"What happened?"
"You just picked up three penalty points on your driver's license," Venkman informed him.
Stantz gaped at the EctolA and the tree. Within seconds Winston was at his side. "Are you all right?"
Stantz nodded, the first flickerings of understanding playing across his face. "Yeah, I guess so. It was the strangest thing. I knew what I was doing but I couldn't stop. This really terrible feeling came over me and—I
don't know—I just felt like driving into that tree and ending it all. Whew! Sorry, boys."
Venkman turned to Spengler. "Watch him, Egon," he whispered. "Don't even let him shave."
Winston inspected the damage to the car. "No big deal," he said with a sigh. "Just another fender bender in the Big Apple."
Venkman rolled his eyes. Yeah. Right.
20
Venkman and Winston walked into the firehouse, bone-tired after spending most of the morning haggling with an auto mechanic about getting the repairs done on EctolA as quickly and as cheaply as possible. The mechanic wasn't too responsive until Venkman threatened to summon up the spirit of the guy's long-dead mother-in-law. Within ninety minutes the Ecto 1A looked fine. The mechanic even threw in a tune-up for free.
In the firehouse lab area, Stantz and Spengler were hard at work. Stantz took a small sample of the psycho- reactive slime out of a small container. He had painted a smiley face on the lid to keep the ooze calm.
"What's up?" Winston asked.
"We now know the negative potential of this stuff," Stantz announced. "We've isolated this specimen and we're running tests on it to see if we can get an equally strong positive reaction."
Venkman was intrigued. "What kind of tests?"
Stantz shuffled about before the container, embar rassed. "Well, we sing to it. We talk to it. We say supportive, nurturing things..."
"You're not sleeping with this stuff, are you?" Venk man asked in mock horror.
Spengler coughed, reacting as if he might be. Venk man and Winston watched intently as Stantz spooned some of the psycho-reactive slime into an old toaster.
"We've mostly been going with the music angle," he said.
"We've identified several songs that seem to have a calming or a mediating effect on the slime," Spengler added.
"We tried all the sappy stuff," Stantz continued. " 'Kumbaya,' 'Everything Is Beautiful,' and 'It's a Small World' all scored high."
Spengler offered a thin smile. "But the song that really goosed its molecules is the 1967 Jackie Wilson hit, 'Higher and Higher.' "
Venkman didn't believe it.
"Watch this." Stantz grinned. He walked over to a boom box and flicked on a tape. The sweet, silky voice of the late, great Jackie Wilson blasted through the room.
The slime-encased toaster began to shake and spin. Winston's jaw dropped open as the toaster actually started to swivel back and forth—in time with the pulsating music. Venkman gaped in astonishment at the bopping toaster as it actually shot two pieces of darkened bread into the air and, swerving on the tabletop, caught them back in its slots without missing a beat.
"I don't care what you say," Venkman said, beaming. "We're going to bottle this stuff and sell it. We'll make a fortune."
Winston was a tad more skeptical. "Right, and the
first time someone gets mad, their toaster will eat their hand."
Venkman wasn't daunted. "Okay. Okay. So we'll put a warning on the label."
Stantz switched off the Jackie Wilson tape and the toaster sputtered to a complete standstill.
"We're investigating the practical applications," Spengler said. "But stocking stuffers isn't one of them. We think it could be a useful tool against certain types of spiritual manifestations."
Venkman didn't get it.
"We have a prototype designed for a pressure- forced, neutronically metered, fully portable delivery system," Stantz announced.
Venkman still didn't get it.
Stantz sighed. "Basically it's a slime-blower."
He held up a bazookalike tube attached to a set of compressed air tanks.
Venkman wasn't overly awed. "Yeah, well keep up the good work. See if you can keep it under a hundred and fifty pounds."
Venkman walked over to the toaster and stuck his fingers in one of the slots.
Venkman sneered at the slime within. "Go ahead, I dare you."
Venkman suddenly screamed, as if the toaster were gnawing the flesh off his fingers. He couldn't remove his hand from the goop-empowered mechanism. The other three Ghostbusters leapt forward to his aid.
Venkman faced them with a smile. "Just kidding," he said, easily removing his hand from the toaster.
With that he left the room, leaving the other three Ghostbusters relieved, but more than slightly p.o.'d, behind him.
After making a quick stop at Dana's deserted apart-
ment, Venkman made his way downtown to his loft. He walked up to the front door, tentatively holding a small bouquet of flowers, as well as one of Dana's small suitcases.
He produced his keys, unlocked the door, and swung it open.
"Honeeeeey," he called. "I'm home!"
He eased the door shut behind him. He gazed in terror at the sight before him. Never in all his years as a Ghostbuster had he witnessed such an appalling sight.
"I knew it!" he muttered. "She cleaned!"
The loft was spotless.
The withering leftovers had been removed.
The old newspapers and magazines had been ban ished.
Books were now neatly stacked on shelves.
The thirteen layers of dust in the kitchen had been washed away.
The hairballs—and Venkman didn't even have pets —had been vacuumed from the furniture.
Venkman heard the shower running in the bath room. Placing the suitcase and the flowers down, he slowly tiptoed to the bathroom. The door was half open. He peeked inside. He could barely make out the form of Dana, clad only in layers of soap, behind the shower curtain.
Sighing, he eased the door closed and moved to the bedroom, where little Oscar lay asleep. Dana had sur rounded the tyke with large pillows to prevent him from taking an impromptu swan dive off the bed.
Venkman smiled.
Maybe this was what he needed in his life. He slammed the flat of his hand into his forehead. Naaah. This kind of life was for normal people, not Ghostbusting kind of guys.
He spun around and collided with Dana as she exited the bathroom wrapped only in a towel. She quickly darted back inside.
Venkman made a concerted effort not to drool. He had just gotten his shirt cleaned.
Dana reemerged from the bathroom wearing a long terry-cloth robe. Venkman leered at her. "Now, don't tell me you didn't do that on purpose. You're trying to torture me, aren't you?"
Dana regarded him impassively.
"Are you all squeaky clean now?" Venkman asked.
Dana shot him a withering smile. "Yes, I'm very clean. Did they find anything in my apartment?"
Before Venkman could answer, Dana marched past him and entered the bedroom, closing the door in his face.
"Nothing," Venkman shouted through the door. "They stayed there all night, went through your per sonal stuff, made a bunch of long-distance calls, and cleaned out your refrigerator. That's about it."