“You’ll never guess who just jingled into the station.” Officer Fendall kicked the door closed, offering a Styrofoam cup of coffee to the sergeant.
“No…” The sergeant sipped, frothing his mustache.
“Yep. Insisting to speak with an officer.”
“Nooo…”
“A particular police sergeant, in fact.”
“Everything can be monetized,” said the businessman at the corner table. “Christmas is a case in point.”
The waiter didn’t want conversation. Now that he’d gotten close to famed investor Eb Scrooge, he had plans. He shifted his feet and asked again, “Can I get you anything else? Top off your water?”
“What is the meaning of this?!” Grimwald’s breath puffed in the suddenly frigid air.
Edmund was his business partner once, before consumption claimed him. They built their fortune together, squeezing every farthing from desperate borrowers, foreclosing on widows, and turning away beggars who froze on their doorstep.
Ebenezer Scrooge was not fond of dragons.
For one thing, they reminded him too much of himself, though he wouldn’t have admitted so for the world—although he might have considered it given a sufficient sum of money. No, Scrooge was not fond of dragons, and he looked down at the boy on the other side of his narrow desk with distinct displeasure.
I couldn’t remember the last time I felt so cold. The temperature outside was part of it, of course. So was our agreement to burn only one piece of coal at a time. Coal wasn’t cheap, and it was only December 24th, with many
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Ebenezer Scrooge sat by the fire—an actual fire, blazing merrily this Christmas Eve instead of the pathetic ember he used to permit—muttering cheerfully to himself while polishing his spectacles. Just then, the clock struck seven. The flames flickered ominously. A breeze as cold as the inside of a snowman’s trousers swept through the room,
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“I spent my entire savings to see my wife again, and you made me relive the moment she took her last breath.” The lanky widower placed the virtual headset on Scrooge’s desk, his expression twisted with pain. “I want my money back.”
Unfazed, Ebenezer Scrooge caressed the frosty hair on his chin.
“Our firm must move with the times, Jacob. Renting an automaton will cost us half of what hiring a human clerk will, including the coal to power it. They are less error-prone, as well. Many London businesses are doing so. It’s in The Times.” Scrooge handed the newspaper clipping and his calculations to his partner.
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The sun scattered glimmering rays of life throughout the leaves and branches of the forest. As the trees swayed in the cool breeze, the light danced on the forest floor in a brilliant show.
Aenid, unfortunately, didn’t have time to appreciate the light.
Marley was dead. Each nail in his coffin bore witness to that.
It was a dreary affair, his funeral. There were no mourners—practically no living souls save the minister, two grave diggers, and Scrooge. Yes, Scrooge. Covetous old sinner! Preoccupied solely with why
Oh, humbug, humbug, humbug!
Down the street Scrooge sprinted, leaving a trail of paw prints across the thin blanket of snow. Windows aglow blurred by as he passed apartments and houses.
Bah, Fred! Why do you reside so far!?
He veered onto Fern Street.
Captain Bob Cratchit yawned as he adjusted the holographic scanner, slowly bringing Sector 213A into clearer focus. It had been a long flight between the stars, and all he could think about was getting home to Earth for Christmas.
Alarms suddenly shrieked as the sector
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