Disclaimer: Don't own TDI/TDA/TDTM
Author's Note: So, this is the classic Christmas tale, TDI style with Chris Maclean as Scrooge. This is pretty special because me and my buddy, Kelsica2, wrote this together.... I wrote the first half of this chapter and she wrote the second half, so don't forget to give her credit too!
Hope you all enjoy! Happy Holidays!
--
Hatchet was dead; there was no doubt in anyone's mind about it. He had died a slow, horrible death that most say he had deserved. But even after he was gone, his business partner, Chris Maclean, curiously never painted out his name on their firm's sign. Still after seven years, the sign read 'Maclean and Hatchet', which confused those who weren't aware of Hatchet's demise.
Maclean was the richest man in town. His wealth was simply unimaginable to the average man. Some say he bathed in gold, to which others reply he was too greedy to do. When Chris was younger, he was quite the celebrity, but as he had aged, his arrogant and sadistic ways grew worse. And what job could be more fitting for the cruelest man in town than to be an investment banker. Loan shark, most referred to him as.
Over the years, Chris stopped caring about others. He almost got joy out of seeing the poor suffer. Chris was so self-absorbed that nothing could faze him. The only thing worse than his ego was his greed. That and his hate of Christmas.
And today was Christmas Eve.
"'Ello!" a skinny redheaded man with green-tint glasses greeted as he stepped into Chris's office, "My name's Harold. And who might I have the pleasure of speaking to? Mr. Hatchet or Mr. Maclean?" he asked.
"Excuuuuuse me?" Chris asked, not looking up from his mirror
"Are you Mr. Hatchet or Mr. Maclean?" Harold repeated.
"Hatchet?" Chris looked up from his reflection. "Hatchet died! Seven years ago on this very day!" Chris said ominously. He looked irritated, "Who let you in?" Chris snapped.
"Dear old Mr. Crachit, of course!" Harold replied, jolly.
"TRENT!" Chris bellowed. In a flash, a tall man with dark hair appeared. His nose was red with cold and he sniffled. His cheeks too, were flushed as he pulled the white comforter around him closer.
"Trent, dude… What is up?" Chris asked, irritated. "I don't pay you squat to sit there and freeze your frickin' butt off!"
"Sir, you hardly pay me at all," Trent replied, shivering.
"And that's the way it'll stay if you keep letting these creeps in!" Chris growled.
"Fine men, if I may," Harold interrupted, "It's mighty cold in here. May we put a few coals in your dying fire?"
Chris laughed, "And waste precious money on heat? Ahahaha!" His countenance turned angry, "No."
Trent's teeth started to chatter, so he placed his freezing hand over them.
"Whatever," Chris shook his head, "Can I help you?" he asked Harold impatiently.
"Oh, yes. We're taking donations-"
Harold was promptly thrown out at the mention of the D-Word.
"Sir, may I-" Trent was interrupted by Chris.
"Nah… Go back to work!" Chris snapped. He returned to his mirror.
Not even a few minutes had passed before Chris received another visitor.
"Uncle!" a jolly voice cried out. A large, tubby, blond man walked into Chris's office. He was loaded down with gift bags and fruitcake.
"Not again," Chris muttered.
"Aren't happy to see me, Uncle Chris?" he asked, taking off his scarf and rubbing his hands together.
"Nope. Go away, Owen," Chris said, not really caring.
"Aww, does somebody need a hug?" Owen asked excitedly as he opened up his arms.
"Yeah… No," Chris narrowed his eyes at Owen.
"Yeah… Didn't think so," Owen sighed. It didn't last long, however, until his ruddy complexion lit up again. "Anyways, I bet you're wondering why I'm here!" he said, in a sing-song voice.
"You've come to irritate the heck of out me?" Chris replied.
"Mmm… Close!" Owen chuckled, "Actually, I came to invite you to mine and Izzy's annual Christmas dinner! Cool, huh?"
Chris groaned, "I hate Christmas. You know that, Owen."
"Aww, Uncle Chris! Don't say that!" Owen cried. "Christmas is the best!"
Chris let out a dry laugh, "Maybe it warms the hearts of you morons, but not mine! Christmas time is nothing but lost profits!"
Owen was about to reply to his uncle's heartless statement, but was interrupted by Trent walking in.
"Mr. Maclean. Two young ladies are here to see you," Trent said through his chattering teeth.
"Uncle Chris, would it kill you to warm this place up?" Owen whined, feeling cold just seeing Trent Crachit's condition.
"Yes, yes it would," Chris replied to his nephew. He turned towards Trent. "This better be good," he muttered.
"Good afternoon!" one of the girls chirped cheerfully. "We're with the Family Christmas Foundation!"
"Not again," Chris hit his head on the desk. He gave in, "Fine. Humor me."
"We're taking donations!" the other girl, bundled up in bright pink, added.
