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A large, brown roach scuttled hopefully to the edge of the plate, but found no more hope of an exit, and it returned to its quick little laps around the puddle of soy sauce.
Every now and then, a pair of chopsticks came down to corral it around the porcelain with amusement.
“I suppose you’re wonderin’ why I called this meeting together.”
A low, Texan growl with a voice like curdled milk in a rusty tin bucket.
How had this roach ended up here? In it’s tiny roach head, it held no recollection of this restaurant. Only of murky soil and a life under rotting wallpaper. One day, it had been happily munching. Maybe on a sugar cube. And now?
Another hurried jog around the plate. Up to the rim? No, it was too tall to climb down. Back to the soy sauce puddle.
The antennae dipped- just a little taste.
Mmm, salty. The cockroach liked this.
“You mean this isn’t just a big’ ol’ family get together?”
This voice was a little different, coming from the opposite end of the table, behind a plate covered in udon noodles and squirming live worms in equal parts.
It was, too, a southern drawl. But it carried an air of insane whimsy. More nasal, and childlike. Slightly lisped behind a pair of rotting, protruding teeth.
Something unsettling and deeply wrong spoke with this voice. The tone, the sound, the tamber. Something utterly not of this world.
And though the other man was deeper, gruffer, and more sinister, it was this goofy-looking guest that seemed to most disturb the passers-by.
His eyes, just a little too big. His grin, just a little too wide. His skin, too sallow.
And all around him, an unpredictable feeling of danger.
The first man cleared his throat, hacked a loogie and deposited it in the lining of his decayed trenchcoat.
“No, limpdick. I told you in the telegram. It’s about that musical.”
“Which musical?”
A long slurp as one of the worms disappeared.
Betelgeuse, the movie, sighed very deeply.
“Clearly you are the not the brains of this operation, pal.”
Again the jacket opened, as he fished around the non-loogie occupied side.
Change jangled, a few mouse squeaks. Then out emerged a playbill, clenched in a tight fist.
He slapped it on the bar, making the roach jump.
Betelgeuse, of television fame, widened his eyes inhumanly as he watched the crumpled paper unroll.
Ghostly pale hands snatched it from the table, holding it to the light.
“Unholy Guacamole-“
“I know! Right there in lights! Not even EQUAL BILLING, ANY BILLING, ANY CREDIT!“
The voice rose to a shattering rasp, as a moss covered fist slammed the antique tablecloth, sending silverware flying. The roach again lost its footing, and wiggled helplessly, six feet skyward.
Movie Beej continued.
“These FUCKERS. They think they can take our name- our story- and PLASTER IT on this FUCKIN’ CORPORATE BIG BUDGET SHILL OF A-“
“Who’d they cast? I’ve always thought ‘a myself as a kinda Marlon Brando mixed with Bea Arthur and Charlie Sheen kinda job.”
“WHO GIVES A SHIT?!”
The monster lunged, snatching his clone by his tacky pastel collar, holding him, pointed nose to pointed nose. The stink of death between them.
“This FUCKERY has to end. Do you hear me? They’re MOCKING us. Stealing our story! The human world is gonna find out everything. And what next? They’re comin’ for you and me pal. Gonna make some PC, general audiences family friendly FUCKS of us?!”
“Technically, I’m PG.” Spoken through a mouthful or worm.
“P-Wha-You- LOOK AT THIS SHIT-“
The collar was released.
Movie Beej snatched the playbill and flapped hastily through it, folding it to the songlist, and smacking the paper like a reverend on the bible.
“LOOK. AT THIS. Here. “Invisible.” Oh boo fuckin’ hoo. “The Whole Being Dead Thing.” A little fuckin’ VAGUE if I say so myself. And then they gave Miss Argentina a song? I mean what is this, affirmative action?!”
“Mm. Mm.”
The cartoonish ghoul nodded, but hesitantly, his white brow furrowed. Another wiggling slimy tube disappeared between this lips. This time it really was a noodle, and the ghost frowned in disappointment.
His grizzled original continued in fury.
“Not to mention they got it all twisted like a nun’s panties. I’m a ghost! Not a demon! Delia the life coach?! Charles is too good looking.”
TV Beej looked up from attempting to jam his chopsticks up his nose.
“I dunno, me, I think it’s fine to have a little fun with the source material. Look at my boots!”
Betelgeuse The Movie snatched the chopsticks from his nostrils with a snarl.
“You numbskull! It’s butchery! How are you not more mad about this? They made Lydia BLONDE!”
