Eeeek!

Atown Liker was at the office early the next morning. If he could only be there first, and catch Bob Cratchit coming late! That was the thing he had set his heart upon.

And he did it; yes, he did. The clock struck nine. No Bob. A quarter past. No Bob. He was full eighteen minutes and a half behind his time. Scrooge sat with his door wide open, that he might see him come into the Tank.

Cratchit's hat was off, before he opened the door; his comforter too. He was on his stool in a jiffy; driving away with his pen, as if he were trying to overtake nine o'clock.


Dude, you're late.


I'm very sorry, sir. I am behind my time.


Tell me about it. Step this way, Kermit. Chop chop!


It's only once a year, sir. It shall not be repeated. I was making rather merry yesterday, sir. Someone sent us some very strange faux turkey and gifts and a large crate of liquor.


Now, I'll tell you what, my friend. I am not going to stand this sort of thing any longer. And therefore ...


Dude, if you fire me I swear to God I will freakin' kill you. Do you understand me?


I'll ignore that. ... And therefore I am about to raise your salary.


Just kidding, boss.


A merry Christmas, Bob. A merrier Christmas, Bob, my good fellow, than I have given you for many a year. I'll raise your salary, and endeavour to assist your struggling family -- including your shrew of a wife -- and we will discuss your affairs this very afternoon, over a Christmas bowl of smoking bishop and a case of Celebration Ale! Make up the fires, and buy another coal-scuttle before you dot another i, Bob Cratchit! Oh, and I'm sorry I killed your mouse.


Oh, sir! Thank you sir! And, good news sir. The talking mouse escaped the fire and has survived.


Merry Christmas, sir.


Oh thank heavens, the mouse is alive! It's a Christmas miracle! Let's open this case of beer right now! It's 5 o'clock somewhere!


Eeeek!


Sir, I'm afraid you may have squashed the mouse under that Celebration Ale.


No sweat! We'll just buy another one! ... Do you golf, Bob? There's a sweet set of Pings on sale at Golf Galaxy ....

****
Atown Liker was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more; and to Tiny Tim, who did not immediately die, he was a second absentee father. Young Tim eventually secured a royal appointment to Ireland, where he confiscated hundreds of acres of land and virtually enslaved an entire village. Those villagers later rose up and killed Tim, as well as his talking mouse. But that's another story.

Liker put Fred and Bob Cratchit in charge of his business affairs and returned to Parallel Time. Each week, Bob Cratchit placed a sack of coins in Liker's armoire as instructed. Liker might have become as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, except, of course, that he left. He couldn't stand the smell.

He had no further intercourse with Spirits. (Oops. I said it again.) It was always said of him that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, "The villagers look really pissed off today. ... God Bless Us, Every One."

A pigheaded old fool

Atown Liker went to church, and walked about the streets, and watched the people hurrying to and fro, and patted children on the head, and questioned beggers, and looked down into the kitchens of houses, and up to the windows, and found that everything could yield him pleasure. At least two people in those windows called him a pervert. He had never dreamed that any walk -- that anything -- could give him so much happiness. In the afternoon he turned his steps towards his nephew's house, which was quite hard to find because his nephew wasn't supposed to be in this version. He passed the door a dozen times, before he had the courage to go up and knock. But he made a dash, and did it:



Fred?



Why bless my soul! Who's that?



It's I. Your uncle Liker. I have come to Christmas dinner. Will you let me in, Fred?


Well, I thought I wasn't supposed to be in this version.


I changed my mind.

Oh, just like that?


Well, I thought this thing could use another post.

Who is it, Fred?

It's Atown Liker. He's come for dinner.


Well, let him in.

But I already set the table!

My dear niece, can you forgive a pigheaded old fool for having no eyes to see with and no ears to hear with after all of these years?


Yes, but it sounded so much better when Alastair Sim said it.

Fred, your wife's a looker. You've been holding out on me, my man! What's for dinner?

Brontosaurus burgers. Yabba Dabba Doo!

What the hell is a farthing?

Having realized the dead man was himself, done in again by an O'Doul's, Atown Liker, in his agony, caught the spectral hand. It sought to free itself, but Liker was strong in his entreaty, and detained it. The Spirit, stronger yet, repulsed him. Holding up his hands in a last prayer to have his fate reversed, Liker saw an alteration in the Phantom's hood and dress. It shrunk, collapsed, and dwindled down into a bedpost. The bedpost was his own.
He was so fluttered and so glowing with his good intentions, that his broken voice would scarcely answer to his call. He had been sobbing violently in his conflict with the Spirit, and his face was wet with tears.


What the hell! I'm back in bed? And, hey, I'm not crying. I have allergies! ... I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future! And Parallel Time and, if need be, an alternate timeline or two. The Spirits of all shall strive within me. Oh Player! Heaven, and the Christmas Time be praised for this. I say it on my knees. ... My Phillies bed curtains! They have not been torn down!
I don't know what to do! I am as light as a feather, I am as happy as an angel, I am as merry as a schoolboy. I am as giddy as a drunken man. Actually, I still have half a load on after all the Celebration Ales. ... A merry Christmas to everybody! A happy New Year to all the world! Hallo here! Whoop! Hallo! ... There's a kid outside the window. Hello boy, what day is it!


