In some austere study, in an ancient armchair silhouetted by the moonlight, there sits a man. Or rather, what was once a man. The ghastly figure that now lingered in this place had clearly left its humanity behind long ago. The figure had a horrible, scarred and stretched visage, complimented by inhumanly pale blue skin, which wavered and flickered in the light with a slight translucence. He – for it had indeed been a he, ages past – was clothed in warped and disfigured rags whose original design was all but lost due not just to their state of disrepair but also due to the chains. The man was covered in giant, rust-ridden chains that crossed this way and that all around his body in incalculable numbers. They rattled constantly, their grim, hellish tones a constant and unceasing reminder of the twisted afterlife this simultaneously terrifying and pitiable creature had unwillingly bought for himself.
He was currently struggling with the phone.
“Yes, you heard me correctly” he intoned in an echoing bass. “Yes, it still hasn’t arrived...a large pepperoni...no...it should be under Ghost...yes, full name Herbert C. Ghost...yes...yes, stands for Christmas...yes I’m serious...okay...okay. But I’ll call back again if it isn’t soon...yes, goodbye.”