"Angus Thickburger: Ghost Detective" by Tanner Smith

 I breathe in the dry Monday air in my office, fingertips rattlin’ on the cold desk. That’s the way it’s been, long days bleedin’ into one another. Solvin’ the crimes I do ain’t for the faint of heart, ‘specially when your boss has it out for you like mine. It’s a thankless, rotten luck job. Name’s Angus Thickburger, the only cat in town with the ability to see ghosts. You know a fella who’s out there bustin’ caps in ‘em? I’m who you want.
 Boss sits down in my office that afternoon, all fattened up from lunch and takin’ puffs from his cigar.
 “Take on any real cases today, Detective?” he babbles.
 “Ghosts need somebody lookin’ out for them, too, Chief.”
 He scoffs at me. “No, they don’t. They ain’t real, ya hear me? Even if they were, they’re already dead! Ain’t nobody killin’ ‘em!” He scoots his chair up closer, still not gettin’ it. “I’m fed up with all the funny business, Detective. Put a sock in it. I pay you to catch living, breathing criminals.”
 "Boss, I’ve been itchin’ for a promotion like it’s a pastrami sandwich at the deli, hold the mayo. I can do both!”
 “Not efficiently. But I think I have a solution.” Just then, a skinny milksop knocks on the open door and walks in all cutesy.
 The chief starts, “Detective, this is—”
 “I recognize him,” I cut him off. It’s Jimmy Fry. He’s fresh outta college. We call him Curly, I assume since he’s got a freaky lookin’ mustache, one of them handlebar ones.
 “Well,” Boss starts again, “James has been doing a fine job in our summer internship program, and we think he’s ready for a taste of the big leagues.” He walks over to the kid and puts an awkward arm around him. “He’s gonna follow you around, help you out…maybe motivate you a little.”
 “Crime is always enough motivation,” I say. Curly takes out a little notepad and writes that down.
 “It’s also an order, Detective.” Boss walks over to my desk just to put out his cigar before struttin’ out, all fat and satisfied with himself.
 “Ah, phooey.”
 Later on, I’m walkin’ the streets. All that talk of orders and pastrami sandwiches got me hurtin’ for a decent meal. Kid’s a few steps behind me, still won’t say nothin’. I look around, take in all the pedestrians, the pigeons…the ghosts.
 This city is a disease. But it’s a disease I caught willingly, a decision I’d still make to this day. I’m a sick man. I like my hamburgers plain because the vegetables are too distracting. I need quiet. We used to have silent films and telephone booths, now everything’s loud. Everybody’s got somethin’ to say. I can barely hear myself think.
 “Sir?” The kid finally speaks up. “I just wanna say it’s an honor, working with an esteemed detective like yourself.”
 “I’m not steamed, not yet,” I reply. “Cat finally let go of that tongue?”
 “Sir, I look forward to learning from you and your work in the field. Do you have any tips for a rookie like me to make it to where you’re standing?”
 “Walk a few feet faster, maybe?” I joke. “In all seriousness, have a rich uncle who’s in cahoots with the mayor. That’ll do it.” Curly follows me into a sandwich shop and we get in line. I turn back to face him. “Kid, you’re lucky you’re with me. Did you know that ghosts live among us, and they need me to catch the ones killin’ ‘em dead?”
 Other folks in line start lookin’ at me all funny. Scoundrels. They could never get it. Curly takes a moment. “Sir, how could a ghost get killed?” he takes the news in stride. “Ain’t they already dead?”
 “You don’t wanna see it. Horrible, really. Kinda thing that sticks with a man.”
 He takes notes. “This ghost business—is that what the words scratched onto your desk meant?”
 I breathe out, broodin’. “Those are from a previous case…with my archnemesis.”
 “You have an archnemesis?” he hikes up. “Like in those action flicks at the cinema? Gee willikers!” He jots more stuff down as I spot a sweet lil’ lady walkin’ up to our table.
 “P—pardon, Detective Thickburger?” she stutters with an accent thicker than mine.
 “You a ghost?” I ask her. It’s awful tough to tell sometimes, what with how nice dead folks are dressin’ nowadays, but the livin’ don’t much seek me out like this.
 “Yessir,” the lady responds. “You’re sorts of a legend ‘round here. We ain’t never spoke to no livin’ before.” She hands me a paper that Curly can’t see, but I can, because it’s ghost paper.
 I open up the sheet and just see an address. “Y’got somethin’ good here?”
 “No good whatsoever, Detective. Another ghost killer, but this one’s different. He…lives. Like you.”
 “He’s like me? Another fella seein’ ghosts?”
 “Yessir, but he’s killin’ ‘em! He’s killin’ us!” she cries out. “That’s his address. Put an end to this madness, right now!”
 I put my hands on my head. “I don’t know. This case ain’t really speakin’ to me.”
 She slaps a bundle of ghost twenties on the table and slides it to me.  “This is all I got on me, sir. I beg you!”
 “That’s more like it.” See, this is why I got such issues with the boss. He don’t pay me squat, but he’s bustin’ my rump seven ways to Saturday! Meanwhile, these ghosts cough up whatever I need—they really show their appreciation.
 As the ghost lady walks off, I stand up and turn to look at poor Curly, who seems pretty darn confused after watchin’ me look and talk at nothin’. “East 19th Street,” I say. “Let’s go.”
