Scrooge - Chapter One
Title: Scrooge
Author: Deaconite
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Past Greg/Clive, Chip/Jeff, Richard/Tony
Summary: It's Christmas, normally a time of joy. But Greg Proops is not in the Christmas spirit. All that will change when he is visited by three ghosts.
Disclaimer: All fictional. Based on Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol.
Chapter One: Dead to Begin With
Stiles was dead to begin with; long dead. He had died on Christmas Eve, been buried on Boxing Day, and had been as dead as a doornail ever since.
Greg Proops had been running a theatre together with Ryan for over ten years, and was one of the few people to mourn Ryan’s death. But that didn’t stop him from reopening the theatre as soon as the funeral service was over. Business was strong, and Greg wasn’t going to let something as insignificant as a death slow it down.
Greg was known a mean, tight-fisted old bastard with a heart as hard and as sharp as flint. People would have compared him to snow, but at least snow came down generously, which was more than you could have said about Greg.
It was Christmas Eve, nearly a decade after Ryan’s death. Greg was in his office doing accounting, the door open so he could keep an eye on his assistant. Outside was cold and foggy, but inside was little better; Greg wanted to keep heating bills at a minimum. Jeff Davis, the assistant, was huddled under several layers of clothings to try and keep warm, but was failing.
A gust of wind lifted papers as a young man walked through the door. “Merry Christmas uncle!” he called in a cheerful voice.
Greg looked up from his work. “Merry Christmas? Pah! Humbug to that.”
“Humbug to Christmas?” Richard, his nephew, asked, loosing his scarf and sounding bemused. “Surely you can’t mean that?"
“Don’t tell me what I do or don’t mean,” Greg said irritably. “What right do you to be happy? You’re poor enough to be miserable.”
“With that logic, what right do you have to be miserable? You’re rich enough to be happy.”
Greg glowered at his nephew. When that didn’t deter the smile, he followed it up with another “Humbug.”
“Don’t be so gloomy!”
“How else am I meant to be?” Greg asked, lighting a cigarette. “We live in a world where idiots can prance around wishing each other a Merry Christmas every year, where we have to pay bills with little or no money coming in, with carols blaring from every shop, and you ask me to not be gloomy?”
“But uncle-”
“You can keep Christmas in your way,” Greg said, breathing out a stream of smoke, “and you should let me keep Christmas in mine.”
“But you don’t keep Christmas in any way!”
“And that’s exactly how I’d prefer it.” Greg tapped ash into a nearby ashtray. “It’s not like it’s done you any good.”
“Christmas may not have put any money in my pocket,” Richard said, “but I’d say it’s certainly done me good! It’s brought me closer to my fellow man, it’s a source of joy and hope each year, and a time where people everywhere are good-natured and caring towards their fellow being.” This rousing speech was enough to cause Jeff to forget himself and start clapping, which caused Greg to turn his stony gaze in his direction.
“Enough of that, or you’ll find yourself jobless by New Year,” he growled, before turning back to Richard. “Christmas is a time when people pretend that the world is a magical place where nothing bad happens, spend a load of money on useless objects, and then they go back to treating everyone poorly. At least I have the decency of not acting hypocritical.”
“Uncle, I must insist that you come visit me and Tony tomorrow for lunch.”
Greg snorted. “I’ll never understand what drove you to marriage.”
“What drives anyone to marriage? Why, I fell in love.”
“Love? Humbug to that as well.” Greg stabbed his cigarette into the ashtray and lit up another, blowing smoke in Richard’s direction. “Good day to you.”
“Merry Christmas uncle.”
“I said good day!”
“And a Happy New Year!” Richard cried as he headed out of the door. Jeff grinned after him, until he caught Greg’s gaze and hurriedly turned his attention back to his work.
Nephew Richard wasn’t the only visitor that day. Have an hour later, two tall, smartly dressed men walked in with clipboards and smiles.
“Good afternoon,” said one of them, a bald man with a kindly smile and a Canadian accent. “Do we have the pleasure of talking to Mr Stiles or Mr Proops?”
Greg glanced up at the men. “Mr Stiles has been dead for seven years.” He scrawled his signature at the bottom of a page. “Seven years to the day, in fact; he died in the middle of a performance.”
“And I’m sure his legacy lives on,” the second man said, who was taller and was broader in the shoulders.
“I don’t see why it should,” Greg replied. “This theatre doesn’t do plays on Christmas Eve anymore.”
“A very wise idea, I’m sure,” said the Canadian, handing over his clipboard. “And I’m sure Mr. Stiles want you to help with our good work.”
