Before we can begin on this mutual enjoyment of fiction, it must be set out first and straight the fact of one Jacob Marley.

He's dead.

Jacob Marley, in fact, died almost a decade ago. Seven years, to the day where this story shall actually begin (which I promise I will get to shortly). His death certificate was signed by the clergy that handled the funeral, and by his partner; Ebeneezer Scrooge.

Ebeneezer Scrooge, at the funeral, did have a few kind words for the man. A fine businessman, he said, intellectual and prudent. A man you could bend a horseshoe around, good for the money and so forth.  

If there was anything Ebeneezer knew personally about the man, he did not show it. Scrooge knew he was dead, at the very least. Of course he would know that, he'd been partnered to him for many many years before his demise.

But that was seven years ago. And Marley has been dead for those seven years. Mind you, this is not an uncommon state of affairs. I think you'll find most people are dead. Really, they're the majority.

It's a stain on democracy that we so rarely actually listen to them.

The fact that Marley is dead is important to come completely to terms with, as not doing so and pretending the opposite will make some of the further dreadful scenes I will relate to you quite confusing. It would be silly, after all, to react with such fear and horror to one's father entering the room, were you not Hamlet and your father been dead since before the plot started. So yes, remember that fact, Jacob Marley is dead.

Another thing I must educate you on is the world you are about to enter. I assume you have already a firm grasp on the difference between fiction and reality, and thus I must explain that the story I am about to tell you is completely true. It really did happen.

It just happened to take place in a completely fictional world.

Unlike many fantasy novels, where you'll find a series of maps and factions and wars and a timeline and perhaps a 20 hour audiobook detailing the epic and admittedly napworthy history, I feel it only necessary to bore you with the very basics.

It is a fantasy world, not unlike those you've seen in those fancy movies where the effects budgets quite outweigh the possible cost of living for most of the people sleeping outside the studios in the gutter combined. Lack of budget notwithstanding, I'll try to make this just as entertaining as those, though with likely less sword fights and magic duels.

In this fantasy world, there is indeed magic. But like in real life, where we may be aware of Quicksand and Spike Pits and Giant Monstrous Lizards who would tower above even our finest tanks, rarely are these facts relevant to the day-to-day activities, unless you happen to be a paleontologist. So the story that I'm going to tell you is terrific, even to the old fool it will be happening to. Don't think just because he lives in a world full of dragons, that what he's going to experience is anywhere near his normal.

This world that I will be showing to you is called Mira. It is a world with blue oceans, green grass, many different types of animals, and very few of our modern conveniences. It also has a ring around it, like Saturn. It's very pretty.

Monsters and Magic aside, there will be times I use words one could misconstrue as an insult. Let me shake those worries away now, when I refer to someone as a Goblin, that is quite a literal sentiment. They have green skin, a large nose, floppy ears, and enjoy living in little underground tunnels (though no burrows will be featured in this story, despite the presence of goblins and rabbits)

Note that species will be rarely relevant to this story, and anything breaking from the normal day to day life of your average hard working paleontologist that is relevant will be promptly explained.

Where should we begin... the beginning isn't good, I already told you the details of that. Jacob Marley, dead, you get it. Perhaps the present then. Yes, let's go with that.

The sun rose. It was perhaps the only thing it really did outside of being bright. Producing heat seemed to be low on its list of priorities this morning. For this was, of course, the Eve of Yule.

Yule, in certain parts of Mira, is celebrated as part of the Winter Solstice. It is the day of, in fact. The shortest day of the year, at least on the hemisphere we're worried about. Yule is preceded by Yule's Eve, which is itself preceded by about a quarter of a month of general worry, last minute gift wrapping, and preparation known as Yuletide.

Yule may, in some sense, present parallels to certain festivals on Earth. This is intentional. Write what you know, after all. I may enlighten you to the specifics soon, but don't count on it. I'm not a very reliable narrator.

The light was intense, even with no heat backing it, as it got many chances to reflect on the surface of ice and snow throughout the streets of Amalen, capitol city of the Melodic Empire (sometimes called just Melodia, to sound less boastful or challenging to nearby powers).

The rush of inward cold air is comparable to a ship sprouting a leak a few inches from your face. And it took many forceful pushes to get the door closed again. Not because of much wind, but because of the shaggy rug that Bob Cratchit had gotten second hand from one of his cousins.

