Calorogu Shark Media, Hello and Welcome to Ghost. This episode is titled Schmeetelejuice.
It was a dreary, Gothic monstrosity of a mansion that would have sent
Vincent Price running for the smelling salts, turrets, gargoyles, cobwebs thick enough
to floss a balene whale's teeth. This ramshackle pile of architectural leprosy had more
schlock haunted house cliches crammed under one roof than a back alley pawn shop selling
off the munster's family heirlooms. But for the recently deceased and still decaying Debtweiler
couple, it represented their last best hope at eternal rest and repose. Or
so the grim noir of Forbidden a cult law they'd found gathering dust in the
attic had promised, just recite the ancient right to summon the ghastly Avatara of
the underworld. General ominously named Schmeatlejuice, Reginald Dettwhiler wheezed, his desiccated vocal
cords rasping like a punctured bellows. His wife Agatha, already little more than
a sentient slab of mottled parlor room upholstery in a moomoo harumped loudly, Oh
tish tosh, Reginald. Everyone knows those hoary old campfire stories. A mere
poppy, but she was abruptly cut off as a deeply ominous rolling cloud of
eldrich fog began billowing from the mansion's scuffed parquet floors. Within its roiling pungent
vapor, a dark, vaguely humanoid shape began to coalesce and take terrifying form.
Oh crap, here we go. A gravelly voice like a rolled up
carpet being dragged across a chain link fence rattled out, Let me get a
couple more mopos, look into higher schmeedel juice as their own personal poulter guide
to the other side. Right with a thunderous belch, the shape solidified into
that of a quintessentially grotesque ghoul, fangs, horns, goopy ectoplasmic viscera sloshing
beneath tatters of a burlap tunic. The whole misbegotten nine revolting yards. Reginald's
jellied composure fractured as foul smelling rivulets of panic sweat began oozing down his skull.
You're the ghastly general to summon us to our rest eternal, but you
look like something even ed Wood would have given notes on for being too shlocky.
The horror was utterly unperturbed, scratching idly at one branchy armpit as it
rolled two putrescent piehan eyes. Yeah, yeah, take my appearance with a
grain of cyanide powder. Why don't you not All of us got to spend
the dowager days of our afterlives shacked up in some decaying Gothic chondrite, your
privileged zipperheads. It then leaned in conspiratory, a rancid blast of Charnel House
breath, nearly knocking Agatha's two pay into the next realm. I'll let you
salt pillars in on a little secret. We anchors to the profane underworld can
get a little jaded about keeping up the old shroud and brimstone floor show.
Dig With a grandiose flourish of its cracked ebbon talons, Shmeetljuice hoisted up the
tattered remains of its robe to reveal a pair of red flannel slippers and a
cold dead gaze that would have frozen even tore Johnson's blood. This is just
the look I like to rock when I'm lounging in my screen pitch shooting the
foul breeze with the boys. No more must, no more fuss your bogwitz
dig agatha. Never want to miss an opportunity for queenly condescension, sniffed in
disdain. Well, really, if this is to be the fearsome usher to
eternal rest, with those drafty slippers and that dripping, unwholesome sloven's mouth,
I've half a mind to just dematerialize this instant and save myself the agony.
Hey, go ahead and beat feet back to the abyss worm food schmeeedel juice
shot back, its putrid tongue lolling like a bloated salamander. Leave the shortcut
of getting your goopy goosed up spiritual husks on their way to yours. Cruelly,
see if I care when you're stuck menacing gas stations and abandon mental wings
till the end of nights. It gave a bone rattling belch, then spun
in a grotesque parody of a ballet pirouette, seemingly composed of woven entrails and
half decayed squirrel skeletons. I'm doing you mazed monkeys a solid service here,
but if you want to get all corporeal on me, be my guests,
you blotched curdled runts. With that, the horror raised its reeking arms and
seemed to almost fold itself inside out. The debt Whilers screamed in unified horror
as its essence seemed to collapse in upon itself, only to re emerge as
a towering, fungal encrusted torso with faces oozing from every pore. Let's rock
this wretched gomorrah till the rats start reciting the Apocrypha in Aramee. Each one
of the gurgling visages howled a deafening cacophony of sacrilege and existential wrongness. Needless
to say, both Reginald and Agatha opted to quit this mortal spectral coil right
then and there. But to the debt Whiler's eternal misery, old schmetal juice
was as crooked as a dog's hind leg. Instead of ushering them to a
sweet hereafter, he conscripted the hapless phantasms into an eternity as his personal jestures.
