It was a dusty little town, situated as it was out in the middle of nowhere, perfect for tales of hauntings and mysteries.
Perhaps, if it had not been..."mysteriously abandoned", it might have even one day bursted into a burgeoning city.
Sadly, this did not occur, and the truth that was at the center of the rumors spinning about the area could only feel chagrin for his actions from long ago -- but only a little.

Although any visits to this town of death were few and far between, he couldn't deny that they were never unpleasant.
Everyone was so POLITE, breaking windows and looting bins, shouting obscenities into the air.
The ghost always enjoyed welcoming them into his arms, and the man from only a few days ago was no exception.

If there was one thing in death that he missed from life, it was the sense of touch.
He had it, just a little, enough so that he could still grab the handle of his favorite butcher's knife, and get to work.
The blood slipped through his features, instead of splattering upon them, which was, perhaps, the greatest tragedy of them all.
He missed the blood, dirt, and grit in his eyes, but at least the sweat and tears never went away.

Sweet screams swung through the air, and he allowed time for the man to shout, sob, and swear into the ground, face pressed into a pool of his own blood, before one final swing would bring his guest down for good.

Ah...but now that seemed so long ago.
He couldn't have any fun with rotting bodies, not after he'd already sliced them up into teeny-tiny pieces, which, alone, wasn't very fun, not when they were already dead, but at least it was something to do.

He was in the middle of carefully slicing up the body of his most recent visitor, sectioning him off like the body of a gutted cattle, when a purring rumble began to echo down the streets.
The ghost lifted his head, a grin already spreading across his features, listening closely to the sound.
Would it stop here?

He could hear the changes in the sound, moving deep into the center of the town.
Embedding a 'newly' acquired cutting knife into what remained of the man's spine, he faded into a nearby wall, and began to move off towards the noise.
As he passed it, he slipped into what used to be a shop, picking through the rubble to grab a favored cleaver from the skeletal hand of yet another corpse, before hopping out a window and floating on.

By this time, a voice had begun to carry through the air, and his smile only grew.
He loved the folks who came with such bold personalities; they were always the ones to scream the loudest.
He could only hope he would be able to catch the guy off-guard enough to keep him from fleeing into that infernal machination so many of them brought nowadays.

Rising to the rooftops, he quickly began to dash along towards the voice, though the glint of sunlight off metal from the most-definitely solid meat cleaver could give him away.
He only felt it the right thing to oblige such a request.

Soon enough, he came to the end of the rooftops that surrounded the town square, and there he found it; it was a rather strange-looking automobile, with a tall, rather odd-looking man in makeup and a suit -- not the usual fair he got to visit...but, he must say, that particular shade of purple both man and vehicle bore?
Pure perfection.
It made him want to try to take his time with this one, but, of course, only after first incapacitating him.

Without further ado, the ghost, nothing but a blur of violet at the moment, threw himself from the rooftops, tossing up a small cloud of dust just as he hit ground, immediately dashing through the air with knife held high.
A grinning, conical maw would pass through the man's body, while short arms swung fast and hard with the knife, aiming first to cut deep into the achilles tendons, then to produce more shallow cuts all along the arms and legs.
Furry, scraggly antennae remained perked in keen anticipation for the thanks he should soon receive for such courtesies.

The grin, big as it was, spread even wider on the ghost's faded features as he sliced and diced the stranger, so caught up in his flurry of successful cuts that he had yet to notice the odd reaction this man's skin was having.
Suit being cut to shreds, the man falling to his knees, laughing-- well, it was contagious, and the ghost himself began to chortle in what was a low, husky series of sounds.
The lack of screams was disappointing, to say the least, and the laughter's proceeding compliment did not go unnoticed, the ghost falling silent as he fell back, leaping away from the man to examine his handy-work.

Though his mouth remained big and open, teeth ground together, the violet blur's grin was soon dropping at the corners.
Confusion and a distant frown flickered across his smudged features as he watched the man begin to stand back up, the blood slathering the creases in his suit no longer dripping to the small puddles that had already formed on the dusty ground.
"What in the--" he finally began to mumble, before, all at once, a card was flashed in his face.
Feet slowly touching back down, he stared at what was a simple joker card from a standard deck of fifty-two, the stranger explaining his purpose here.

