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books, posters, and a Free-Vee set. Finally he shrugged.
“You are alone, all alone!” the ghost cried. “And what lesson did we learn here today?”
“That it takes a long time to count to a billion?”
“No, mon! As The Beatles once observed, money can’t buy you love. You dig?”
“Dig? I’m not a laborer!” Scrooge said. “And what’s all this nonsense about talking insects?”
* * * *
Scrooge and the ghost of Bob Marley materialized on an enormous airship. The only passenger to be seen was a middle-aged version of Scrooge, lying on a hammock and scanning speculative stock options.
“I remember the day well!” Scrooge said to the reggae ghost. “It was my twenty-fifth anniversary celebration of creating Scrooge Computers. I rented an airship and took a voyage from New York City II to New Seattle. I think the ship was called the Air-Titanic—but it didn’t run into any icebergs.”
“A celebration? Then how come you’re the only one on the ship, mon?”
“What, and give those lollygaggers a paid day off? Never!” Scrooge said angrily. “Besides, it was my party—and as you can see, the guest list was perfect!”
Marley shook his head. “Alone as always.”
* * * *
Next, Bob Marley’s ghost and Scrooge materialized in front of a monstrous skyscraper.
“Where are we now?” Scrooge said, confused. “All this zipping around is giving me a sick headache.”
“The future headquarters of Scrooge Computers. You end up buying the state of Rhode Island and using it as the foundation of the world’s greatest skyscraper.”
“Sounds like something I’d do!” Scrooge said. “Except maybe the Rhode Island part. I never really cared that much for that state. It must have been on sale.”
“Look at the side of the building, mon.” The ghost pointed to a bas-relief, bronze mural depicting a scrawny old man seated on a throne, surrounded by piles of money and rows of computers. “Your body is entombed in the side of this building, just under your metal image.”
“How delightful! Such a nice big tombstone!” Scrooge looked up. “Why, I bet you can see this building from Mars....”
“Don’t you see, mon? Even in death, Scrooge, you are alone. All alone!” A single tear rolled down the ghost’s cheek. “Now I suppose I should take you back, so you can change your life, you sad, lonely, pathetic, skinny-assed bastard. Have you learned your lesson yet, mon?”
“Yes, I have: the one with the most toys wins! And I’ve won!” Scrooge performed a victory dance that resembled a praying mantis having an epileptic seizure. “Yes, I want to go back and work harder, so I can make more money and buy a bigger state than Rhode Island!”
“No, mon! That isn’t what you’re suppose to learn—”
“However, I didn’t like that part about dying!”
“Ah! Now, mon, you’re starting to see the light.”
“Yes, I will have to do something about that.”
* * * *
One week later, Scrooge was busy in his penthouse suite. He had been working, constantly working, ever since Bob Marley had dropped him off after their Christmas travels.
“Happy New Year, mon!” the ghost of Bob Marley said as he reappeared in Scrooge’s living room.
“Ah! You’ve returned,” Scrooge said. “I’m so glad you showed me my future. I’m going to change it for the better!”
“That is good, mon!”
“I’m not going to die now.” Scrooge hit a silver button on a remote control clutched in his bony hand. A sturdy stainless-steel cyborg marched into the room. “As soon as this old carcass of mine passes away, I’m going to have my brain implanted in this indestructible metal body—and I will live forever!”
Scrooge paused, gazing out the window at the falling snow, and then said softly, “God bless the rich! And Bah, humbug to the poor!”
A HELL OF A CHRISTMAS, by Michael McCarty
’Twas the night before Christmas, which is Christmas Eve—not sure why they just don’t call it Christmas Eve, it’s a lot shorter, rolls off the tongue better than “’Twas the night before Christmas” does.
Anyway—on this Christmas Eve, not a creature was stirring—well not exactly true—there were a couple of creatures stirring around. In the living room, Marty the old beagle was letting out stinky farts as usual—everyone outside the Webster family called Marty “Farty” because the goddamn dog would fart all day and all night long. Besides the farting dog, Mouser the cat was under the Christmas tree knocking off ornaments and watching them smash—getting the evil pleasure from it that only cats can get.
Everyone in the Webster household was snuggled up in their beds, dreaming of sugarplums dancing in their heads. Well except the father Danny, who had stopped by the strip club Sugars’ that night, all his visions were of strippers twirling around a big silver pole and all the exotic dancers had names to match the Christmas holiday: there was Holly, Merry, Noel and Starr whose giant silicon hooters had tiny shiny gold stars glued to them.
And Danny Jr. was tossing and turning...the kid was naturally a worrywart, he worried all the time—perfect if he grew up to be an accountant for the mob or a nitroglycerin truck driver in the rain forest (a tropical suicide jockey). Junior was distressed because over Thanksgiving, the family changed the chimney from a wood burning to a gas and he was troubled that Santa wouldn’t be able to climb down it. He laid in bed listening for the sleigh and eight reindeers to land on the rooftop and if Saint Nick would have any problems he’d be there to help old man Christmas out.
All this fretting about caused the young one to get thirsty. He was going to turn on his light and put on his glasses, but figured the light might scare off Santa, so he walked in the dark downstairs without any glasses on.
He opened the refrigerator, grabbed a bottled water and started to walk out of the kitchen, when he heard a motorcycle driving in the backyard. The chopper had driven across the yard, to the side of the house.
Young Danny walked into the living room for a better listen. The motorcycle was shut off and the driver was climbing up the chimney, it sounded more like the person was scaling the side of the chimney.
He wished he had his glasses because he wanted to see what Santa looked like when he came down the chimney. All he could see was some red tall guy.
The man was all in red, he wasn’t very fat, he didn’t have a beard, and he had two pointy things on the top of his head, a tail, and was carrying a big black bag.
“Santa?” Danny asked.
“No, close—Satan,” The Devil smiled. “Santa and Satan are almost spelled the same—which really isn’t the Christmas spirit, if you think about it. I came here to get the soul of Danny Webster Jr.”
“That’s me,” Danny said scared.
“I know it is a bad time, Christmas Day coming tomorrow,” the Devil said. “But tough break, kid. I am trying to keep my quota—it is nothing personal.”
“Don’t I get to challenge you to a contest to keep my soul?”
“Like ‘The Devil Went Down to Georgia?’”
“Yeah.”
“I hate that song,” Satan said. “Do you know how to play the violin?”
“No,” Danny said timidly.
“Do you know how to play any instrument?”
“I