"And I care… because?" Chris asked, impatiently.
"Because it's charity!" the first girl answered.
"Sadie's totally right! We can help all the poor people and their families get a great Christmas this year!" the second girl answered.
"EEEE!! Katie, you're so sweet," Sadie giggled.
"I know," Katie giggled.
"Anyways," Katie and Sadie said at the same time.
"It'd mean a lot for a lot of people if you gave a donation," Sadie said.
"Don't you want to brighten up the Christmases of the needy?" Katie asked hopefully.
"Lemme think about that," Chris looked up in mock though. "No."
"Aww!" Katie and Sadie cried at the same time.
"But it's Christmas!" Owen added.
"Bah," Chris spat. "Humbug."
Katie and Sadie walked away dejectedly, muttering 'Scrooge' under their breath.
"And Owen," Chris looked at his nephew, "Go away."
"Not until you come to my party!" Owen said joyfully.
"I'll see you in hell before I see you at your stupid party," Chris spat.
"Those girls are right, Uncle Chris," Owen said tearfully, "You are a Scrooge!"
"Bah Humbug," Chris replied.
And with that, Owen gathered his things and walked away.
Soon, the sun set and closing time dawned upon them. Chris was gathering his things, before heading out like always, but today, Trent mustered up enough courage to approach his cold-hearted boss.
"What do you want?" Chris asked.
"Well, sir," Trent started, pulling his white blanket in closer. "Tomorrow's Christmas!"
"And…?" Chris drawled. "I suppose you want the day off?"
"If it's not too much to ask," Trent said meekly. "It really would mean a lot," he added.
Chris sighed, grimaced, then gave in, "Fine. I hope you realize I'm losing a day of profits for your little fancies."
Trent lit up, "Oh! Mr. Maclean, thank you! Thank you so much!"
"I suppose," Chris sighed. "Just be here all the earlier the next morning!"
"Of course! Of course! Thank you!" Trent exclaimed. "You won't regret it! Thank you, sir!" he said, gratefully.
--
Chris locked the building up and walked up to his swanky silver car. He hopped in a drove off, in the most sour mood he could ever remember himself having. "I can't believe I let that buffoon take he day off tomorrow," Chris mumbled, running a red light.
Several cars honked at him and gave him rather crude hand gestures, but Chris barely noticed, and he surely didn't care.
He pulled into his driveway, taking notice of the dozen cars in front of his next door neighbor's house.
"Great," Chris groaned. "Must be a freaking Christmas party…"
The harsh wind nipped at Chris' skin as he made his way toward the entrance to his huge house. He looked at the door, said, "Hi, Chef," and looked in his pocket for his keys. After thinking it over, he gasped and did a double-take. There was nothing on the door but the doorknocker.
The doorknocker had been in the same place he could have sworn he saw his deceased business partner's head…
Once inside, he flung his coat and scarf onto the couch and made his way to the kitchen. A table full of the finest foods he could imagine were waiting for him, still so warm it was like every entrée had just been freshly cooked. Chris had a professional cook come in a few hours before to prepare this for him. And he or she was luckily gone, just like every night before this.
The amazing feast wasn't on account of Christmas, of course. This was how Chris McLean ate every night. When you've got as much money as he does, you would too, right?
--
After finishing his meal, he left the dishes on the table for the maid to clean up later. He had better things to do than clean up after himself...
Next door, his neighbor's Christmas party was still going strong. The music and laughter was faint but it still annoyed Chris him to no end. Why it did, he didn't know, but he wasn't going to stand by and let somebody with less money and power annoy him
Chris opened his window and yelled, "Hey! Shut up over there!"
His neighbor poked his head out the open window of his house and yelled back, "You shut up, you scrooge! It's a Christmas party!"
Oh well. You can't say he didn't try.
"Bah humbug," he muttered under his breath, shutting the window and walking away. "Christmas. What a waste of time." He huffed and headed over to his bedroom. Maybe the farther away he got from the blasted Christmas cheer, the better.
--
By the time Chris had gotten ready for bed, the party had ended. That meant he could sleep in peace. He needed his nine hours of beauty sleep, after all.
"Nothing else better bother me," Chris grumbled, flipping the blankets aside. "Nothing Christmas-like, at least… I don't get the big deal. A bunch of gifts… Stupid food… Bah humbug…"
He settled into his huge bed, shutting his eyes. After a few seconds, he heard the rattling of chains.
"Ugh, I thought that guy was done," Chris groaned, hopping out of bed and storming over to the open window. "Hey, Phil!" he yelled. "Enough with the racket over there!"
However, Phil's lights were all off and here was not a sound coming from his house.
"Huh. Weird." Chris turned around to head back to bed, but saw a familiar guy floating over it.
He shrieked like a little girl and jumped on top of the wardrobe, shaking like a leaf .