Today? Why it's Christmas Day!


Boy, are the tofu turkeys still hanging in the health food store window?


I should think so, goober.


Go and buy them!


Bite me!


Bite me? ... Goober? What a remarkable boy! It is a pleasure talking to him. Boy, I am in earnest. Take this money and bring the tofulterer. Be back in less than 5 minutes and I'll give you one of these bigger coins.


Yes sir!


Those fake turkeys will make Tiny Tim's eyes pop out. And they're healthy, so long as you don't have a hormone problem or certain cancers. ... Ah! The turkeys are here. Nasty looking things. ... Take them by cab to 330 Admiral Wilson Boulevard in Camden Towne. And be careful not to get mugged!


Yes sir!


Now I need to buy some presents! ... Let's see. ... OK, I'll give Cratchit a raise and full health benefits for Tiny Tim. And no penalty for pre-existing conditions. I wonder if Cratchit golfs? Maybe a set of clubs! For Tiny Tim ... a football. Maybe he won't grow up to be such a sissy. For the other kids, iPhones. A family plan for all of them with unlimited minutes and an internet package with Google! For Mrs. Cratchit, booze. Lots of booze. ... Look! There go the two solicitors. Hello! Merry Christmas! I hope you were successful yesterday.


Mr. Scrooge?


Or Liker, if you prefer. That is my name, and I fear it may not be pleasant to you. Allow me to ask your pardon. And will you have the goodness to accept a big bag of these silly coins?


Allah be praised!


My dear Mr Scrooge, are you serious?


If you please. Not a farthing less -- by the way, what the hell is a farthing anyway? A great many back payments are included in it, I assure you.


Yes Mr. Scrooge! Thank you, Mr. Scrooge!


Now. ... What else? Fred! Yes! I'll write Fred back into the ending!

I am not the man I was

Spirit, why are we in a church yard in the middle of the night? There are drug dealers about. We could get mugged.

Caw!

You're pointing to a grave stone. ... The grave of the man half-eaten by his cats and whose possessions were sold off by theives?

Caw!

Before I draw nearer to that stone to which you point, answer me one question. Are these the shadows of the things that will be, or are they shadows of things that may be, only?

Caw!

Perhaps you could clarify that caw? ... Men's courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead. But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change. You know, like an alternate timeline. Say it is thus with what you show me.

Caw!

OK. Whatever. I'll read it. ... "ATOWN LIKER." Ah, freakin hell! Am I that man who lay upon the bed?

Caw!

No, Spirit! Oh no, no! I can't believe I was killed twice by a non-alcoholic beer!

Caw!


Spirit! Hear me. I am not the man I was. I will not be the man I must have been but for this intercourse. I'm sorry I don't know why I just said intercourse. ... Why show me this, if I am past all hope? Good Spirit. Your nature intercedes for me, and pities me. Assure me that I yet may change these shadows you have shown me, by an altered life. I swear I shall never again drink a non-alcoholic beer, or even a light beer.

Caw!

I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will drink Celebration Ale. Or Rudel Elf. I will stop saying 'intercourse.' I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh, tell me I may sponge away the writing on this stone!

Been there done that

Caw!


You're annoying. ... This is the Cratchits' dump. Been there done that. What's next?


Caw!


And he took a child, and set him in the midst of them. ... Don't cry mother!

It's my eyes, Peter. The candlelight makes them weak. ... They are better now. I wouldn't show weak eyes to your father when he comes home, for the world. ... It must be near his time.

Past it, rather. But I think he's walked a little slower than he used, these few last evenings, mother.


I have known him walk with -- I have known him walk with Tiny Tim upon his shoulder, very fast indeed. But he was very light to carry and his father loved him so, that it was no trouble -- no trouble. And there is your father at the door!


So, the kid didn't make it?


Caw!


Sunday. You went today, then, Robert?


Yes, my dear. I wish you could have gone. It would have done you good to see how green a place it is. But you'll see it often. I promised him that I would walk there on a Sunday. ... My little, little child! My little child!


OK, I get it. Let's go. Now where's he going? ... Oh. The dead kid's upstairs. ... You have a lotta bodies laying around in this town. No wonder everybody is sick. ... When do they invent Purell?


I saw Mr. Scrooge's nephew Fred today. He was extraordinarily kind. He is the pleasantest-spoken gentleman you ever heard. He said, 'I am heartily sorry for your loss, Mr Cratchit and heartily sorry for your good wife.'


What else did he say, Robert?


He said. 'I must go now. I'm not in this version. Yabba Dabba Do.'


Now you see why he's not in this version.


I am sure we shall none of us forget poor Tiny Tim -- shall we -- or this first parting that there was among us. ... I know, my dears, that when we recollect how patient and how mild he was; although he was a little, little child; we shall not quarrel easily among ourselves, and forget poor Tiny Tim in doing it.


Caw!