Despite the growing excitement he could feel at the mention of having more folks to carve, a twinge began to strain at the back of the ghost's skull.
The-- the...NERVE!

"LISTEN, CHUCKLES," he snapped, interrupting the clown-faced conundrum before his speech could continue any further.
Waving the cleaver his way, he began floating inches off the ground again, his spectral body slowly coming into better focus.
"I don't know if you noticed, but I don't PLAY clubs and theater."
Despite what had happened, it hadn't yet crossed his mind that this guy could be wholly immune to his attacks, or that there could be others like him.
Surely what had occurred was just some sort of illusion?
Yeah, a magic trick; that's all it was.

"Cards, clowns, tricks...," he grumbled.
"I ain't no performer in some circus."
Or some military weapon; he couldn't get at all who this guy was, much less what he wanted.
But it didn't matter.

Hauling the cleaver back into both of his hands, his full grin returned.
"Why don't you try that dance again?
We can tango all night!" before finishing the sentence, he'd already leapt forward, aiming again to slice up the stranger's skin and muscle; this time, he placed his primary target for a heaving chop at the throat.
Maybe he could lop that painted head off before any more tricks could be pulled; for, as much as he would have liked a long dance, he'd already found that it wasn't as much fun without the accompanying song of fear.

That silenced the fool.

In his cleaver went, with a loud, splurging thunk, and out came the blood, spraying through his incorporeal body.
For a moment, the ghost hovered above the man's body, digging the cleaver in deep until off came the head.
The shower of blood that erupted was, quite simply, beautiful, and the ghost allowed his eyes to slide shut, if only for a moment, to imagine the touch of the crimson droplets upon his old skin, listening to the melodious thunk of a head rolling to the ground.

Eyes reopening, staring first triumphantly at the stump of a neck, he flipped himself around, landing on the hood of what had once been a spotless automobile.
The car hardly rocked from the impact of his fuzzy, pudgy body, and he awaited the fall of the body, though it did not come.

It had been odd enough that it was still standing in the first place, but things like that sometimes happened, as they did with chickens.
The fact that it continued stand, however, after a full five or so seconds had already passed, was more than unusual, and only grew ever more so when it turned around.
His eyes flickered to the head on the ground, grimacing at the equally grinning face, and halfway expecting it to start talking again, before returning his eyes on the body, wondering if it would start trying to strangle him or something.

The ghost's glowing violet features actually paled to a dull lavender, as he watched what happened next.
A head popped-- no, it grew into existence, like a turtle's head from the shell.
It was like nothing he'd ever seen before, and it certainly took him by surprise.
Having looked directly at where he'd chopped off the man's head, he knew full well there was absolutely no room for such a feat to take place naturally.
What was he, a REAL magician?
Not the sleight-of-hand sorts, after all?

The ghost was ready to be filled with frustrated rage, as thoughts of one last effort flickered through his head, but the man's next words surprised him yet again -- which, after what he'd just witnessed, he would have thought impossible by that point.
The surprise wasn't immediate to him, but his body felt it, and, despite not yet knowing why it did, his frown sure did turn upside-down.
His body began to shake, not with anger, but with mirth.
A hyena's cackle of a laugh slipped from his grinning jaws, the ghost brandishing his cleaver once more.

What was wrong with him, getting angry at the clown?
He was getting his wish, wasn't he?
Taking his time, enjoying the purple hue, blood-stained though it may now be...actually, that was more of a plus than anything else.

