The Ghost Ate Biscuits 'n Gravy.

The foul, rotten egg smell seeped into the front room of Frank M.’s apartment.

“Why does the pilot light always go off with 45 seconds left in the fourth quarter?” Frank asked, slamming the TV remote on the couch. He rose woozily to his feet.

Eight Budweisers in two hours made it hard to walk straight to the kitchen. Bending down, he peered into the oven. The pilot light burned bright blue.

So what had caused the smell?

Frank wondered about that as he staggered back to the living room and passed out face first on the couch.

He awoke Monday at noon. What a heaping mess his life had become. Tears disappeared into his tangled beard, just as they had at his brother Duane’s funeral two days before.

Duane had died doing what he loved best; duking it out in a bar fight. He’d thrown one punch—just one—and had missed, the momentum carrying his 376 pounds and empty head into the solid brass foot rail.

“F**kin’ miss you, bro’,” Frank blubbered, slowly sliding off the couch. He kept doing so until he heard several rapid-fire reports, like a braking Peterbilt.

Frank tensed. Fished for the tire iron he kept between the cushions, stood up and got ready to break bones.

But then the rotten egg smell returned and Frank smiled for the first time since Duane had died. Because an unseen presence had come to vanquish his grief.

His brother Duane’s ghost.

“Talk to me, bro’, talk to me,” Frank screamed. “They must have biscuits and gravy in Hell, because I’d recognize them farts anywhere!”

He inhaled the pungent air like it was life itself.

“C’mon, blast me again,” he shouted when the scent began to dissipate. “I can handle the stink. Don’t forget, I slept in the same room as you when we was growin’ up, dude.”

Draining Bud after Bud, Frank waited in vain for Duane to detonate. “Oh, I get it,” he chuckled uncomfortably. “You ain’t gonna do another—just ‘cause I asked. Still up to your old games, hey bro’? Well, f**ck, you, too. Maybe you’re better off dead.”

Frank spent the next hour cursing loudly at Duane, until the cops showed up on a noise complaint. Pissed that even as a ghost Duane could pull his chain, Frank tackled the nearest uniform.

Surrounded by blue, Frank was hauled downtown and booked.

Three days later, as soon as he returned to his apartment, Frank again began yelling at Duane. This continued until he was evicted, the living room ankle deep in empty cans.

When last spotted, Frank M. was in a sleazy Phoenix bar, cursing a ghostly Duane the assembled bikers, dealers, pimps and hos couldn’t see.

They laughed, they grumbled, but did nothing to further disturb the ranting man. Because Frank was 6’6” and 402-pounds.

And because the biscuits and gravy stench he raved about hung so heavily in the air.

reported by:

Doc Paranormal

Adjunct Professor without Portfolio

Edgar Allan Poe Community College