Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2007-12-20 11:24 pm
ptahrrific) wrote2007-12-20 11:24 pm
Fake News: A Colbert Carol, Stanza IV
Title: A Colbert Carol, Stanza IV: The Last of the Spirits
Series: TCR
Rating: G
Genre: Uplifting Christmas tale!
Summary: Years after Jon's death, Stephen is still celebrating Christmas with extravagant and overblown decorations, but he doesn't truly understand the spirit of the season until a succession of ghosts arrives to show him.
❄ A COLBERT CAROL ❄
Stanza IV: The Last of the Spirits
The Phantom slowly, menacingly, silently approached. Colbert took a few steps backward, but his motion was checked by one of the twin banks of audience seating. Recalling that he was meant to be the spectator in this endeavor, he humbly took a seat.
The figure was shrouded in a deep black hoodie and black leather pants. The hood was thrown up, concealing its head, face, and expression, though it had the build of a muscular adult man, and two powerful fists were revealed at the ends of its bulging sleeves.
He perceived that it was tall and strong when it came beside him, and that its wordless presence really kind of freaked him out.
"Am I addressing the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?" inquired Colbert.
The Spirit answered not, but gestured with one broad finger.
"You're going to show me things that haven't happened yet, but will happen in the future," Colbert pursued. "Am I right?"
The hood bent down for an instant, as though the Spirit had inclined its head. He got no other answer.
Although well accustomed to ghostly company by this point, Colbert was shaking so much that he could hardly get to his feet. The Spirit waited without comment for him to get up, but even this filled Colbert with a kind of vague horror, for in the absence of any indication of attitude he took the Spirit to be impatient, and was uncomfortably aware that it could have removed his head and used it as a soccer ball.
"Ghost, please!" he exclaimed. "I've never admitted this before, but I'm scared, all right? The silent treatment is really creeping me out. I know you're here to help me, so I'll come with you. But will you talk to me?"
It gave no reply, though the hand continued to point.
"Okay, then." Colbert nodded shakily. "Let's go. No sense in keeping the Future waiting."
The Phantom moved away as it had come towards him. Colbert followed, compelled to walk quickly to keep the pace, for the Ghost's steps, though heavy and deliberate, were surprisingly long.
They left the studio and emerged into the City, where the people ran up and down in a great hurry, for nothing was ever done slowly in their lives, and time waited for no one, not even on Christmas Day. The sky was cloudy, the wind biting, and the businesspeople wrapped tightly in coats and hats and gloves, some from designer labels, some merely warm.
The Spirit stopped beside a bar, where an old baseball game was playing upon the massive flat screen that dominated half of one wall. Colbert saw that his guide was pointing to a group of men at the bar, and as he leaned in he found that he could overhear them.
"No," said a well-built man with clear blue eyes and pure white hair, "I didn't go very far into the details. It isn't 360's type of story. I just know that he's dead."
"When did he die?" asked a man with iron-gray hair and a deep voice.
"Last night."
"Thought he'd never kick off," remarked a skinny, pale man with a shock of red hair. "What was wrong with him?"
"I don't know," said the first apologetically. "Like I said, I didn't look at it that carefully."
"So what happens to his money?" inquired the deep-voiced man.
"I don't know that either. Maybe he has family somewhere. Or maybe he left it to charity."
This idea was received with a general laugh.
"I'll have to put that in the opening monologue some time," said the redhead. "I could do a whole run about his funeral, too—though it won't seem respectful to joke about it for at least a week."
The first man grimaced, but the second one laughed out loud, then turned to his more sober companion and said, "If it turns out he left it all to some fringe group of nutcases, I'm making him Worst Person in the World posthumously, whether you like it or not."
The white-haired man nodded, and the conversation moved on.
Colbert looked to the Spirit for an explanation, but none came. Instead it moved on, matching pace with a woman who had just passed them, holding a cell phone. Colbert recognized her, as he had the men in the bar, having seen them all at one time or another; she was another comedian and an actress, with silver hair that had at one time been blonde. Her coat must have been hand-crafted, for no store would have stocked such an outrageous garment, and few would have worn it.
