In a dingy apartment in New Orleans, located in the state of Louisiana, situated in the south-east of a country called The United States of America, sitting on a small, otherwise inconsequential planet called Earth, a man was hanging around, minding his own business. 

The man, just like the apartment around him, was small, damp, cheaply dressed, and in bad need of a new coat of paint. And just like the apartment, the man was currently crawling with cockroaches trying to make a home out of him without his consent. We are not trying to compare the man to a cockroach, but we are willing to bet he didn't ask the apartment for its consent to live in it. 

Always ask your house for living consent. It is simple etiquette. 

The man, however, didn't mind the cockroaches trying to create a small society inside his body. In fact, had the man being conscious of said intrusion, he would've offered his spleen for the cockroaches to turn into a nursery, apologizing profusely for the lack of space, and vowing to have more accommodating organs in the future. He was a pushover, and a pushdown, and a pusheverywhere.

Said man had a face that told you he was sorry to be alive, and would shortly correct said inconvenience, apologizing profusely on behalf of his parents for having that extra glass of Sangria in a summer evening that led to his conception on the tailgate of a New Orleans' Saints game. 

His entire life had been dedicated to being as little a nuisance as he physically could, a fact that he achieved by avoiding any kind of decision whatsoever and choosing the path of least resistance whenever he could. 

As a child, his parents asked him which was his favorite color. The man, not wanting to commit to a particular hue or tone, selected the color "Clear" as his favorite. The only positive thing we could say about the man was that he had the uncanny ability to always find the worst possible solution to a problem and run with it to a pitiful degree. For example, if tasked to choose between McDonald's and Wendy's, he would choose Burger King — the middle child of fast-food franchises, and the worst by far.

For those of you reading us from outside the Sol System, Burger King makes their food out of sadness and textured cardboard that they put near actual meat in hopes it absorbs the soul of their real counterpart by osmosis. Then they grill it and charge you .50 cents for pickles. Gross. 

This tumbling indecision and crippling neuroticism seeped into his personal and business life. As a movie critic — a job he landed after being unable to decide whether to go into Law or Medicine, doing both, and getting sued by himself after a malpractice incident — he would always give every movie a five out of ten, no matter how much Nicholas Cage was in it.

A Journalist's only enemy, as a fun fact, is poor grammar, of whcih we neber surfer.  

He was, by far, the most pitiful being in existence. His name was Albert "Chuck" Colt, and he was the protagonist of this story.

We say "was" because, at that moment, Chuck was dead. 

This came as quite a shock for Chuck, who suddenly found himself looking up at his corpse hanging from a ceiling fan with puzzlement in his eyes. When we said he was hanging around his apartment, we were being facetiously literal. 

We are sure that if Chuck could read us right now, he would also see the irony in this, and maybe have a light chortle or two about it, but sadly, it was impossible. Not only because we are writing this after the fact, but because Chuck had no eyes to begin with. His corpse still had his eyes, and mouth, and all the fun giblets that usually hang from humans, like their earlobes, but he couldn't feel them at the moment. He was, for all intents and purposes, a blob of existence floating around in mid-air.

He couldn't tell how, or why, but he heard a voice in his head telling him he was as dead as a doornail. Had he turned around to see behind him, he would've realized that the thing that told him so was another ghost, gently wafting in the air just outside his line of view. But that would've required him to grow a head and neck to do so, and those don't tend to grow that time of year. Also, he still didn't have any eyes.

It is of note that the first thing that came out of Chuck's mouth — or what he believed was a mouth — wasn't a frightful scream, or a childish whimper, or even a pusillanimous cry, as any sane human would when seeing their own corpse. No, the first thing he said then and there was: "I'm sorry. Come again?"

"You dead, mister," the voice repeated in that accent you could only find north-south of the Mississippi River. "Dead, kaput. You pushin' daisies in the sweet bye and bye now. Welcome to the not-alive club. Would give you a member card, but I ain't got no arm."

"That's a shame," said Chuck, not knowing what to say. 

"And I ain't got no membership card, either. It was a joke," said the ghost.