Outta there at last! The Cratchits are depressing. I don't suppose there any good bars you could show me in the future, say, after the invention of refrigeration ... or soap?


Caw!


I get it. The future is depressing. ... And maybe if I wasn't such a shithead things would be better. And maybe if Scrooge and Player's offered health benefits, maybe Cratchit's kid wouldn't be dead. ... But who was that other dead guy with the cats?


Caw!


What the heck! ... I recognize this street. ... There's my office. Wonder if there's any more cash floating around in there. ...


Caw!


The office is redecorated! Beige. I hate beige! And who the hell is that guy sitting in my desk. Karl? ... Where the hell am I?


Caw!


The church? ... The church yard? What the hell would I be doing there in the middle of the night?

It's a judgment on him

Let the charwoman alone to be the first!


Let the laundress alone to be the second; and let the undertaker's man alone to be the third.



Look here, old Joe, here's a chance. If we haven't all three met here without meaning it!


You couldn't have met in a better place. Come into the parlor. Hack. You'll have to excuse me. Got a touch of the H1N1. ... I see you've got some of his things.
Every person has a right to take care of themselves. He always did.


That's true, indeed. No man more so. Who's the worse for the loss of a few things like these? Not a dead man, I suppose.

If he wanted to keep them after he was dead why wasn't he natural in his lifetime? If he had been, he'd have had somebody to look after him when he drank that non-alcoholic beer, instead of lying with his head in an armoire, gasping out his last breath, alone by himself with them cats gnawin' at his carcass."


It's the truest word that ever was spoke. It's a judgment on him.




I wish it was a little heavier judgment and it should have been, I could have laid my hands on anything else. Open that bundle, old Joe, and let me know the value of it.



Sheets and towels, a Phillies cap, Phillies T-shirt, Philies sweatshirt. A polar bear rug. Some beer steins. A beer tray, what in heaven's name is a Daeufer's? ... Well, I always give too much to ladies. It's a weakness of mine, and that's the way I ruin myself.


And now undo my bundle, Joe.


What do you call this -- Phillies bed curtains?

Ah! 2008 World Series Champion Bed-curtains.
You don't mean to say you took them down, rings and all, with him lying there?
I do. ... Right after the World Series was done. And with the cats bitin' at his leg. Why not?
These are his blankets? Hope you washed them.



Whose else's do you think? He isn't likely to take cold without them, I dare say.

Hmmm.

And you may look through that Chase Utley jersey till your eyes ache; but you won't find a hole in it, nor a threadbare place. It's the best he had, and a fine one too: 2008 World Series Champions. They'd have wasted it, if it hadn't been for me."

Wasted it?

They put it on him to be buried in, to be sure, but I took it off again. He can't look uglier in the old Mets Delgado one I put on him.

Hey, um, Big Bird. Delgado? This sorta sucks.

Caw!

Now what? You're pointing at a corpse? ... You want me to go see who it is? Not interested. ... Jeez, somebody should really chase those cats off of him, whoever he is.

Freakin' crows!

You better run away! ... Stupid ghost. ... Uh oh. ... Am I in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come?


Caw!


You are about to show me shadows of the things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us. Is that so, Spirit?


Caw!


Ghost of the Future! I fear you more than any spectre I have seen including Arlen. But as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart. Will you not speak to me?


Caw!


Freakin' crows. ... Lead on. The night is waning fast. Last call is early in this town, and it is precious time to me, I know. Lead on, Spirit. ... Who are you pointing at? ... I know those men. They are important men of business.


... No, I don't know much about it, either way. I only know he's dead.


When did that feller die? Hmmm.


Last night, I believe.


I reckon that feller was sick, mmm. I never though he gonna die. Hmm mm.

They say he was poisoned with a non-alcoholic beer. O'Doul's.



Bastards!



I heard his cats ate his body.

Not the whole body. One leg, mostly.

What has he done with his money?


I haven't heard. ... Left it to his company, perhaps. He hasn't left it to me. That's all I know. ... It's likely to be a very cheap funeral. for upon my life I don't know of anybody to go to it. Suppose we make up a party and volunteer?


I don't mind going if a lunch is provided. But I must be fed.


Caw!


Where are we now spirit? It's so foggy. ... I think we're on the wrong side of the tracks, bud. We're in a vile-smelling slum. ... Is this Camden Towne? Hey! There goes Jack the Ripper!

Caw!

I know that woman. It's my maid, Mrs. Colby!

Man, forbear such wicked words

Having collapsed from the reeling visions of disturbing memories brought to him by the Ghost of Christmas Past, Atown-Liker has awoken from a deep sleep and found himself back in Scrooge's chambers. The room is dark except for a strange light emanating from under the door to the next room. Scrooge gets out of bed and carefully makes his way to the door and peeks in, ready for anything from a baby to rhinoceros.


The room has undergone a surprising transformation. The walls and ceiling are hung with living green with bright gleaming berries and crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe, and ivy. A mighty blaze roars up the chimney. Piled on the floor, to form a kind of throne, are turkeys, geese, game, poultry, great joints of meat, suckling-pigs, long wreaths of sausages, mince-pies, plum-puddings, barrels of oysters, red-hot chestnuts, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears, immense twelfth-cakes, and seething bowls of punch, that made the chamber dim with their delicious steam. Right in front is an ice cold case of Sierra Nevada Celebration Ale.

