Hogwash

Donald Scrooge, current CEO of Redemption, Incorporated, grimaced at his team, stealthy figures occupying four leather chairs facing his office’s stone fireplace. He diligently followed his great-great-great uncle’s dictum, Keep the Spirit of Christmas Every day. Thus, the office’s tone of a crackling fire, pine incense hovering overhead, green boughs with twinkling multicolored lights on the mantel which served as a statuary of nutcrackers, carved figurine smokers, guarding a small Bavarian Christmas village. Though they could recall, his team lacked the senses to enjoy them, other than sight.

Scrooge cleared his throat. “We’ve fifty-six days until our next Christmas Carol redemption.”

Like Scrooge, Marley and the other ghosts were descendants destined to carry on the family tradition.

Marley said, “Again? I’m tired of wearing those damn chains. Outdated. How about..."

Pinching his arms behind his back, Scrooge gripped one wrist with the other, glared at the ghost. “We’ve been over this."

Th Ghost of Christmas Future lifted his bony finger. “I can do more than point, for gawd’s sake. Like my ancestor, I’ve played the Globe in London, as well as Broadway. He cleared his voice. “And gentlemen in England now abed

Shall think themselves accursed that they were not here,

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks …”

Scrooge said, “That fought with us on Saint Crispin’s day." He crossed his arms. "Really, this drama isn't about your performance. Convincing a lost soul to change their ways is our job. Our success rate is ninety-five percent. If you insist on acting, then I can find a replacement.”

Future shot back, “Can’t I have a speaking part at least?”

Before Scrooge responded, the Ghost of Christmas Past said, “It’s humbug, me showin’ these poppycocks only grand times. Face the truth, more of ‘em suffered than had joy.” She paused. “My life sucked growing up. And that damn white sheet makes me look like a bloated beach whale. I want something sexy.”

Scrooge groaned. “Finished?”

“No," Ghost of Christmas Present said. “I hate gnawing on that damn turkey leg.” He tapped his trim stomach. “I’ve lost fifty pounds since January, and the wife wants me to keep it that way.” He gave a sly grin, wiggled his bushy eyebrows. "We've had more joy as a result."

“Impressive,” Past said.

“Can we get back to business?” Scrooge asked.

“No more feasts to fatten me up. Today’s world is health conscious. I should represent the current trends. A Ford Thunderbird would be cool. Wind whipping in our hair. Terrified client gripping for dear life. Doing wheelies, our targeted soul screaming bloody murder.”

Scrooge pinched his wrist to see if this was a dream. “It wasn’t.” He faced the team. “Here’s the deal. The boss isn't pleased with our performances lately."

A collective “What?” rose to the cathedral ceiling.

Scrooge surveyed the team, their eyes on him. “Here’s the complaint.” He listed them rapidly. “Marley, your announcing the three ghosts lacks luster. Past, your innuendo about what lonely men did with sheep turned a few heads who questioned your worthiness to the team.”

“It was a…” Past said.

Scrooge’s palm shot up. “It’s my turn. Present, what the heck were you thinking when you asked the woman for dance lessons?” He turned to Future, “and you, your finger’s been limped like a whore's pipe.”

Future stood. “Why I…”

“Sit down,” said Scrooge. “Because of this, the boss has ordered refresher training. Two days from now, on the Day of the Dead Eve, we must try to redeem one Randolph McIntosh. Study up. Get your acts in order.” He studied each face. “Fail, Past, you’ll be reassigned as a tooth sorter for the tooth fairy. Present, you’ll run the cab between heaven and hell, with a potential long layover in the netherworld. Future, how’s polishing halos for the Heavenly Choir sound?”

Their collective expression ashen, Scrooge nodded. “I’ll do my best to address your wishes. Questions?”

No spirit’s hand rose.

***

On Halloween night, the evening before the Day of the Dead, Randolph McIntosh splashed hot water on his face, lathered it with shaving gel, leaned into the mirror. Recoiled. “That’s not my face,” he growled. He grabbed a towel and wiped it clean.

The image remained. Its lips quaked. “Maaac innnn toossh.”

“What is this?” Stepping back further, McIntosh’s back pressed against the towel bar. “A prank.” Voice quivering, he continued. “Who the hell are you?”

“Here to stop your worst nightmare." Marley faded away.

McIntosh swiped at the mirror. “Got to quit that cheap scotch.”