He glanced at the still-smiling, lifeless head, before looking back to the newly born one, whereupon he offered up a nonchalant shrug.
Despite the ideas of his last-ditch effort, which was to chop this man up into mincemeat, he got the distinct feeling that it wasn't going to work; probably just pull himself back together, or regrow a whole new body from a leg, or some crazy shit like that.
He almost didn't want to ruin the surprise which was next in line...on reflection, cutting him up WAS getting to be about as interesting as chopping up dead bodies.
Besides, the offer now rung louder in his head; it was vague, but he heard what basically amounted to carving up bodies, and that was sounding good enough to him.
It's not as though he got many visitors anymore...that last guy had to be the first one in months.
Surely there was some populous city somewhere?
That had to be where this guy wanted to take him!
Carving up the entirety of a big ol' city...what a great idea!
Unfortunately, he wasn't prepared to give in to the plan just yet....

"Well, why don't you take a swing back at me?" he said, spreading his arms wide, the cleaver's blade now pointing towards the pale blue sky, clearly offering himself for the taking.
"Yanno, the tango doesn't work all by one's lonesome."

If the man could heal himself thusly, he was curious to see if his attacks were as strong as his defense.
After all, it wouldn't be much fun working with someone who can't even put up a decent fight.
But could he hit a ghost?
Did he even have a weapon at all?

The ghost's bristly antennae fell back as the strange man began to clap, a brow cocking at the other's vocal note of them now being buddies.
"Don't get ahead of yerself there, partner," he grumbled, the last word laced with sarcasm.
At that moment, all he really had in mind was to have this guy lead him to somewhere populous, so that he might finally be able to cut loose, just as he had when first he'd died.
He didn't see the guy anywhere near ally; more a means to an end, and a possible endless distraction, should no other living beings present themselves to whatever blade he happened to pick up.

The ghost crossed his short arms and tapped an impatient foot, watching as the stranger began to pat himself down.
A frown once more creased his lips as the admission of being unarmed reached the air, at which point he could only ponder what in the world was wrong with the man; not only coming to a dangerous locale unarmed (which, on recollection, wasn't altogether unusual; most folks that came didn't appear to expect the rumors to be true), but the going on to request aid in a fight -- if he didn't carry a weapon with him, how useful could he really be?

Perhaps he just wanted to show off; the ghost stood still, lowering his arms a little, so that the man could more easily grab the cleaver, which he did so by the blade.
Yeah, considering his demeanor so far, the ghost guessed that he just had to be the attention-seeking, performing, show-off-y sort.
Lost in his thoughts during the boring wait, he was caught completely off-guard by something wholly unexpected; for a second, the ghost had frozen, hairs lifting in shock, a sensation upon his shoulder that he had not felt since his last few moments before death.
Once the touch had registered, he nearly jumped back at the utter unexpectedness of it all, nonexistent muscles twitching, but managed to steel himself, though for a few seconds after his expression remained deeply perturbed.
Sure, he'd wondered if it was possible, but, like the tourists and vandals who traveled so far out to visit this empty town in the middle of nowhere, he most certainly had not expected what had before seemed such an impossibility.

Shaking the bewildered near-terror from his face, he quirked his lips back up into a wide grin at the man's words, which continued to be ended with laughter.
He wasn't sure whether to be intimidated by the threat, or excited for the challenge.
"If I don't first cut you up for good," was all that managed to escape his tapering jaws, with only the slightest hint of shakiness remaining in his voice.

Stiff as a board, the ghost turned his entire body to follow the man's movements as he began to introduce himself, watching as a door was opened.
The name which was given gave context to the card that had been flashed his way in the very first moments of their meeting, which seemed but a distant memory by now.
Fingers tapped thoughtfully on the bloodstained silver of the cleaver, that same hand cradling the black handle in his palm.
His entire afterlife was apparently ready to change in the blink of an eye; besides all the surprising turns the situation had taken, he now found himself wondering if he might end up having to deal with some actual conversation.
Beyond teasing and taunting his victims, vocal communication wasn't exactly something he frequently engaged in, either.

Gosh, it's been so long since he'd given a name, even....

"Two-thirty tango," he answered, tone almost stilted in the reply.
He stared at the open door.
Yet again, automobiles weren't something he had experience in; past some small glimpses into their interiors, he'd never actually been in one before.
He wasn't exactly trusting of these strange machinations, and, just as children might avoid a haunted school, he had always avoided the growling shells.