"Phew!" Cratchit muttered, patting the frost of the outdoors off of his furred rabbitish face (And I do mean this literally, remember what I said earlier please). He adjusted his coat as his wife approached, holding a few pieces of forlorn clothing.

"Your scarf dear."

"Ah, yes."

"And your hat, dear."

"Of course, what would I do without you-"

"And your pants. Dear."

Bob Cratchit adjusted his stance a bit and lifted one of his feet to pop it into the short set of trousers. Wearing pants was a bit more optional for some folk on Mira, what with modest fur coverings, but on a day like today, freezing some important bits of yourself off was also an option.

Emily Cratchit patted down her husband's clothing to straighten it out after tying his scarf about his neck. Emily, in point of fact, was not very rabbit like. Rather, she was a goblin. Not very plump like they often are, but with long hair and dark green speckles of freckles. It was thanks to her being a goblin and having such a height as one that she didn't have to kneel or stand on tip toes to kiss Bob, "Now, you're to ask Scrooge for a raise." She stated as a fact rather than a question or suggestion.

Bob had a few starts as he faced down the oncoming carriage, and decided to try to risk going between the wheels, "Darling, it's... well, you know its a bit more complex than-"

"Robert Cratchit!" Bob realized far too late that before there was the carriage, there was also the horse to worry about, "You cannot keep apologizing for that old man's miserliness! I won't have it any longer! You work so much overtime for that old fool and have nothing to show for it!" Emily pressed forward, and shook her finger in her husband's face, "We need more money here!"

"I know, dear-" Bob placated.

"Not just for Timothy, Aude knows we do, but..." She placed her hand against her stomach, perhaps unconsciously.

Bob did the same, putting his palm on top of the back of her hand and getting close. A warm atmosphere of love pressed outwards, a foggy kind of dream that Bob felt he was lost in whenever he looked into his wife's eyes. Even after these years, and the many struggles to make it from one to the next. "I promise... I'll ask."

"Thank you, dear." Emily said, leaning forward and embracing him. After the short hug, she let go and shoved him towards the door, "Well, get a move on. I must get started on tomorrow's dinner."

At the best of times, and despite himself, Bob sometimes found his wife's cooking questionable, but this was downright interrogative, "You're starting tomorrow's dinner this morning?"

"You deal with numbers and old fools," Emily said, "And I'll deal with the cooking. Understood?"

Bob had no willingness to get in front of another carriage nor horse this morning, "Yes dear. I'll... see you this evening!" He smiled and took his hat in both hands, lifting it and sticking it on his head.

It looked a bit like one of those drawings in fairy tale books, where a rabbit wore a silly top hat with its ears sticking out. Like an upside down outcome of a backwards magician's act. But it was warm, and that's what counted.

He stepped out of his home. It was a two story structure, but built very thin, and the stories were rather stout anyway, since it was made for goblins and munchkins like Emily and Bob. Half the Size doesn't necessarily mean Half the Living Space, but Half the Budget often does.

Bob bounced along as bunnies are tended to do, and headed down the street so as to not be late to work at Scrooge and Marley's.

As Bob Cratchit dodged a slow rolling cart, making his way across frosted cobbles and snowdrifts from the previous night's meteorological efforts, he was caught by the sudden warmth of a window, bringing with it the sweet scent of freshly baked bread.

"Bonjour Monsieur Cratchit!" Said the fat man who leaned out the window Bob had been crossing under.

Melodic was Bob's first language, but he had become too used to speaking Merchant's Tongue, a favorite of metropolitan Melodians. However, Jean Paris the baker often peppered the words into his natural dialect to keep conversation fresh. "Oh! Bonjour Monsieur Paris." Bob nodded, keeping his paws tightly tucked into his pockets. "Baking for tomorrow?"

"Oui! I have a very special order, in fact!" Mr. Paris said, leaning on one arm out of "For Monsieur Scrooge and his big Yule party tomorrow!"

Bob stared at Mr. Paris, then looked down the street for a few moments. He was frozen in contemplation, the cold air having nothing to do with it. After hesitation, he turned his head, and with sudden exclamation, "Ebeneezer Scrooge is hosting a Yule Party?" The complaint that Bob, Scrooge's single employee, had not been invited was at the back of the line in terms of questions and concerns to be filed immediately.

