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.”
