"We have to get Venkman involved," Stantz stated. "And now!"

They began to trot at a hectic pace through Central Park and toward the Upper West Side.

Twenty minutes later, at Armand's Restaurant, the maitre d' felt his heart skip a beat. He was too young for a heart attack, he assured himself.

Three sweating men in long johns skidded to a halt before him. He tried to act suave. "May I help you?"

Stantz glanced into the dining room and spotted Venkman. "No," he told the maitre d'. "It's all right. I see him."

The three Ghostbusters, ignoring their attire, jogged past the startled maitre d' and into the restaurant.

Venkman was in the midst of pouring another toast of champagne for the now decidedly tipsy Dana when he noticed Ray, Egon, and Winston jogging forward. He shook his head from side to side. He never realized that champagne could pack that powerful a wallop.

"You should have been there, Venkman," Stantz shouted, reaching the table. "Absolutely incredible!"

Venkman snapped to. "Yeah, sorry I missed it."

He gazed at his friends in their skivvies. "I guess you guys don't know about the dress code here. It's really kind of a coat-and-tie place."

Stantz didn't hear him. "It's all over the city, Pete ... well, actually, it'a all under the city."

Dana stared at the trio, her jaw agape.

"There's rivers of the stuff down there!" Winston yelled.

"And it's all flowing toward the museum," Spengler noted.

Spengler made a sudden move, pointing in the direction of the museum. A big glob of slime, still affixed

to his hand, flew across the restaurant It smacked a well-dressed diner directly on the schnozz.

"Sorry!" Spengler called out.

Dana came to. "Maybe we should discuss this some­ where else?"

Venkman noted the look of embarrassment on Da­ na's face and got up from the table. He pulled his colleagues to the side of the restaurant and whispered, "Boys, listen. You're scaring the straight crowd here. Let's save this until tomorrow, okay?"

Spengler furrowed his bushy eyebrows. "This won't wait until tomorrow, Venkman. It's hot and it's ready to pop."

Venkman glanced over Spengler's shoulder. The maitre d' was leading two New York cops toward the Ghostbusters. Venkman rolled his eyes. One hell of a date.

"Arrest these men!" the maitre d' commanded.

One of the cops recognized Spengler, Stantz, Win­ ston, and Venkman. "Hey! It's the Ghostbusters/"

He gazed at the three men in their underwear. "Umm, but you're out of uniform, gentlemen."

Stantz, for the first time, gazed down at what he was wearing. What a disgrace! "Uh, well, we had a little accident and we ... but forget that! We have to see the mayor as quickly as possible!"

The first cop withered under Stantz's determined stare. "Oh, gee, Doc. They got a big official dinner going on up there at Gracie Mansion. Maybe you should go home, get a good night's sleep, and then give the mayor a call in the morning. Whaddaya say?"

Spengler glared at the two policemen, using his "more concerned" look. "Look, we're not drunk and we're not crazy. We were almost killed tonight. This is a matter of vital importance!"

The two cops exchanged puzzled glances. Venkman heaved a colossal sigh. So much for romantic evenings. He marched toward the law officers, the very portrait of perfect authority. "Maybe I can straighten this out, Officers."

The two cops sighed. "Peter Venkman!" the second cop cried. "World of the Psychic) That's one of my two favorite shows!"

Venkman nodded. "Please! Don't tell me the other one. Just do me a favor? Get on the phone, call the mayor. Tell him the city's in danger and that if he won't see us right now, we're going to The New York Times."

The first cop gasped. "What's up?"

Venkman leaned forward and collared the cop. Glancing to his left and to his right, he whispered confidentially into the policeman's ear. "Bad caviar. Tons of it. Iranian terrorists. One in every five eggs is poi­ soned, and we know which ones. We've got to get there before they serve the canapes."

The policeman shot Venkman a skeptical look.

Venkman didn't back down.

"Just call the mayor!"

"There is no great genius

without a mixture of

madness."

— ARISTOTLE

"My mind is a total void "

— WINSTON ZEDDEMORE

23

Carl Schurz Park, on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, glistened under a sparkling winter sky. The twinkling of the stars was rivaled by the flashing, blinking lights of a police cruiser as it made its way through the park on the East River at Eighty-eighth Street, the EctolA in close pursuit.

The two vehicles screamed into an underground parking garage leading to the mayor of New York's residence, Gracie Mansion.

The two cars sputtered to a stop in the parking area. Peter Venkman, still feeling like Douglas Fairbanks, emerged, well dressed if overly cologned, from the vehicle. His three long-johnned companions, now wear­ ing police raincoats, were ushered into the house by a startled butler.

They were led up several flights of twisting stairs and down a hallway to a massive set of double oak doors. The butler knocked lightly and then opened the door.

Inside the antique-littered den, in front of a roaring fireplace, sat the mayor of New York. Well coiffed, well dressed, Jack Hardemeyer stood at his side, a Doberman in GQ mode. Both men were wearing tuxedos, although Hardemeyer's was clearly more expensive than the may­or's.

The Ghostbusters strode into the room.

The mayor was clearly fighting back an outburst of sudden, albeit sincere, anger. He wasn't happy about being dragged out of a formal reception. He was even less happy about seeing the smirking face of Peter Venkman again.

His doctor had warned him about his blood pres­ sure.

Right now he felt about as stable as a Pop-Tart in a microwave.

"All right," the mayor hissed. "Ghosssstbusters. I'll tell you right now... I've got two hundred of the heaviest campaign contributors in the city out there eating bad roast chicken just waiting for me to give the speech of my life. You've got two minutes. You'd better make it good "

Stantz clumped forward. "Mr. Mayor, there is a psychomagnetheric slime flow of immense proportions building up under this city!"

The mayor gaped at Stantz. "Psycho what?"

Spengler waddled toward the mayor. "We believe that negative human emotions are materializing in the form of a viscous, semiliquid living psycho-reactive plasm with explosive supranormal potential."

The mayor heaved a heavy sigh. "Doesn't anyone speak English anymore?"

Winston braced himself and walked up to the mayor. "Yeah, man. What we're trying to tell you is that all the bad feelings, all the hate and anger and violence of this city, are turning into this strange sludge. I didn't

believe it at first, either, but we just took a bath in it and we ended up almost killing each other."

Hardemeyer clenched his carefully shaved jaw and leapt forward. "This is insane," he intoned in a voice used only by Ivy League grads.