"You're kidding," she was saying. "Dead? That's a shame, it really is. Horrible thing for the next of kin to find out on Christmas. No, no, I'm halfway back already. I just had to get some marbles for the party tonight. Love you too. 'Bye."
She closed the miniature phone without another word, and began to sing a carol to herself.
Colbert perceived that these conversations must have some connection to himself, but he could not for the life of him understand what. The only dead person immediately upon his mind was Jon Stewart, and these could scarcely be supposed to have any bearing on that, for Stewart's death had not been greeted with such indifference—far from it! The man had received a small and private funeral, but for a time it had seemed the whole nation had mourned. Nevertheless, Colbert was sure that the relevance of the whole thing would become clear soon enough, and resolved to keep it all in mind; and especially to watch the shadow of himself when it appeared, for he had an idea (though he had never been a great fan of ideas before) that the conduct of his future self would clear things up a bit.
They left the busy street, and went into a more sterile part of town, where Colbert recognized the local offices of government. These were all but deserted, it being a federal holiday; but one window was lighted, and here the Phantom led him.
This office was decorated with a small ceramic tree, but that tree was accompanied by a lit menorah and half a dozen divers religious symbols which Colbert could not name, along with one massive peace sign and a multitude of ribbons of every color. Here sat a man with curly brown hair at his desk, and a woman in a severe blue suit across from that, both poring over a set of legal-looking papers.
After a short period of busy silence, the woman in front of the desk looked up. "Really, Mr. Lieber, is it necessary to do this now? It can wait until after Christmas, can't it?"
"He could have waited until after Christmas to pass away," countered Lieber. "Although it's very funny, don't you think—not that death is funny, I'm speaking figuratively—that he happened to choose this day—not that when you die is a choice, most of the time, unless you're a participant in a physician-assisted suicide, which I think should be legal if the proper safeguards are in place and enough information provided, but he would not agree with me and so I have no doubt that his death was not by such a method—"
"Please, Congressman, get to your point," said the woman.
"Right, right. As I was saying, isn't it funny that he, who made such a big deal out of Christmas, should die on the eve of that very day?"
"Very funny, sir. I'm cracking up on the inside, I promise. Now back to the will . . ."
"Ah, yes! As I was going to say earlier, there's a clause—I don't know if you've reached it yet, but you'll see it when you get there, it's in a few pages—that he essentially bequeaths all his money to the federal government."
"With limitations."
"Yes. With lots of limitations. Lots and lots. Nevertheless, I believe that good can be done with the funding if the right person is put in charge of it."
"Meaning you, I suppose?"
"Oh no! No! Well, maybe. I mean, if the people think it best. I do have a few ideas—they'll take a legal mind to flesh out, of course, and someone will have to go over the will in detail and make sure it's all kosher—meaning no disrespect to anyone who keeps kosher, it's a fine thing to do, and very healthy besides, I tried it once, for a week, and it really is excellent for your health . . ."
"Congressman!"
"Sorry; was I rambling again? I do that sometimes. Anyway. Why don't you read through the rest of it, make some notes, and then we'll take a look at my ideas."
"Isn't it going to look a bit opportunistic, sir, if we have the man's last wishes all parsed and planned out the day after he dies? Wouldn't it be more respectful to wait—"
"Respect?" cried Lieber with a sudden fury, slamming his hand down upon the desk, at which is companion jumped in surprise. "Don't talk to me about respect in a case like this! We are talking about an obnoxious, small, mean-spirited man who had respect for nothing and nobody. Not his planet, not his peers, not his fellow man. He saved up money for years and years and never did a single thing that was good, or useful, or served the public in any way. And now we finally have a chance to do something good with that money, and if it is opportunistic to take that chance, then God—or Allah, or Buddha, or whatever—help me, I am opportunistic! Do you have a problem with that?"
He had half risen during this speech, and only now realized it, and seated himself again. "Sorry. I apologize. I don't know what came over me . . ."
"For what it's worth, Congressman," said his companion quietly, "I think you're very noble."