On the couch sits a jolly giant, glorious to see; he is surrounded by cleaning supplies, buckets, mops and rags of all shapes and sizes. He has a glowing torch shaped like Plenty's horn, which holds up high, shedding its light on Atown-Liker, as he comes peeping around the door. It is Mr. Clean!

Holy crap! Look at all this food and booze!

Come in! Come in, and know me better, man. Have a brewskie!

Don't mind if I do! Toss me one a them chorizos, would ya?

Absolutely. ... I am the Ghost of Christmas Present. Look upon me.

You're Mr. Clean... in a Santa cap.

You have never seen the likes of me before.

Never. ... Spirit, conduct me where you will. I went forth last night on compulsion, and I learned a lesson which is working now. Tonight, if you have aught to teach me, let me profit by it.

Touch my mop. And grab a couple of those beers for the road.

My word! We are flying over the city! Oops! I dropped a drumstick.

We are flying indeed. I could point out several examples of the pervasive social injustices prevalent in Dickensian London, but you probably wouldn't be interested.

You're right! ... Where are we now? I don't know this crappy house. What a dump!

We are at the home of your clerk, Bob Cratchit.

Oh, you're home, my dears.

I had a lovely time at church, Mother, and after, I watched the other children play as my leg festered!

What fun you must have had! Now sit by the fire, Tim, and warm yourself. ... Bob, how did little Tim behave at church?


As good as gold ... and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He believes there is a place called Parallel Time, where everything is so much nicer. He said there were homicidal celebrity chefs there and something called a monorail! Then he told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk, and blind men see. ... And he kept staring at the crows.

Kid sounds a little cuckoo. ... You bring the opener, dude?

Here. Shhh.

... He's growing strong and hearty, my dear.

Of course he is, dear.

Holy bullshit meter, Batman! Are they lookin' at the same kid I am? He looks like hell. ... Is he even gonna make it?

I see a vacant seat in the poor chimney-corner, and a crutch without an owner, carefully preserved.


I didn't ask you about his stupid crutch.


If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, the child will die. Is that clear enough for you? Dumb ass.


Well, that would sorta suck.


If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, none other of my race will find him here. What then? If he be like to die, he had better do it, and decrease the surplus population.


But he's not from New Jersey!



Man, forbear such wicked words until you have discovered what the surplus is, and where it is. Will you decide what men shall live, what men shall die? It may be, that in the sight of Heaven, you -- a Phillies fan -- are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man's child.


Yeah, right. That'll happen.


... A toast! To Mr. Scrooge. I give you Mr. Scrooge, the Founder of the Feast!


The Founder of the Feast indeed! I wish I had him here. I'd give him a piece of my mind to feast upon, and I hope he'd have a good appetite for it.


Bring it, beeyotch! Oh, you don't want any of this.


Shut up. She can't hear you anyway.


My dear ... the children. Christmas Day.


It should be Christmas Day, I am sure on which one drinks the health of such an odious, stingy, hard, unfeeling little shit as Mr Scrooge. You know he is, Robert. Nobody knows it better than you do, poor fellow.


My dear. ... Christmas Day.


Fine. I'll drink his health for your sake and the Day's, not for his. Long life to him. A merry Christmas and a happy new year! He'll be very merry and very happy, I have no doubt! ... A-hole! ... God bless us!



God bless us, every one.


I've seen enough.


Let's us see another Christmas! ... This is the home of your nephew, Fred!


No Fred. He's not in this version! Did no one get the freakin' memo?



Well, that's actually quite disappointing. I like that part. Good party scene. ... So let us see Christmas Day at a poor miners camp.


I have an idea! ... Let's not.


A light house?


Booooring!



A ship at sea?


Hmmm. Let me think. ... NO!


OK, then I guess we oughtta wrap this up. You've ascertained that poor Tiny Tim has, like, one foot in the grave and his family can't afford to care for him, right? And there's no public option and no Obama to help him.


Yeah. I picked up on that. Hey, you don't look so good yourself.



My life upon this globe, is very brief. It ends tonight, at midnight. Hark! The time is drawing near.


Forgive me if I am not justified in what I ask, but I see something strange, and not belonging to yourself, protruding from your skirts. Is it a foot or a claw?


Are you flirting with me?


In your dreams, Kojack.


Look here. Look, down here!




Are these wretched children yours? Did they ever hear of soap?


They are Man's. And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This girl is Ignorance. This boy is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this girl, for on her brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased. Deny it! Slander those who tell it ye. Admit it for your factious purposes, and make it worse. And abide the end."



Have they no refuge?

Send them to a homeless shelter. Get them on welfare. Have them fake a disbility. Unemployment, food stamps, jail, whatever. POOF!

Oh, use my own words against me. Nice guy. I should call the county on you and those damn kids. ... Now he disappears. Wuss! These spirits are a bunch of jerks. ... Hey, those little brats took all my beer!

