The Ghost Puncher

It was a cold and misty night in San Francisco. Slim's Saloon was dim, dingy and the patrons were few and lethargic with heads bowed and still as though praying to the gods of cigarettes and alcohol. Fisty McMurdock sat at the bar, lights hanging overhead, nothing but empty seats on either side of him. His only company was the trail of smoke rising from his newest cigarette in the chain, and his collection of empty shot glasses. He wore a tattered gray suit, his jacket hanging over the back of his chair, with his sleeves rolled up and his tie undone. He stared into his current drink, one of his own creation, something he liked to call a whiskey and vodka. It took him a while to explain the recipe to the bartender, but eventually he caught on. A voice from behind jarred Fisty from his stupor. The voice was that of, Kenton Worthington.

"Are you him?" the voice asked. Fisty turned around to see a short, bespectacled young man in jean shorts and a polo standing before him. "Are you the one they call...The Ghostpuncher?"

Fisty didn't say anything at first, just stared at Kenton's jean shorts. For about thirty-five seconds straight. Just stared. His face was drooping, uncomprehending and vaguely offended. His drunkenness was skillfully masked, but still so severe to be readily apparent.

He finally answered, "That's what it says on my business card. I take it you're Kenton?"

"That's me. You can call me Kent if you wa-"

"Nope."

"Oh..."

"No extra words please. I'm far too drunk for that. Just point me to the ghost you want punched and if possible maybe even aim my fist for me and we can call it a day."

Kenton stood in silence, uncertain of how to proceed in dealing with someone so abrasive and inebriated.

He decided that talking more might help, "Uh, well, the thing is it's not going to happen for a while."

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Fisty exploded in drunken aggressiveness. "What a waste of..." he trailed off and shook his head.

"But we've only been talking for twenty seconds."

"Look man, call me when you're ready for me to distribute my services, and by distribute my services I mean distribute my knuckles" He held up his fists, "across some ghost's face. Or maybe into its liver or solar plexus, it depends on if they're weak to the body."

He suddenly jerked his hand upward and pointed into Kenton's face.

"Is your ghost weak to the body?"

Kenton shrugged and shook his head.

"I really don't know."

Fisty directed a glare toward Kenton before he turned his back to him and waved his hand to the bartender.

"Can I get another whiskey-vodka over here?"

He turned back to Kenton.

"Tell me about the chin, does the ghost in question have a solid pair of whiskers on it?"

"Whiskers like a cat?

"Fuck you, and no. On a scale from Zab Judah to Marvin Hagler where do we stand?"

"I'm sorry, I don't know who those people are."

At this admission Fisty cocked his head to the side, and stared harshly into Kenton's face.

"...Are you some kind of a dickhead?"

Kenton dropped his shoulders and looked down at his feet before nervously stuttering.

"Uh, I'm sorry,  maybe this was a mistake,  I'll leave."

Kenton turned to walk back into the chill evening, but Fisty cried in protest.

"Stop! Get back here."

Kenton stopped and hesitantly turned around. Fisty shouted over his shoulder to the bartender.

"Hey, get this guy a whiskey-vodka, put it on my tab."

Kenton tried to protest but Fisty would hear none of it.

"Just sit your stupid fucking jean shorts down and give tell me about this ghost situation of yours."

Kenton did as asked.

"Just start at the beginning," Fisty prompted.

Kenton took a deep breath to settle his nerves before launching into his tale.

"Well it all started when a friend of mine came over with a video tape he said he got from Blockbuster. He said it was Big Trouble in Little China and that we should sit down and watch it together. After he started it he said he had to go the bathroom and got up and left. When the film opened with footage of what I think was some kind of scorpion orgy inter-cut with a horse getting its head cut off I realized that it was probably not Big Trouble in Little China. What followed was a series of seemingly random nightmare images which went on for about thirty or so seconds and then just sort of, uh....ended. I got up to check on my friend, but the bathroom was empty, with the window wide open and a note left on the lid of the toilet he wrote to me which read: 'Sorry, bro, now you're cursed.'

In my ensuing nightmares I've been repeatedly visited by a dead teenage girl with a really pissed off look on her face who tells me how many days it's going to be before I die. It started at nine and now I'm down to two. Apparently she's coming to get me the day after tomorrow sometime. So....there it is."

Fisty lit up a cigarette, took a deep drag and exhaled while half nodding/half shaking his head like he'd just heard a bad joke he agreed with. "The old haunted video tape routine, huh?" he said, "real cute. That's reeeaaaal fuckin' cute."

"So, can you help me?"

"Just tell me what day it's supposed to show up and where you'll be and also pay me 500 dollars and yes.... I will help you. And while you're at it, pick up my tab. Bartender, add five more whiskey-vodkas to my tab immediately!"

Kenton wasted no time in agreeing.

"It's a deal! But, there's one thing I want you to do for me...."

"Psh," Fisty responded, "You mean besides save your life?"

"I want to hear your story. I want to know how you became...The Ghostpuncher."

Fisty gave Kenton a hard look, he stared right into Kenton's soul and a lifetime of pain and terror shone from his gaze.

"My story?" Fisty said, intensity burning in his eyes. "Kid, my story is the stuff of nightmares. No, not nightmares, for nightmares scarcely scratch the surface of the uncanny dread and unearthly happenings populating my past. My story is more maddening than the fever dreams of the most ravening of lunatics, and should I recount it to you, you may never know a night of peace throughout the rest of your days...."

"...That sounds dope. That sounds like a pretty dope story, let's hear it."

"Fine, here it is; the strange tale of, I... The Ghost Puncher."