The infamous drug lord, Scarface, was alone on Christmas Eve. His huge mansion empty, except for the bodyguards paid to protect him.

Scarface was remembering his old life in Cuba. He loved his country and his family, but he loved money and power more. He absently touched the scar on his face that earned him his nickname. He was so lost in his remorse that he didn't notice he was no longer alone.

"I am Tubbs, the Ghost of Christmas Past."

Bam! Bam! Bam! Scarface shot the phantom three times with his Glock, but the shots had no effect.

"Um... you did hear me tell you that I'm a ghost, right?" Tubbs asked. "Now, come with me to when you were a man of 16."

The apparition waved its hand, and there on the floor were Scarface's parents. Both dead. A much younger Scarface standing above them. His gun still smoking in his hand.

"Why did you kill them?" Tubbs asked.

"They stole from me, and nobody steals from Tony Montana."

"They didn't steal from you. They found the drugs in your room and threw them away. They were trying to protect you."

Scarface began to cry. The ghost's voice softened.

"Why do you weep?"

"Because now I am an orphan," the drug lord answered. He looked up from the lifeless bodies of his parents, but the phantom was no longer there. Instead...

"I'm Crocket. The Ghost of Christmas Present."

Crocket adjusted his Ray-Bans, and, in a flash of light, they were at the home of a very poor man. Bob Cratchit. Tony's accountant. They both saw Bob Cratchit give each of his kids a peso.

"Merry Christmas," the father told his children, and gave them all a loving hug. His children squeeled in happiness.

"Where'd you get the money?" his wife asked.

"It's just a few pesos," her husband answered."Mr. Montana won't miss them."

Crocket felt Scarface stiffen beside him.

The wife's sad smile slowly faded before Scarface's eyes. Standing beside him now was Castillo, the Ghost of Christmas Future.

They were at the landfill on the outskirts of town, and Castillo pointed a boney finger, as silent as death. Scarface looked at what he was pointing at. It was a large metal barrel filled with cement. Two feet sticking out of the top almost comically.

"Who's that?" Scarface asked, fearing the answer.

Castillo pointed again, but this time it was at him.

Tony collapsed to his knees.

"No, no, no!" he cried, and the world went dark around him.

Moco, Scarface's personal bodyguard, ran into the room.

"Jefe!" he called out, excitedly. "Que pasa?"

Scarface opened his eyes.

"Moco?" he exclaimed in relief. "Is that really you?"

Moco looked at his boss, not knowing what to think or say.

"Oh, thank God! Thank God I'm back. Maybe it's not too late." Scarface reached for something on his bed. "Moco, I've got something I want you to give Bob Cratchit."

Scarface tossed the bodyguard the Glock he always kept close by.

"Tell him to say hello to my little friend," Scarface ordered.

Moco couldn't believe it.

"Por que, jefe? Por que?" he asked. Why, boss? Why?

"Because nobody steals from Tony Montana!"