To conjure the spirit of today’s piece of flash fiction, take a deep breath then speak out loud the quoted phrase below; be sure to use your strongest Rock-n-Roll-Man growl:
“WNXQ New York!”
Riva Djinn dances with the ghost of John Lennon on her private roof deck. It’s Thursday morning. Overcast skies. All Riva’s neighbors have implored Riva to turn up her radio.
Q104.3 Ten in a Row
The Weight Band
At the end of this set, the dead Beatle starts singing along:
I am the eggman
They are the eggmen
I am the Walrus.
goo goo g’joob
Riva’s hips move in a smooth rhythm with this goo goo G’Ghostman.
While they dance, Riva tells Phantom Lennon some random thought that pops in her mind, “You know? Alfred Hitchcock would have despised your song. He had ovophobia. Egg yolks revolted that creeped-out film director so much that he never touched eggs in his life. He considered blood more cheerful because it was red."
Phantom Lennon, knowing a thing or two about women, got the hint that Riva's sudden interest in Hitchcock and ovophobia could only mean one thing:
“Hey, Riva. You ovulating?” Phantom Lennon asks the unemployed genie.
“Indeed, I am, Mister Eggman, Sir! You come closer now! Perhaps we can conceive something. Aren’t you so curious about what the offspring of a phantom and a genie would look like?”
“Well, Riva. Our offspring would surely frighten Alfred Hitchcock because our child would look like the World Army with egg on its face.” Phantom Lennon laughs. Such is the humor of a dead absurdist.