“The Christmas period is a great time for giving,” said the second man, “and since there are many homeless people in the area, we were wondering if you would like to contribute to our funds?”
“What I want,” Greg said, pushing the clipboard back, “is to be left alone. I pay enough for my own home without having to pay for other people’s unwillingness to work.”
“But many are unable to-”
“Sirs, I would appreciate it if you would stop wasting my time when I have work to do.”
“Do you not care about the poor and homeless?”
“Aren’t there prisons for them to go to?”
The Canadian frowned. “Sending all the homeless to prison would be highly impractical.”
“And besides,” said his partner, “many would rather die.”
“Then they should hurry up and do that,” Greg growled. “God knows there’s enough people on this planet.”
The men continued their attempts for several more minutes before leaving, but were unsuccessful. Meanwhile, the fog outside was getting thicker, and the night was getting darker and colder.
Finally, the hour of closing came. Greg filed away his papers and got ready to leave.
“And I suppose you’ll be wanting tomorrow off?” he said to Jeff, who had hesitated by the door.
“If that’s alright sir.”
“It’s not all right. It’s not fair that a worker should pick their employer’s pocket every December 25th.”
“But sir, the theatre won’t be open tomorrow,” Jeff pointed out. “And all the accounts are in order.”
Greg sighed. “Very well, Mr Davis. But I expect you to be here all the earlier on the 26th.”
“Yes sir. Good night sir.”
The two of them walked out and parted company; Jeff towards his home, and Greg to his, stopping first to have dinner in a restaurant where he consumed several glasses of wine with his meal.
Outside, swarms of children were having snowball fights and racing down hills on sleds, and their screams of joy followed Greg all the way home.
Greg lived in a small apartment which he had once shared with his business partner. Most of the other apartments in the building were empty, and Greg hadn’t found another person to live with since Ryan’s death. This didn’t bother Greg; he liked his own company, and was therefore as solitary as an oyster.
He was about to let himself in when he noticed the door-knocker. Now, the knocker had came with the door, and was very unusual. However, whether it was the light or because he was particularly tired, the knocker seemed to have changed. Greg started at it for several moments before blinking rapidly and rubbing his eyes, but the knocker remained as it was, in the form of Ryan Stiles’ face, looking up at Greg with his long nose pointing upwards.
Greg was not a superstitious man, and had not given his old partner a thought since his name had been mentioned earlier that afternoon. But he still found himself shivering at the apparition, before he hurried inside and slammed the door behind him.
Greg leant against the other side of the door, breathing heavily and trying to calm down. When he finally had a hold of himself, he opened the door again and looked at the knocker: it was back to normal.
“Humbug,” he muttered, before entering his apartment once more.
To say that his heart was not racing would be untrue, but Greg did his best to compose himself as he headed towards his bedroom. But he calmed himself as he walked through the familiar rooms. Everything was as it should.
Satisfied that nothing was hiding under a table or under the bed, in the closet or in his dressing-gown, Greg pulled off his work clothes and settled himself down under the covers. His eyes drifted idly across his room, and fell upon an old bell hanging up in the corner. The purpose of it had been long forgotten, but at that moment it started to move back and forth on its own accord, ringing out shrilly in the still air. It was soon joined by other bells, which echoed faintly throughout the apartment. It went on for perhaps thirty seconds, but was enough to thoroughly spook Greg out. The silence that came afterwards was broken by a loud clacking in the hallway, followed by the sound of something metallic being dragged across the floor.
Greg huddled in his bed, growing more scared as the sounds moved closer and closer towards his bedroom. The source of the noise became clear when a ghostly figure walked through the closed door, pulling a long chain after him.
Greg’s jaw dropped when he recognised who the figure was. “Ryan?”
It was Ryan’s face as it had been before his death; the same piercing green eyes, the same long nose, the same big feet clad in tasteless shoes. His body and clothes were see-through, and the chain he was dragging was wound around his waist several times.
“Ryan? Is that really you?”
The ghostly figure nodded as he approached Greg. “In life, I was your theatre partner.”
“You’re looking pretty good for someone who was buried.”
Ryan’s ghost sighed. “Now is not the time for humour.”
“What do want from me?”
“Plenty.”
“Well,” Greg said, trying to keep his voice level, “do you want to sit down?” He gestured towards a chair beside the empty fireplace.
Ryan’s ghost shrugged. “If you wish.” The ghost maneuvered itself into the chair.
“Want some scotch?”