"You do? Um. Well," replied Lieber, somewhat flustered but clearly pleased. "Thank you. But you're right. We should wait a little. Let's put this away and go enjoy our Christmases. Not that either of us celebrate—well, I sometimes do, as part of an exploration of global Christmas traditions which I try to immerse myself in every other year—but . . ."
"Sir."
"Hm?"
"You're doing it again."
Colbert had watched this conversation with horror. Certainly some of it was his usual anger at the sight of a liberal politician, especially one with whom he had fought bitterly several times. But there was more than that. "I get it," he cried desperately, turning to the Spirit. "This could be what happens to me, too. This poor guy—I could go that way. —Oh, God, what's this?"
For the scene had shifted, and now he almost touched a cold hospital bed; a bed on which, beneath a sterile white sheet, there lay a thing covered up, which, though mute, made its identity terribly clear.
The room was very pale, all of its features spotless and colorless, illuminated by uncovered strips of white fluorescent tubing. A faint bustle could be heard outside, of doctors and nurses and those people who had come in to visit patients, and somewhere far off a group of visitors struck up a carol in awkward harmony. But this room was deserted, and on the bed in the center, unsung to, unwatched, unwept, uncared for, was this man.
Colbert glanced towards the Phantom, whose brawny hand pointed towards the man's head. The cover was lain across his face in a perfectly straight line, but was so light that it could have been removed with a wag of the finger, had Colbert the heart to provide one. He had not. He had scarcely the strength to continue drawing breath.
He stood, trembling, feet rooted to the spot, staring aghast at the still sheet. If the figure could be raised up again, what would be in his thoughts? Avarice, anger, selfish cares? Perhaps regret, that these things had led him to such an end, left in an empty room, with not a man, woman, or child to say he was kind to me in this or that, and for that I tip my hat to him.
The fluorescent lights hummed; the room was otherwise silent, so silent that Colbert fancied he could hear his own thoughts, though he wanted desperately to avoid them.
"Spirit!" he said, "this is a horrible place. I've learned my lesson, I promise. Let's get out of here."
Still the Ghost pointed with an unmoving finger to the head.
"I understand," Colbert returned, "and I'd move it if I could—but I can't. I swear I can't."
The Phantom's hood turned towards him, and Colbert shuddered to know that its eyes were upon him, though he could not see so much as a glint in the darkness below it.
"If anybody in this city feels sad at all because of this man's death," begged Colbert, "show me that person! Please!"
The room's whiteness grew, eclipsing all of its features as though seen on a television with the contrast turned up too bright; and then when Colbert blinked the hospital was replaced with the marble floors and satin trappings of what looked like an executive suite in some grand hotel.
They stood by a circle of lavish couches, and on these lounged a small cabal of large men and women, old, grey, and distinguished, holding goblets of amber liquid and speaking in jolly tones.
The cell phone of one (for all had highly functional phones, as well as expensive bottles, lying near them) began to ring, and one of the women reached out, opened it, and spoke. "Hello?"
Then: "No. Really?"
Then: "Understood. Thanks. Later"; and she hung up, looking dismayed.
"Something wrong, Shari?" asked one of her companions.
"One of the network's best sellers just kicked the bucket," replied Shari. "I swear, I can feel our stock dropping." And as she spoke she gave a little shiver.
The other men made assorted noises of sympathy and concern. Not concern for the dead man, no! but concern for their share prices! The only sadness that the Ghost could show him, caused by this death, was one of concern over the money that would be lost by it.
"Let me see some sadness for the loss of a person," said Colbert with tremulous voice, "or I do believe I'm going to lose all faith in the human race."
The elegance of the room seemed to blur together into a uniform dullness, which resolved itself into the familiar dinginess of Tad's apartment, that which he had seen with the previous Spirit. It was quiet now, though someone was evidently in the kitchen, for the rattle of dishes could be heard.
There was an unsteady knock at the door, and the man in the kitchen came forth to answer it. He did resemble Tad, and for a moment Colbert guessed that this was his building manager's future self. But no; the way he greeted Cratchit and Silverman—who stood outside the door—was the formal greeting of a stranger.