Shadows of the things that have been

Where are you taking me now?


Do you remember this place?


Remember it? It's Ye Olde Allentown Is Nice Headquarters! I was apprenticed here. ... Look! It's old Fezziwig! Bless his heart; it's Fezziwig alive again!


Yo ho, there! Atown-Liker! Dodger!


Yes, Mr. Fezziwig!

Look! It's me! It's me!

Quite a bit younger. And no tan!

And there's the Dodger. ... Before he was evil.

Yo ho, my boys! No more blogging tonight. Christmas Eve, Dodger. Christmas, Atown-Liker. Let's have the shutters up before a man can say Jack Robinson. And lock up those cats!


Yes, Mr. Fezziwig! ... Here, kitty!


Yes, sir!


Just two cats. Those were the days.


Hilli-ho! Clear away, my lads, and let's have lots of room here. Hilli-ho, Dodger! ... Cheer up, Player.

When shall we receive our wages, Mr. Fezziwig?


Some things never change, I suppose.


Oh! The fiddle player is here! It's the Fezziwig Blogger Ball!!!! Look there's Miss Emily -- what ever happened to her? And the Countess, dancing with Karl... and the Green Guy! Oh what fun we had. We were happy!


Someone else is here.


Marge.


Yes, Marge. I believe she was your friend.

Yeah, well that was before she tried to kill me and steal my house and my blog and destroy Allentown.

Everyone seemed so happy here at this party. ... You know, it is but a small matter to make these silly folks so full of gratitude. Just a few dollars of your mortal money: $50 for the keg. $100 for the food. Is that so much that Fezziwig deserves this praise?


It isn't that .... He had the power to render us happy or unhappy; to make our service light or burdensome; a pleasure or a toil. Say that his power lies in words and looks; in things so slight and insignificant that it is impossible to add and count them up: what then? The happiness he gives, is quite as great as if it cost a fortune.



What is the matter?

Nothing in particular. ... I was just thinking of Cratchit. ... And I probably shouln'd have killed that talking mouse.

Probably not. ... Let us see another Christmas. ... See the cold-hearted blogger tearing fast friendships asunder.

REPRINTED FROM YE OLDE ALLENTOWN IS NICE:

December 24, 1814: Marge has been booted from the Allentown is Nice team for having a photo that was much bigger than mine. R. Dodger and Carl have been temporarily suspended. Posted by atown-liker

December 25, 1814: As Team Leader, I, Atown-Liker, hereby suspend forever The Player for his recent comments on this blog. Specifically for using foul language, for criticizing R. Dodger's being a complete sycophant and for calling my friend the Green Guy a bitch. I also will suspend myself for the rest of the day for using that word. R. Dodger is also banned permanently. Though he may be a perfect toady, he's very creepy and I don't like him hanging around headquarters. They join the evil Marge, who is also permanently banned from this blog and who probably spent her holiday in Hell, where she belongs. Also, Karl has been moved from the suspended list to the probationary list, in spite of that awful joke.... Posted by atown-liker

Please, Spirit. Not here.

Yes! You drove away your friends and turned Marge against you and against all of Allentown. ... Allentown was destroyed by Marge because of your ego!

Spirit! Remove me from this place.

These were shadows of the things that have been. That they are what they are, do not blame me!

Remove me! I cannot bear it! Leave me! Take me back to my armoire. Haunt me no longer!

It's called NEW JERSEY

When Atown-Liker awoke, it was so dark, that looking out of bed, he could scarcely distinguish the transparent window from the opaque walls of his chamber. He was endeavouring to pierce the darkness with his ferret eyes, when the chimes of a neighboring church struck the four quarters. So he listened for the hour.

To his great astonishment the heavy bell went on from six to seven, and from seven to eight, and regularly up to twelve; then stopped. Twelve. It was past two when he went to bed. The clock was wrong. An icicle must have got into the works. Twelve.


What the hell? Did I sleep through a whole day and into the next night? Was I that freakin' loaded? Maybe there were some kinda mushrooms in that beer. ... Can't see a damn thing out this window, it's so foggy and dark. ... I'm going back to sleep. ... Zzzzz




Rise and come with me.



WTF???






I am the spirit whose coming was foretold to you, the Ghost of Christmas Past.




Long past?




No. My past. Rise and walk with me.




Huh? ... But I am mortal and liable to fall. I fell down the steps at the Brew Works just last week.




Then you fall, jackass. Man up, Nancy. Let's roll.





Oh my goodness. I'm flying. What is this place?




It is called Allentown.





Hmmm. This seems like only a couple of years ago, but I don't remember this at all.




That is because it was ignored. It is a press conference in 2005. A political candidate is being marginalized by a newspaper reporter. Democracy is being undermined before our eyes.





What does this have to do with me?




Nothing. Now let me take you to the Rose Garden ...




Stop right there!




You seek to stifle my dissent!




You are not the Ghost of Christmas Past, I am. You are so off topic!




Apologist!




Beat it! ... I'm sorry, he always does that. Now, where were we?




Oh, no! I'm not going anywhere with you. You're nothing but trouble. I want that other guy back!