“Let’s cut straight down to business Greg.”
“Hey, just because you’re dead doesn’t mean I can’t have fun,” Greg said, pouring himself a glass.
“This isn’t the time for jesting.”
“Well, it’s not everyday that a dead person comes to see you, so I might as well make the most of it. Hell, why you should invite some of your ghost friends, and we can have a real party.”
“You still doubt my existence?”
Greg surveyed the ghost before him, sipping his drink. “How do I know you’re not a sleep-deprived hallucination, or a bit of undigested food?” Greg grinned as a thought came to him. “Hell, there’s more gravy than of grave of you.”
Ryan’s ghost rolled its eyes and groaned. “I thought you had given up the puns.”
“It’s an unusual circumstance. And I haven’t seen you in seven years, so I guess I’m slipping into old habits.”
Ryan’s ghost leant back in the chair. “I’ve been visiting you nearly every day since my heart attack.”
Greg stopped short, glass halfway to his lips. “Really? Every day?”
“For seven years.”
“How come I’ve never seen you before tonight?”
“You were never ready to, but you were tonight. And now I have a chance to warn you!”
“Warn me about what?”
Ryan’s ghost held up the chains. “These chains were made during my life, and they prevent me from leaving this world. They were built from my acts of greed and indifference towards my fellow man, and they stop me from reaching the afterlife. Now I’m left to wander the earth, observing all its misery but unable to prevent any of it. You had a chain of similar length seven years ago, and you will end up with my fate unless you change your ways.”
“Oh, humbug. I don’t believe in any kind of afterlife.”
“Neither did I before my death, but experience changed my mind.” The ghost stood, towering over Greg, the chains hanging from his transparent body. “You will be visited by three spirits!”
“Oh please, I’ve had enough visitations for tonight.”
“The first,” said the ghost, unperturbed, “will come tonight, when the bell tolls one!” The ghost started moving towards the window on the far side of the room, growing more faint with each step. “You must pay attention to what they show you if you want to avoid my fate!”
The window flew open, and with a final rattle of chains, Ryan disappeared.
Standing, Greg closed the window with shaking hands, before checking the bedroom door. It was solid oak, and he drew a bolt across it before locking it. Then, partly because he was shaken from his ghostly visit and partly because he was exhausted, he collapsed into bed and was asleep within minutes.
Author: Deaconite
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Past Greg/Clive, Chip/Jeff, Richard/Tony
Summary: It's Christmas, normally a time of joy. But Greg Proops is not in the Christmas spirit. All that will change when he is visited by three ghosts.
Disclaimer: All fictional. Based on Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol.
Chapter One: Dead to Begin With
Stiles was dead to begin with; long dead. He had died on Christmas Eve, been buried on Boxing Day, and had been as dead as a doornail ever since.
Greg Proops had been running a theatre together with Ryan for over ten years, and was one of the few people to mourn Ryan’s death. But that didn’t stop him from reopening the theatre as soon as the funeral service was over. Business was strong, and Greg wasn’t going to let something as insignificant as a death slow it down.
Greg was known a mean, tight-fisted old bastard with a heart as hard and as sharp as flint. People would have compared him to snow, but at least snow came down generously, which was more than you could have said about Greg.
It was Christmas Eve, nearly a decade after Ryan’s death. Greg was in his office doing accounting, the door open so he could keep an eye on his assistant. Outside was cold and foggy, but inside was little better; Greg wanted to keep heating bills at a minimum. Jeff Davis, the assistant, was huddled under several layers of clothings to try and keep warm, but was failing.
A gust of wind lifted papers as a young man walked through the door. “Merry Christmas uncle!” he called in a cheerful voice.
Greg looked up from his work. “Merry Christmas? Pah! Humbug to that.”
“Humbug to Christmas?” Richard, his nephew, asked, loosing his scarf and sounding bemused. “Surely you can’t mean that?"
“Don’t tell me what I do or don’t mean,” Greg said irritably. “What right do you to be happy? You’re poor enough to be miserable.”
“With that logic, what right do you have to be miserable? You’re rich enough to be happy.”
Greg glowered at his nephew. When that didn’t deter the smile, he followed it up with another “Humbug.”
“Don’t be so gloomy!”
“How else am I meant to be?” Greg asked, lighting a cigarette. “We live in a world where idiots can prance around wishing each other a Merry Christmas every year, where we have to pay bills with little or no money coming in, with carols blaring from every shop, and you ask me to not be gloomy?”
“But uncle-”
“You can keep Christmas in your way,” Greg said, breathing out a stream of smoke, “and you should let me keep Christmas in mine.”
