Written for Kishamaru on deviantART, Christmas 2006
The room was stark, clean, and intimidating. The only furniture it contained was a large desk and two chairs. Everything in sight gave off a slight aura, indicating that this particular jailer's office was located in Walker's Ghost Zone prison.
On the chair nearer to the door sat a thin ghost in a worn purple coat and threadbare grey pants. He looked cold and frail, but still held himself with dignity, despite the handcuffs that kept him seated. He glared sullenly past the purple frames of his glasses at the pure white jailer leaning towards him with his massive fists on the desk.
"Crime on Christmas? That's against the Rules," Walker growled. "Do you realize all you've been charged with?"
The ghost in the chair remained motionless and passive. As far as he could tell, he hadn't committed a single crime tonight. Well, nothing apart from the business with violating the Christmas Truce. If it came down to that, he'd plead insanity.
Walker pulled a list from his front breast pocket and unfolded it slowly, keeping his hard stare trained on Ghost Writer, his latest prisoner.
"Eight counts of Abducting a Ghost," Walker read, "two counts of Altering Reality Without a License …"
All right, fair enough, Ghost Writer thought. I suppose I'm guilty of that one too.
"Fraternizing With a Known Enemy to Ghosts, Provoking a Known Enemy to Ghosts …"
"He started it!" the writer in the chair protested, then clamped his mouth shut again fearfully when he realized that Speaking out of Turn was probably against the Rules too. Walker shot him a glare and continued.
"Mass Haunting Without a Purpose, five counts of Indirect Possession of Humans, and last but most certainly not least, Violating the Christmas Truce and Writing Rhyming Poetry."
"It's a critically acclaimed, valid art form," Ghost Writer muttered to himself. Rhyming wasn't a crime; there was no way it could be. Except that, of course, Walker was known for outlawing any activity that displeased him on short notice.
"What was that?" Walker sneered angrily. "Do you want to add Contradicting Authority to the list?"
"No," the handcuffed ghost said more loudly. He was in for it anyway.
"All right. Seems you do know how to stop yourself after all." Walker looked at his list and did some quick mental calculations. "You're in here for a thousand years. I'm being a little lenient because it's Christmas."
Gee, thanks, Ghost Writer sulked. That's still an eternity, especially without my Keyboard. Walker won't even give me pen and paper, if what I've heard is correct. This is sadistic.
"Take him away," Walker commanded that ghostly guard at the door. Ghost Writer was seized roughly and dragged out of the chair. Several minutes later he was thrown into a cell and the door slammed shut behind him. He remained on the floor in pain, depression, and anger. He'd just lost everything he cared about for trying to teach someone else to appreciate them. Some people just had no respect for tradition.