Mermaid Fillet

       "Kids these days are so skeptical and nosy," the Pirate Ghost grumbled for the tenth time in the staff break room of the New Orlean’s Ghost Stories amusement park. The entertainment crew didn’t have much to do between shifts—sip cheap liquor, nibble on sardines, swap gossip. Every night, the same routine. The only excitement came from the day’s visitors, who occasionally provided fresh material. "Back in my day, they’d scream with terror or delight, hide under the rollercoaster bar—hell, at least they’d react! Now? ‘Wow, cool special effects!’ And those damned selfie sticks—one almost poked through me today! Another inch, and we’ll be the ones running from them, shrieking like banshees!" The Mermaid rolled her eyes, her gills flaring. "Quit whining like an old man. Who cares if they’re scared or just amused? As long as they’re happy. Just dodge faster." She flashed three rows of needle-sharp teeth. "Had three married men ask for my number today when they thought their families didn't look. Gave ’em sex hotline digits instead. Imagine their faces when they call—" She threw back her head and laughed, a sound like bubbles rising through a shipwreck. Her gaze lingered on the Ghost, the kind of look that would’ve turned any living man into a stammering, horny mess. But the Pirate was made of moonbeams and regret, and the Mermaid’s curves were as untouchable to him as the seafloor. A century and twenty years of friendship, built on mutual harmlessness. Safer this way. No repeat of the last time passion had sunk its hooks into them—back when he’d craved her warm, beating heart (figuratively), and she’d craved his warm, beating throat (literally). But that hunger had drowned with his bones, and good riddance. Nobody knew the skeletons, vampires, and specters in New Orlean’s Ghost Stories were real. "They won’t be surprised," the Ghost snorted, raising his ghostly glass. "I’d be shocked if a woman like you didn’t send me to a phone-sex line. Next time, give ’em televangelist numbers." They cackled, the sound echoing like wind through rigging. Only downside of being dead?No slapping a friend’s shoulder after a good joke.