"What?! No no no!" The fat man began to laugh as he waved his hands frantically, "Ooh hoh hoh! If- If Ebeneezer Scrooge-" He had to catch his breath, but kept laughing as he talked, "If Ebeneezer Scrooge hosted a party! Why! He'd be selling the slices of ham by the millimeter! Hahaha! He'd be- There'd be a fee at the door! And you'd get a bill afterwards for air consumption in his house! Hahahaha!" The man chortled and laughed further on the mere idea that Ebeneezer Scrooge would ever host anything beyond ill-will.

"Right..." Bob said, turning his eyes down to the sidewalk as he considered his boss for a moment...

Scrooge. What could be said about him?

Tight Fisted was a good phrase, though a more accurate turn of phrase would include words like 'locked' and 'glued' and 'cement encased' around such a fist. A clamp upon money like oyster on a pearl. Sharp as flint but never so generous as to give warmth to anyone without interest on the steel. Hard-set in his ways, a rut to and from his office.

A hobgoblin, with a wiry chin and sharp features, cold and cruel even for the generally stern folk that hobs tended to be. A permanent frown affixed to his over-wrinkled elderly face, fitted with a squint that could sour beer and a sneer that could curdle milk. All the better to glare down debtors from his desk.

He wouldn't step a puddle to splash an orphan, merely because doing so would mean he'd have to pay to get his socks cleaned. Lo were there to be any child in his way, however. Were a blind man to be in Scrooge's way on his rounds, their guiding animal would pull them to an alley and refuse to move until the hob had passed. If the King himself were traveling with his retinue down a predetermined path, which just so happened to leave Scrooge's schedule out of its plans, he would add five turns to avoid crossing his path.

Even the weather had little effect on the eternally hacking and coughing man, no chill able to reach bones so frosted over by a cold and dead heart which barely beat more than once a minute. What worse could a rime of frost across his face do to the already bloodshot learing man with a gait so frigid it brought about a blizzard of hate in its wake?

Yes, Scrooge was all that and worse. And he was Bob Cratchit's boss.

"No!" Mr. Paris said, snapping Bob from his contemplation, "Of course not! I'm talking about dear old Fred! His Nephew! Wonderful man, one of my finest customers! He's hosting a party tomorrow. Hm, wish I were invited. I've heard they're quite rambunctious with their beer!" The man's smile stretched down two of his chins.

"Mm." Bob said, still mildly distracted. Then he looked up at Mr. Paris, "If you'd like, Monsieur, you can of course pay a visit to my home! I doubt my wife will take portion size into account! She thinks Little Tim can eat so much more than he can, you know. I bet there'll be more than leftovers."

"Ah... Tim." Mr. Paris nodded, "How is he doing?"

"Better! The young lady that came yesterday said he'd be... he'd likely able to get to the table for Dinner! No... presents this year, what with the treatment. B-But he's happy. He's very excited for tomorrow, you know how kids are."

"Right..." Mr. Paris said. He tried to shift the mood again with a smile, "I'll be sure to hold you to that dinner, Cratchit, if I can pull myself out of the oven! Last minute Yule Cakes are the bread and butter of my operation in winter, aside from the bread and the butter, I mean! Hoh hoh hoh!" The man laughed at his own little joke, wiping chilled sweat from his forehead.

"Haha hahh..." Bob feigned a laugh, "I ought to be getting along. Nice talking to you, Monsieur!" Bob said, offering a friendly nod before bounding off down the street.

"Mmmh..." Mr. Paris sighed to himself, watching Bob leave, "Mayhaps a small cake for the boy... rabbits eat... carrots, right? Or is that offensive..." He muttered.

Scrooge had never painted over the sign. It read Scrooge and Marley's. It had for seven years, and long before that, just with the latter being alive at that time. Scrooge didn't care to have it painted, doing so would cost at least a dollar. Besides, anyone walking up the street would first sea the sign hanging perpendicular, showing the strange Hydra Symbol of the Silver Guild.