Quiet now. We're off!




You'll let me fall! I know you. You were Gen. Trexler's guardian angel. He died in a car crash while you were changing your lite string. You were my guardian angel when I was poisoned and left for dead in an alley. You were the Countess of Monaco's guardian angel when her cosmetic surgery was botched and she was poisoned. You were the Player's guardian angel when Karl nearly took his head off. ...



... And I was Truman's guardian angel when he overdosed on pills and booze. Betcha didn't know that!




Help! ... Hey, wait, I know this place. I was bred here!



Your lip is trembling. And what is that upon your cheek?



Vomit. I had a rough night.



Do you recollect the way?



Remember it! I could walk it blindfolded.



Strange to have forgotten it for so many years. It's called NEW JERSEY. ... Isn't that the place you complain about so much. ... About all the Yankees fans from NEW JERSEY. Are you yourself not from NEW JERSEY?



Shhh. Don't say that. We were Phillies fans in my neighborhood.





Let us see another Christmas! ... Behold, your sister, Fan!


Sing a song of sixpence a pocket full of rye ...



Hang on. ... She's not in this version. Neither is Fred.



I wasn't told!

You didn't get the memo?

I did not! ... That's my best scene.

Sorry, Bubbles. ... Hey, was Fan playing with a crow???

I'm a damn ghost!

What do you want with me?

Oh, we got lots to talk about.


You won't get much from me.


I recollect you owe me some damn money!


I don't owe you anything. ... Can you sit?


Hell yeah, I can sit. I can do 10,000 situps in my damn driveway.


Well, sit then. You're all blurry.

I'm a damn ghost! Of course I'm blurry. ... You don't believe in me do ya?



Well, no.


What evidence would you have of my reality, beyond that of your damn senses.


I'm probably drunk. I think there was some kind of English fungus in that beer that made me hallucinate. Or it coulda been that moldy old cheese or some virus I picked up from that waiter's dirty hands. This town is filthy! There are dead people everywhere. I could have the plague!


Damn! Step the hell back!


See this toothpick?


I see it.


You are not looking at it.


I see the goddam thing, fool!


Well, if I swallow it I'll be persecuted for the rest of my days by a legion of goblins, all of my own creation. No amount of Prevacid or Tums will help me. Humbug, I tell you! humbug!


What the hell's a humbug? ... Listen, if you don't start believin' in me right now I'm gonna read "Little T Learns to Share" from cover to cover right here out loud.


Oh, Jesus! Mercy! Dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me?


Do you believe in me or not?


I do. I must. But why do spirits walk the earth, and why do they come to me?


It's your damn blog, Sluggo. The way I heard it is it is required of every man that the damn spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow men, and travel far and goddam wide; and if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death, all the way to goddam Buffalo and back. It is doomed to wander through the world -- oh, woe the hell is me! -- and witness what it cannot share, but might have shared on earth, and turned to damn happiness! Hell!


You are fettered. Why?


I wear the damn down-marker chain I forged in life. I made it link by link, and yard by yard; in San Francisco, Baltimore -- almost -- especially in Philly and Dallas and freakin' Buffalo. I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it. Is its pattern strange to you? Cause you wearing one bigger than this. It was as heavy and as long as this seven Christmas Eves ago. And you been workin' on it since.



You were always an asshole, but you could play ball like nobody's business.


Business! Mankind was my damn business. The common welfare was my damn business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence, were, all, my damn business. The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business! Damn!



Ooooh. Fancy talk. Hey, don't be so hard on me. We were blogging teammates. Remember?


Hell with you. Oh, you loved me when when McNabb was throwin me the damn ball. Then when McNabb got sick and the Eagles wouldn't give me my money, you kicked my off your blog. Then you and your damn cats killed me.



Karl killed you.


Look. You got one last damn chance to escape my fate. A chance of my making. Well, actually Jesus is makin me do this cause I'm on probation. He's still pissed at me even, though I was right about that damn Newman a-hole.



A chance ... ?


You're gonna be haunted by three damn ghosts.



Not me, pal. I'm gettin outta here in the armoire.


The damn armoire don't work, clown, till I say so. Without the ghosts you cannot hope to shun the path I tread. Expect the first tomorrow, when the bell tolls one.



Tomorrow? How bout we do them in one shot.


Expect the second on the next night at the same hour. The third upon the next night when the last stroke of twelve has ceased to vibrate. Look to see me no more; and look that, for your own damn sake, you remember what has passed between us! Son of a bitch.


What, are you gonna jump out the window?


Look out there!


Oh my god. More spirits ... all wearing chains. Steve Young, Jeff Garcia, Donovan McNabb, Tony Romo, Trent Edwards. They seek to win championships, but they can't. ... You won't catch the ball unless they give you more money. ... Oh, the horror!


Damn right. That's what I call pay to play. I still want my damn money!

You're damn right it's me!

Having been transported to 1843 London, Atown-Liker has spent the afternoon in the offices of Scrooge and Player, helping himself to Ebeneezer Scrooge's ample quantities of ready cash. He's had an awful dinner and some warm ESB at a melencholy tavern and is returning now to Scrooge's dusty suite of rooms and the armoire that he hopes will transport him back to the Parallel future.