"Hello." Silverman offered her hand. "You must be Tad's brother. I'm Meg Silverman, and this is Bob—"
"—Cratchit, yes. Tad told me about you," replied the other, in a curiously quiet voice. "I'm Geoffrey." And he shook hands with each in turn.
"We thought we'd come by and help out," explained Cratchit hesitantly. "Didn't think it was a good idea to let you do this on your own. Not on Christmas."
Geoffrey nodded. "I appreciate it. I was just boxing up the silverware when you knocked." He jerked a thumb towards the kitchen. "You know he wanted it all to go to Goodwill . . . he didn't have much, but he was always thinking of people like that . . ."
Here his voice broke. Cratchit offered an awkward pat on the shoulder; the less self-conscious Silverman stepped forward and wrapped him in a hug. Then all the walls came down at once, and tears flowed from all three, as they clung to each other lest they should fall from those precarious perches to which they had been clinging.
Colbert was very nearly in tears himself. He removed his glasses and blinked very hard, then turned to the Spirit, his voice now unsteadied by sorrow rather than fear.
"Spirit," he said quietly, "my gut tells me that our time is almost up. And I suppose I shouldn't always listen to my gut, but right now I have nothing to contradict it. Before you go, though, tell me—who was that man on the bed?"
The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come led him forth again, into a scene that was outdoors at twilight. It was some years later, Colbert thought, though these visions seemed to have no order, but to be at unsorted points in the future. And they walked, the Ghost inexorably, Colbert unsteadily, down the road.
"Hang on a minute," he exclaimed. "That's my house, right there. Let me just run over and see what I'm like in the future, okay?"
The Spirit stopped, but pointed forward.
Colbert eyed its brawny form with trepidation for a moment, then made his decision. "I won't take long," he promised, and darted up the front path of the Colbert Compound.
Christmas though it was, the yard was clear, the building unlit. The eagle knocker was on the door—Colbert spared it a quick glance, to be sure of its form—but when he went to a window and looked in, he saw furniture that was not his, and as he watched a man passed by whom he did not recognize.
He returned, much confused, to the Phantom's side, and they walked on in the same direction as before.
They came to an iron gate, and through it, and then stood in a graveyard. The stones were bleached bone-white, some carved with the forms of saints and angels; the ground was overrun with weeds, parasitic growths, leeching their nutrients from the bodies crammed below the dirt. So here was where the dead man had ended up—or down, as the case may be.
The Spirit stood among the graves, and pointed to One, an unadorned slab with a simple inscription. Colbert walked towards it, shaking. The Phantom was exactly as it had been, but he perceived a new threat in its burly shape.
"Before I get any closer," said Colbert abruptly, "tell me. Are these visions of things that Will be, or of things that Could be?"
Still the Ghost pointed downward to the grave, its stone tinted red by the light of the sunset.
"If people change," pressed Colbert, "then that changes their futures. Right? I've been thinking about it, and that's what makes sense. See? I'm thinking. That's a difference already. So futures can change. Tell me this future can change."
The Spirit was as immovable as ever.
Colbert stepped towards the grave and replaced his glasses upon his face. The letters on the stone resolved themselves into a sharp and clear phrase, lit by the last rays of the sun: STEPHEN COLBERT.
"Was it me on the bed?" he cried, falling to his knees.
The Finger pointed from the grave to him and back again.
"No! No, no!"
The finger was still there, though it was becoming difficult to distinguish in the darkness, which had all but swallowed up the rest of the Spirit's form.
"I'm different. I'll be different. You wouldn't show me this if it were hopeless anyway, right? I'll watch out for people. I'll care about them. I'll give them health insurance. I'll think before I speak, and before I act, and before I decide not to act. And I'll learn. I'll learn from the past, and the present, and what I've seen of the future. Please, tell me I can wipe out the writing on that stone!"
The Ghost drew back its hand, so that Colbert could no longer see the form at all. He lunged in the direction it had been, praying, sobbing, grasping, reaching out to the empty air, half blinded by tears. And then his hand closed about something cold and hard and round.
