The rain was falling hard that night at Château Widget, as Sam and Janet stepped out of their knock-off ghostbusting car, the Ecto-½. Sam slammed the door and it fell off its hinge and wanged his noodle.
“Owee,” he gulped.
Janet was apprehensive: “I got a bad feeling about this in the pit of my stomach. The Tabasco and cheese soup I had’s not sitting well at all.”
Splort!, she farted
They opened the back door of the car – another noodle-wanging ensued – and took out their ghost-hunting equipment: two Dust Busters with extension cords running off the car battery; a series of postcards of ‘sexy ghosts’ to drop as bait; presidential campaign forms, since most ghosts are hundreds of years old, making them tempted to run for president so they can finally repeal the Studebaker tax.
“Do you think we’ll meet any… g-g-ghosts?” asked Sam.
“How the hell should I know?!” Janet calmly replied, and she hit him in the head with a Dust Buster and it went konk!, like in a cartoon.
“It’s just that I’m scared of… g-g-ghosts.”
“Well, I’m scared of intimacy and aging, but I’m married and old, so I guess you’d better suck it up, don’t you think? Huh?”
“I don’t know,” Sam said, and a bunch of green slime fell on his head and it went squorsh!, like on Nickelodeon.
“Heh heh heh,” said Janet. “Got his ass.”
By now, they’d reached the massive front doors of Château Widget. They were made of Gehenna Teak, the evilest wood.
The Work It hosts knocked on the doors, and as they did, the heavy things creaked open, as if on their own. These were some real freaky doors, buddy, lemme tell ya!
“H-h-hello?” stammered Sam.
“χ-χ-χαίρετε?” conjugated Janet.
All of a sudden, in the middle of the massive staircase that stood before them, that I probably shoulda mentioned earlier but I guess I forgot, who appeared?
Give up? Well? Do ya?
It was a ghost! A transparent apparition bathed in a pallid light. A sickly smell filled the room.
“Sorry,” said Janet. “Bad soup.”
The creature beckoned: “Whaddup?”
Sam sputtered, “H-Howdy, Mr. Ghost.”
“Call me Marv.”
“H-Howdy, Marv. We’re here to collect payment for some content we made for Widget Media.”
“No prob!” said Marv the Ghost and he cut them a cheque. What a nice story.