghost she could possibly be
and she'd accept nothing less from herself, nosiree!
So with hot sauce she found in a little red pack
she turned over a tray and she wrote on the back
four little words that quite seemed to fit
and those words were these: "Von Duddle, I quit!"
And Gertie of course went on to redefine scary
Her picture's by that word in the dictionary.
And houses that used to bedevil and scare
are considered quite tame, now, unless Gertie's there.
The spectral community seems to be in accord;
they gave her this year's ghostly Academy Award.
So the moral of the story, if there's one to be found:
stay true to yourself, never once give up ground.
Do what you love and do it with style.
Don't give up hope even once in a while.
Your life can be happy (well, you know, mostly)
if we follow our dreams like Gertie the Ghostly.