The Silver Guild is a sort of guild of bankers. It runs operations of banking, tax collecting, and money lending from either side of the continent, not just for Melodia. And one of the many operating offices in Amalen under their guildship was Scrooge and Marley's.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

Scrooge answered to either name these days, it made no difference.

When Bob entered, he was looking at his watch. Then he heard the choking.

Bob's hops picked up pace as he bounded around the small desk he manned at the front, and into the back room. The office that Scrooge used.

It was sparing of detail, very good for me as a writer! It had a filing cabinet, a desk, a chair, an old coughing man in that chair, a candle, and a few necessary items. A single pen, a sheet of paper, and an abacus. It had nothing else.

And I do mean nothing else. It had no atmosphere, no warmth, no feeling of being filled or used, merely occupied. Its stagnant and cold air was only warmed up by the vibrations of the man having a fit in the midst of it. And that's when Bob slapped his boss on the back.

The hocked loogie of phlegm was disloged. You'd expect something like black tar or nicotine ladened sludge. But if you'd expect that, you clearly haven't yet picked up on the kind of man that Scrooge was. Indeed, were tobacco free, he might have partaken. But the cost of addiction was too high... not to his health, mind you, but to his wallet.

"LATE!" He struggled out after air had finally reached his shriveled old lungs, "You're late, Cratchit." He said between panting gasps.

"... What?" Politeness had streamed out of Bob's range as confusion settled in.

"Don't those big ears do anything for you, man? I said you're late!"

"... No I'm not!" Bob said, never one to argue with his boss, "I'm right on time!"

With a flip and a light snatching sound, Ebeneezer Scrooge had his pocketwatch in his hand, "Seven O' Clock... One MInute and Thirteen Seconds Late."

Thankfully, Bob had his watch in his hand as well, and checked it, "Well- Well yes, but I got in a minute and thirteen seconds ago, sir! I was patting your back!"

"I could've handled it!" Ebeneezer waved his hand, "You're wasting my time! My money! I'm paying you for your schedule, Bob Cratchit! That means you ought to be doing what I pay you to do! Not bothering around in my office!"

"I-" Bob started to say something, but then nodded. He had long ago realized how far you could push an argument with Scrooge. The argument was usually a few inches from a sheer cliff, no matter what it was about. "Right sir. Sorry sir." He didn't feign apology, that has never worked once in the history of argument. Exasperation did its job.

"I'll be taking the minutes out of your pay. Two minutes ten seconds Bob. Get to your desk and good morning to you." Scrooge never once said Good Morning as a greeting, nor Good Afternoon. Bob had never heard him say Good Evening, certainly. Good Night was often followed by a comment on how much time Bob had wasted during the Good Day, in fact.

Bob hopped out of Ebeneezer's office and sat at his desk, adjusting his seating as he pulled out papers. The chill of the new winter sprung into his bones, and he tightened his scarf. If there were heating in Scrooge and Marley's, then it seemed to be much less admonished for calling off than Bob was.

There was another fit of coughing, but Bob ignored it as he flipped through files on the new league of debtors that Scrooge had been bleeding dry.

Scrooge leaned to his side and hocked up another wad of phlegm onto the floor next to him. He grunted as he took in a breath afterwards. His eye went down to the blob, and then back to his papers. "Bah... Cratchit can clean it later." he muttered.

It was some time later that someone actually entered into the office of Scrooge and Marley's. Rarely did anyone seem cheerful to do so, and when they did, it did not last long past the door. Bob saw two masked and robed women enter.

It would be now pertinent to describe to you what the regional celebration of Yule is, as well as what these strange women are. I promise to try to keep it as short as I can.

The two women standing before Bob Cratchit are members of the Shianistic Religious Order, specifically the sect of Veritan Saintism. If these words confuse you, then pretend they don't exist. They're named Shians because of their masks, which are called Shia. They worship one of the many gods, as fantasy worlds oft have more than one, named Aude. Her holy light, guidance of all, and you can guess the rest.

Saintist Shians also worship a set of other gods, though calling them that would very much upset any Catholics reading this, so I'll refrain and call them what they are; Saints. One such Saint is named Noelle.

As the story goes, Noelle died in a blizzard trying to deliver a sled full of goodies to an orphanage. The goodies arrived safely, of course, as is the way with folk stories. And she has been called upon to deliver goods and cheer to the little children of those homes who worship Aude.

