Act 1
My name is Young Gi Marley, and I am dead. No doubt about that. Of course, this should be pretty easy for you all to understand. Do I have to make you understand? Never mind. Nothing good ever comes out of this story. I should know. You see, my register was signed by many, the clergyman, clerk, undertaker, undertaker, chief mourner, you name it. And Ian-he signed it too. His name was good upon change, wherever he put his hand in.
I'm dead like a doornail.
Ian knew I was dead? Of course he did. Why not? I can't even recall how long it's been since then. Ian was my sole executor, administrator, ally, and the only man who ever mourned me…if he ever did mourn at all.
That scallywag never bothered to paint out the name on the sign. He just kept it that way. Yes, he did know I was dead. But that lad is such a tight fisted boy, he is. But what do I know? This here business, he still runs it. But a terrible miser, that lad is. If only he'd know what his own nature brought to him…well, I'll leave that to you for decidin'.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
A light snow fell in the quaint little Brussels village of 1840s Brussels. Now, people were especially excited this time of season. Why? Because Christmas would arrive the next day! Stores everywhere were busy as ever, lining their buildings with wreaths of holly and tinsel. All throughout the streets, children everywhere played in the snow, flinging snowballs and shuffling their feet around the snow.
From nearby, a paper boy going about his morning route, passed by a local bakery. He shouted, "It'll be a bright Christmas this year, eh?" The baker, who was busy unloading a fresh batch of rolls, told him, "Best save your excitement until tomorrow, lad! It's Christmas Eve!"
From nearby, two children were engaged in a snowball fight. The little girl threw a snowball at the boy, in the hopes that he would catch it. But her aim was so good, it sent the snowball flying. The boy tried to catch it, but he missed. Then, he and the little girl slowly backed away in fright, for a foot had caught the snowball and dismissively shook off the bits of snow.
Along the sidewalk, a solitary man in a dark-colored suit strolled through the snow-filled streets. Wearing a dismal grimace, he gave a scornful frown at a group of revelers, who slowly muttered carols in silence as he passed. This man's name was Ian. Ian Scrooge. A tight-fisted miser at his own right, he frowned upon anything particularly jolly or merry in this time of day. After walking through the streets for a few minutes, he arrived at the counting house, where a sign reading "Scrooge & Marley" was hanging overhead. Ian sniffed a little and went inside.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Inside, a young man with a ginger quiff and second-hand clothing was diligently copying letters upon a high and weak desk. A small candle served as his only means of warmth. Tintin was Ian's right-hand assistant, and Marley's replacement after his passing. He had tried to survive living alone in the streets of Brussels, with only his dog Snowy, and his dignity. But his brother, Benton Cratchit, had offered Tintin to live with him and his family. So, he still kept his hopes up.
Tintin's fingers trembled with the cold as he held the quill. Rubbing his hands together, he tried to warm them with the little fire igniting from his candle. Then, Tintin remembered the coal box that was placed at the far end of the room. He proceeded to reach for the shovel. But Tintin then noticed Ian giving off a rare scowl, and he sadly turned back to copying the letters.
Suddenly, the door of the counting house opened, letting mere snowflakes burst in. Ian could not help but lift up his head a mere inch. Veerasak, one of his closest allies, strolled inside, wearing a rather cheerful expression. Tintin craned his neck to see what was going on.
"Merry Christmas, Ian!" Veerasak exclaimed. "What?" Ian muttered. "A merry Christmas, Ian!" Veerasak said yet again. "God save you!" "Bah," Ian said under his breath. "Humbug." "What? Christmas a humbug, Ian?" Veerasak questioned. "I'm pretty sure you don't mean that, do you?" "I did," Ian said. "I mean, merry Christmas! What gives you the right to be merry anyway? What reason? You're just about as poor enough."
"And what right do you have to be so morose and dismal?" Veerasak replied. "You're just about as rich enough." "Bah!" Ian spat. "Humbug." "Come now, don't act so cross," Veerasak said. "What else can I be?" Ian asked. "When I live in a world full of idiots like this? Out upon this merry Christmas? What's Christmas time to you but a time for paying these debts without any money; a time to find yourself a year older, but not yet richer; a time to balance books and have everything in them through a dozen months presented dead against you? If I'd have worked my own will, every clod who goes about with this so-called 'merry Christmas' on his tongue, should be boiled in his own puddin', and buried with a holly stake through the heart, he should!"
"Ian!" Veerasak pleaded. "Veer!" Ian returned scornfully. "You keep your Christmas in your way, and I'll keep it in mine!" "Keep it? You don't even know how to keep it," Veerasak told him. "Then I'll leave it alone!" Ian exclaimed. "I notice it's done a number good on you."
"Well," Veerasak started to say, "There are things from which I've done good, even if it never showed a profit, I say. Christmas among the rest. If anything belonging to Christmas is set apart from a holy source of its origins, I'm sure that I've thought of Christmas as a wonderful time, a rather kind and pleasant time; the only time of the year where men and women seem to open up those closed hearts of theirs and think of others as if they passed toward the grave. And therefore Ian, though it never put so much as a single coin in my pocket, I believe it's done me good, and it will keep doing me good for a long time; and I say God bless it!"
