A whole host of ghosts is to be expected in an old theatre—practically a cast of them. What happens behind the stage is almost as important as what happens on top of the damn thing. So, fair to say, I broke out my tap shoes and dusted off my metaphorical showgirl outfit that night (I'm rather fond of it: it has lots of sequins and feathers).
Anyways…oh dear, I seem to have lost my train of thought. Oh right—the Goth chick (who probably cut herself [because she was angry at the world] and then licked up the blood [because she was a vampire; a creature of the night]) walking around in front of the cameras. Ahem:
The camera crew was being meticulously slow, filming from floor to ceiling—yeah, like I'm going to be scrunched up against the roof staring down at them with glowing red eyes (though now that you've mentioned it…). Twice—freaking twice—they passed right by an 'unnatural mist' in a doorway (thank you, thank you, I'm so glad you noticed) and I swear they didn't even hear me stomping up and down the stairs to the basement.
For 'supernatural investigators,' I swear they all were dropped on their heads—several times—when they were infants (and their skulls were very malleable and prone to caving inwards, thereby killing what few neurons had had a chance to develop). So, to make things extraordinarily obvious, I drained the heat out of the room (I got to get energy for the upcoming trick from somewhere).
Goth-girl's nipples got hard beneath her shirt (it was fun to watch, because obviously she 'free soul' and a bra-burner—even though that movement should have died out sometime in, oh say, the SIXTIES) and she started to shiver. She looked at the camera with a faux-frightened face, "I think something may be about to happen."
No really, dipshit.
I settled for about a half-strength apparition, drawing upon (very kinky) memories of a certain brunette getting up to certain shenanigans with a certain lion tamer. Therefore, made-up in flowing brown hair, pale skin, a garter belt, and a touch of syphilis, and nothing else, I strutted past the end of the hallway, adding a swish to my hips that would surly give the blinky-eyed, basement-dwelling cameraman the boner of his life.
Luckily—and I emphasize luckily—he had the camera pointed in that direction, so my little show was not wasted. I was going to give this stupid film crew the footage of their short, herpes-ridden lives.
"Oh crap!" the camera man shouted, blinking profusely (didn't I tell you?). "Regina, did you see that?"
Goth girl grabbed hold of the camera and swung the lens around to her face. "What did I tell you, dumbass? On camera it's Madame Nightwing."
"So-rry, Madame Nightwing." he muttered irritably. He hoisted the camera back onto his shoulder and panned around—probably trying to see if there was anything else lingering about (that may, just may, eat Madame Nightwing's soul so that he could be done with her).
Now, from here on out, I will refer to her not as Madame Nightwing nor Regina—I feel 'Rongina' is more appropriate. And while we're renaming, I will not refer to the society to which they belong as "The Chicago Paranormal Research Society," and will instead favor "the Paranormal Energy Notification and Inspection Society," or PENIS for short.
Rongina wrapped up their (annoyingly slow) tour of the building, and halted the crew. "Now," she said to the camera mysteriously, "we will be going into the basement in search of EVPs, or Electronic Voice Phenomenon, and another team will go up onto the theatre itself and attempt to discern evidence of supernatural happenings."
I could tell she was trying to sound professional, and to be quite honest, she was failing miserably. I could tell that big words did not suit her.
Now, at this point I was struck with a dilemma: go down to the basement and make hooker-voices to the microphone, or go into the theatre with them and throw things at the cameras…but then I remembered the porn I had left in the film reel, and decided that was enough 'evidence' for film crew #2.
As they were heading down the stairs, I stomped loudly down behind them (it's an easy trick because that's the place where I died), and they switched their recorders on and looked properly scared out of their minds. For the first time that night I felt as if I were doing my job correctly.
They kept the lights off—in order to not disturb the "supernatural energies," I suppose—turned the infrared on for the cameras, and Rongina's voice echoed out. "Right now we are in the basement, where the dressing rooms are. It is down here that the possession" (I honestly don't know why she emphasized that word) "took place. An innocent worker was overpowered by what we suspect are demonic forces—and we are attempting to establish contact.
"Now, we are going to attempt to record some EVPs." I laughed as she held the recorder out in front of her in a dramatic fashion. "Is anyone here?"
"Yes…" I said in a girlish whisper—which of course they couldn't hear normally.
"What is your name?"
"Gladys Archebald. Would you like to go for a spin? I don't mind the whole lesbian thing, really. A girl's got to pay the bills—"
"Can you give us a sign that you're here?"
"Bitch you don't interrupt me!" Growling in a very un-menacing fashion (much like how a gerbil would growl, I imagine), I knocked down the nearest of objects, which was –irony of ironies—a fichus.
Which, of course, caused Rongina to scream theatrically. Suffice to say, I considered resigning my post and naming her my successor, for surely she could scare more people at the Tivoli than I, what with that banshee wail of hers. She jumped backwards behind Blinky, as if expecting him to protect that hideous, eyeliner-encrusted face of hers. Much to my amusement, he rolled his eyes and steped forward, to get a close-up of the fichus, and began panning around in search of who knows what.
Deciding that I rather like this fellow, I threw him a bone (not literally, you idiot) and put on a show for him. I showed myself to the camera (and by "myself," I do not mean my genitalia, which I no longer have—and, in fact, I died before I had a chance to use them—but my orb) and danced around a little bit before exiting up through the ceiling.
In the theatre, I found several cameramen getting close-ups of the screen, talking in hushed tones to their soon-to-be audience. They were describing that they had found a film playing—mysteriously—on the reel, though they didn't say what was on it. Yet I know they watched some of it, because I distinctly head one of the cameramen masturbating in the corner. Laughing, I condensed into Evil Mist right over said masturbator, causing the others to rush over, cameras blazing. I don't' think I really need to describe what happened when they discovered him with his (rather scrawny, if you ask me) dick just flopped out for public viewing.
I let myself fade back, tired as I was from my night of delicious shenanigans. Maybe they caught my laugh on camera—I hope not, because I don't think it sounded particularly hooker-ish. But I guess I'd find out tomorrow what perverted fruit my actions had wrought.