Back in the bedroom, he popped open his closet. Staring, his brain scrambling to comprehend, heart skip roping beats, eyes wide, mouth agape, he staggered back to the king bed, index finger pointed at the apparition, screamed, “What the hell do you want?”

Dressed in a gray steel chain mail suit, Marley’s eyes lit up, his lips a menacing grin. He touched a button inside his coat. Off the walls bounced blaring eerie, ghoulish sounds and rattling chains. He said in a slow and deep tone so as to register. “My suit is an eternal prison; links of chain forged by poor decisions. Decisions that harmed others. Decisions I failed to correct in life. Now I bear them for eternity, in regret.”

“Why me?” McIntosh said.

Marley shuffled forward. His words measured. “Fortunately for you, I have no say. Someone believes your soul is worthy redemption."

McIntosh shot back. “Damn right, it is.”

Nostrils flared, Marley stifled a growl. “Three visitations will be thrust upon you this eve. Give heed.” With spirited ease, he vanished.

“Hogwash,” McIntosh said, donned his old west saloon owner garb, and ventured out to trick more than treat.

***

Savoring its peaty body, McIntosh and his female companion imbibed half of a two-hundred-dollar bottle of single malt, Islay scotch, aged fifty years in his apartment. Celebrating a record night at the casino. “Christy, stay the night. I…I promise it’ll be a whopper.”

“It’s Caroline,” she said. “Another time.”

“Your loss,” he slurred, slamming the door behind her.

His saloon keepers outfit dissheviled, he stumbled into his bedroom and flipped on the lights. Strung along the upper ceiling, red mini lights glowed. Then slipped on the hardwood floor and flopped onto his king bed and felt softness. “Flesshy, I like.”

“Lay not a finger on me,” the coarse feminine voice hissed.

McIntosh blinked, saw the shadowy figure. “I thought … you weent diiidn’t want…”

The Ghost of Christmas Past sat up. “I not be the lady. Me name is Past.”

Several minutes of confusion reigned. He sat up and realized he faced a plus-size brunette whose cinched red bodice strained as did her black fishnet stockings. “Whoa. Where’d you come from?”

“What matters is where we be going.” She extended her fleshy hand. “Hold tight less you be lost for eternity.”

“I’ll pass.”

She pulled his earlobe. Gone.

They landed in a elementary schoolyard. McIntosh's younger self stared at a tall classmate. “Chunky Chet, screwed up again."

The plump lad gulped. “Mother forbids candy."

Young McIntosh snorted. Formed a fist and slammed it into Chet's fleshy mass. “Let that be a lesson. Find me double what you owe me, or I’ll speak to ol’ Glasshole about you cheating on the test.”

Fist clenched, face scowling, Chet said, “Go ahead and I’ll tell you sold me the answers.”

“Prove it.” Young McIntosh strolled off, hands in his coat pockets.

“I really liked that jacket,” Older McIntosh said.

Past shook her head. “You have a right Napoleon complex.”

He shrugged. “Hogwash. Squash or be squashed.”

“Time to go,” Past said. Grabbed his earlobe.

***

McIntosh stood on his apartment’s sidewalk, rubbing his pinched ear. A late model Ford Thunderbird convertible screeched to a halt, splashing puddled water on his western saloon outfit.

“Get in,” said the Ghost of Christmas Present and introduced himself.

“After that first visit, I’ll pass.”

“Suit yourself.” Present gunned the V-8 engine. Above the noise, he shouted, “You’ll miss the killing at the table.”

McIntosh slid onto the leather seat. into the vehicle. “No top tonight?”

“We’ll beat any rain.” Present gripped the steering, blasted into traffic. The car twisted, turned, dodged, and darted through the congestion. Twice, he rolled onto a sidewalk, car horn bleating, pedestrians jumping aside. Though he couldn’t feel it, Present sensed the wind whipping through his thinning hair.

McIntosh gripped the car's overhead sidebar, terrorized. “You’re out to kill us!"

A wide grin revealed yellowish teeth, Present said, “Too late for me.” He slammed on the brakes, twisted the steering wheel. They spun out. Tires squealing. Rubber burning. Halted at the curb of JOYFUL Casino. Turning to McIntosh’s blood drained face, he said, “Clever.”

“What?" McIntosh asked.

Nodding to the casino sign, Present answered, "Joke’s On You, Fool."

McIntosh grinned. "Not many get it."

They mozzied into the dimly lit slot machine area. Lines of machines hosted a gaggle of humanity that ran the gamut of society. All had the same goal: beating the machine. Go home, pockets full. Precisous few achieved it.