“I kinda like blonde Lyds! Looks better on her than Claire Brewster…”
Movie Beej snorted derisively. “Well that’s a little biased coming from YOU towhead. You look like Kurt Cobain decided to get fat instead of doing drugs. And then did drugs anyway.”
He added as an afterthought.
“And don’t even get me STARTED on this pudgy, cherub looking SHMUCK ON THE COVER, LOOK AT HIS HAIR?! HE LOOKS LIKE A BRATZ DOLL PUNK REJECT. The people they CAST. He looks like the poster child for the Broadway Puppy Adoption initiative.”
TV Beej, having regained his chopstick, now spoke through wooden walrus teeth.
“Aw, I dunno. I think we could do a lot worse. He looks kinda friendly!”
“FRIENDLY?! FRIENDLY!? THAT’S JUST IT.”
The ghost rocketed to his feet.
Waving his hands about, ironically, like a man possessed, standing up and sending a waiter’s tray tumbling, quickly followed by the waiter.
“FRIENDLY. LONELY. HUMOROUS. WE LOOK LIKE A FUCKING PANSY. US AND THE LYDS KID ARE FRIENDS. FRIENDS?!”
“What, me and babes?”
“YEAH.”
“We-“
“Don’t fucking say it.”
“...we ARE friends.”
“GAHHHH!”
Betelgeuse senior clutched his hands to his electrified hair in aggravation.
“They MISSED IT. THEY MISSED ALL OF IT, THEY MESSED IT ALL UP. WE ALMOST MARRIED THE GIRL.”
TV’s Beej cocked a confused, caterpillar eyebrow.
“But it was a green-card thing. To get to the human world.”
“WELL- sure, yeah, I just-“
“You just…?”
Betelgeuse the Movie sat down again. He took a long, long gulp of his beer.
“Oh, and now they’re sayin’ we’re queer too. Coming onto that dweeb vintage fucker Adam fucking Maitland. No doubt trying to appeal to a trendy millennial audience. As if we’re anything other than VIRULENTLY HETEROSEXUAL.”
“Right.”
“...Right.”
“Right.”
A heavy silence seemed to fall as the first gave the second a long, deep discerning look.
His face frozen in a grotesque, underbitten frown.
TV slurped another noodle.
“I mean... you were the one who called Charles too attractive. I thought that was a little forward.”
“WHY YOU LITTLE- YOU’RE JUST LIKE THE REST OF THEM!”
The voice was loud again, and now it carried it a kind of betrayed incredulity. The ragged panic of an ancient, nightmarish beast. Filthy, yellowing fingernails clawing into the tablecloth, creasing and bunching it into fists.
“You want everything to be SQUEAKY CLEAN and PERFECT. You want UPLIFTING and HEARTWARMING and weh-weh-weh TIK-TOK TRENDING.”
He shouting in a mocking, cloying sing-song. His insanity reaching a frightening crescendo.
“WHERE IS THE ART? WHERE IS THE EDGE?! What happened to those movies like Lolita and Sixteen Candles, HUH?! Why can’tcha compliment a woman anymore. Why can’tcha RAISE A LITTLE HELL? A LITTLE CONTROVERSY, HUH? A little gross, freaky, fucked up uncomfortable shit in the world. Why’s everything gotta appeal to the SNOWFLAKES!
I mean COME ON- WHAT HAPPENED TO PUSHING THE BOUNDARIES OF- OF- OF-“
“Pedophilia?” TV Beej offered helpfully.
"Ooooooh, You little-"
Before the opposing ghoul could get a word in, he felt a small, gentle tap at his elbow.
A small female waitress in a short black apron stood cowering behind his seat, leather book in hand.
“S-sir, are you… finished, with your meal?”
“Huh- wha- oh.”
The ghoul sighed and slowly reached for his utensil.
CRUNCH.
With one last, defenseless squeal, the roach was impaled with a chopstick, and devoured with a soy sauce chaser.
“Yeah.” He belched loudly. “I’m done here.”
“I’ll g-get your check.” She trembled, backing away slowly.
“Super. You got this one, right pal?”
He grinned intimidatingly at his cartoon brethren, his mouth too full of worm to protest.
The waitress nodded and began to hurry off-
“Oh, and sweetheart.”
She had gotten far, but not far enough to escape.
His hand landed on her taut behind, catching her ass in a vice-like grope. Knitting his fingers into the curve of her ass crack.
The undead letch slid a pale greasy tongue along his bottom lip.
“Make it quick, would ya? I’ve got tickets for Tootsie in 10 minutes.”