Chapter 1: The Beginning

It was Christmas Eve and Marge Wilson wasn't in a good mood. It wasn't that she didn't like Christmas, but she didn't like the way people thought they could impose upon her by merely saying "but it's Christmas". They didn't seem to understand that as far as she was concerned business was business 365 days a year and as for holidays, one had nothing to do with the other. Marge was a pawn broker, she owned one of the biggest shops in town, and the holidays were a peculiar time for her. People were hard pressed for cash so they came in to sell; others came in to buy gifts from her inventory. That was how she made money and that was good. But the constant whining made her crazy. Sellers wanting top dollar for junk and buyers wanting merchandise for next to nothing; all claiming "but it's Christmas". They drove her nuts.

Marge was driven when it came to her business. Named the 'Downtown Retail & Loan' and advertised as a second hand store, it was hock shop plain and simple. It had been started by her husband and passed on to her when he had died seven years ago. There were those who claimed she had screwed her way into it, and they were actually right in more ways than one. She had sex with him initially to get a promotion back when she first got hired and, as sometimes happens in an affair, they fell in love and eventually got married. Ten years later, he had a stroke while they were making love and passed away the following day. Everything was left to Marge.

And this year there was Roger. Roger Jones was an old friend of hers; actually he was an old lover from the days before she met her late husband. He'd come into the shop looking for a loan, offering his bar as collateral. The problem was he needed the money to make improvements to the bar to keep it open. A failing bar wasn't what she would call a good security risk. If he had owned the building, it would have been different, but he leased. When she had turned him down he had brought up their past, asking her to help for old times' sake. Bullshit on that, she didn't run her business on nostalgia. Besides, he hadn't been very pleasant back when she broke up with him to marry Bill Wilson. Pay back was a bitch and so was Marge: she had turned him down flat.

Pulling up to the parking garage of her apartment complex, she slid her card into the control box and waited for the gate to raise, then drove to her spot. Getting out, she retrieved her packages from the trunk; two take-out meals, one pasta salad for tonight and a turkey dinner for tomorrow, a couple of bottles of Jack Daniels with cards holding fifty dollar bills attached for the doorman and security guard, and a bottle of peppermint schnapps.

She took the elevator up to the lobby and gave both men their holiday greetings and presents. Deep inside it galled her to give them a bonus for something they were being paid to do. She paid rent, therefor their salary, that should be enough. That was a hundred dollars cash she would never see again. The liquor was re-gifted; it had been given to her by one of her suppliers. It occurred to her that perhaps she should have just thrown them a quick fuck in the utility closet: they probably would be just as happy and it wouldn't have cost her a penny.

The schnapps was for her, because, as she told the clerk at the liquor store, "It gets you drunk and tastes like fuckin' candy canes, real Christmassy."

So that was her mindset when she got to her apartment. A small wreath hung on her doorknocker, the tenant board had encouraged everybody to put something up in order to give the hallways a holiday feel. Marge had bought cases of them to sell to her fellow residents so this was an imposition that she didn't mind, it had brought a profit. She could look down the hallway, see how many of her wreaths were there and estimate how much she had made on this floor alone. This put her in the yuletide spirit.

Entering her apartment, she put the turkey dinner in the refrigerator to be reheated the next day and sat down to eat her pasta salad. It all helped to take her mind off the days' annoyances. Finished eating, she showered, changed into pajamas and a housecoat, took her bottle of schnapps and a glass and went into the living room. Half sitting, half reclining on the sofa, she poured herself a drink. Downing it quickly she poured a second and drank it just as quickly. The sweet cordial was doing its' job, the warm dull feeling she sought was spreading through her. On the third drink she slowed down and began sipping.

She reached for the remote, turned on the TV, and began searching the channels. Finally she stopped on one carrying an adaptation of "A Christmas Carol" and put the remote down. She sipped her drink while watching as Scrooge harangued Cratchit, nephew Fred, and everybody else who crossed his path. She finished her drink as Scrooge "bah, humbugged" his way through old London town on his way home, then she poured another. She lasted long enough to see Marley's ghost appear, and then she fell asleep with his admonitions of how mankind and the common welfare were his business ringing in her ears. The rest faded off.

Marge had no idea how long she was asleep when she heard the voice, "Wake up kid, you'll get a stiff neck."

Opening her eyes, she looked around and saw her husband Bill sitting in a chair smiling at her. He looked the same as he had when he was alive and, unlike Jacob Marley, no chains. He was holding a glass of ice and an amber colored liquid; Cutty Sark on the rocks, his favorite when he was alive. Confused, she looked around. Scrooge was no longer on the TV, replaced by Bing Crosby and Marjorie Reynolds singing nostalgically of the joys of a White Christmas.

"What the hell?" she said, shaking her head.

"Hell? Maybe yes, maybe no, I'm not allowed to say. I can only tell you what I'm supposed to."

"What's that, I'm going to be visited by three ghosts?"

"No, darlin'," he said as he got up and walked over to the sofa, sitting down next to her. "Scrooge got the deluxe treatment, you just get me: the bargain basement version."

She was surprised that talking with her dead husband had no real effect on her. She should be hysterical, or at least mildly frightened; all she felt was curiosity. Perhaps it was because she realized this was probably just a dream.

"You know, I've missed you Bill, it's been a long time. I'm confused though, what are the rules here? Am I allowed to touch you or anything?"

"Let's just say it's frowned upon and let it go at that." He took another swig of his scotch. "I'm here to enlighten you and we'd better stick to business."

"Well, business is business," she stated simply. "What's it like, you know, after you pass?"

"Can't tell you, that's not what I was sent to show you. You'll get that answer in due time. I'm here to deal with the here and now along with what was and what may well be."

Marge watched as he took another drink. She noticed the glass never emptied and mentioned this to him. Bill shrugged his shoulders and said it was one of the perks of these earthly visitations. It was a sort of otherworldly incentive program; smokers could smoke, gluttons could eat, drinkers could drink, etc... , all with no repercussions. She wondered if someone who literally screwed themselves to death on top of her was going to be allowed to do her one more time. She didn't ask, it seemed to be just a little too creepy. Besides, it could be that he had liked drinking scotch more than he had liked banging her. That would be plain insulting.

She lifted her glass off the end table and took a drink. Her glass didn't stay full. Staring at it for a moment, she looked at him. He had a bemused expression on his face.

"It only works for the ghost darlin', sorry 'bout that. Now pour yourself another and we'll get started."

"Does that mean I'm going to need a drink to face this?"

"We shall soon see, Margie girl, we shall see"

With that he extended his arm across his chest, then swung it in an arc as if he were pulling back a curtain. Somehow the wall they were facing turned into mist which slowly began to clear, revealing the office at the Downtown Retail & Loan. She could tell by the furnishings it was in the days when Bill ran things. Then two figures slowly came into focus: it was her at 19 and Bill when he was still single (not to mention still alive). She knew what she was about to see: this was the day all the stories about her fucking her way to the top started. The stories were true.

She remembered it clearly, even without the visuals. She'd dressed to kill; high heels, tight skirt, and a blouse opened to reveal plenty of cleavage. There was a job opening as his personal assistant and it was between her and Jill, Jill who still worked for her as her personal assistant. Both were qualified and Marge was determined to get it.