Thus is why there were two strange women wearing masks and robes. Shianism being his religion of choice, and being a church going man in spite of his boss' protests, Bob was familiar with the two.

"I am Mel."

"I am Mal."

"... No. No. You are Mel. I am Mal."

"I am Mel? You are Mal?"

"Yes."

"Yes."

Bob had to assume they thought this bit was very clever, since they seemed to do it every single time they introduced themselves.

The two shians wore normal garb. Hoods, Robes, Gloves, Masks, and some warmer accoutrements like boots. One was red, the other green, though they were absurdly disproportionate. Mel was exceptionally short, and Mal the opposite. Their masks were upside down. They were one of the stranger species you'd find in the magical fantasy world of Mira; being Punchinellettes (Punchinello being the masculine term).

Clowns. They were clown people. You couldn't see the big red noses with the masks on, but clowns are clowns wherever in universe you go.

Ina stepped between them. An average of their heights and wearing blue garb, a normal mask, a bit of colorful hair around the hood, "And I am Ina!" She said, finishing the bit despite Bob already knowing her name. She broke character immediately to cross her arms. "Oh dear, its cold in here... is the heating broken?"

Indeed, it was cold. The faint wisps of air that carried the candle light closer to Cratchit gave the only bits of warmth he had enjoyed since coming into work. The point of walls was to keep the weather in. It was likely the only reason Scrooge didn't work out in the middle of a field rather than pay for a building was because there'd be nowhere to keep the money.

"No..." Bob said, unsure of the truthfulness of his answer, "How may I help you, Ina?"

"We are seeking donations for Yule!" The cheeriness of the statement was punctuated by a thump from Scrooge's office, which forced a shiver up Bob's spine.

His expression froze, "Oh... are you?"

"Indeed. Is Mr. Marley or Mr. Scrooge in? I'd like to-"

"Mmm?" Grumbled out the proprietor as he opened his office door.

The old hobgoblin stood, hunched over a cane. He seemed built for three legs. The glare just wouldn't be right if it wasn't slightly pointed up at you.

Bob faded into the background of the conversation, aware now that this local shian had not yet acquainted herself with Mr. Scrooge... Perhaps this was her first round. Perhaps she had been between choices and seen a Silver Guild house that, for some reason, was not on her list. And decided to poke in and greet the likely very generous man who hadn't yet been called upon to give...

"Mr Marley, I presume?" Ina said.

"Presume wrong. Marley's been dead seven years. Died... on this very night, seven years ago, in fact..."

"Oh. Then I'm sure his spirit is carried on by his living partner then!" Ina wound her way back magnificently, "It is upon these solemn and cold days in the midst of winter that-"

"Autumn." Scrooge interjected.

"... Ah?"

"Autumn. Winter starts tomorrow. That's what a solstice is."

Bob shrunk in his chair, wishing very much he could literally fade into the background. Any ground other than the middle would be choice right about now...

"W-Well, on the Eve of Winter, when it is most cold and dire. We wish to give to our community! The Shian's do run a Home for the Homeless, and of course there is our Free Medical Care for the disadvantaged. We also pitch in for funds for local orphanages and soup kitchens in the nearby villages!" Ina said. She lifted her pen and a pad of paper, "So many are in want of... common comforts, and its thanks to donations like yours that the necessities of these disadvantaged and impoverished are met."

"Mmm..." Scrooge thought, scratching the tip of his chin. Bob couldn't help but to turn his head and watch the wrinkles on his boss's face move across his expressions as he considered.

"Are there no prisons?" Scrooge asked.

Ina looked away for a moment, repathing her thought, "Uh. Yes, sir. I'm certain there still are many prisons. I am aware of the local Prison off shore, at the very least... One of my cousins works there, performing-"

"Are there no work houses?" Scrooge further prodded, honest concern in his voice.

"Oh dear, unfortunately there are. Despite the work of the Guilds to combat unfair work practices, there are still workhouses open on, what I must say are shaky legal-"

"And those... child labor laws, they've been enacted, then surely?" His line of questions had a serious tone, concern riddled it like the plague.

"Ah, you mean the ones to combat those small 'farms'." The disgust in the woman's voice came with the quotes, "Not yet, though I'm sure our patricians will soon push through such legislation." She sounded quite cheered at this. Bob could only wonder what she thought Scrooge was actually getting at...