Being constantly reminded of his own lack of knowledge was a bit frustrating, to say the least, giving him a sense of inadequacy, something he didn't particularly enjoy; in the span of what was probably less than half an hour, such blows to his ego were continually battering his spirit.
The ghost was again being forced to temper his anger, trying to remind himself that some real victims, and quite a number of them, could well be beyond the horizon, if only he had the will to let go.

Slowly, in a clearly cautious and bemused manner, he hovered over to the opening, pausing at the entrance, where he glanced at this "Joker" with a vexed face.
Immediately inside there was a chair, more luxurious than anything he'd ever seen in his lifetime.
He assumed that once he was seated, the car would soon be heading off; he didn't even know what would happen once it did so -- would he be flung from the seat, or would the car simply pass as though he weren't there at all?
Would he have to make a conscious effort to stay seated, like clinging to the face of a cliff?

With a heavy plop, he dropped himself into the seat, porcupine-sized body clearly disproportionate to the area, quills pricking through the back and out the other side, although with no obvious harm to the chair itself.
Sinking into the slick leather, he tried to comfort his nerves, making great efforts not to show his discomfort at being in the car.
It was bad enough what small amounts of fear he'd shown before; this new acquaintance of his certainly didn't need to know anything more.

Without even thinking about it, his body began to change in the confrontation of his new demeanor and train of thought; the lucid violet which composed his ghostly body dulled into vanishing, fat disappearing and replaced with bone as his body grew taller, thinner.
In the span of a mere couple seconds, he looked positively human, perfectly normal in almost all regards, save for the bloodied, muddied mess his translucent butcher's attire displayed, and the more-than-average visibility of the human circulatory system, the massively muscular organ that was the heart being the most obvious aspect of all, its slow, uneven beats pumping blood which possessed a glow of such a hue that was not entirely unlike the form he'd only just transitioned out of.
Arms moved to set the cleaver comfortably in his lap, while one hand fell to curl its fingers around the edges of the seat's cushion, just in case the car did, in fact, elect to try and completely ignore his presence.

Who knows how far away the man was planning to take him; he didn't exactly want to fly himself at full speed just to get there; would certainly put his stamina to the test.
He also hoped he wouldn't hit some wall upon attempting to exit some haunt-specific boundary of the town or its surrounding area.
Dash his dreams, that would.

"We going somewhere big?"

He made no reply to the man's courtesy, not even a shake of the head, though he did at least think a response in that he couldn't agree more.
Although he didn't expect their "adventures" together to last very long, fully anticipating going off on his own almost as soon as they made way into a more populated area, he could say the advent of even more blood that had been shed from the other's resilient body was certainly appealing.

The ghost's fingers clenched tightly to the seat as the automobile whipped off suddenly, velocity increasing fast and without abandon, watching as air turned to the confusing insides of the leather chair as his body was whipped back into it.
It was brief, however, as he quickly pulled himself back up with his second hand, a slight tingling in his lap as the cleaver fell through it.
Pulling himself together, he focused on solidifying himself, mind turning to the heaviness of gravity and solidity of matter, the translucency of his skin turning evermore opaque, though never becoming fully lifelike, in the process.

Eyes flickered to the view beyond the windows, first as a glance, before holding steady on what lay outside the shining glass.
The blurred rush of buildings, his head turning to watch as the small town quickly began to dash away to the horizon.
There was only the briefest of regrets, the kind that might come with leaving any place one had stayed in for so long, as he had with the town, before it was replaced with a feeling of 'good riddance'; no matter his memories there, he couldn't maintain a lasting fondness for that which had bored him to pieces for so very long.
He was leaving such a tepid hell and heading onwards to paradise.