 In the back of the taxi cab, I start talkin’ to the kid, who’s still got his head stuck in that notepad. “You want some tips worth writin’ down?” He nods and I continue. “First, don’t bet on sports. They rig the games. Second off, cereal ain’t a breakfast food. It’s candy. You wanna eat carrots for every meal, okay? Bein’ a detective, you’ll see more. And last, uh, I don’t know. Stay in school, I guess. Unless you got better things to do.”
 “I’ve already graduated,” the kid mutters, “but I understand.” Soon enough, we get there and somethin’ dawns on me: we probably shoulda saved a few bucks and walked here.
 The apartment’s all dingy and dusty, like you’d expect of a beatnik out there killin’ ghosts. As I approach the stairs to the attic, I spot a few boobie traps: an invisible trip wire, a motion-detected cuckoo clock, an attack dog in a kennel at the top of the stairs…this guy’s good. I help the kid duck and dodge all of ‘em, and as we mosey on by the dog kennel, I notice a problem.
 “The hallway to the door on the other side is missing,” Curly speaks up, tremblin’.
 “Actually, it’s a ghost bridge. Since I technically half-live in their world, I can see and cross it. But you can’t, Fry.” I walk nonchalantly across it as he stares at the proof he never needed. I watch him from the other side.  “Guess this is where the job ends for you.”
 “I can jump across!” he pleads. “I’ll make it!”
 I look down below. Fifty feet drop into a flamin’ pit of snakes. “It’s not worth it, kid.”
 “You said crime is always enough motivation.”
 “I lied! All right, Curly? I lied. I like my hamburgers plain because I’m a picky eater! I’m a fraud. All talent, no effort. You don’t wanna be me, kid.”
Curly took a step back, only to get in an athletic stance, loyalty unwaverin’. “I will always strive to be you, sir. You’ve been my mentor and my hero for the last hour and a half. Besides, I feel pretty confident that if I die, you’ll see me again real soon.” He begins chargin’ forward, before leapin’ with the ferocity of an alley cat. I can’t bear to watch it, coverin’ my eyes and ears.
Next thing I know, my eyes blink open and I see him standin’ there. I almost shed a friggin’ tear, I tell you. He made it across, no harm done. “You’re a natural, kid!” I scream before composin’ myself. He tries to tell me somethin’, probably another mushy speech, but I shush him. We’ll save the theatrics for after we bust this dingbat. I twist open the door slowly.
 However, there’s more: ghost traps. These won’t be no trouble for Curly, but I gotta be real careful. Even while I’m crouchin’ and scootin’ by the traps, he still walks close behind me. When I’m just about past the last one, I hear him cryin’ out in pain. My eyes shoot back and I—what? He’s, uh, well, he’s caught. In a ghost trap. That can’t be….
 “Welcome to my side of the playground.” a voice smiles at me, laughin’. “It seems that I’ve caught a ghost.”
 I look back at the kid, full panic. “No. You don’t mean…Fry? You’ve been dead this whole time?”
 He clears his throat, gruntin’ through the pain. “Actually, no, sir, it was back about five minutes ago when I attempted that big leap over the flaming snakes. I did not make it.”
 “Who are you!?” I look around for the voice’s presence, furious. “Why, I oughta beat the snot outta you, punk!”
 The wicked cat emerges from the shadows in the corner, hummin’ and rhythmically snappin’ his fingers. “Looks like the playin’ field just evened out, eh, Thickburger?”
 It’s…it’s him. My nemesis. “Wellington,” I call. “Beef Wellington.” He laughs while I just stare in disbelief. “Wellington, how—how are you here? I thought—”
 “You thought you banished me to the ghost dimension, old friend. Left me for dead, yeah? Well, you just ended up turnin’ me into a freak like you! Now, you pay.”
 I begin calculatin’. “None of these ghosts you killed had anything to do with that, Curly neither. I respect your beef, Beef, but I won’t let you keep hurtin’ innocents!”
 “Yuck! Suddenly, the hero!” Wellington fake-gags. “Why don’t you tell your partner about all the times you turned your back on me?” He turns to face Curly.  “You’re next, kid. One bad case away from bein’ me.”
 “You’re a friggin’ sadist,” I tell him. “A no-good crook!”
 He just cackles, vigorously shakin’ his head. “No…” he builds up. “No! What I am is liberated from the chains of the afterlife! No longer will I put up with your tomfoolery!” He extends his arm, palm front facin’ towards me and Curly. “I’ve picked up a few tricks in my time away.”
 Quickly, all goes black.
 I wake up right beside the kid, in green grass full of daylight. He doesn’t come to for a few minutes more, but he wakes up in time to hear the first thing I can say.
 “This isn’t good.”
 “What?” he stammers, still stretchin’ out along the lawn. “Where are we?”
 I hurriedly reply, “Washington, D.C.”
 Fry gets up, and it don’t take long for him to catch on. “Is that—?”
 “Yup,” I interrupt, then gulp. “The ol’ White House. But, uh…where ain’t the problem, though.”
 “What do you mean, sir?”
 I point to a tall slim cat in a fine suit. “You see that fella out there chattin’ it up with the press? With the comedically long top hat? Curly nods.  “That’s President Abraham Lincoln—and he ain’t a ghost like usual.”
 “What are you saying, Detective?”
 I look around at my new world of old. “I’ll bet he’s got a play to get to.”

ANGUS AND CURLY WILL RETURN
in ANGUS THICKBURGER: FBI’S GHOST WANTED