By Bernard Weiner, The Crisis Papers (with assistance by C. Dickens)
Bob Cratchit turned the thermostat up a notch, to take the chill off the 49-degree room, steeled his courage and walked up to the boss, who was oiling his shotgun.
“Sir,” said Cratchit, “I was wondering if you would be considering a holiday bonus this year, so that I can buy a small — a very small — goose for our family’s Christmas dinner.”
“Bah, scumbag!” said Dick. “You lazy bum, trying to sponge off us hard-working citizens. Don’t try to bamboozle me; go fuck yourself. Or go talk to George: He’s the compassionate one.”
But George just smirked at his misfortune and, citing budgetary constraints, ordered the poor man back to his ice-cold cubicle.
Later that evening, in his chambers above the offices of George & Dick Inc., George was lying in his comfortable bed when he heard a most unsettling metallic sound. A huge door creaked open. A cold wind roared through the room, smelling of mold and sulphur.
Project for the Old American Century 