From a distance, Tintin began to clap wildly at Veerasak's speech, but he stopped after Ian shot him a dirty look. "I hear another word out of you, and you keep your Christmas by losing that situation!" Ian said. "But you are quite the speaker. And here I am wondering why you never went into law yourself."
"Don't be angered, my friend!" Veerasak said. "Please, come dine with us tomorrow!" "I'd rather see myself dead than do that," Ian said. "But why?" Veerasak asked him. "Why?" Ian asked. "Then let me ask you this: Why did you get married to Linda?" "I fell in love," Veerasak replied. "Fell in love, my right! As if that were the most ridiculous thing to know!" Ian retorted. "Good afternoon." "But you never came to see me at my wedding," Veerasak told him. "How is this such a reason for not coming?" "Good afternoon," Ian repeated. "I don't mean to ask a thing from you," Veerasak pressed on. "Can't we just be good friends?" "Good afternoon!" Ian shouted.
Veersak sighed deeply. "Okay, I seem to find you so resolute. You and I never quarreled. And I came all this way to give you a season's greetings, and I'll keep my Christmas humor last." He proceeded toward the door. "So, um, Merry Christmas!" he said before hurrying out. "Good afternoon!" Ian kept saying. "And a Happy New Year!" Veerasak said, poking his head back in. "Good afternoon!" Ian repeated.
Before Tintin returned to his desk, Veerasak poked his head inside once more and told him, "And a Merry Christmas to you too, !" "Oh!" Tintin said, a bit surprised. "Well, um, thank you, sir! And Merry Christmas to you too!" "And there's another clod, my clerk," Ian muttered. "With fifteen shillings a week, and a brother with a wife and family, talking about a merry Christmas. I'd retire to the halfwit house if I had to."
Suddenly, the bell above the door rang. Tintin got off his seat to open the door. In stepped two men, wearing identical suits and bowler hats with opposite mustaches, and approached Ian. "This is Scrooge and Marley's, I presume, eh Thomson?" the man said. "Precisely, Thompson," Thomson replied. "Can I help you two?" Ian asked. "May I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Scrooge or Mr. Marley?"
"He's dead," Ian said. "To be exact, he died seven years ago, on this night." "Oh, terribly sorry to hear of this news," Thompson had said. "Anyway, at this festive time of the year, it is usually desirable that we should make a slight provision to the poor and destitute, who suffer greatly this time of the season." "Precisely," Thomson added. Thompson continued on, saying, "Many thousands are in need of common necessities; hundreds and thousands want common comforts, sir." Ian grumbled in reply.
"Are there no prisons, sir?" Ian asked. "No sir. There are plenty of prisons," Thompson replied. "And those workhouses for the poor?" Ian asked. "Are they still running?" "Yes, though I'd wish to say they were not, to be precise," Thomson had said. "And the Treadmill and Poor Law still in full swing?" Ian asked once more. "To be precise, they're still busy," Thomson had said. "Ah, well, I was worried that something had stopped them in their course," Ian said. "Good to hear that."
Thompson then said, "Given that they barely furnish any cheer to a multitude, some of us are trying to raise a fund to buy enough meat and drink for the poor, as well as warmth. Today is such a time for this, when want is felt, and all abundance rejoices." He then pulled out a notebook. "So, who should I put you for?"
"No one," Ian mumbled. "Ah, wish to be anonymous, eh?" Thompson asked. "I want to be alone," Ian answered grimly. "I don't make myself merry at Christmas, and I can't afford to make any idle folk merry either. I'm taxed, and they cost too much. Those who are all off have to go there." "But they can't go there," Thomson said. ""To be precise, they would all die." "Well, if they die, they can go ahead," Ian said. "To decrease the population. Besides, I know nothing of it."
"If only you'd know, lad," Thompson said. "I have my business here, and only my business," Ian said, guiding the Thompsons toward the door. "It occupies me constantly, and I'll leave it to that. Good afternoon!" The Thompsons then proceeded toward the door, barely missing the door and hitting themselves on the walls. Then, they proceeded out.
After Ian had returned to his desk, Tintin kept working until he noticed a group of carolers, accompanied by a small boy, gathering at the window. Soon, they began to sing a muffled "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen". Tintin began to smile; it felt good to hear such joyful carols. But his revelry was short-lived when Ian seized a ruler and whacked the window with such great force. "Go, get out of here! I didn't ask you to annoy me with that racket!" Ian shouted. The carolers, particularly frightened, then scurried off.
Ian turned to Tintin. "And I suppose you want the rest of tomorrow off for yourself, huh?" Ian questioned. "I-If it's not too much trouble, I'd hope," Tintin said. "Not too much trouble, my right," Ian muttered. "It's not fair to me. If I held back the crown for it, you'd think you'd be tortured, yes. And yet you don't think I'm ill used, when I pay these wages for no work!" "But it's only once a year, sir,"Tintin replied. "Huh! As if that were a poor man's excuse to rob a man's pocket clean every twenty-fifth of December," Ian told him. "Be that as it may, I suppose you do need it. But just be here early next morning!" "Oh yes. I will, sir. I promise," Tintin said.