For the next several agonizing epochs, the debt Whilers found themselves subjected to
a never ending onslaught of tortures and degradations, all while schmeatal Juice loudly berated
them between phlegm rattling guffors dance for me moldy mundungas he'd raw, rearranging their
phantasmal essences into sputtering candlesticks or grotesque living marionettes, caper and swill till the
moon rots from the sky like a mush roomed, cancered eye. Other times,
the grotesque demon would force them to perform skits and satirical routines, roasting
their fellow ghosts, apparitions, and revenance, all to the raucous appreciation of
its imp like minions. Go on mock the shade of that scabrous jesture who
couldn't avoid losing his head in Erzilie's dread guillotine. Schmeeteljuice would command make wicked
Mary with the miserable phantasm of the zuav whose trail of standards grows longer than
Andre's unmentionables, revel in their eternal misery worm turds, and Agatha and Reginald
had no choice but to obey, caricaturing and humiliating their fellow damned souls with
slanderous a plumb lest they incur even greater abuses under Schmeateljuice's vile tutelage. Many
a night found the once regal spirits screaming unholy arias of agony into the black,
tressed void, their pride and dignity eroded to tattered ghostly rags. All
the while that vile schmeatel Juice would howl with rapturous, sadistic glee, slapping
its brine crusted, distended belly and stamping those ratty slippered feet in pure reveling
ecstasy. You see how the lowliest gutter haunts heel outstrips the mightiest of cosmic
pretensions. It would mock between phlem choked cackles. To endure eternity in my
rancid, worm riddled graces is to no true torment, you empty reeking husks.
On one particularly harrowing right, the demon overfiend conjured up phantasmogorical recreations of
Reginald and Agatha's former earthly families, parents, siblings, children, all taking
lurid mutated form to heckel and deride the spirits with obscene fervor. Oh mother,
father, look how low your precious get has slithered. Specter Agatha's son
Calvin sneered, his voice slurring like a back alley painted savage, reduced to
capering like display footed jestures for the most bloated of Pandemonium's dukes. We should
have drowned you unwonted wretchlings in the colic basin when we had the chance,
you worm clotted offl Reginald's father howled, his profane tongue lashing out like a
pale scorpion stinger to flog his son's ghostly husk through it all. Shmeetel Juice
bellowed in rapturous delight, the only feedback that mattered to the vile poltergeist as
it orchestrated its perverse, unholiest of reviews. But long utterly forsaken, last,
Reginald could bear no more. With a sudden startling burst of ghostly bravado,
the phantasmal patrician willed his remaining essence into one blazing indignant yawp of resistance,
schmeietel juice, thou blighted sack of demonic filth and puss. We acknowledge
thy foul dominion here, But even the lowliest husks retain a merciful scrap of
oblivion to escape this klipothic torment. So go ahead, snuff our miserable ectoplasms
out for good if it strokes thy unholiest of But the ghostly nobleman never got
to finish that sentence, for as soon as he dared utter that blasphemous name
for the fourth time, a titanic thunderclap rocked the very foundations of the haunted
mans. A spiraling vortex of green miasmic energies erupted from the floorboards, lashing
out with shards of snapping ectoplasm at its pulsing fetid core. The unmistakable features
of shmeetal juice could briefly be glimpsed fangs, gnashing fists shaking in apoplectic fury,
You utter fools, The demon thing's voice shrieked from a thousand non Euclidean
angles. To dare speak my dread name that many times is to invoke the
end of the episode, the demon dropped his voice and riffed, Wow,
that's pretty meta. A thick, night gaunt haze blotted out all light and
dimension, as something vast, bulbous and palpitating began to descend upon the hapless
spirits within its grotesque fungoid folds. A panoply of nightmarish, saidnsary inputs assaulted
them. The desiccated rustle of cellophane wrappers forever being removed from repugnant gas station
snackcakes, the stale, humid stench of a dying man's last exhalations. Poor
Reginald and Agatha didn't even have a chance to scream out their terror and revulsion
before their psychic essences were absorbed into that transcendingly macarb gestalt of soul, shriveling
inanity their minds, their senses, that every eternal spark of defiance was simply
subsumed. To this day, any foolhardy interlopers who blunder within a thousand paces
of that dread gargoyle studded pile can sense something other pressing in upon the edges
of their perceptions, perhaps an incessant, repetitive droning like someone reciting true crime
factoids to themselves over and over until the words have lost all coherent meaning,
or maybe the fleeting, soul curdling shudder of a universe where nothing ever actually
happens. Those brave or foolish enough to stray too close soon find themselves overwhelmed
with a cloying existential anguish, and hasten to remove themselves from that damnable shanty's
per umber, for they know that none are truly safe from the all consuming
intellect devouring purgatory. The only way out is to invoke the demon's name four
times. Shmeeteljuice, Schmeetelejuice, Schmeeteljuice, Schmeateljuice. Ghost is a Caloroga Shark
Media production written and hosted by Alexander Ian McIntyre, produced by Mark Francis.
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