4 - Friday, Decernber 20, 1991 - North Shore News A Christmas Carol for the rich and famous JUSTIN SCROOGE, president and chief executive officer of Scrooge & Sons Ltd., the international conglomerate with operations in 27 countries, stared gloomily at the Streets below from his penthouse cffice atop the 61-storey Scrooge Tower. Ryan Cratchit, his operations officer and, through the com- pany’s generous stock-purchase plan for executives, owner of a disturbingly large number of shares in Scrooge & Sons, breezed in without knocking. “S'long, bass,”’ said Cratchit. “Pm off." “Ah,” said Scrooge, politely but a shade distractedly. ‘A week's skiing in Switzerland, is in?” “Yep. Might take a few more days if the skiing isn't so hot and do some shopping in Paris.’’ Very likely the latter, thought Scrooge. If he correctly read the character of Cratchit's current, ah, Significant Other — Cratchit had declared there’d be no more matrimony for him after his third marriage blew up — she'd be a lot more interested in shopping in Paris than in getting wet and cold on some mountain slope. “Well, then, enjoy yourself,’" said Scrooge, offering a hand- shake. Cratchit gave him a high-five. “Have a good day. Anda merry Christmas, eh?”’ He vanished in an eddy of ex- pensive after-shave. Justin Scrooge, a sombre man in his late 40s but with thinning hair and a careworn look that made him seem older, resumed his solitary brooding. He was probably the only one left in the huge skyscraper. Few of Scrooge & Sons’ employees had come back after lunch. Darkness was closing in. Bright lights wink- ed gaily below. It was Christmas Eve. Serooge sank into his chair. He was quite startled when his great-great-grand father Ebenezer appeared and began moaning. "It can't be you, grandfather,"’ said Justin. ‘‘You must be a fig- ment of my third martini at lun- chtime.”’ “Justin, my boy, you will be visited by three spirits tonight. Take note!’’ He, like Cratchit, gave Justin a high-five, but very forlornly, as if his heart wasn’t in it, Instantly he was gone. Instantly the first spirit appeared. **Let’s go,’ said the spectre, waving Justin Scrooge into what appeared to be a 1929 Packard Sedan. This was clearly the Ghost of Christmas Past. And the past they drove through was very depress- ing. Failed businesses left and right. Investors ruined by bad risks. Justin even caught a glimpse of someone who looked very much like his great-great-grandfather, who had lived to welcome the unionization of his employees and to create a generous benefits pro- gram for them, but was so preoc- Grant | Sussex Botto “You deserve the best ... aCALL 984:SALE, Trevor Lautens GARDEN OF 8IASES cupied with doing good that he neglected his balance sheet and very nearly died broke. The spirit waved his shroud and another horrible scene was reveal- ed -— the introduction of income tax. And then another: the Great Depression. “*Are there no brokerage houses?”* Justin Scrooge cried. But he was alone. He was back in his office chair. Not for long. A second spirit appeared. “The Ghost of Christmas Pres- ent, | presume,”’ said Scrooge. The spirit said nothing. He merely beckoned Scrooge into a corporate jet. High over the great financial centres of the world they flew. They witnessed tableaux of despair. . Crumbling financial empires. Plunging share prices. Acquisi- tions at bargain-basement levels. Mergers. Junk bonds. Leveraged buyouts. Savage forcign competi- tion, And, he noticed, passing over Scrooge & Sons’ diverse retail holdings in Canada, a flood of customers over the U.S. border. ” Fabulous selection to choose from. “The GST?”’ he said with hor- ror. The spirit nodded gravely. “Spirit!’’ said Justin Scrooge. “Show me no more.” Once again, he was back in his heavily padded chair. He trembled to think of what the third spirit would show him. The wraith appeared on sched- ute. He and Scrooge dissolved into akind of non-polluting mist which allowed them to travel disembodied. Fearfully, Justin Scrooge hovered above the Scrooge Tower with the Ghost of Christmas Future. He saw his tenants declaring bankruptcy and leaving. He saw his employees idling, with few sates, no accounts receivable, divi- sion managers poring hapclessly through balance sheets rich only in red ink. And then the moment of ultimate despair: the bailiff, ap- proaching the once-mighty Scrooge Tower, clutching the fatal documents marked: Proceedings in Bankruptcy... “Mr. Scrooge! Wake up!" cried a voice. An excited hand on his shoulder shoot Justin Scrooge out of his nightmare. Scrooge blinked. ‘‘Why, it’s Tiny Tim!"" he cried. And so it was: Tiny Tim Crat- chit Hf, cousin (and no friend) of Ryan Cratchit, and head of Scrooge & Sons’ orthopedic divi- sion. ‘*Mr. Scrooge, we've done it! Our orthopedic department’s research division has just discovered a cure for arthritis and rheumatism! We're filing the pat- ents in the morning. The company is saved! We'll be making pots of money!"’ Justin Scrooge leaped from his chair. A huge, grateful smile lit up his face. He seized Tiny Tim’s hand — no high-five — and pumped it warmly. “God biess you!’ Scrooge cried. “God bless us, every one!’’ cried Tiny Tim. : MORAL: Well, it’s about time the rich had a merry Christmas too. Hurry! 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