Mickey stared at Luke with wide eyes, opening and closing his mouth a few times in shock until Luke pulled away, cart in tow, and Mickey had to scurry after him with long strides to keep up after tripping off of the axel bar.
"Ghosts?" His voice was pitched high in distress as he glanced suspiciously up at the speakers overhead as though expecting green slime to start oozing out of them at any second. "Are we talking actual as fuck dead people here-- oh my God, the Walmart is fucking haunted. Fuck. Listen, tell me for real--was I a bad person in a past life or something? Is my karma just that fucked up because I was, like, some kind of goddamn monster or whatever?" He lifted the fishbowl from the rack and clutched it close to his chest, eyes darting back and forth. As if, you know, he could actually see any of the purported ghosts.
(He couldn't and wasn't sure if that was a relief or not. Probably not.)
"Like, I just wanted to make an attempt at doing something nice and hanging with my best bro and I end up getting us stuck in a fucking haunted Walmart with dead people. What the hell. But it turns out you're like...a secret Winchester brother or that guy from Pushing Daisies, so maybe at least one of us will survive this. Oh God, we're in one of those stupid bitch horror movies. I'm the stupid bitch."
His clear offense at this self-aware realization was immense. He balanced the fishbowl in one arm and reached out to tug on Luke's sleeve with other with the sort of impatience that only comes with being aware that you have been immensely wronged by the universe at large (which was, by far, much easier than blaming yourself for your own idiocy).
"Fuck that noise. I gotta fight some ghosts. My aesthetic is chaotic bitch, not stupid one."