“But you don’t keep Christmas in any way!”
“And that’s exactly how I’d prefer it.” Greg tapped ash into a nearby ashtray. “It’s not like it’s done you any good.”
“Christmas may not have put any money in my pocket,” Richard said, “but I’d say it’s certainly done me good! It’s brought me closer to my fellow man, it’s a source of joy and hope each year, and a time where people everywhere are good-natured and caring towards their fellow being.” This rousing speech was enough to cause Jeff to forget himself and start clapping, which caused Greg to turn his stony gaze in his direction.
“Enough of that, or you’ll find yourself jobless by New Year,” he growled, before turning back to Richard. “Christmas is a time when people pretend that the world is a magical place where nothing bad happens, spend a load of money on useless objects, and then they go back to treating everyone poorly. At least I have the decency of not acting hypocritical.”
“Uncle, I must insist that you come visit me and Tony tomorrow for lunch.”
Greg snorted. “I’ll never understand what drove you to marriage.”
“What drives anyone to marriage? Why, I fell in love.”
“Love? Humbug to that as well.” Greg stabbed his cigarette into the ashtray and lit up another, blowing smoke in Richard’s direction. “Good day to you.”
“Merry Christmas uncle.”
“I said good day!”
“And a Happy New Year!” Richard cried as he headed out of the door. Jeff grinned after him, until he caught Greg’s gaze and hurriedly turned his attention back to his work.
Nephew Richard wasn’t the only visitor that day. Have an hour later, two tall, smartly dressed men walked in with clipboards and smiles.
“Good afternoon,” said one of them, a bald man with a kindly smile and a Canadian accent. “Do we have the pleasure of talking to Mr Stiles or Mr Proops?”
Greg glanced up at the men. “Mr Stiles has been dead for seven years.” He scrawled his signature at the bottom of a page. “Seven years to the day, in fact; he died in the middle of a performance.”
“And I’m sure his legacy lives on,” the second man said, who was taller and was broader in the shoulders.
“I don’t see why it should,” Greg replied. “This theatre doesn’t do plays on Christmas Eve anymore.”
“A very wise idea, I’m sure,” said the Canadian, handing over his clipboard. “And I’m sure Mr. Stiles want you to help with our good work.”
“The Christmas period is a great time for giving,” said the second man, “and since there are many homeless people in the area, we were wondering if you would like to contribute to our funds?”
“What I want,” Greg said, pushing the clipboard back, “is to be left alone. I pay enough for my own home without having to pay for other people’s unwillingness to work.”
“But many are unable to-”
“Sirs, I would appreciate it if you would stop wasting my time when I have work to do.”
“Do you not care about the poor and homeless?”
“Aren’t there prisons for them to go to?”
The Canadian frowned. “Sending all the homeless to prison would be highly impractical.”
“And besides,” said his partner, “many would rather die.”
“Then they should hurry up and do that,” Greg growled. “God knows there’s enough people on this planet.”
The men continued their attempts for several more minutes before leaving, but were unsuccessful. Meanwhile, the fog outside was getting thicker, and the night was getting darker and colder.
Finally, the hour of closing came. Greg filed away his papers and got ready to leave.
“And I suppose you’ll be wanting tomorrow off?” he said to Jeff, who had hesitated by the door.
“If that’s alright sir.”
“It’s not all right. It’s not fair that a worker should pick their employer’s pocket every December 25th.”
“But sir, the theatre won’t be open tomorrow,” Jeff pointed out. “And all the accounts are in order.”
Greg sighed. “Very well, Mr Davis. But I expect you to be here all the earlier on the 26th.”
“Yes sir. Good night sir.”
The two of them walked out and parted company; Jeff towards his home, and Greg to his, stopping first to have dinner in a restaurant where he consumed several glasses of wine with his meal.
Outside, swarms of children were having snowball fights and racing down hills on sleds, and their screams of joy followed Greg all the way home.
Greg lived in a small apartment which he had once shared with his business partner. Most of the other apartments in the building were empty, and Greg hadn’t found another person to live with since Ryan’s death. This didn’t bother Greg; he liked his own company, and was therefore as solitary as an oyster.
He was about to let himself in when he noticed the door-knocker. Now, the knocker had came with the door, and was very unusual. However, whether it was the light or because he was particularly tired, the knocker seemed to have changed. Greg started at it for several moments before blinking rapidly and rubbing his eyes, but the knocker remained as it was, in the form of Ryan Stiles’ face, looking up at Greg with his long nose pointing upwards.