It was a bedpost.
Series: TCR
Rating: G
Genre: Uplifting Christmas tale!
Summary: Years after Jon's death, Stephen is still celebrating Christmas with extravagant and overblown decorations, but he doesn't truly understand the spirit of the season until a succession of ghosts arrives to show him.
❄ A COLBERT CAROL ❄
Stanza IV: The Last of the Spirits
The Phantom slowly, menacingly, silently approached. Colbert took a few steps backward, but his motion was checked by one of the twin banks of audience seating. Recalling that he was meant to be the spectator in this endeavor, he humbly took a seat.
The figure was shrouded in a deep black hoodie and black leather pants. The hood was thrown up, concealing its head, face, and expression, though it had the build of a muscular adult man, and two powerful fists were revealed at the ends of its bulging sleeves.
He perceived that it was tall and strong when it came beside him, and that its wordless presence really kind of freaked him out.
"Am I addressing the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?" inquired Colbert.
The Spirit answered not, but gestured with one broad finger.
"You're going to show me things that haven't happened yet, but will happen in the future," Colbert pursued. "Am I right?"
The hood bent down for an instant, as though the Spirit had inclined its head. He got no other answer.
Although well accustomed to ghostly company by this point, Colbert was shaking so much that he could hardly get to his feet. The Spirit waited without comment for him to get up, but even this filled Colbert with a kind of vague horror, for in the absence of any indication of attitude he took the Spirit to be impatient, and was uncomfortably aware that it could have removed his head and used it as a soccer ball.
"Ghost, please!" he exclaimed. "I've never admitted this before, but I'm scared, all right? The silent treatment is really creeping me out. I know you're here to help me, so I'll come with you. But will you talk to me?"
It gave no reply, though the hand continued to point.
"Okay, then." Colbert nodded shakily. "Let's go. No sense in keeping the Future waiting."
The Phantom moved away as it had come towards him. Colbert followed, compelled to walk quickly to keep the pace, for the Ghost's steps, though heavy and deliberate, were surprisingly long.
They left the studio and emerged into the City, where the people ran up and down in a great hurry, for nothing was ever done slowly in their lives, and time waited for no one, not even on Christmas Day. The sky was cloudy, the wind biting, and the businesspeople wrapped tightly in coats and hats and gloves, some from designer labels, some merely warm.
The Spirit stopped beside a bar, where an old baseball game was playing upon the massive flat screen that dominated half of one wall. Colbert saw that his guide was pointing to a group of men at the bar, and as he leaned in he found that he could overhear them.
"No," said a well-built man with clear blue eyes and pure white hair, "I didn't go very far into the details. It isn't 360's type of story. I just know that he's dead."
"When did he die?" asked a man with iron-gray hair and a deep voice.
"Last night."
"Thought he'd never kick off," remarked a skinny, pale man with a shock of red hair. "What was wrong with him?"
"I don't know," said the first apologetically. "Like I said, I didn't look at it that carefully."
"So what happens to his money?" inquired the deep-voiced man.
"I don't know that either. Maybe he has family somewhere. Or maybe he left it to charity."
This idea was received with a general laugh.
"I'll have to put that in the opening monologue some time," said the redhead. "I could do a whole run about his funeral, too—though it won't seem respectful to joke about it for at least a week."
The first man grimaced, but the second one laughed out loud, then turned to his more sober companion and said, "If it turns out he left it all to some fringe group of nutcases, I'm making him Worst Person in the World posthumously, whether you like it or not."
The white-haired man nodded, and the conversation moved on.
Colbert looked to the Spirit for an explanation, but none came. Instead it moved on, matching pace with a woman who had just passed them, holding a cell phone. Colbert recognized her, as he had the men in the bar, having seen them all at one time or another; she was another comedian and an actress, with silver hair that had at one time been blonde. Her coat must have been hand-crafted, for no store would have stocked such an outrageous garment, and few would have worn it.