Yuck. I'm pretty sure that waiter didn't wash his hands when he used the bathroom. Hope they don't have swine flu around here. ... And that skunky beer .... I should have gone to the Bedlam Brew Works. ... Let's see ... this looks like Scrooge's house. I recognize that door knocker.





That's gotta be the ugliest thing I've ever seen on a house. ... And I'm from Allentown. Man, If I was planning to stay in this craphole any longer, I would definitely replace that junker.


Damn! Who the hell are you callin a junker? You look in a mirror lately? How bout I come out there and kick your ass?

What the hell??





Man. My eyes must be playing tricks on me. Musta been that beer. If I was staying here, I'd definitely take Player's name off a that sign too. ... Whatever. I got my cash, I'll hop in the armoire and get the hell outta here.

That's right. You better hide in that ugly old house. You don't want any of this!





This place is weird. Could this stairway be any darker? I could swear I just saw a horse-drawn hearse go right up the steps. ... Here we are. Sitting room, bedroom, lumber room. ... There's my armoire. Nobody under the table, nobody under the sofa; a small fire in the grate; spoon and basin ready; and a little saucepan of gruel. Gross. Might as well be grits from South of the Border. Nobody under the bed; nobody in the closet; nobody in my dressing-gown -- how gay is that dressing gown? ... Not much in the lumber room. What the hell is a lumber room anyway? Old fire-guards, old shoes, two fish baskets, a washing stand on three legs, and a poker. Poker? I don't even know her! ... God, they must miss my jokes back home.
Scrooooooge!


What the hell? It sounds like somebody's dragging chains up the steps. How do you dial 911 in 1843?



Scrooooooge!



This place is haunted! ... I'm so outta here. I'll just climb into the armoire and -- grunt -- shut the doors behind me and I am thus secure. ... And ... ready ... GO! ... Um, GO! ... Crap. One, two, three ... GO? Ah, shit. ... Oh God, someone's trying to pry open the doors .... What??? ... YOU?



You're damn right it's me. ... It's your damn fault I'm dead!

-
-
Monday: "I wear the damn chains I forged in life!"

"You'd probably pee in my coffee"

It's 7 o'clock, Mr. Scrooge. Time to leave. May I have my wages sir?

Crap. How much do yo get?


15 shillings a week, sir.


Hell. I don't know what these coins are. Here -- just take what you usually get. ... Will there be more money to count tomorrow?


I imagine so, sir.

Then be here bright and early to start counting.


But tomorrow is Christmas Mr. Scrooge.


So, what? You're telling me you're just going to blow off work?


Christmas comes but once a year, sir.

So you want the whole day off?


If quite convenient, sir.


It's not convenient and it's not fair. Actually, it sucks. If I was to dock your pay, you'd probably pee in my coffee.


Perhaps, sir. It is but once a year.

A poor excuse for picking a man's pocket every twenty-fifth of December!" But I suppose you must have the whole day. Be here all the earlier next morning. Shit, I'll be out of this dump and back to Parallel Allentown by then anyway.

Thank you, Mr. Scrooge. Merry Christmas, sir. ... Like I haven't peed in his coffee a hundred times already.

This guy makes 15 shillings a week -- and I'm pretty sure that ain't much -- and he can't wait for Christmas. Moron. I can't wait to get out of this stinkin' hole. ... Now who's at the door?


A merry Christmas, uncle! God save you! 'Tis I, your nephew, Fred.

Bah! Humbug! ... Whoa. I said it again.


Christmas a humbug, uncle! You don't mean that, I am sure.

I do. All of this nonsense for 700 lousy bucks.

Don't be cross, uncle! Come and dine with my wife and me tomorrow!

I'll dine with the Devil first! ... Why did you marry that stone-age bimbo anyway? ... Oh, you know what ... I don't actually care. Buzz off. You're not gonna be in this version. Go play with the mouse. ... I'm off to Bedlam.

Asshole.

My business occupies me constantly

Having tumbled into a vortex while snooping around inside a secret armoire, Atown-Liker has been transported to 1843 London, where he learns he he has taken the identity of a local miser and businessman Ebeneezer Scrooge. He is happy to learn that he has an office full of cash.

Oh, Mr. Scrooge! I was afraid you had taken ill, sir. You've never been late before.


So, um, it's Cratchit, right? You've been here counting my money here all by yourself?


Indeed, sir. And copying letters.


Copying letters by hand? Lotta time on your hands, eh? You haven't been helping yourself to any of these funny looking coins, have you? Empty your pockets. ... What is that in your pocket -- a mouse? Or are you just glad to see me?


It is a mouse, Mr. Scrooge -- a very special Christmas mouse. He can talk, sir. ... He's a very wise mouse indeed.

Merry Christmas, sir!

Toss it in the fire! I never liked that version.


Yes sir.

Eeeek!


There's nothing else in my pockets, sir. You have yet to give me my meager wages.


