Molly was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whasotever about that. The register of its burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Kevin signed it. And Kevin's name was good upon 'Change for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Molly was as dead as a door-nail.
Kevin, being Molly's former partner in the novelling business, was the closest thing Molly had to a friend. Their publishing house, known as Bowersox and Song Publishing. Originally, Kevin had attempted to get his third son named Cornelius into the business, but Cornelius never had the knack for it. Then Molly literally stabbed Cornelius in the back, taking his place at the company as well as removing awkward questions about where the third Bowersox brother was. A letter "g" was added to the signage, and the company began to prosper.
Kevin was a grump and a workaholic. He'd been working as a novelist and publisher for years, and through that time, he developed a massive fortune. He was so prolific that even Stephen King couldn't keep up. Along with his prolific-ness, he'd acquired a hatred for "lesser" writing.
This hatred is what made this particular time of year Kevin's least favorite: it was Ficmas, a holiday that celebrated the birth of Fanfiction's own savior, Very Breaky Bishi. People shared their fanfiction at parties, feasts, and celebrations. This is what made Kevin the most upset.
"These fools, sharing their 'work' so freely!" he muttered to himself as he went through the cold, drafty streets of the city. "They do nothing except steal the work of authors and write nonsense!" He passed by a group of Ficmas carolers singing Ode to Yaoi, shooting them a dirty look. The carolers scattered like cockroaches when the kitchen light comes on. Kevin nodded grimmly.
Before too long, he'd made his way to the offices of Bowersox and Song. As he entered, he was greeted by Tracy. Tracy was the manager of the publishing house, supervising all of the workers that had made Kevin his fortune. It was a hard job, and Tracy was poorly compensated for it.
"Hello, Mr. Bowersox," Tracy began.
"Mr. Bowersox," said Kevin, not even looking at the similarly surnamed man. He hung his coat and top hat on a hook and strode to his office. Tracy timidly followed him.
"How are sales on my latest book coming along?" asked Kevin, sitting down at his large and expensive desk.
"It's not performing as well as we'd hoped, sir. It seems that this year everyone is more interested in reading fanfiction for free online," said Tracy. Kevin slammed his hand on the desk, causing Tracy to wince.
"This damned holiday!" Kevin said, his voice loud and angry. "Why must people read that filth?"
"It's kind of funny sometimes, sir."
"It's a waste of bandwidth!" Kevin retorted. "There's plenty of weird fiction out there that's original, not this fanfiction nonsense!" He'd have continued, but was distracted by a person coming through the office door. His nephew, Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno María de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santísima Trinidad Ruiz y Bowersox had burst in, and began hanging Ficmas decorations. Kevin was outraged, but before he could say anything, Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno María de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santísima Trinidad Ruiz y Bowersox called a happy greeting.
"Hello, Uncle!" said Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno María de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santísima Trinidad Ruiz y Bowersox, his tone so jovial that it warmed the freezing office space. "Wanted to stop by, wish you a Merry Ficmas, and put up some decorations!"
"Ficmas! Humbug!" replied the exasperated Kevin, dismissing Tracy and beckoning his idiot nephew into the office.
"Ficmas a humbug, Uncle? Surely not!" said Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno María de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santísima Trinidad Ruiz y Bowersox. "This holiday is the best of the year! Celebrating writers who come up with interesting and fun ideas for characters? What could be humbug about that?"
"Using characters that don't belong to them," Kevin grumbled, but his nephew continued.
"The spirit of Ficmas is what keeps us going all year, my dear uncle! Without it, we should be lost!"
"Reading drivel is not my favorite way to spend a Wednesday evening," said Kevin, cutting off Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno María de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santísima Trinidad Ruiz y Bowersox. "If I had my way, everyone who went about with a 'Merry Ficmas' on their lips would be cooked with their own turkey, which is quite fitting considering it's how I'd describe their stories."
Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno María de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santísima Trinidad Ruiz y Bowersox was about to respond, when a knock came at Kevin's office door. There stood a pair of cosplayers, one dressed as Bowsette, the other dressed as Jesus Christ.
"Mr. Bowersox, I presume?" asked Bowsette. She leaned over Kevin's desk along with Jesus. "My colleague and I are part of a charity collecting fanfiction for those without an internet connection, and we figured someone such as yourself would have plenty to donate!"
"A charity that collects fanfiction?" Kevin asked incredulously. Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno María de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santísima Trinidad Ruiz y Bowersox saw the vein on his uncle's temple begin to throb, indicating either a rage or stroke.
"Yes sir!" said Jesus, mistaking Kevin's response for enthusiasm. "Every year, our foundation prints out thousands of pages of fanfiction for those less fortunate! We try to keep it fresh, only stuff published–" Kevin's lip twitched at this word "- within the past year or so. How much do you have for us this Ficmas Eve?"
"Nothing," Kevin snarled.
"Nothing?" repeated Bowsette.
"Nada. Zero. Zilch."
"Don't you care about those who are less fortunate?" asked Jesus.
"I don't have any interest in participating in this foolish holiday," spat Kevin. "If the poor would like to read, they can purchase books like other upstanding citizens!"
"But some would rather die!" said Bowsette.
"If they'd rather die, they'd better do it, and decrease the surplus population!" yelled Kevin. Bowsette and Jesus stood aghast, while Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno María de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santísima Trinidad Ruiz y Bowersox rocked back and forth on his heels before speaking.