Once he managed to get his nerves together -- which might never had happened in this machine, were he not a ghost that no longer had to fear death -- fingers unloosening from the seat so that he might readjust the position of his cleaver back to his side, he could finally listen to the Joker prattle on.
Boy, did this guy love to talk; not that this was a new revelation by any means.
Whenever the man spoke, it was as though his words simply jumbled together, adding confusion onto bewilderment as what sounded like half nonsense slipped from his lips, only adding to the ghost's suspicions.
All this talk of bad guys being hard to find (which he found hard to believe), of having folks he rolls along with, with a few that stand out, yet the ghost himself was the first, however that worked -- somethingsomethingsomething, the ghost let him go on and on, all the while thinking that he sure as hell wasn't going to avoid killing those that thought themselves on his side...what the shit was he even talking about?

"Well, aren't I flattered," the ghost said when at last there was a chance for him to respond, in tandem with there being something he actually had a reply to.
"I sure haven't seen any other ghosts."
Ever; not like him or of anything else, not even of his victims.
Which, come to think of it, seemed rather odd.
One would think with all the murdering he'd done, both in life and in death, there'd be some bemoaning, lost, and vengeful ghosts to along with them.
Maybe, without knowing it, he'd always only killed perfect saints (somehow despite the adultery, robbery, swearing, vandalism, and who knows what else he knew some of his victims to have done -- did being murdered immediately absolve someone of all their sins?).
Or perhaps his victims did turn into ghosts, but they all hid from him?
Not that he'd really care to slash up another ghost...not unless they bled and screamed.
Though, as he had with the Joker, he would probably soon get bored of that which wouldn't die.

Throughout the ride, his face was stiff, although it no less featured his puzzlement, but a small smile would finally quirk up again upon hearing that some "sad faces" had been found.
The automobile began to slow down, the ghost remaining in place, but preparing to launch himself at the first piece of flesh he saw.
Glances were given through the many windows, trying to spot some humans, but all he could see was a pair of other vehicles heading their way, some weird lights flashing on their roofs, accompanied by some piercing sounds, beeps, and honks.
Of course, he had no idea what any of this meant.
Some strange future code, obviously (god, could he really be so far out of his element already?).
As the man's own car slowed down, this duo drew steadily closer, eventually to the point that the ghost decided he was done waiting for them to pass by, or for this car to stop.

Hefting the cleaver, the ghost stood up, disappearing from view his body fell into near-full transparency, and as the car's metal shell passed through him.
One of the approaching cars had been posed immediately behind the Joker's, and it ended up passing right through him; quickly, the ghost grabbed hold of the backseats, cleaver following after him as he dropped himself off inside this other vehicle.
Turning himself around, he wasted no time in slamming the blade through the glass barrier, which separated the front and rear seats, straight into the first skull he saw, which was that of the driver.
A surprised shout from the passenger's side cut across his ears as blood then spurted like a small fountain, spattering the felt ceiling and top half of the wheel.
He could only hope this guy would stay dead; otherwise, he just might have to conclude that he really was in hell now.

The ghost gave pause, holding his cleaver still as he awaited some form of movement, reaction, or speech from the man whose skull he'd just cleaved halfway in two.
His face was stern, stiff, but when nothing happened, the grin reappeared, and he turned his eyes on the other who sat in the passenger seat.
He took this to mean that the clown was an exception, not the rule -- and that was just
"Faantastic," he hummed quietly.

A shot went off inside the car.
A bullet whizzed through his body, bounced off a window, and before he knew what had happened, there was a tiny spurt of blood flicking at his skinless face.
The ghost blinked at the other man, who, to him, seemed to have spontaneously sprouted a hole in his noggin, the stranger's eyes wide as he slumped back into the seat.
Did the guy hit his suicide switch, 'cause what in the hell just happened?

The ghost leaned back, not at all making a connection between the metallic object in the man's hand, and the hole between his eyes.
Then static flickered up to his left, the ghost's body following suit as he was brought out from his confusion, turning to slam the knife down on the source of the annoying electronic fuzz.
A voice still managed to garble through the sound, not that he could hear what was being said through the mess, and reflexively he put a hand to his ear, before pulling the cleaver out and hopping out of the car.

