Spaced Ghost

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“Oh no. Father!”

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“Oh thank God. I thought you were dead. Father… get up. Are you okay? Nothing broken or sprained I hope.”

“No,” comes a weak answer. “I’m okay.”

“Then put the glass down and get up; that beer’s pretty much gone anyway. We need to take you back to, well, I guess to the bar. Father? Are you listening to me?”

“I hear you. Simmer down. I have a headache. I can hear my ears throbbing.”

“That’s because you have a hangover. What happened father? You never use to drink.”

“That’s what you get — oh me head! — when you suddenly own part of two bars. First one then the other. Horn of plenty.”

“Do you need some help?”

“No I can manage.” Space Ghost struggles to his feet.

“When did this thing get here?”

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“It’s the colonnade. Baker B. put it there a couple of days ago. Baker B. created the *bars* a couple of days ago. And Starbuccaneers. And Gallery Jack. And this big rock you slept under or whatever you did. And also now he’s bringing back you apparently. Back from the dead.”

“I’ve never been dead,” Space Ghost snaps back. “It’s just a stage name. Like Cary Granite.”

“Grant. Cary Grant,” Baker Bloch corrects.

“No, the *Flintstone’s* version. And now you’ve made me raise my voice and hurt my head again. My head, my ears…”

“My beer,” Baker Bloch finishes for his father as he takes the last sip. Carrcassonnee would be pleased. “Never mind that. Follow me. Into the bar.”

“No, I’m not going back in there for a while. Take me to Starbucanneers. Buy your old man a cup of strong coffee.”

“Okay.”

“And where’s my cane? Oh, never mind, it’s in my hand. I had to replace it with my beer. Now I’m finished my beer and… cane returned. I’m ready.” Space Ghost finally turns away from the colonnade, reattached cane in his right hand; empty beer glass detached from same.

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“What’s all the red buggers suddenly all over town? Place is infested with them, ow.” Space Ghost holds the side of his head with his free hand. “Darn headache. But I can make it up that hill, thank you. If I don’t trip over one of the red things on the way.” He starts to slowly climb the hill, and continues to complain. “Robots… back in the days we didn’t need machines to help us with our chores and such. We used our own arms and legs.” His son was now beside him, holding his arm and making sure he was stable.

“Out of my way Red.”

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“Can you make it up that step, father?”

Space Ghost sarcastically mimics his son: “Yes I can make it up that step.” Then Space Ghost tries but fails to make it up that step. He sits down on it instead.

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“How did it come to all this, son? How did I end up *here*?”

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Filed under Heterocera, Rubi, Second Life, Uncategorized

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