A dingy little saloon floated in the vast expanse the Ghost Zone. It could have been pulled out of any old western movie. A few ghostly patrons sat at the counter partaking of liquor, while others drank beer and gambled their money away at the many card tables that littered the establishment.

Skulker had been there of the better part of the day. He had situated himself in the farthest corner with the best view of the whole bar. There was no real reason for him being there, he was just bored with the norm and looking to do something different. Sadly, it was only depressing him, giving him far to much time to reflect on his constant failure with the ghost child.

Few of his other prey had given him as much trouble as Daniel, and for the afterlife of him, he couldn't figure out why. The whelp was just a boy after all, a fourteen-year-old boy! He shouldn't have been this hard to catch and yet...

It was frustrating to say the least.

Skulker looked down at the half finished mug of beer in front of him and tapped his fingers on the table. What was the point of him actually drinking? Was it an attempt to look normal? After all he wasn't really tasting the alcohol in the glass, in fact it didn't come anywhere near him. It was actually being stored in his ecto-skeleton. All he could feel was a vague sense of holding the glass and feeling something cold going down his throat. Or at least, that's what the neural receptors told him. It always felt distant and faint; he hated it.

Sighing, Skulker leaned back in his chair. Closing his eyes tightly, he didn't want to start down this path again. It would only make him feel worse then he already did, and he didn't like self-pity. He loathed people who went around looking for it, and did his best to avoid it in himself. That's what the ecto-skeleton was for.

The ecto-skeleton. He looked down at his metallic-second skin. It was his home; he never left it unless it was absolutely necessary to do so. To do so, would only remind him of the truth; a truth that he tried to forget himself.

Shoving his chair back, Skulker downed the last of his beer; paid his tab and left. He felt the need to kill something.