Now, where was-- oh, there we go.
Without ado, he dashed on into the second car, plopping himself down in what was an empty passenger seat, and offering up a big smile to the driver.

"Howdy-ho--" another bang cut him off short.
The glass behind him cracked.
The ghost folded his arms.
"Yano, it's not nice to interrup--"
BANG BANG BANG
He could see some flashes from the muzzle of the object the guy was holding; finally able to put two and two together, he sliced off both the stranger's hands, watching as they fell to the floor, shouts of pained curses filled the air inside the vehicle, and the metal L-thing clicked off a seventh, nonexistent shot.
He wanted a chance to take his time.

The driver's door opened as the man fell out, the ghost hopping out in turn.
As the stranger struggled to stand up by the side of the car, his actions becoming noticeably weaker by the second, the ghost's eyes briefly turned to the path they'd set themselves aside of.

It was relatively abandoned, a bifurcated stretch of dirt and gravel, the surroundings just as barren as the road itself.
The wind whistled through him, carrying with it a familiar sound he'd heard only a few minutes ago, getting louder and faster.

There was a thud behind him, and he turned to see that the man had apparently passed out.
Maybe he should have just cut off one hand instead of two.
Regardless, he could tell the man was still breathing, and sat down to carefully part the skin of the man's legs, biding his time while the sirens tottered closer.

Before long, flashing lights appeared, a third vehicle pulling in, stopping even farther away from the carnage.
He would lop off the unconscious man's head before standing back up, ready to greet this next man.

Though he didn't know it, more backup was being called in, as this fourth officer stepped cautiously out from the vehicle, using its metal frame as a shield from the one man he could see clearly, that being the Joker, who was apparently busy placing a card beneath the wipers of one of the vehicles.

Oh, come on-- the ghost was RIGHT THERE.
"Hey!
Don't ignore me!"
The shout would barely be registered before a spinning knife knocked him flat to the ground, the ghost standing a few meters away from where he'd thrown it.

And so on it went.
And they just kept coming.
The sun turned in the sky, evening slowly approaching, the ghost's efforts gradually growing more hasty and stronger as the numbers increased.
The spectacle was so curious that at one point he wondered if this, too, was some sort of illusion, just like the white-faced man's putting himself back together, and the hand set on his shoulder.
But the thought was quickly put to rest as 'who the hell even cares.'
One would think doing the same thing over and over might become droll, but it only fueled his own bloodlust, whatever the spectral equivalent of adrenaline and carbohydrates was flooding his spirit with energy.

Eventually, he managed to cut down the last man before a final call for backup could be made.
The ghost stood over this final corpse, listening and waiting, though no more lights nor noises came.
He bent over to pick up the cleaver, stuck as it was in the rib cage.
Pulling hard, the handle separated from the blade.
"You gotta be kidding me," he grumbled, though he supposed it had only been a matter of time.
Luckily enough, no one else seemed to be coming, which meant no loss on his part.

The handle was tossed down, the ghost finally remembering the man who brought him all the way out here, and turning to see that he'd slipped back into his own bloodied vehicle.
A frown creased the ghost's face as he strode back over to it, asking, "Ya ain't gon' leave me hangin' here, are ya?"
Besides this road being far from any city, least far as he could tell, he no longer had a nice knife to haul about.
He needed to find another kitchen.

He jumped back into the passenger's seat, clearly in better spirits after the mountains of blood he'd just spilled.
He'd never killed so many folks in one go before, past the vengeful burning of the town when first he turned up dead, and he was hardly lucid during that time.
The tremendous rush his spirit had just processed was wearing off; he was soon going to find out that ghosts, or at least he, as a ghost, needed rest too.

"Yer sure full of tricks, aren't ya?" the ghost stated, adjusting himself carefully so that he wouldn't go flying out the car once the man cranked up the speed again.
"Hope ye didn't pull yer last one out of the bag there."
It would be disappointing, to say the least, if this strange gathering of uniformed men was the extent of the surprises that the ghost was bound to be witness to.
Then again, if he could continue to slash through bodies, then it didn't much matter in the end.