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Dreamweaver's Assorted Tales

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Dreamweaver
Aug Member 2003

Dreamweaver

Posts: 3,790 Adamant Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile
.o~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~o.
<~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ DON'T EAT THE CHICKEN ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~>
'o~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~o'

It was a dark and cold Wintumber's night in Draynor Village, but particularly so in the Tight Old Man's house just north of the bank. It was always dark and cold there. The grumpy occupant was far too miserly to warm the place, despite having made a sizable fortune in the poultry industry.
Actually, the Tight Old Man was even more grumpy than usual, for it was Christmas Eve, his single least favourite night of the year. His employee, Seth “Scratchit” Groats (so-named for a persistent rash he didn't like to talk about), had been mumbling about how he wanted to spend some time with his family. But who else would get the last shipment of chickens to the butcher before the holiday? Finally, the Tight Old Man had agreed that if Scratchit completed his work that night, he could take Christmas morning off.
Things had gone from bad to worse after he'd returned to Draynor that evening. His nephew Fred, who was always painfully jolly, had paid him an unexpected visit to wish him season's greetings.
“Season's Greetings, Uncle!”
“Bah! What do you want, Fred? Still paying Adventurers to shear those sheep of yours I'll warrant? Well I'll not bail you out, you know. It's not my fault if you can't profit from...”
“Uncle! I've never asked you for anything. I just wanted to offer you some holiday cheer and wish you a merry Christmas!”
“Away with you, you scoundrel. I'm off to sleep and will not be disturbed!”
With that, the Tight Old Man stomped up the stairs and huddled into his cold, unforgiving bed.
*continued~

12-Nov-2007 05:32:13 - Last edited on 12-Nov-2007 05:49:02 by Dreamweaver

Dreamweaver
Aug Member 2003

Dreamweaver

Posts: 3,790 Adamant Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile
He had not long been asleep when he awoke with a start. The room was bitterly cold, and everything looked strangely ethereal. He had heard something. A metallic scraping sound. It was getting closer. Something was coming up the stairs in the darkness, nearer and nearer. The bedroom door swung open slowly -- a puff of weird green fog accompanying the unnecessarily prolonged squeak of the hinges. Then out of the gloom leered a familiar face. Nigel!
Nigel had been The Tight Old Man's equally tight business partner for many years, but he'd disappeared unexpectedly the previous Easter, following an unfortunate affair involving smashing rabbits with a shovel -- the same shovel that was now scraping along behind him.
“Ni-Ni-Nigel?” stammered the Tight Old Man. “Is that you?”
“Wooo-ooo woooo wooo-ooooo-ooo!” replied the apparition.
“Darn it, Nigel. Let me grab my Ghostspeak Amulet,” the Old Man muttered, fumbling in a drawer. “Now what was that?”
“I bring a warning. If you don't mend your miserly ways, you'll end up like me, bound to the tools of your trade and forced into an eternity of regret and remorse,” Nigel replied hauntingly.
“Don't be silly Nigel. Why would I regret such successful business practices? You certainly never did.”
“Then you will be visited by another ghost tonight. It will show you the impact of your actions,” Nigel moaned in his most hollow voice.
“Oh good, I could use a preview of next quarter's gross earnings. But shouldn't I get three ghosts for these sorts of occasions?”
“Yes, but there's a major shortage in the holiday season, and the Undead Union has put its rates up again. It's much cheaper to do everything with one.”
“Bah!” snapped the Tight Old Man. “Anyway, what's with the green smoke and why's my furniture all translucent?”
“I'm trying to spook you,” confessed Nigel glumly.
“Well darn it man, let me sleep. I thought I'd woken up in Building Mode.”
~continued~

