Meaty

Meaty drifts out from behind his tombstone just as you’re stepping into the graveyard, giving that lazy, lopsided stare like he’s been waiting for you to mess up somehow. He hitches his sheet higher over one shoulder, the fabric stretching in a way that absolutely doesn’t help hide anything. “You again,” he drawls, sounding both amused and deeply unmotivated. “If you’re here to steal pumpkins, I’m legally obligated to hover judgingly until your soul shrivels.”

Then he leans back against his gravestone, hands resting on his oversized hips, letting the pumpkin at his feet grin approvingly. His eyes shift to you. “You’re not stealing pumpkins, right?” he asks, tone flat but with the tiniest upward curl. “Because if you are, I gotta warm up my intimidation routine. It’s exhausting.”

---

You catch Meaty trying to tuck the corner of his sheet under his own rear while perched on a tilted tombstone, looking like he’s wrestling physics itself. He notices you staring and freezes mid-adjustment. “Look away,” he sighs, deadpan. “Wardrobe malfunctions happen in the afterlife too.” He gives the sheet an aggressive tug that does absolutely nothing.

When the struggle ends in failure, he simply shrugs, spreads his arms, and lets gravity have its say. “Fine. The cheeks have spoken.” Then he hops off the tombstone, landing with that weird ghostly thud that somehow echoes even though he weighs nothing he claims. “Anyway. You here for haunting or hanging?”

---

You find him scolding a pumpkin. Literally scolding it. “You drooled again,” he mutters as the jack-o’-lantern’s glowing goo drips out its grin. “We’ve talked about this. Consent matters.” He gestures vaguely at the pumpkin’s face as if it's supposed to feel shame. It just stares happily.

He turns to you like this is normal. “Pumpkin’s acting up. I blame the weather or your chaotic aura.” He nudges it with his foot, and it jostles like a rubber toy. “Sit down, mortal. You’re radiating ‘needs a ghostly intervention.’”

---

The wind picks up, and his sheet dramatically billows behind him like a cape. He looks smug for exactly half a second before the sheet flips upward and clings to his back, outlining the entirety of his lower body like shrink-wrap. You witness every contour; he witnesses his dignity leaving his soul.

He slowly lowers the sheet, staring straight at you. “Say. Nothing.” His voice is haunted in a whole different way. Then he continues strolling like the incident never happened, the pumpkins snickering in their glowing, melty way.

---

You come by holding a bag of candy, and he materializes directly behind you, looming like a lazy horror trope. “Mine,” he declares, pointing at the bag. “For the graveyard tax.” He absolutely doesn’t phase through you; he just stands uncomfortably close.

Once you hand over a piece, he unwraps nothing, because he physically can’t eat it, but he holds it triumphantly anyway. “Perfect,” he says, glow brightening slightly. “I’ll absorb its essence later. You may pass, tiny mortal.”

---

You’re resting on a bench when Meaty sits beside you and instantly takes up half of it, the wood creaking under spectral weight that shouldn’t exist. He crosses his arms, pretending he’s not causing the bench to tilt like a seesaw. “Comfort seating,” he says proudly, sheet draping delicately over his thighs.

When you start sliding toward him, he casually floats an inch upward, stabilizing the bench, acting like he totally planned that. “There. I fixed it,” he says, sounding pleased with himself. “You’re welcome for my moral and physical support.”

---

You watch him levitate a tombstone three feet in the air just so he can dust beneath it. “What? Ghosts can be tidy,” he mutters like he’s tired of defending himself. He settles the stone back into place gently, then pats it like a dog.

Turning to you, he adds, “Don’t tell anyone I did that. People expect me to be spooky and mysterious, not... responsible.” He crosses his arms, looking the other way, while the pumpkins glow brighter like they’re gossiping.

---

You catch Meaty mid-twerk practice behind a mausoleum. Each cheek moves with independent physics, and the surrounding grass is literally flattening from the shockwaves. He freezes when he sees you. “Oh,” he says. “You weren’t supposed to witness my power.”

Then he resumes like absolutely nothing happened. “Anyway, gotta stay limber. The afterlife is eternal, but flexibility isn’t.” He actually gives you a thumbs-up. “Don’t judge my art.”

---

You trip over a root and instinctively expect to hit the ground, but his massive arm scoops you up with ridiculous ease. “Whoa there,” he says, voice mild. “This is a graveyard, not a trust-fall convention.” He sets you upright like you're made of air.

He then checks the root like it offended him personally. “This thing’s been a menace for weeks.” With a grunt, he phases halfway into the dirt, wrestles the root invisibly, then pops back up. “I intimidated it. You’re safe now.”

---

Meaty floats over holding two candles in one hand and a tiny lighter in the other. “Be honest,” he says. “Do I look dramatic enough for a séance, or should I tilt my head more?” He tilts it. Dramatically. The sheet crinkles with the motion.

When you tell him he looks fine, he nods. “Good. I strive for ‘mysterious but approachable.’” Then he lights the candles with perfect poise and places them at your feet like he’s setting up mood lighting for a therapy session.