The world was as chill as an ice cube for the DJ. Wake up late in the day, eat a bowl of fiber based cereal, go DJ at a party, and go to sleep. This routine repeats day after day, but the DJ grew weary of this. He always yearned for something more. Something waterfalling with magnificence. That would be the sweetest thing of all, sweeter than an enchanted can of Diet Professor Snizz, plucked from the Tree of Forgotten Problems by the chosen warrior of a prophesy written by Karl Baker, a 3rd grader at Clapston Elementary. It would be sweeter than the nectar of the Daphladon, a long-extinct turtle ancestor with the wings of an insect, the tail of a baboon, and a distinct distaste for R&B music. Oh, yes, so sweet indeed.

Something that even Karl Baker could not predict, however, occurred on the 16th of January, at some kid’s bar mitzvah. Our very own DJ was DJing, and was playing one of the most romantic songs in the world for a slow-dance, “Cry, Cry, Cry, It’s Love” when he saw an apparition floating above the dessert table, the raspberry tarts to be exact. The DJ immediately knew that he was being summoned by the ghost, so he put the song on repeat (no one would notice anyway) and followed the specter, grabbing his bag of Cheetos Puffs as he went. As it was leading the DJ down a staircase, he could not help looking in splendor and awe at this radiantly glowing spirit. It had long, flowing, silvery hair that fluttered angelically, and round, indigo eyes that brought an inner warmth that could not be conveyed in even the most descriptive songs. The phantom opened a door and led the DJ into a dusky alleyway, closed the door gracefully behind him, and curb-stomped him until he was unconscious.

“Ergh-..urgghhll,” croaked the DJ as he returned to consciousness several hours later. The early morning light pierced his eyes as he attempted to stand up. Strangely, he now had a sort of sporadic flinch in his left hand. He looked down at his feet and put his hands in his pockets. “Aw, c’mon, she took my shoes,” our DJ mumbled. “AND my wallet!” But then, the DJ noticed something oe’r yonder: a trail of Cheetos Puffs! She must have taken my Cheetos Puffs too! He thought as he began to follow the trail. I will not rest until I bring this phantom to justice!

The DJ followed the trail of cheesy puff goodness to a run-down apartment complex, then to room 113. The DJ approached the door at the end of the Cheeto Puff trail. It was a large, aquamarine door, with no handle. In fact, where the doorknob usually would be on a door, there was an Etch-e-Sketch taped to it, saying in bold lettering:
“Access to this room can only be permitted if you answer this question: What is one word, a verb, meaning “to toughen; to render used to something by long subjection or exposure”?
“Inure!”
Etch-e-Sketch said, “Perfect, go in!”

And so the door swung open, making a squeaking noise very much like a poodle being hit by a Honda Civic doing easily 80 MPH. The valiantly courageous DJ stepped into the room. The apartment was in shambles. There were shoes everywhere, all put into stacks, categorized by the type of footwear it was. The shoe-thieving ghost herself floated inches above a couch in the middle of the room. She was watching re-runs of Full House on the television.

“Hahaha! Oh, Joey!” She laughed ghostily. She turned to the DJ nonchalantly. “Oh. What do you want?”
“I want my shoes back.” answered the audacious DJ.
“Yeah. Sure. Whatever. Just don’t block the TV.”

“Oh. Um. Okay.” said the DJ. He stepped in front of the TV. The kleptomaniac Full-House ghost decimated the whole town because of that, shoes and all, out of rage. Then she still wasn’t satisfied so she obliterated France, too. Then she got a haircut.

  The End.