12-Nov-2007 05:32:20 - Last edited on 12-Nov-2007 05:58:39 by Dreamweaver

Dreamweaver
Aug Member 2003

Dreamweaver

Posts: 3,790 Adamant Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile
As Nigel dissipated, the Tight Old Man turned over and forced his eyes closed. He didn't believe a word that Nigel had said because his partner had never been the type of person to spend money on anything insubstantial -- let alone ghosts. With that happy thought, sleep found him once again.
Clank.
The Tight Old Man denied hearing anything. How could he? He was asleep. It was just a dream.
Clunk.
Okay, so he had definitely heard that. And it was close. But he could pretend to still be asleep.
Cluck!
The Tight Old Man's eyes sprang open in shock. There, by his bed, surrounded by the obligatory green swirl that always accompanies such visitations, sat an undead chicken.
“Cluck-cluck. Brrrrk brk-brk cluck!” it intoned in a fowl tongue.
“Wait, let me get my Chickenspeak Amulet,” grumbled the Old Man, fumbling in the same drawer as before. “Now what's this all about?”
“I'm the Undead Chicken of Christmas Past,” the unsavoury bird repeated. “I'm here to lay it down for you. Watch!”
The world went fuzzy and dissolved into another time and place. The Tight Old Man and the chicken were standing in a field, looking towards two familiar figures.
“There's Fred! And that's me: the Tight Middle-Aged Man. Hey, I look good!”
“Your nephew wanted to follow you into farming,” the chicken said reproachfully. “And you encouraged him, just to drive him out of business. This is the Christmas when he lost everything to you except for those sheep.”
“And penguins,” retorted the Tight Old Man.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“Now he's poor yet happy. Everyone likes Fred. You are rich but miserable. How did you gain from treating your nephew like that?”
“Fred learned a valuable business lesson. He's fine.”
“Look at him closely. Look!”
Sure enough, the Tight Middle-Aged Man had strode off across the field, but Fred was sobbing, his face in his hands.
~continued~

12-Nov-2007 05:32:26 - Last edited on 22-Dec-2009 00:43:19 by Dreamweaver

Dreamweaver
Aug Member 2003

Dreamweaver

Posts: 3,790 Adamant Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile
“He lost nearly everything, including his respect for you,” the chicken scolded. “He didn't speak to you for two years, but eventually he accepted you again. You still do not respect him.”
The Tight Old Man remained silent, reflecting in a way he had not done for as long as he could remember.
“Well, on we go,” clucked the chicken severely. “There's more fowl play.”
The world dissolved again. This time they materialised inside a large white building. Hundreds of pullets were running in panicked madness like headless chickens.
“They're worse than me,” muttered the undead chicken. “Ahem! I'm the Undead Chicken of Christmas Present!”
“Christmas present?” asked the Old Man, “What did you get me?”
“Present as in now, you buffoon. I'm not giving you anything except a hard time! Now look.”
Seth Scratchit came into view, weary and harried, but desperately trying to finish his work in order to get back to his family. But what terrible work it was. Without equipment, he had to catch, kill and pluck each chicken by hand. He toiled like mad, but there were so many birds left. As he laboured, the remaining chickens became more and more frenzied, and Scratchit looked more and more sick.
“You went to bed hours ago. Scratchit will be lucky to be done before dawn. And I can't say I approve of the work you have him doing. Have you considered turkeys instead?”
The Tight Old Man shuffled awkwardly and stared at his feet.
“I didn't really think from his perspective... what can I do?”
“Moving on!” the undead chicken clucked. “This next one's interesting.”
~continued~

12-Nov-2007 05:41:22 - Last edited on 12-Nov-2007 05:44:05 by Dreamweaver

Dreamweaver
Aug Member 2003

Dreamweaver

Posts: 3,790 Adamant Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile
Once again, the Tight Old Man's surroundings dissolved. To his horror, he appeared in a dark graveyard, surrounded by swirling mists. A single bell was striking slowly in the background. Two people were standing over an open grave, heads bowed.
“I'm the Undead Chicken Of Christmas Yet to Come. Let's amble over there and see what gives, shall we?”
As they moved closer, the Old Man recognised one of the figures as a priest. Then he recognised the other. It was his nephew, Fred.
“This is my funeral isn't it?” stammered the Tight Old Man.
“It's one possibility that may come to pass," the chicken agreed solemnly. “That's up to you.”
“Fred's the only one here? And why do it at night? The bell tolls and the mist?” stuttered the Old Man fearfully.
“I admit to some poetic license,” the chicken admitted. “It's hard to teach moral lessons in glorious sunshine.”
The Old Man dropped to his knees, eyes tight shut. “Please take me back! I'll make amends. I promise to think of others from this day on!” he begged.
To his surprise, when he opened his eyes again, he was back in his bedroom, with daylight streaming through the window. He bounded downstairs, out into the street and ran to the butcher's store in a frenzy.
“I have an urgent order! Please deliver your largest turkey to Scratchit's residence. I will take the next biggest with me!”
The Tight Old Man sprinted down the road to his nephew's house. Glancing through the window, he could see the family already settling down to a hearty feast. He pounded urgently on the door.
“Fred, Fred! Let me in!”
A most surprised Fred opened the door. “Uncle! To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“Merry Christmas, nephew! Here's a turkey for you. But please, DON'T EAT THE CHICKEN!”

~Dreamweaver~
~November 2007~

12-Nov-2007 05:43:00 - Last edited on 22-Dec-2009 00:50:22 by Dreamweaver

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