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!