Ebenezer Scrooge woke up suddenly. It took all the energy he could muster to sit upright. He was gasping, mouth parched, heart racing, and he was moist. This was his old feeble body’s way of perspiring. He cursed that damn recurring nightmare where he is visited by ghosts of Christmas past, present and future. How many times can he endure this horrifying vision without dying?
1976 was one hell of a year. In February, Elvis Presley was made an honorary captain of the Memphis Police Department. He was doing shows in Las Vegas, while working on ending a mafia drug ring. Oh my sweet Lord, that Bicentennial was something else too. On this Christmas evening, Elvis was working through constipation. There was a complicated issue of the zero in the number two, or seeing a man about unloading some donkeys.
At this precise moment, the three wise men were not feeling very wise, instead, they were feeling hungry and crabby. All of this following the North Star for days on end appeared futile, maybe even stupid. It was wearing them down physically and spiritually. Yet, somehow faith won out over reason, and they forged ahead. They grumbled about the combined stink of frankincense, myrrh, the camel, and Bethlehem.
A previous happy Christmas in Bedrock.
It was Christmas day in Bedrock. In years past, it was a festive time of hustle and bustle and cheer and joy and camaraderie, but this year, due to the Great Depression, it was forlorn. Money was scarce, except for the fat cats, The Slates ,The Rockefellers and Clay Aikens.
The sound of a switchblade and a motorbike.
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