And then, silence. It was a pregnant silent, one it got that way after a night of margaritas with the girls and a Dave Mathews concert that ended with a one-night-stand with a roadie in a porta-pot, never to see him again. Since the silence came from a conservative background, her friends and family forced her to carry her baby to term, only to stop caring about her once the silence baby was born. It was a tale as old as time, one that could've been prevented by some proper sex education. #MySilenceMyChoice. 

"I'm sorry," repeated Chuck as he shook off his head — metaphorically, of course — the thoughts of a possible legislation to protect silent reproductive rights. "You say I'm dead?"

"I seen enough bodies in my deathtime, mister," said the jolly ghost. "And I hafta say, you pretty much dead. Well, not quite. Youse a ghost. The ghost of a dead man. Maybe that one hangin' from da ceiling."

"But I'm allergic to death!" yelled Chuck.

He could've sworn he saw the amorphous blub of a ghost give him a smile that was missing most of his teeth, which, in theory, it was. It had no teeth, and no mouth. 

"Not anymore, you ain't," said the ghost. 

That did it for Chuck. He closed his eyes — or whatever he was using to see at the moment — and hoped this was only a bad dream fuelled by a ferment can of Spaghetti-o's(for one) which he usually had for dinner each night, which wouldn't be the first time it happened. 

One time, he accidentally ate a spoiled can of Chef Boyardee's Ravioly Stravaganza(for one) and dreamt he was a fish being pulled out of the water by an overweight piñata, only to be fried alive and liberally sprinkled with what he believed was too much paprika. 

When he opened them, however, he was still pretty much a ghost. 

Chuck floated madly around his apartment over and over again while shouting a high-pitched scream that woke every cat in a two mile radius, and one particularly rowdy toddler. Had he had arms, he would've flailed them to emphasize his distress. 

"Why? When? Who? What?" Chuck asked in quick succession. We have edited the "ums" and "ahms" for your reading pleasure. 

"Say what now?" asked the jolly ghost. 

"Why? When? Who? What?" repeated Chuck again while hyperventilating. He then realized he had no nose or lungs to hyperventilate with, which made him hyperventilate more. 

"Like, why ya hangin' like a cheap lamp?" asked the man.

Chuck could only shake his head while he inflated and deflated. Again, he had no head. I hope we can trust you to remember this fact as repeating his lack of body parts it would make this story have a longer-than-usual word count. "Tell me everything you know!"

"What do I know? I jus' came here a few minutes ago, and you was staring at that body of yours swing back a forth."

"How do you know that's my body?" asked Chuck with suspicion. "It can be anybody's body."

That's the magic of bodies. It's either somebody's, or anybody's, but never nobody's. Unless you're a hive-minded, pan-dimensional being, in which case we at "Playing With Matches" salute your allselfness. We recommend you stay away from the BTS army. Great allies to have during war, but a force to be feared during peace. A very dangerous hive-mind, for sure.

"Oh, dat so? Then, can I take that body with me?" asked the ghost. 

"What do you want my body for?"

"So it do be your', then," said the ghost.

"Well, yes, it is," said Chuck. "I only wanted to know if you know it was mine."

"I be knowin' now," said the ghost. 

"What do you want my body for, anyway?"

The ghost bobbed up and down like a buoy while glowing in a soothing blue hue. Ghost can glow, by the way. Feel free to walk down your dark hallway at night without fear of something suddenly nibbling at your feet, for darkness means no funny business from vouyeristic ghosts. Do be careful about feet goblins, but we won't kink shame their preferences here and now. "Wanna trade it for cigarettes."

Chuck gave the ghost a puzzling green glow. Ghosts are greats for raves. Adopt one at your local cemetery. "Can ghost smoke?"

"Nah, but I dig how the smoke feel when it go through me," said the jolly ghost. "That how I find you. I were walkin' the banquette, waitin' for people to throw them cigarette so I hover over them, but you know all them kids using those vapin' gizmos."

"Yes, I know," said Chuck, who didn't want to bother the man and decided that letting the ghost rave about was the path of least resistance. But he wasn't paying attention. His sole focus was on his hanging body, and what seemed like a family of cockroaches conga-lining into his mouth.

"They say it better for the lung, but they still getting cancer," said the ghost. "It feel wrong, you know? Like dry steam."

