Scrooge McHunt sat in his wood-panelled office, rubbing his bony hands together with glee, for he had just saved The Company a lot of money by scrapping yet more benefits for the poor.
"Are there no workhouses and orphanages?" he asked his rag-clad intern.
"No sir", they squeaked, "You shut them all down."
"Good, good", he burbled, pausing in his phlegmy laugh to throw a dart towards a picture of his former colleague, Mitt FootKnob. "That will save us a lot of money."
Outside, the wind howled around Eastminster as the Treasury boss slunk out of the building like a tall stretch of raw petroleum, pausing for a short photo opportunity next to an eco-friendly Prius before slithering around the corner to where his Bentley convertible had been waiting, engines running, since 5am that morning.
It was now dinner time on Christmas Eve, that time when all men and women and children are to be joyful, roasting their chestnuts over an open fire because they can no longer afford central heating and safety-checked electric stoves.
McHunt watched as the last-minute shoppers scurried along the mulch-ridden streets, clutching their vegan meat-substitutes to their bony breasts and hurrying home to where their fellow mortgage prisoners waited for them.
He grimaced, or smiled, or it could have been a piece of cheese or undigested beef repeating itself.
"What fools", he thought, as he recalled he had a big pile of letters on his desk from people asking him to help intervene against continued bad behaviour from the banks.
That pile could wait until the New Year.
As the car turned to number 11, his town house that he never had to pay a penny towards living in, thank goodness, he was startled to see - or at least he thought he saw - the round door handle shimmer and transform.
In the misty gloom, he thought the late Queen's face was glowering at him from the brass. She looked like she had just watched a US chat show.
Hurrying into the hallowed halls, stopping only to kick the Drowning Street Cat who happened to have pattered in behind him, McHunt wheezed himself into a tall chair by a large cardboard cut-out of his friend Dishy - an early Christmas gift to all of Dishy's friends - and poured himself a large glass of duty-free scotch.
"This is more like it", he said, raising the glass to Dishy.
"Here's to messing around with national newspapers next year again by pretending we're going to cut inheritance tax, and then not doing it."
A ghastly duo
He was awakened by the sound of bells. Not doorbells, nor phone bells asking him if he wanted to change his life insurance policy.
No, it was a tinkling bell, almost like the sound of a conscience, had McHunt had one. Etherial bells that echoed up the chequered floors of the staircase. He grunted and turned his head to see what could be making that noise.