"You're kidding," she was saying. "Dead? That's a shame, it really is. Horrible thing for the next of kin to find out on Christmas. No, no, I'm halfway back already. I just had to get some marbles for the party tonight. Love you too. 'Bye."
She closed the miniature phone without another word, and began to sing a carol to herself.
Colbert perceived that these conversations must have some connection to himself, but he could not for the life of him understand what. The only dead person immediately upon his mind was Jon Stewart, and these could scarcely be supposed to have any bearing on that, for Stewart's death had not been greeted with such indifference—far from it! The man had received a small and private funeral, but for a time it had seemed the whole nation had mourned. Nevertheless, Colbert was sure that the relevance of the whole thing would become clear soon enough, and resolved to keep it all in mind; and especially to watch the shadow of himself when it appeared, for he had an idea (though he had never been a great fan of ideas before) that the conduct of his future self would clear things up a bit.
They left the busy street, and went into a more sterile part of town, where Colbert recognized the local offices of government. These were all but deserted, it being a federal holiday; but one window was lighted, and here the Phantom led him.
This office was decorated with a small ceramic tree, but that tree was accompanied by a lit menorah and half a dozen divers religious symbols which Colbert could not name, along with one massive peace sign and a multitude of ribbons of every color. Here sat a man with curly brown hair at his desk, and a woman in a severe blue suit across from that, both poring over a set of legal-looking papers.
After a short period of busy silence, the woman in front of the desk looked up. "Really, Mr. Lieber, is it necessary to do this now? It can wait until after Christmas, can't it?"
"He could have waited until after Christmas to pass away," countered Lieber. "Although it's very funny, don't you think—not that death is funny, I'm speaking figuratively—that he happened to choose this day—not that when you die is a choice, most of the time, unless you're a participant in a physician-assisted suicide, which I think should be legal if the proper safeguards are in place and enough information provided, but he would not agree with me and so I have no doubt that his death was not by such a method—"
"Please, Congressman, get to your point," said the woman.
"Right, right. As I was saying, isn't it funny that he, who made such a big deal out of Christmas, should die on the eve of that very day?"
"Very funny, sir. I'm cracking up on the inside, I promise. Now back to the will . . ."
"Ah, yes! As I was going to say earlier, there's a clause—I don't know if you've reached it yet, but you'll see it when you get there, it's in a few pages—that he essentially bequeaths all his money to the federal government."
"With limitations."
"Yes. With lots of limitations. Lots and lots. Nevertheless, I believe that good can be done with the funding if the right person is put in charge of it."
"Meaning you, I suppose?"
"Oh no! No! Well, maybe. I mean, if the people think it best. I do have a few ideas—they'll take a legal mind to flesh out, of course, and someone will have to go over the will in detail and make sure it's all kosher—meaning no disrespect to anyone who keeps kosher, it's a fine thing to do, and very healthy besides, I tried it once, for a week, and it really is excellent for your health . . ."
"Congressman!"
"Sorry; was I rambling again? I do that sometimes. Anyway. Why don't you read through the rest of it, make some notes, and then we'll take a look at my ideas."
"Isn't it going to look a bit opportunistic, sir, if we have the man's last wishes all parsed and planned out the day after he dies? Wouldn't it be more respectful to wait—"
"Respect?" cried Lieber with a sudden fury, slamming his hand down upon the desk, at which is companion jumped in surprise. "Don't talk to me about respect in a case like this! We are talking about an obnoxious, small, mean-spirited man who had respect for nothing and nobody. Not his planet, not his peers, not his fellow man. He saved up money for years and years and never did a single thing that was good, or useful, or served the public in any way. And now we finally have a chance to do something good with that money, and if it is opportunistic to take that chance, then God—or Allah, or Buddha, or whatever—help me, I am opportunistic! Do you have a problem with that?"
He had half risen during this speech, and only now realized it, and seated himself again. "Sorry. I apologize. I don't know what came over me . . ."
"For what it's worth, Congressman," said his companion quietly, "I think you're very noble."
