Giant kite angel apes. Giant ape appetites? Angels! If they can get ahold
of them. But angels tame giant apes. Angel Tami tames the giant apes'
appetites. Tami tapes the apes. The apes crash on the couch and in the
morning have disappeared. So has Tami. Nobody is there.

Only the bodiless. Ghosts. Gosts party, ghosts of Vikings and Goths,
partying in your house while you're out working. What's a ghost gonna
cost me? More, if you include the boat.

 

Ghosts come with boasting rights. Ghostnights for the boasting
rights. Roasted over the coals, the toastmaster boasted he could spend a
night with any ghost. Old Lady Wickfield came forward and revealed she
owned a property on a dry rise in the swamps, where ghost alligators
roamed, where the ghosts of dirty Frenchmen and Spanish buggerers were
seen willothewisping through the trees, their mind-lights prominent head
high, disappearing in a foaming wash of eyesparkle.

 

The toastmaster boasted he'd bugger the ghosts of Spanish explorers
and pirates and pegboys. But ghostbugs sealed his mouth with slime before
he could cry out, and ghost mosquitoes tagged him with phantom malaria,
and his soulbody coughed a death rattle and died. A demon moved in and
began to put up curtains where his eyes used to be. His toasts turned
surly and profane.

 

The toastmaster begged to bugger the ghosts of Seminoles. The
ghostmaster gave a disapproving frown, and turned to the other members of
the panel. Squanto, Ponce De Leon, and Anita Bryant gave the thumbs down.
"No," said the Goastmaster. And the toastmaster was consigned to
the singing singers of hell, among the ghosts of goats, goasts in gaol,
munching on ghoti.