Twitch’s arrival, like all of Twitch’s arrivals, was a whirlwind of chaos presaging the greater tragedy to come. If Twitch had been a skilled driver, his screeching, sliding, sirens-wailing near crash would be a manly ode to Dukes of Hazard Americana. Alas with Twitch, it was just another near miss on the road to inevitable disaster.
To the squirrels, who knew human nature sufficiently to wreak havoc on individuals but lacked the slightest understanding of culture, it was a shock.
“Holy Shit! Billy called the Ghostbusters!” chittered Mary.
“No, Doogie warned us.” Terry moaned, “They’ve been sent by the NSA!”
“The NSA can deploy the Ghostbusters?” What a terrifying power their unseen enemy wielded!
The squirrels were frantic. It was time for drastic measures. “Bart, get in there and retrieve Doogie!” Terry ordered. Doogie was a valuable asset in what might become a desperate battle.
The squirrel’s head games had never been entirely effective with Bart. Apparently racist bears were unmoved by sweet disco harmonies. “Screw that! I ain’t going out there to get my ass shot off by three guys with unlicensed nuclear accelerators on their backs.”
Twitch erupted from the vehicle, leaving the lights on, door open, and engine idling. He stumbled on the curb, bounced off a trash can, and, with the grace and dignity of a pinball, entered the store.
Bart and the squirrels looked at each other. There was only one Ghostbuster, and he wasn’t even carrying his Proton Pack! He looked like the sort of pasty weakling that would get beaten up by the roving packs of twelve year old fans of fantasy role playing games. This is apt because Twitch, who often sought work at Comic-Cons, had recently opined “Orcs are what happens when eighth graders don’t do their homework” and had wound up beaten into submission by a group of twelve-year olds taking a break from their favorite adventure; “Orc Wars.”
“He’s white…” Terry hinted,
“Racist bastard!” Bart slipped out of the car and trotted toward the glass door.