"You do? Um. Well," replied Lieber, somewhat flustered but clearly pleased. "Thank you. But you're right. We should wait a little. Let's put this away and go enjoy our Christmases. Not that either of us celebrate—well, I sometimes do, as part of an exploration of global Christmas traditions which I try to immerse myself in every other year—but . . ."
"Sir."
"Hm?"
"You're doing it again."
Colbert had watched this conversation with horror. Certainly some of it was his usual anger at the sight of a liberal politician, especially one with whom he had fought bitterly several times. But there was more than that. "I get it," he cried desperately, turning to the Spirit. "This could be what happens to me, too. This poor guy—I could go that way. —Oh, God, what's this?"
For the scene had shifted, and now he almost touched a cold hospital bed; a bed on which, beneath a sterile white sheet, there lay a thing covered up, which, though mute, made its identity terribly clear.
The room was very pale, all of its features spotless and colorless, illuminated by uncovered strips of white fluorescent tubing. A faint bustle could be heard outside, of doctors and nurses and those people who had come in to visit patients, and somewhere far off a group of visitors struck up a carol in awkward harmony. But this room was deserted, and on the bed in the center, unsung to, unwatched, unwept, uncared for, was this man.
Colbert glanced towards the Phantom, whose brawny hand pointed towards the man's head. The cover was lain across his face in a perfectly straight line, but was so light that it could have been removed with a wag of the finger, had Colbert the heart to provide one. He had not. He had scarcely the strength to continue drawing breath.
He stood, trembling, feet rooted to the spot, staring aghast at the still sheet. If the figure could be raised up again, what would be in his thoughts? Avarice, anger, selfish cares? Perhaps regret, that these things had led him to such an end, left in an empty room, with not a man, woman, or child to say he was kind to me in this or that, and for that I tip my hat to him.
The fluorescent lights hummed; the room was otherwise silent, so silent that Colbert fancied he could hear his own thoughts, though he wanted desperately to avoid them.
"Spirit!" he said, "this is a horrible place. I've learned my lesson, I promise. Let's get out of here."
Still the Ghost pointed with an unmoving finger to the head.
"I understand," Colbert returned, "and I'd move it if I could—but I can't. I swear I can't."
The Phantom's hood turned towards him, and Colbert shuddered to know that its eyes were upon him, though he could not see so much as a glint in the darkness below it.
"If anybody in this city feels sad at all because of this man's death," begged Colbert, "show me that person! Please!"
The room's whiteness grew, eclipsing all of its features as though seen on a television with the contrast turned up too bright; and then when Colbert blinked the hospital was replaced with the marble floors and satin trappings of what looked like an executive suite in some grand hotel.
They stood by a circle of lavish couches, and on these lounged a small cabal of large men and women, old, grey, and distinguished, holding goblets of amber liquid and speaking in jolly tones.
The cell phone of one (for all had highly functional phones, as well as expensive bottles, lying near them) began to ring, and one of the women reached out, opened it, and spoke. "Hello?"
Then: "No. Really?"
Then: "Understood. Thanks. Later"; and she hung up, looking dismayed.
"Something wrong, Shari?" asked one of her companions.
"One of the network's best sellers just kicked the bucket," replied Shari. "I swear, I can feel our stock dropping." And as she spoke she gave a little shiver.
The other men made assorted noises of sympathy and concern. Not concern for the dead man, no! but concern for their share prices! The only sadness that the Ghost could show him, caused by this death, was one of concern over the money that would be lost by it.
"Let me see some sadness for the loss of a person," said Colbert with tremulous voice, "or I do believe I'm going to lose all faith in the human race."
The elegance of the room seemed to blur together into a uniform dullness, which resolved itself into the familiar dinginess of Tad's apartment, that which he had seen with the previous Spirit. It was quiet now, though someone was evidently in the kitchen, for the rattle of dishes could be heard.
There was an unsteady knock at the door, and the man in the kitchen came forth to answer it. He did resemble Tad, and for a moment Colbert guessed that this was his building manager's future self. But no; the way he greeted Cratchit and Silverman—who stood outside the door—was the formal greeting of a stranger.