"Ah. I was wondering if something had happened. Based on what you were saying at first. That these very useful institutions had been lost to this social progress."

Ina stopped moving, her face ostensibly pointed at Scrooge, she resorted to memory and lifted her pen again, "What shall I put you down for, Mr. Scrooge?"

"Nothing. Of course." Scrooge said.

"... Ah!" Ina said, nodding, "You wish to remain anonymous, I totally-"

"Nothing." Scrooge repeated, "I wish to be left alone! If there is an answer you seek, that is the one I offer, young lady. If the poor wish to be merry on Yule, they may happily take themselves to the establishments I had mentioned!"

"Many cannot!" Ina said, trying to steer the conversation to one she could fill with her own creed, "And still, many would rather die than work for those borderline illegal institutions."

"Then let them die!" The old Hob shook his head, speaking as though talking to a complete moron, "It's not my business what the wasteful and the poor do! If they died, much the better to the economy! We're better without bums!"

"And what of the sick?" Ina said, her mask drifted to Bob, who had put his head down out of an ingrained rabbit survival instinct.

"Bah!" Scrooge said, "If they're not getting better themselves, and they can't AFFORD to eat a little gruel, they can die too! Die in the gutter, die in the streets, as long as they do so away from my business."

Mel and Mal, who had not said or done much of anything during this argument, serving as mere set dressing for the charity collection, now looked at each other. They didn't seem to come to any conclusion, and looked back to Scrooge.

"The business of all people is generosity and to the betterment of one's fellow man!"

"What would you know about business, you bible thumping fool." Scrooge spat, "You wouldn't know a hard day's work if it ripped your silly masks off! The better for it, you live on donations and charity. Why don't you tear down that stupid cathedral you have and sell the stone if you so desperately want to give handouts to hobos and bums, hm?"

"How can you say such things on the Eve of Yule! It is the time of the year for generosity, Mr. Scrooge!"

"Yule..." Scrooge sneered, "Bah, humbug!" He made a dismissive motion, "Nothing but a cold snap that makes people want to steal from my purse. Bah humbug to the whole celebration! The whole month! The whole winter! Good Afternoon, ladies." He hobbled back and slammed his office door.

Bob finally lifted his head from the desk, and quickly got out of his chair, reaching around in his pocket.

Bob hopped off his chair and walked around the desk, digging into his pocket as he did so, "I'm so... sorry about that." He whispered. "You should go... uhm, here." He took out a coin and slipped it into the little can Mel was holding. "I'm so so sorry."

"HUFF! What a terrible man! Noelle should curse him for his selfishness." Ina fumed. The steam coming off of her would have been visible if she had not been wearing a full body cloak.

"He's not that bad..." Bob whispered, "You just have to... get to know him a bit..." He looked incredulous of his own statement as he glanced back at the door to Scrooge's office.

"You have a good heart, Mr. Cratchit, dear." Ina said, looking down, "But - 'Do not waste what love you have on those who would not share it, or it will be lost', Lehsda 2:10." She opened the can and returned the coin, "I know you need this. Please give Tim my warmest for tomorrow. Merry Yule." She turned and left.

Mel and Mal stood silently for a bit before turning and leaving as well, trying to squeeze out the door despite it not being big enough for both of them at once. It took a while, and would have been humorous if Bob weren't already feeling the pressure of time. Eventually he just closed the door to force them out in one poff of collapsing into the street's snow.

A while back, quite a while now, I mentioned that Mira, the fantasy world in which this story takes place, has a ring. It's quite beautiful, especially now, at the very peak of night. The moon was high above, full and bright, you could almost see the shadow of Noelle's sled as her mythical giant cat pulled it through the stars... and that light unfortunately also hit Scrooge and Marley's.

The chill had set in quite a bit more, after a high in the 'good afternoon', it reached back down to grasp the hearts and hands of anyone unfortunate enough to be out in the streets.

Fires had been built in the alleys for beggars and stragglers in life to hobble around, eating what they had been tossed or found throughout the day. The singing of a child on the doorstep of Scrooge and Marley's ended quite abruptly when Scrooge asked (at a high volume) for Bob to go grab the poker from the furnace.

