Harold didn’t quite know if he needed a beer or a cigarette, maybe both. This decision, hampered somewhat by his incessant vomiting into his motel’s garbage chute, would have to wait. It really didn’t smell that great when you took into account the soiled pants he’d recently had to dispose of.
Just as Harold collapsed back to the ground, mouth still drooling, so it was that the re-incarnation of Micheal Jackson appeared. Harold managed to reach into his pocket and retrieve a slightly crumpled pack of cigarettes. He carefully placed one on his lower lip. ‘Not again Michael, Jesus’ said Harold, as he looked pitifully at the singing/dancing maestro.
‘Look, can you light this?’
Michael dutifully pointed a finger and a flame flickered, seemingly out of nowhere. Harold leant forward and dragged in. ‘How about a beer too. Would that kill you?’.
Sighing, the 80′s pop legend snapped his fingers and a cold brew appeared on the ground. ‘Thanks Mike’, said Harold, barely acknowledging the now deceased artistic genius.
‘Now’, Harold motioned to the floor, ‘Enough of pleasantries. I seek entertainment. Sing and dance for me! Let us say that amusing ditty “Billy Jean”‘. Harold clapped his hands and the hapless ghost began his routine.
‘Can’t this man think of ANY other song than Billy Jean’, thought Jackson as he twirled, lighting up elements of the ground as he moved.
Tired, and yet relieved to have completed his act Jackson now motioned in return to Harold. ‘Alright Harold. I’ve given you what you wanted, now its your turn’.
Harold muttered a curse under his breath. ‘Sure, sure. I know. You want another elephant joke’.
Jackson’s eye’s lit up. Harold’s earthly talents were worthless in this land. However, in the world of the departed, his skillfully worded elephant buffoonery reverberated across the heavenly plains. To have one of Harold’s elephant jokes told by the author himself though was an honor only few of the deceased could imagine. Michael took a seat, wild-eyed in anticipation.
‘OK, you’ll enjoy this one’, said Harold wiping some more vomit on his sleeve. ‘So what do you call an elephant eating too much chocolate cake?’
Michael started to laugh. ‘Oh Harold, I apologize. I do not even know the punchline, but your delivery amuses me so’.
‘Shut up Michael, you’re ruining it’, snarled Harold. ‘So, what do you call an elephant eating too much chocolate cake?’.
‘I do not even pretend to know the answer’, whispered Jackson in awed wonder.
‘Well it all depends’, said Harold. ‘You could try using his name. Of course some elephants don’t have a name. In all honesty though, it probably wouldn’t matter as your garbled mumblings would mean little to an elephant’.
Jackson could hardly contain his mirth, rolling around and slapping his thigh in laughter. ‘Harold, you never fail to deliver!’ laughed the King of Pop, as he wiped the tears running down his cheeks.