Present scanned the room. He grabbed McIntosh’s arm. “This way.”

McIntosh jerked back, anger on his face. “Don’t manhandle me.”

They strolled over a roulette table surrounded by a small gathering. Five players sat on stools, placing chips on numbers.

At one corner, a fortyish woman, outfitted in a slinky red pencil skirt with a matching blouse, placed a stack of ten five-dollar chips on the numbers 1, 7, 8, and 19. Behind her stood a trim man about the same age.

“Isn’t that Caroline?” Present asked. “The gal you tried to bed earlier tonight?’

McIntosh squinted his eyes. “Could be. Memory's kinda fuzzy, you know what I mean?"

"Mine are precisiously clear," Present said. “What about the stud behind her?”

McIntosh inhaled deeply, let out his breath, tired of the game. He glanced in the couple's direction. “He looks familiar. What’s your point?”

“That’s Chunky Chet, the kid you extorted candy from in the schoolyard?”

McIntosh frowned. Though stooped, Chet had the same facial features. “He’s lost weight.”

“Happened after he donated his kidney to his sister, the one you tried to bed,” Present said. “I bet she’s a fine …” Recalling Scrooge’s comments about Past and the sheep, he finished with, “A fine soul worth knowing.”

“Whatever,” McIntosh said.

Present pointed to the table. “Do you know the significance of the numbers?”

“Should I?”

“The first two numbers are their birthday. They’re twins, though you wouldn’t know it looking at them. The latter ones are the date their parents died in a T-bone accident involving one of your casino vans. Naturally, lawyers and insurance companies handled things.”

“That what I pay them to handle,” McIntosh said with a matter-of-fact tone.

“Just a business expense, huh,” Present said. “Do you think a sympathy card would have qualified?”

McIntosh faced Present. “Ask our accountant.”

The roulette wheel spun, and the Croupier threw the ball along the inside track above the wheel. They watched it drop on 13, skipped several numbers, landing on 8. A mound of chips valued at $17,500 were pushed toward Caroline.

Chet shouted, “Caroline, time to cash in the chips. We gotta go.”

His face crimson, McIntosh said, “You did that.”

Present shrugged. “Purely joyful.”

“Hogwash.”

“Time to go.” Present stiff armed McIntosh’s back toward the casino door and Ford Thunderbird.

***

Legs earthquaking, McIntosh stepped onto a dark sidewalk in an unfamiliar part of town.

A wrinkled hand reached out to stabilize him. “Here, let me help you, son.”

McIntosh’s eyes focused. Exasperated, he said, “You’re the last one, right?”

Out of habit, the Ghost of Christmas Future nodded. Removing his black fedora, he pointed its brim toward a dark path through an overgrown cemetery.

“Wait, a frigging damn minute,” McIntosh snapped. He leaned on a cold stone wall. Ragged edges and protrusions poked his back. Puffy red face, and weary, with one last bit of strength, he continued. “I already know what I’m going to see. My name’s on a gravestone. Then, I’ll repent and live a life true to the Christmas spirit, or whatever the hell you want. I don’t need this. I repent. I promise to be kind to others. I’ll donate money to the kidney foundation, weight watchers, whatever else it takes to be left alone.”

His chance for a dramatic speech fleeting away, he quoted Shakespeare’s Hamlet.

“Forgive me my foul murder’? That cannot be; since I am still possessed Of those effects for which I did the murder, My crown, mine own ambition and my queen. May one be pardoned and retain the offence?”

“What the hell does that mean?” McIntosh asked. “I have plenty of redeeming qualities. I donate.”

Future turned. “To corrupt politicians.”

“No! What about the money for the local hospital?”

“The one that has your name on the wing. Respectable, sure, what else have you given?” Without waiting for an answer, Future continued. “Your wealth comes from bleeding souls on pension checks with lost hope.”

“Hogwash.”

“What about the free rides in your vans?”

“I don’t force them to step aboard. Look, I’m finished here. Let’s call it a night.”

Future’s bony finger pointed to a cheap granite grave marker.

McIntosh read it. Douglas and Marie Jackson. Loving parents of Caroline and Chester.

McIntosh paled. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“Time to cash in your chips,” a familiar voice said from the grave’s dark shadows.

McIntosh’s brain raced.

Future turned, started away.

“You can’t leave me here,” McIntosh shouted.

A smile crossing his lips, Future said, “Hogwash.”