Bob wasn't sure where that would be, or if they even had one, but it did indeed make that slight comforting distraction go away.

But now it was night. Cold, chilly, and Bob was putting away his things.

"Mr. Scrooge?" Bob said, walking towards the office door, "I'll uhm... be going home, now... Sir."

"Right." He said, "And you'll be wanting tomorrow off, I imagine?"

"Well... yes, sir..." Bob said, through the door. He took off his hat now, rotating it in his fingers as nervousness drove up his bones.

"Bah... and you think me not abused in such a way, a full day's pay for a no day's work..."

"It is... Yule, sir. After all." Bob said.

"Oh, and I'm certain that should I have my pocket be picked once a year, I should be fine with that too? Just because it happens on the same day!"

"No, Mr. Scrooge."

"If you are to have the whole day, be earlier the next. Do not be late like this morning, Cratchit." The sounds of shuffling paper continued.

Bob stood at the office door. He stood there for quite a while. It felt like yule had come, gone, and then come again before the nerves had steeled themselves enough for him to reach out and open the office door.

"Yes?" Scrooge didn't look up.

"Mr. Scrooge- I... I feel I do a very fair share around here."

"Fair, hm?"

"And my notory work is quite the best I've seen, might I add! My shorthand is quick, and I'm very welcoming to our clients-"

"Did you come in here to brag, Crachit?" Scrooge asked, finally looking up at him over the rim of his half-moon spectacles, the ones he used to read the names of all the people he felt were stealing from him in one way or another.

"No, sir." Cratchit said. With all the bravery and backbone that the possibility of a 'stern talking to' by his wife could muster, he said "I think I deserve a Raise, sir."

"A raise."

Bob didn't answer. He simply kept staring at Scrooge. As the seconds turned closer and closer to a minute of staring, the confidence began to melt. At the very least, he could see the wrinkles moving, he knew Scrooge was... thinking about it.

"Mm." Scrooge said, not dismissively nor very affirmatively, "Ask me again tomorrow." He pulled his abacus towards himself.

"Oh but, uh... Sir, tomorrow I'll be at home. It's Yule."

Scrooge scowled and made another show of moving his abacus before clasping his hands on his desk, "So you want a raise and a vacation?"

"Huh?"

"And then what will you do? Waste it on more... beggars like those shians from earlier? Hm?" He turned his cheek and smiled a sinister grin, then changed it to a scowl again, "If you want money, you work."

"Sir, tomorrow is Yule!"

"Bah humbug! Yule! A foolish holiday for foolish men!" He wagged his finger, "You want to squeeze any more cash out of me, you can come in tomorrow, or never come back! Charity Case Cratchit!"

"But sir! I have- I have another child on the way, I need the money!"

"Oh, so your inability to act like a person instead of a rabbit is now weighing on my pocketbook? I think not! You're lucky I don't dock your pay for tardiness."

"You do dock my pay for tardiness!" Bob said. He swallowed down what he was intending to say next, beating it back with as much of his humility as he could... but the dam had already been leaking, and it was time for it to break.

Scrooge watched what certainly wasn't a visible transformation, but one of atmosphere. It was difficult, however, so confided in his own atmosphere of misery to see the growth of rage in someone else's.

 Bob scrunched up his face, gripped his hat tight, then said, "Then good day to you, Scrooge! You can keep this job and... and shove it! You rotten old fool!"

"HAH!" Scrooge laughed, his unending snear tilting upward into a sadistic grin "Enjoy starving in the streets like those homeless you so do love so much then! Get out of my office!" He pointed beyond Bob.

Bob hopped past what he had always thought of his desk, and to the door.

For a brief moment, he stopped and turned his head. A thought of mercy, of care for the old man had almost breached his blind anger, but it found itself entering a bar where the clientele was less than thrilled to serve it.

He walked out, and slammed the door in his wake, hopping his way down the cold street.

He stopped a ways away, only about a block, and looked up to the shining moon. He frowned, staring up at the great glowing pearl in the sky, and the horizon itself glowing from the ring of his world. He twisted his hat a bit, and then put it onto his head again. He sighed, "Scrooge... why did I ever try to see the good in a man like you..." He continued hopping away. If he really was fired, he could save that news for after Yule.