Greg was not a superstitious man, and had not given his old partner a thought since his name had been mentioned earlier that afternoon. But he still found himself shivering at the apparition, before he hurried inside and slammed the door behind him.
Greg leant against the other side of the door, breathing heavily and trying to calm down. When he finally had a hold of himself, he opened the door again and looked at the knocker: it was back to normal.
“Humbug,” he muttered, before entering his apartment once more.
To say that his heart was not racing would be untrue, but Greg did his best to compose himself as he headed towards his bedroom. But he calmed himself as he walked through the familiar rooms. Everything was as it should.
Satisfied that nothing was hiding under a table or under the bed, in the closet or in his dressing-gown, Greg pulled off his work clothes and settled himself down under the covers. His eyes drifted idly across his room, and fell upon an old bell hanging up in the corner. The purpose of it had been long forgotten, but at that moment it started to move back and forth on its own accord, ringing out shrilly in the still air. It was soon joined by other bells, which echoed faintly throughout the apartment. It went on for perhaps thirty seconds, but was enough to thoroughly spook Greg out. The silence that came afterwards was broken by a loud clacking in the hallway, followed by the sound of something metallic being dragged across the floor.
Greg huddled in his bed, growing more scared as the sounds moved closer and closer towards his bedroom. The source of the noise became clear when a ghostly figure walked through the closed door, pulling a long chain after him.
Greg’s jaw dropped when he recognised who the figure was. “Ryan?”
It was Ryan’s face as it had been before his death; the same piercing green eyes, the same long nose, the same big feet clad in tasteless shoes. His body and clothes were see-through, and the chain he was dragging was wound around his waist several times.
“Ryan? Is that really you?”
The ghostly figure nodded as he approached Greg. “In life, I was your theatre partner.”
“You’re looking pretty good for someone who was buried.”
Ryan’s ghost sighed. “Now is not the time for humour.”
“What do want from me?”
“Plenty.”
“Well,” Greg said, trying to keep his voice level, “do you want to sit down?” He gestured towards a chair beside the empty fireplace.
Ryan’s ghost shrugged. “If you wish.” The ghost maneuvered itself into the chair.
“Want some scotch?”
“Let’s cut straight down to business Greg.”
“Hey, just because you’re dead doesn’t mean I can’t have fun,” Greg said, pouring himself a glass.
“This isn’t the time for jesting.”
“Well, it’s not everyday that a dead person comes to see you, so I might as well make the most of it. Hell, why you should invite some of your ghost friends, and we can have a real party.”
“You still doubt my existence?”
Greg surveyed the ghost before him, sipping his drink. “How do I know you’re not a sleep-deprived hallucination, or a bit of undigested food?” Greg grinned as a thought came to him. “Hell, there’s more gravy than of grave of you.”
Ryan’s ghost rolled its eyes and groaned. “I thought you had given up the puns.”
“It’s an unusual circumstance. And I haven’t seen you in seven years, so I guess I’m slipping into old habits.”
Ryan’s ghost leant back in the chair. “I’ve been visiting you nearly every day since my heart attack.”
Greg stopped short, glass halfway to his lips. “Really? Every day?”
“For seven years.”
“How come I’ve never seen you before tonight?”
“You were never ready to, but you were tonight. And now I have a chance to warn you!”
“Warn me about what?”
Ryan’s ghost held up the chains. “These chains were made during my life, and they prevent me from leaving this world. They were built from my acts of greed and indifference towards my fellow man, and they stop me from reaching the afterlife. Now I’m left to wander the earth, observing all its misery but unable to prevent any of it. You had a chain of similar length seven years ago, and you will end up with my fate unless you change your ways.”
“Oh, humbug. I don’t believe in any kind of afterlife.”
“Neither did I before my death, but experience changed my mind.” The ghost stood, towering over Greg, the chains hanging from his transparent body. “You will be visited by three spirits!”
“Oh please, I’ve had enough visitations for tonight.”
“The first,” said the ghost, unperturbed, “will come tonight, when the bell tolls one!” The ghost started moving towards the window on the far side of the room, growing more faint with each step. “You must pay attention to what they show you if you want to avoid my fate!”
The window flew open, and with a final rattle of chains, Ryan disappeared.
Standing, Greg closed the window with shaking hands, before checking the bedroom door. It was solid oak, and he drew a bolt across it before locking it. Then, partly because he was shaken from his ghostly visit and partly because he was exhausted, he collapsed into bed and was asleep within minutes.