I'm supposed to pay you? Just great. ... Why does that sign outside say "Scrooge and Player"? Who is Player.


Mr. Player, sir. Your business partner. He passed away seven Christmas Eves ago ... this very day.


Seven? You people are all nutjobs. ... How much cash do we have on hand?


430 pounds here in the office sir. Shall I secure it in the safe?


No need. Hand it over. ... Come to Papa.... What is this, like 700 bucks?


I wouldn't know, sir.


God rest ye merry gentlemen let nothing you dismay ...


Do they ever stop singing Christmas carols in this town?


No sir, never, sir. ... Sir, there are two solicitors at the door.


Scrooge and Player's, we believe.

Again with The Player? ...


Do I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Scrooge or Mr. Player?


Listen, Karl nearly took The Player's head off with a slingblade about a year and a half ago. He's as dead as a doornail.


We have no doubt his generosity is well represented by his surviving partner.


Humbug. ... Did I actually say that?


Hamberg? ... At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge, it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir.


Are you from the CACLV? ... Listen, send them to a homeless shelter. Get them on welfare. Have them fake a disability. Section 8, unemployment, food stamps, jail, whatever.


Under the impression that those options scarcely furnish Christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude, a few of us are endeavouring to raise a fund to buy the poor some meat and drink and means of warmth. We choose this time, because it is a time, of all others, when want is keenly felt, and abundance rejoices. What shall I put you down for?


Nada.

Do you wish to be an anonymous coward?


I wish to be left alone. You are turning jolly old London a poverty magnet crawling with Yankees fans.


Mr. Scrooge, we have no love for the Yankees, but many of these people would rather die than cheer for the Phillies -- or worse, return to New Jersey.


If they would rather die they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population.


But, Mr. Scrooge!


It's not my business. It's enough for a man to understand his own business, and not to interfere with other people's. My business is to take this 700 bucks, climb into that armoire and get back to Parallel Time 2009 where I can make a bet on a pony. My business occupies me constantly. Good afternoon, gentlemen! Go Phillies!

A Christmas Carol: The Player was dead

The Player was dead. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk and the undertaker. Atown-Liker did not sign it, for he was also dead, or at least believed so. It turns out he was hiding from Marge in the Dominican Republic. However, the Player was as dead as a door nail. Atown-Liker knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? The Player was killed in Atown Liker's own house, though at the time it had been taken over by the demoness Marge. Atown-Liker's own gardener, Karl, did the deed himself with a keyser blade, though some might endeavor to call it a slingblade. Atown-Liker's own cats witnessed the deed, saved as they were by Karl from their execution in the microwave oven.



Atown-Liker and the Player were blogging teammates for I don't know how many years, until Atown-Liker grew weary of the Player's complaining and banned him from this blog. But the Player was now dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. If we were not perfectly convinced that Hamlet's Father died before the play began, there would be nothing more remarkable in his taking a stroll at night, in an easterly wind, upon his own ramparts, than there would be in any other middle-aged gentleman rashly turning out after dark in a breezy spot -- say Saint Paul's Churchyard for instance -- literally to astonish his son's weak mind.

Atown-Liker never took the Player's photo off of the blog. There it is, a year and a half after the Player's demise.

Once upon a time, in Parallel Time, having left his wallet behind in Non-parallel Time, Atown-Liker, a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner, finds himself in need of some cash. He stumbles across the Blogging Headquarters of Parallel Atown-Liker and finds that no one is home. He decides to snoop around.

So this is the headquarters of Parallel Atown-Liker. It's identical to my own house in Non-parallel Time. ... Hmmm. My key fits right into the door nob. ... Might as well take a look around. ... Well, what have we here? ... Good lord! This guy has no taste. These walls are beige! God, I hate beige. ... No cats. Well, that's a plus. ... I wonder if his house has a secret room? ... No carpet on the stairs? Hmmm. Maybe I should have mine removed. ...

Well, there's no door for a secret room. ... Nothing up here in the attic at all but this butt-ugly Victorian armoire. ...
Wonder what he's got in there? ... Hey, my key for the secret room fits right in. ... Empty. What the hell? Maybe there's a secret compartment for valuables. Let me reach in here a bit. Grunt! ... WHOA!




What the hell just happened!?

Oh! I beg pardon sir, I thought I'd bring the laundry by. I thought you'd be at the counting house, sir.

Yikes!


Yikes, sir?

Who are you? Where am I? Did you see that big lightning vortex thingee?

Vortex thingee, sir? I don't believe so, sir. ... I'm your laundress, of course, sir, Mrs Colby, sir and you're in your very own house of course, Mr. Scrooge. ... Can I get you some tea and gruel, sir?

Scrooge? Tea and gruel? Do you have any beer and pretzels? ... What year is this Mrs. Colby?

The year? Why it's 1843, of course, sir.

And where is this?

Why, we're in London of course as I live and breathe. You're usually at your office at this time of day counting your money with Mr. Cratchit, sir.

Did you say money?

Yes, sir. There's lots of money to be counted in your office sir, if I may be so bold, sir.

And where exactly do I find this office full of money?