The Ghost Who Saved The Holiday

The holiday was fast approaching. He didn't like the holiday. It was far too commercial for his taste. He'd been dead for slightly over a decade and hadn't grown the least bit fond of it. When he was young, he never knew it was coming until it had passed, but now the advertisements were everywhere he went.
"All you can eat!" yelled someone dressed up as a stick of pepperoni. The ghost walked around the barker and stopped to look at a gaudy sign that read "DON'T GO TOPLESS ON THE HOLIDAY." He turned and started walking when he realized a half-dozen annoying looking children were about to bound through him. He spun, half jumping and half falling, and was quickly on the other side of the shop window.
He hated children almost as much as he hated dogs, which prefered to urinate on anything he passed through. He'd spent two months moving through the apartment manager's door to get dogs banned from his building. He put a lot of thought into getting children banned, but had no plan yet.
He stayed in the same apartment where he had lived and died. The new tenants were nice, he couldn't help but like them, and he often tidied up while they were out or sleeping. They were currently trying out holiday recipes for visiting relatives. The holiday isn't about family, he told himself as the children passed by. He stepped back through the display window and headed down the street to a club with boastful signs of nude sauce wrestling.
He'd barely reached the door when a short rotund man stepped out, turned, and affixed to the door a sign. The fat man stepped back inside, closing the door behind him. The ghost, rather used to this sort of thing, stepped through the door and into the club.
The club was half full, the wrestling wasn't to commence for another hour. He liked to arrive early and peek in on the dressing room. None of the other patrons seemed very happy, and the girls were drinking at the bar instead of changing into their easily torn lacey undergarments. He didn't know what was going on, but it didn't look good.
He stepped back through the door to read the sign. "WRESTLING CANCELLED DUE TO SAUCE SHORTAGE" was written thereon in crudely stylized block handwriting. He hadn't heard anything about a sauce shortage and it seemed the sort of thing that might make the news. He hadn't bothered with the news for months, tired of the soap opera quality projected on every story, so he missed a lot of information.
He'd never heard of a sauce shortage befoore and would have normally thought it wasn't possible. The sauce came mostly by train. For a full month before the holiday, trains brought sauces of all types in from the farming communities. Most of the sauce was stored in a set of specially built warehouses near the railyard. As long as the warehouses and rail station were intact, a sauce shortage should be impossible. The ghost shivered when he realized what that meant.
He drifted as quickly as he could towards the warehouses, rising up so that his feet were just about the heads in the crowd. He could see crowds already gathered outside a police barricade as he approached. Several bomb squad trucks were parked nearby, but there wasn't any sign of an explosion or fire.
The ghost drifted into the nearest warehouse, and was stunned by what he saw. Dogs were being egged on by policemen as they limped across piles of broken glass and through puddles of sauce. Some of the sauce was so thick that it barely moved
as the policemen sank their arms into it, obviously looking for something. The ghost realized why the bomb squad had come. He looked around at the mountains of crates that hadn't been opened or searched yet. It didn't take a math genius, and he wasn't one, to figure out that the police would probably have to spend several days searching each warehouse for a bomb, if there was on. Several of the dogs began barking at him, and he slid back through the wall.
He drifted over to the next warehouse, and floated inside. The police hadn't gotten to this one yet, the crates were intact, and the sauce unspoiled. He drifted from crate to crate, sticking his head inside, looking for anything that might spoil what little holiday fun there was to be had. Naked women could wrestle in sauce any time of the year, but they only did so around the holiday. He saw nothing unusual in the crates, just sauce in large barrels, small glass jars, large plastic bottles, small aluminum cans, and small plastic bottles made to look like glass jars or aluminum cans. He peeked into every crate in the building, then drifted through a high part of the wall and into the next warehouse.
The police weren't in the third warehouse either. The ghost began peeking in crates again and found something in a large wooden crate that was circled with thick metal straps. Instead of holding jars of any size or type, it contained a large metal box. Wires came from many parts of the box and went into a smaller metal box on top of the larger box. The smaller box had a number of flashing lights and what appeared to be a small clock radio that kept blinking "12:00".
The ghost drifted back outside and into the first warehouse. He lowered himself so that his feet were in the floor, and floated back to the bomb. He wasn't suprised to see that nothing followed him, so he floated back to the first warehouse, trying to follow the path he had just taken. He had travelled back and forth several dozen times before the dogs began to take notice, but it took a few dozen more trips before the dogs were pulling their handlers along the invisible trail.
When the dogs reached the bomb, they took turns urinating on it while the other dogs barked and the handlers tried vainly to pull them back towards the first warehouse and the gooey mess inside. The ghost knew it was time to go home when the police began to scrutinize the crate. He had done all that he could, the sauce would be distributed as soon as it was safe, and Pizzamas would go on as always.

Goe, never got around to writing more Pizzamas carols.