"Weeeeeeeeell, I'd best be hittin' the dusty trail," said Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno María de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santísima Trinidad Ruiz y Bowersox. "I will make a donation in my Uncle's place, and wish you all a Merry Ficmas!" He handed the still shocked Bowsette a notebook with a label on the cover that read Smut Banned in the Lower 48 before sweeping from the office. Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno María de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santísima Trinidad Ruiz y Bowersox paused only to wish Tracy a Merry Ficmas, and left. Perhaps for good? Who knows!
Kevin was still staring angrily at the cosplayers in his office. They turned 360 degrees and moonwalked from the office without another word. Kevin sighed and went back to his work.
"Mr. Bowersox?" came the voice of Tracy from the door. Kevin looked up. "It's closing time, sir."
"Very well," said Kevin. "Have a good evening, and I'll see you at 8:00 tomorrow morning."
"Well, about that, sir," Tracy began. "Tomorrow's Ficmas, sir."
"Fine, 8:30 then."
"That hardly seems standard for Ficmas," said Tracy, gulping with every word.
"What would be 'standard?'" asked Kevin, predicting the answer.
"Well… the whole day!" said Tracy.
"What a waste," muttered Kevin. "How are we supposed to get anything done when we're closed? Did you ever think of that, you dumb nerd? Huh?"
Tracy, however, stood his ground. "Please, sir, no one does work on Ficmas. Well, no one but essential services."
"What a waste," repeated Kevin. "But, since I'm the only one who hates this holiday, fine. Take the day off. Be here early the next morning, understood?"
Tracy gave a weak smile, followed by a nod. He went out to the huddled mass of employees and gave them two thumbs up. Kevin followed him out of the office, grabbing his top hat and long, black coat. Without another word, he left, and began his journey home.
When he arrived at his house, something seemed… off. Hairs on the back of his neck bristled as he trod the path to his door. A shrill sound seemed to fill the air, just on the edge of being audible. Kevin ignored these and strode up to the door, fishing in his pocket for the keys. When he pulled them out, however, he stopped. The doorknocker seemed to transform before his very eyes, shifting and morphing until it was the image of his former business partner.
"Molly?" Kevin asked, a little spooked. Molly's visage looked at him for a moment, staring blankly, before opening its mouth.
"BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASED!" came the haunting cry from the Molly-Face. Kevin stumbled backward, falling on his ass for comedic relief. When he picked himself up off the ground and dusted himself off, he cautiously approached the door once more. Picking up a stick, he prodded the knocker. Nothing happened.
"Humbug," he said. Unlocking the door, he went inside. He was wary, though. He went from room to room, searching for anyone who might be causing mischief. At last, satisfied that he was alone, Kevin put on a honk-shoo mimimi set of pajamas and settled down in front of the fireplace with a whole ass loaf of bread and 3 pound block of cheese. He began eating hungrily, his encounter at the door nearly forgotten.
A ringing sounded out throughout the room. Kevin, in the middle of a large mouthful of cheese and bread, looked quickly around, trying to discern the source of the noise. It seemed to be coming from everywhere, the maddening ringing growing louder and shriller with each second. Then, as quickly as it had began, it stopped, and at the same time, all the lights in the room went out. Kevin heard a grating noise behind him, as if something heavy was being dragged up the stairs. When it stopped, Kevin took a deep breath, screwed up his courage, and looked behind him. Standing there was Molly. Or was it? It appeared to be glowing faintly, and the colors that should have been present in a person were absent. Heavy chains hung from its legs and wrists, connected to heavy, old fashioned typewriters.
"Sup?" asked Molly.
"Molly?" asked Kevin in response.
"In the ectoplasm!" replied Molly.
"No, no," said Kevin, running his fingers through his hair, trying to compose himself. "Molly is dead. You can't be Molly."
"Yes, I am dead, and I'm also Molly. Why are you doubting, bud?"
"Dead people don't talk, or visit their business partners, for starters," said Kevin.
"I'm literally doing that right now, so that's just an assumption," said Molly. "And you know what happens when you make assumptions? You make an ass out of you and mption."
"Well, that is Molly's catchphrase," said Kevin. "What are you doing here?"
"Can't a dead unspeakable horror visit its friends?" it said. Kevin scoffed.
"I don't know that I'd call us friends."
"Fair. Anyway, I'm here to warn you."
"Warn me?" asked Kevin. "About what?"
"You're an asshole, Kevin," said Molly. "Don't worry, I was an asshole, too. The problem, though, comes in after you die. See, when assholes die, they get sent to hell, and they get fucked. Not in a good way, either."
"What does this have to do with me?" asked Kevin, standing in for the audience so Molly could drop some exposition.
"Well, since you're an asshole, you're gonna get fucked like I've been fucked," said Molly. "And even if you don't consider us friends, I don't really want to see you end up in hell. To be honest, I'm kinda thriving down there, and you'd kill the vibe."
"With you so far," said Kevin, silently disagreeing that he'd kill the vibe.
"Yeah, so we're gonna make you like the opposite of an asshole," said Molly. "And we're gonna do that tonight. You're gonna hang out with some really chill ghosts, and hopefully they're gonna show you the errors in your ways or whatever. Badabing Badaboom, de-asshole-ified."
"I'm going to pass," said Kevin.
"Too bad, they're coming here whether you want them to or not. The first will be here at 1 in the morning," said Molly. "Better head to sleep, bucko, cause like all my tinder matches, you're gonna get ghosted." Molly put on sunglasses and floated down the stairs, giving Kevin a double middle finger until it was out of sight.
"What a bitch," sighed Kevin.