"Ch-Ch-Chef?" Chris stuttered in disbelief.
The ghostly figure was indeed the spirit of Chef Hatchet. He had a certain greenish glow to him and his ripped suit only added to his creepy appearance. His entire body was covered in heavy chains, making him rattle every time he made even the tiniest movement.
He drifted over to Chris and knocked his off the wardrobe. "Yeah, it's me! Who'd you think I was, the Easter Bunny?!"
Chris stood up, rubbing his head where he landed on it. "But that's not possible. You died years ago!"
"I'm a ghost!" Chef yelled like it was obvious.
"Wait a sec. If you're a ghost, which I'm not really buying," Chris started, "then how'd you knock me off of there?"
"Just because I'm a ghost doesn't mean I can't smack the crap out of you like I used to!" Chef barked, making Chris cringe in fright. "Now shut your pie hole so I can tell you what I came here to tell you!"
Chris shut his trap, sinking down to the ground from shaking so hard. This couldn't be Chef. It couldn't. There was no such thing as ghosts. There couldn't be. Still, even the thought of having a dead spirit in his bedroom scared the living daylights out of Chris.
"I came here to warn you," Chef said with a swift movement of his arms, making his chains rattle wildly. "My greed cost me a lot more than just my life. Because of how selfish I was, I'm forever bound to wander the earth, bound by these chains. I've come to prevent you from this same fate."
Chris merely blinked in response.
Chef frowned and barked, "I was a big, fat jerk and if you don't stop being such a scrooge, you're gonna be chained up just like I am and we're gonna be backpackin' 'round the world for all eternity!"
Chris shakily got up, using the wall to support himself. That did sound like a horrible fate, but he was still really unsure about the whole ghost concept
"Three spirits will visit you tonight," Chef explained, holding up three fingers. "They will take you and show you the error of your ways."
"Um…" Chris tapped his chin. "Can we, uh, reschedule that? I have a big meeting coming up." He pulled an agenda book out of nowhere and leafed through it. "Does January 8th, 2074 work for you and your friends?"
"NO!!" Chef bellowed, making the handsome miser drop his planner and shrink back in fear. "You have to get this lesson through your thick skull tonight!"
"Why are you even helping me?" Chris questioned. "You didn't even like me that much when you were living… This must be a trick." Chris craned his neck to look around the room. "Where's the projector? Where's the camera? I'm being punked, aren't I?"
"Who would try to pull a prank on you?" Chef asked. "You don't have any friends and everybody you know is too afraid of you to even try…"
He shrugged. "Good point."
"Look, I'm just trying to keep you from having this sort of afterlife and being weighed down by these chains," Chef explained, holding up his chain covered arms as proof. "Look at these things! They've totally messed up my back!"
"I must have had too much wine tonight," Chris muttered, shaking his head. "There's no way this is happening…"
Chef frowned deeply. "You always were a stubborn one, McClean… Anyway, you will be visited by three spirits. The Ghost of Christmas Past, The Ghost of Christmas Present, and the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come."
"What kind of names are those?" Chris asked with a scoff. "Their folks must have been hippie freaks or something."
"Those aren't their actual names, fool! Those are just their titles!"
"Then what are their real names? I'll bet they're stupid, too," Chris said.
"How the heck should I know!" Chef exclaimed. "I don't actually work with them! I got them from some agency!"
"A ghost agency?" Chris questioned skeptically. "Their business must be horrible. It's not like they could have a lot of clients."
Chef groaned, rolling his eyes. "Look, their names aren't important. It's where they take you and what they show you that really matters."
"And where are they taking me?"
"Did you not hear me tell you their titles?! Where do you think they're gonna take you?"
Chris paled even more than he had before. "You mean… They're going to take me to the past… And the future?"
Chef nodded and added, "Not just the past and future. Your past and future."
"So what's the Present guy going to take me?" Chris looked around. "Here?"
"Oh, you'll see…"
Chris looked at the semi-transparent spirit and crossed his arms, trying his best not to look afraid. "I still say there is no such thing as ghosts. Only ugly poor people would buy the crap you're telling me."
"If you don't believe me, you'll believe when you see the weirdoes who'll visit you later. You'd better be a changed man by tomorrow morning! If not, I'll come back and slap some sense into your pretty boy head!" he exclaimed while shaking his fist, making his chains clang and rattle.
"Bah humbug," Chris huffed with a pout.
"And stop saying that!" Chef yelled. "It makes you sound stupider than you usually do!" He drifted closer to the window and said, "If you'll excuse me, I have places to be and other rich snobs to knock some sense into."
"Wait, you can't leave yet!" Chris exclaimed. "I still don't understand why-"
Chris never got to finish his statement. With a huge gush of wind, Chef was out the window and gone in a flash.
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Hope you liked it! Thanks for reading and don't forget to leave a review!
Next up- Stave II: The First of the Three Spirits