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Fantasite, v. 1, issue 1, November 1940

Page 22

22..........THE FANTASITE

CONFESSIONS OF A GHOST WRITER
by
Arthur L. VanPyer

Hello Kiddies!  If you are a widely read little fan, you will remember how I was killed shortly before I wrote THE CARE AND FEEDING OF WEREWOLVES, which should make me a ghost writer.

Accordingly, the purpose of this article is to prepare those of you who will no doubt follow me later, for something of a shock. All is not as one supposes in the hereafter

In the first place, this business of being dead isn't what it's cracked up to be. Just imagine all the people who have died, since Abel got his. Crowded isn't the word for it. And the unemployment situation is ten times terrific.

You see, the unions have everything sewed up tighter than two corpses in one sheet. Any ghost that doesn't belong to the union, and thinks that he can get away with freelance ghosting, is severely disciplined. They take his shroud away for a week. You'e no idea how silly a ghost look without his shroud. There aren't many violaters, except among the newcomers.

Only exceptional ghosts can get into the union. The rest just have to sit around and shoot craps. Craps gets pretty monotonous after a few hundred years. Once in a while some lucky spirit will make twenty or thirty passes in a row, take the heads he has won, and whoosh off to see Shylock, who runs a big pawn and swap shop here. (The chiseler)

Heads are the medium of currency here, and Shylock is a billionairre, as he got an early corner on the chain market, and is practically as powerful as the unions. It's next to impossible to get a set of chains with a good brand of clank in them from anyone but Shylock.

He also loans out heads at a high rate of interest, so that spectres who unfortunately lost their noggins can have a chance to win them back again. Henry VIII is in debt to Shylock for thousands of heads. Hank can't keep his head for five minutes; or anybody else's for that matter.

Robin Hood passed Hank the other night, and called him a few choice names he's learned from Jesse James a short while before, and poor Hank blew up and began pegging the whole bankroll he had just won, at Robin. Ghost, oh Ghost! You should have seen the scramble! When the smoke cleared away, there was nothing but Hank standing there, the most forlorn figure I ever saw. It really was pathetic. Hank couldn't een take down his hair and have a good cry, because he didn't have any to take down, and no head to cry with.

Well, to get back to me -- as soon as I arrived I went to the union offices to get registered, although everybody told me I didn't have a chance with all the other ghosts out of work. King Tut was the big shot in the U.G.G., which stands for Union of Gullible Ghosts. I bluffed my way in to see him, and he seemed pleased with my perseverance. 
Then too I was lucky to have a good personality - from the spook standpoint and a pleasing appearance, due to the fact that Herman, the werewolf had done a good job of tearing my throat open, so that my head lolled cutely on my right shoulder.

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22..........THE FANTASITE CONFESSIONS OF A GHOST WRITER by Arthur L. VanPyer Hello Kiddies! If you are a widely read little fan, you will remember how I was killed shortly before I wrote THE CARE AND FEEDING OF WEREWOLVES, which should make me a ghost writer. Accordingly, the purpose of this article is to prepare those of you who will no doubt follow me later, for something of a shock. All is not as one supposes in the hereafter In the first place, this business of being dead isn't what it's cracked up to be. Just imagine all the people who have died, since Abel got his. Crowded isn't the word for it. And the unemployment situation is ten times terrific. You see, the unions have everything sewed up tighter than two corpses in one sheet. Any ghost that doesn't belong to the union, and thinks that he can get away with freelance ghosting, is severely disciplined. They take his shroud away for a week. You'e no idea how silly a ghost look without his shroud. There aren't many violaters, except among the newcomers. Only exceptional ghosts can get into the union. The rest just have to sit around and shoot craps. Craps gets pretty monotonous after a few hundred years. Once in a while some lucky spirit will make twenty or thirty passes in a row, take the heads he has won, and whoosh off to see Shylock, who runs a big pawn and swap shop here. (The chiseler) Heads are the medium of currency here, and Shylock is a billionairre, as he got an early corner on the chain market, and is practically as powerful as the unions. It's next to impossible to get a set of chains with a good brand of clank in them from anyone but Shylock. He also loans out heads at a high rate of interest, so that spectres who unfortunately lost their noggins can have a chance to win them back again. Henry VIII is in debt to Shylock for thousands of heads. Hank can't keep his head for five minutes; or anybody else's for that matter. Robin Hood passed Hank the other night, and called him a few choice names he's learned from Jesse James a short while before, and poor Hank blew up and began pegging the whole bankroll he had just won, at Robin. Ghost, oh Ghost! You should have seen the scramble! When the smoke cleared away, there was nothing but Hank standing there, the most forlorn figure I ever saw. It really was pathetic. Hank couldn't een take down his hair and have a good cry, because he didn't have any to take down, and no head to cry with. Well, to get back to me -- as soon as I arrived I went to the union offices to get registered, although everybody told me I didn't have a chance with all the other ghosts out of work. King Tut was the big shot in the U.G.G., which stands for Union of Gullible Ghosts. I bluffed my way in to see him, and he seemed pleased with my perseverance. Then too I was lucky to have a good personality - from the spook standpoint and a pleasing appearance, due to the fact that Herman, the werewolf had done a good job of tearing my throat open, so that my head lolled cutely on my right shoulder.