And God Bless Us, Every One

Marley was dead, to begin with, but that didn’t stop Bob Cratchit from blasting his Greatest Hits in the office. When Ebeneezer Scrooge entered, he turned off the stereo and yelled,

“Reggae? In this office?”

Cratchit went back to his desk, where he alternated between dipping a device that would evolve into a pen a hundred years hence into an inkwell, and blowing on his hands. He didn’t actually write anything, just dipped the pen and blew on his hands while Scrooge grumbled.

“Cratchit!”

“Yes, Mr Scrooge,” he answered.

“That boy of yours, Fucked-Up Frank–”

“Tiny Tim.”

“–is he still a mess?”

Bob Cratchit laid his utensil down, straightened his waistcoat, and said,

“He is, sir. I was meaning to speak to you about that. You see–”

“Shouldn’t have been so poor, slackbody. You’ve seen my boys. Ten or twelve or them, heaving giants to a man, and that’s because I raised them right. With money. Stuffed food down their gullets until they burst their pants with healthfulness. Two of them beat the crap out of Admiral Nelson the other day. Spirited lads. But not your boy, Polio Pete.”

“Tiny Tim.”

“Kid’s just depressing. Your little mutant kid’s a downer, Cratchit.”

“Sir, I–”

“Time for bed!”

………………………………..

Ebeneezer Scrooge changed into his nightclothes, which were made of linen and silk and the skin of several street urchins. He was masturbating to Queen Victoria when the sound of clanking chains broke his concentration.

At the foot of the bed was Bob Marley.

“Blackamoor!”

“That’s not necessary.”

“How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough.”

There was silence in the room.

“You like what you see?”

“Ebeneezer Scrooge! You are the most loathsome prick in the entire fucking world, and so you shall be visited by three ghosts this eve!”

Scrooge nodded his head, and re-started his wanking.

“STOP THAT!”

“I’m in the pipe, man. Can’t stop now.”

“Knock it off!”

“Oh, fine. Three ghosts?”

Marley shook his chains and dreadlocks, then skanked easily, and said,

“Yes. Three ghosts.”

“Huh. Okay. So…two more after you?”

“No. I don’t count.”

“But you’re a ghost, right?”

“I am, but–”

“You said I would be visited by three ghosts. You’re a ghost. You’re visiting. That leaves two.”

“Not including me. Three ghosts not including myself.”

“So…four ghosts?”

Marley stopped skanking.

“Why are you making this so difficult?”

“Is it three ghosts or four, jackass? How many spooks are gonna–”

“What the fuck did you just call me?”

“–be showing…I didn’t mean ‘spook’ like that.”

“Suuuuuuure you didn’t.”

“Can we just get on with the haunting?”

“Asshole.”

…………………………

Around midnight, the windows of Scrooge’s bedroom flew open. All the candles lit of their own accord. Though there was no pipe organ present, a tremendous blast of organ music played. Very ominous.

“Spectre! Show yourself! Reveal thy nature to me,” Scrooge called out.

The apparition apparated. It was a small woman, but see-through, and with hands the size of Christmas trees.

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Noogies!”

“The what now?”

And then she was upon him, cradling his neck fiercely and noogying him with her mammoth hands.

“Ow!”

And then she grabbed his left wrist, and began bashing him in the face with his own palm.

“Why are you hitting yourself, Scrooge? Why are you hitting yourself?”

“What the fuck!?”

And then she was gone.

………………………..

Scrooge had finally managed to fall back asleep, when there was a great clamor in his chambers. He sat bolt upright, and at the foot of his bed was a tall man in sweatpants.

“Are you going to strike me?”

“No,” the spirit said. “I am the Ghost of John Travolta’s Bad Career Decisions.”

“I have no idea how to respond to that.”

The ghost made Scrooge watch Staying Alive with him, and then Gotti, and also the movie with Jamie Lee Curtis that was based around aerobics.

“Is there any popcorn?”

“It’s 1843,” Scrooge said. “I don’t know if it exists in England.”

“They have it in America.”

“Good for them.”

“They call it maize.”

“Don’t care.”

And then the ghost popped in Be Cool.

“We can’t watch Get Shorty? Gene Hackman is so good in that,” Scrooge pleaded.

“No.”

“Rene Russo! Love the Russ!”

“That’s an entirely different ghost, man. I just do Johnny T.’s bad films.”

“Don’t call him that.”

…………………………………………..

KA-BLAMMO! went Scrooge’s shotgun as the third (or fourth, depending on how you’re counting) spirit entered his chambers. The shot went through the ghost and embedded into the wall behind.

“Really? You tried to shoot a ghost?”

“Well, why not?”

“I’m a ghost, dumbfuck. You can’t…y’know what? Just forget it. Let’s start fresh. I am the Ghost of Buttholes.”

Scrooge nodded his head, more out of habit than understanding.

“Buttholes, you say?”

“Yuh-huh. You know buttholes?”

“I do. I do.”

“Welp, I’m the Ghost of ’em. Ever smell a fart in a room where it’s only you, and you know you didn’t fart? That was me.”

“Can I be completely honest with you?”

“Oh, I insist,” the ghost said.

“You four–”

“Three.”

“–are the least impressive spirits I’ve ever heard of. There’s not even a overarching theme. It’s as if this whole evening was being made up by a lonely weirdo just to amuse himself.”

“Be that as it may, I’m here now. Let’s just make the best of it. Oh, shit, Be Cool! Vince Vaughn is so fucking good in this.”

“Don’t make me watch that crap again.”

“THIS IS YOUR PUNISHMENT FOR YOUR EVIL WAYS, EBENEEZER SCROOGIE!”

“Scrooge.”

“CHANGE YOUR WAYS OR EVERY MOVIE YOU SEE FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE WILL BE BE COOL!”

Scrooge felt himself falling into an infinite pit, flames all around him, and he screamed until…

……………………….

Sunlight flooded through the room. Scrooge threw his legs over the side of the bed, and felt his head and butthole.

“It was a dream. A dream! It’s not too late!”

He ran to the window and leaned out. A small boy was passing underneath.

“You there! Boy! What day is it?”

“It’s Wednesday, sir!”

“Sure, okay. Just Wednesday?”

“Are you looking for the date? Its the 25th of December.”

“Right! Right! And the 25th of December is…?”

“Well, this year: it’s a Wednesday.”

“Listen, you little shit. Is it Christmas or not?”

The boy tugged his forelock and said,

“Begging your pardon, guv’nor. It is indeed Christmas Day.”

“Huzzah! Then I–”

“Which you could have made your first question, I suppose. Instead of beating around the bush with the vagaries. ‘What day is it?’ There’s a million ways to answer that question. It’s my brother’s birthday, but that wasn’t the answer–”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP! Tell me, is that enormous goose still in the window of the butchershop?”

“The one as big as me, sir?”

“Oh, what a delightful boy! Yes! The one as big as you! Is it still there?”

“No, sir. It escaped in the wee hours. Been rampaging through the city for hours now. At least two dozen people are dead.”

“You don’t say. Two dozen people?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Poor people or people people?”

“Poor people, sir.”

Scrooge shut the window and was halfway back to bed when he returned and called out to the boy again,

“I don’t suppose any of those two dozen were named Cratchit, were they?”

“Well spotted, sir. They were the first to go. The little one tried to defend his family with his wee crutches, but it was no use. The goose was just too fast.”

Scrooge breathed in the crisp, cold London air.

“Well,” he said. “I guess sometimes problems just solve themselves, huh?”

And he shut the window again, returned to bed, and slept easily. Perhaps later he would rent a whore. It was, after all, Christmas.