"Hello." Silverman offered her hand. "You must be Tad's brother. I'm Meg Silverman, and this is Bob—"
"—Cratchit, yes. Tad told me about you," replied the other, in a curiously quiet voice. "I'm Geoffrey." And he shook hands with each in turn.
"We thought we'd come by and help out," explained Cratchit hesitantly. "Didn't think it was a good idea to let you do this on your own. Not on Christmas."
Geoffrey nodded. "I appreciate it. I was just boxing up the silverware when you knocked." He jerked a thumb towards the kitchen. "You know he wanted it all to go to Goodwill . . . he didn't have much, but he was always thinking of people like that . . ."
Here his voice broke. Cratchit offered an awkward pat on the shoulder; the less self-conscious Silverman stepped forward and wrapped him in a hug. Then all the walls came down at once, and tears flowed from all three, as they clung to each other lest they should fall from those precarious perches to which they had been clinging.
Colbert was very nearly in tears himself. He removed his glasses and blinked very hard, then turned to the Spirit, his voice now unsteadied by sorrow rather than fear.
"Spirit," he said quietly, "my gut tells me that our time is almost up. And I suppose I shouldn't always listen to my gut, but right now I have nothing to contradict it. Before you go, though, tell me—who was that man on the bed?"
The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come led him forth again, into a scene that was outdoors at twilight. It was some years later, Colbert thought, though these visions seemed to have no order, but to be at unsorted points in the future. And they walked, the Ghost inexorably, Colbert unsteadily, down the road.
"Hang on a minute," he exclaimed. "That's my house, right there. Let me just run over and see what I'm like in the future, okay?"
The Spirit stopped, but pointed forward.
Colbert eyed its brawny form with trepidation for a moment, then made his decision. "I won't take long," he promised, and darted up the front path of the Colbert Compound.
Christmas though it was, the yard was clear, the building unlit. The eagle knocker was on the door—Colbert spared it a quick glance, to be sure of its form—but when he went to a window and looked in, he saw furniture that was not his, and as he watched a man passed by whom he did not recognize.
He returned, much confused, to the Phantom's side, and they walked on in the same direction as before.
They came to an iron gate, and through it, and then stood in a graveyard. The stones were bleached bone-white, some carved with the forms of saints and angels; the ground was overrun with weeds, parasitic growths, leeching their nutrients from the bodies crammed below the dirt. So here was where the dead man had ended up—or down, as the case may be.
The Spirit stood among the graves, and pointed to One, an unadorned slab with a simple inscription. Colbert walked towards it, shaking. The Phantom was exactly as it had been, but he perceived a new threat in its burly shape.
"Before I get any closer," said Colbert abruptly, "tell me. Are these visions of things that Will be, or of things that Could be?"
Still the Ghost pointed downward to the grave, its stone tinted red by the light of the sunset.
"If people change," pressed Colbert, "then that changes their futures. Right? I've been thinking about it, and that's what makes sense. See? I'm thinking. That's a difference already. So futures can change. Tell me this future can change."
The Spirit was as immovable as ever.
Colbert stepped towards the grave and replaced his glasses upon his face. The letters on the stone resolved themselves into a sharp and clear phrase, lit by the last rays of the sun: STEPHEN COLBERT.
"Was it me on the bed?" he cried, falling to his knees.
The Finger pointed from the grave to him and back again.
"No! No, no!"
The finger was still there, though it was becoming difficult to distinguish in the darkness, which had all but swallowed up the rest of the Spirit's form.
"I'm different. I'll be different. You wouldn't show me this if it were hopeless anyway, right? I'll watch out for people. I'll care about them. I'll give them health insurance. I'll think before I speak, and before I act, and before I decide not to act. And I'll learn. I'll learn from the past, and the present, and what I've seen of the future. Please, tell me I can wipe out the writing on that stone!"
The Ghost drew back its hand, so that Colbert could no longer see the form at all. He lunged in the direction it had been, praying, sobbing, grasping, reaching out to the empty air, half blinded by tears. And then his hand closed about something cold and hard and round.
It was a bedpost.
❄