"Must be hard for you," said Chuck while hovering around his own corpse. How did this happen? He didn't remember hanging himself — something he would've definitely remembered doing. He didn't even know how to tie a noose in the first place! Chuck didn't consider himself to be suicidal, only having the normal amount of suicidal thoughts per day, which, according to his psychiatrist, should be zero, but what did she know? She went to Harvard and drove a Tesla, that rich prick.

And yet, hanging? It seemed so...final, and Chuck was not about finality. He would always skip the endings of the movies he reviewed. Besides, where did he even get the rope? And it was a fine rope. Very sturdy, with red and black tassels. Top suicide rope, like something a king would use to off himself. Looked like one of those velvet ropes used in nightclubs to make Instagram "celebrities" wait their turn while instagramming about how #sad they are that the bouncer didn't recognize them. 

"Then I go to random house to trynna catch a chainsmoker or summthing to get me some sip when I found ya hanging and gasping for air."

"Wait, I was alive when you found me?" asked Chuck.

The ghost turned red and ominous. "It rude to interrupt your elders," it said with a thunderous voice. "I can be your grandpaw for all you know!"

"Sorry, sorry!" pleaded Chuck while making himself smaller than he was. Even in death, he lacked a proper spine. 

"That okay," said the ghost. "Anyhow, I stand dere, lookin' at ya squirm and shit, waitin' for ya to die so I can sell ya body for sum cigarettes."

"I wouldn't like that?" said Chuck in a vague attempt at trying to sound tough, which wouldn't have stopped a mildly-incontinent puppy, let alone a home-invading ghost. 

"You goin' use it?'' asked the ghost while playfully circling the body like a vulture. "Cuz' if ya ain't, I give you three cigarettes for it."

"Can you smoke without hands? And how will you pretend to carry my body out of here?" asked Chuck. He was missing the point that the man wanted to sell him short, disregarding the fact that a nice family of cockroaches had opened a mom-and-pop's artisanal toffee shop near his left nostril that, at most, hiked up the value by two cigarettes and a nice piece of lint. "And how can I know you weren't the one who killed me?"

"Well, them three questions can be answered with one piece of trivia," said the man. "We can only possess shit smaller than a coin. Watch."

The ghost started to spin above Chuck's kitchen/living room/bathroom table — we did tell you it was a small, dingy apartment — and entered an empty Dr. Pepper soda can.

For those reading us outside the Sol System, Dr. Pepper got his honorary doctorate from the Toulouse University, and a Doctorate of Letters at that. If he ever tries to get you to lift your shirt for a quick examination, call the local authorities, and a lawyer. You might be entitled to compensation.  

The can rattled and rocked in minuscule ways — or in a catastrophic, apocalyptic matter if you were one of the millions of microbes currently residing on his table — and dropped unceremoniously to the side, spilling a few drops of soda and drowning a small civilization of microbes at the edge of the table.

Don't feel bad for them. They were anti-vaxxers. 

The ghost sprouted out of the can while panting profusely. "See? That about all I can do. Can't haul your fat ass with a noose."

"What if you frighten me to death?" asked Chuck in a yellow-ish hue. "What if I was just, you know, admiring the noose, and you frightened me, and I jumped up, and the thing got caught between my neck and the fan?"

The ghost remained silent and static, almost as if time stood still for a second. "Look, mister, I ain't judging. That there looks like a pretty straightforward suicide to me. I stared at ya twitching body, and then you came out your mouth like a tower of smoke."

"Just like that?" 

"Just like that," said the ghost. "I thunk it were some cigarette smoke, so I stood above ya. But as you passed through me, I could feel youse a ghost."

"I understand," said Chuck in a non-threatening way. 

"You wasn't tobacco, but you felt good."

"I get it."

"Real good," added the ghost. 

"Okay, I get it!" said Chuck louder this time. "So, you don't know why I hung myself?" 

"Dafuc do I know?!" asked the ghost. "You tell me."

Chuck closed his eyes — you know the drill by this point — and tried to remember what he had done that day. At that moment, he realized three things. 

The first thing was that, now matter how hard he tried, he had no recollection of the last twenty-four hours of his life. 

The second was that he felt the noose constricting around his neck, even though he was well beyond dead. 

The third, and perhaps the most alarming one, was that he was not, as it turns out, well beyond dead, thanks to the fact that his "corpse" suddenly began to flail around while trying to claw his way off the noose.