PETE by D.T. Robbins

PETE by D.T. Robbins

In the foster home, my brother Pete would get genius ideas that made living in that shithole not so bad. He’d make up games for us to play when our foster mom locked us in our room or in the basement or outside. When we aged out of the foster system, Pete got genius ideas that helped us stay alive. Like how to steal jackets from Wal-Mart so we didn’t freeze to death when it started to snow outside. So Pete gets another genius idea: He’s gonna hold up a liquor store. We’ll use the money to move to Mexico and start a whole new life. Pete says I get to be the lookout and the wheelman. I get two jobs. 

Except Pete’s genius idea wasn’t as genius as he thought it was, I guess.

I’m in the car across the street, engine running, waiting for Pete to come out with some fat stacks when I hear gunshots. Then the owner walks out with a shotgun. Then the cops show up. Then I drive fast and far.


A few weeks later, Pete wakes me up in the middle of the night and says, “Yo! Wake up, man.” 

There’s a hole in Pete’s head where his eyes used to be, but other than that he’s the same old Pete. 

He says, “I need you to go get my ashes from the funeral home.”

I go, “You really are dead?”

He goes, “Yeah, man. Sorry about that.”

I cry for a little while. Pete tries to put his hand on my shoulder, but it doesn’t work because he’s a ghost.

He says he’s sorry for asking me to do this and that he’d do it himself if he could, but he’s dead. Plus he says there’s someone he wants me to meet. 

I say, “Sure, Pete. I’ll get your ashes.”


I wait until it’s dark to break into the funeral home. Everything smells like chemicals and rotten fruit and metal. Like the potpourri of death. 

Pete goes, “Yo! Over here.” 

There’s a woman standing next to Pete. She’s wearing red lingerie. One titty swinging free. And her throat’s slit. 

Pete says, “Little bro, meet Erika.” 

Erika says, “Hi.”

I say, “Hi.”

Pete asks me to take Erika’s ashes too so they can stay together. He looks at Erika and smiles all stupid at her. Then he tells me they’re in love. 

I put their ashes in Ziplock bags and walk home, listening to Pete and Erika giggle at each other behind me. 

When I get home, I put Pete’s ashes on my nightstand and tell him I’m going back to sleep. He says that’s fine. 


When I wake up, my hair’s bleached and I’ve got a goatee. My gut’s so big that I can’t see my dick. I’m wearing a green sequin dress. There are rose petals and dildos everywhere. 

I yell for Pete. No response. I yell and yell until my neighbor bangs on the wall and tells me to shut the fuck up. The date on the Weather Channel says I’ve been out for three months. 

Pete and Erika appear on the couch. Erika stares into Pete’s face hole. Pete looks in her direction. They both moan and call each other baby. 

I go, “What the hell’s going on?”

They break their trance. Pete looks at me with the hole in his head. 

Pete says, “I’m sorry. We’re so horny.”

So horny,” Erika follows. 

Pete tells me that ghosts can’t touch each other unless they possess someone else and use that person’s body, so they’ve been possessing me and making me do shit to myself to get each other off. 

“You have a very nice hog,” Erika says. 

“Yeah, man. Huge hog. Good job,” Pete says. 

I want to tell them that this is bullshit and I don’t want to be possessed and I don’t want to dress up like a drag Guy Fieri. Instead, I say ok. I guess ghosts get horny too. Plus Pete looks so happy. Even dead, with a hole in his head, this is the happiest I’ve ever seen him. I love my big brother. He’s always looked out for me. So if this is how I repay him for everything he did for me when he was alive, I’ll do it.


Erika and Pete take turns possessing my body. They put all kinds of shit up my ass, make me jerk off, dress me up like different animals. I black out dressed as Barack Obama and come to in a diaper with jizz all over my chest. This goes on for months and months and months and I am very tired. 

One night after Erika and Pete leave my body, I get in the bathtub and cry for a long time. I cry because a) I’m so tired, but I’m afraid that if I fall asleep they’ll just possess me again and fuck each other by making me fuck myself and b) I’m super happy because Pete’s so happy, but it just reminds me that I’m alone. Pete’s dead. He’s moved on. Not to the other side, but he’s found someone to love. I want someone to love. I want to have sex with a living person. Not my ghost brother and his ghost girlfriend.

Pete hears me crying and asks what’s wrong and I tell him. 

Then Pete gets another genius idea: He and Erika will help me get a girlfriend. So then, when they possess us, I’m not just having sex with myself, I’m having sex with a living human woman. Erika thinks this is a great idea. 


I sign up for all the dating apps. I do speed dating. I’m not picky. Finally, I meet Hazel. Hazel’s a foster kid too. She works at Yogurtland and only has one foot. We fall in love fast. I tell Pete and Erika they can’t possess us until we tell Hazel the truth and only if she’s cool with it. 

I decide not to string her along and just tell Hazel up front. She loves it. She thinks it’s hot. She says there’s nothing sexier than ghost-fucking. Hazel gets on top of me and I get inside of her and we both black out. 

Right as I get ready to come, Pete thanks me for letting him and Erika possess our bodies so they can still experience the beauty that is the physical act of love. He also tells me he’s proud of me. 


Hazel gets pregnant. The four of us sit down to decide what to do. Hazel says she wants to keep the baby. I also want to keep the baby. Pete and Erika get really emotional and think the baby is theirs. Pete says he always wanted to be a dad because he didn’t have one. Erika says she’s always been a MILF at heart. 


The baby looks like all four of us. He has a bleached goatee, a hole where one eye is supposed to be, strawberry yogurt-colored hair, and a birthmark around his neck. He’s perfect. We cover him with a golden coat of protection and happiness. 

In life and in death, nothing waits for him but love. 

I get a genius idea: I name him Pete.

D.T. Robbins has work in HobartMaudlin HouseX-R-A-YBending Genres, and others. He's founding editor of Rejection Letters. Find out more at

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