Sometimes, I wonder if A Christmas Carol was just a CIA experiment involving hallucinogenic mustard.
The ghosts.
The memories.
The visions.
All his deep-buried secrets and fears, unleashed in a night of guilt and terror.
I mean, even Scrooge was suspicious, right? “Tis only a blot of mustard.”
If only he’d followed that suspicion instead of dismissed it so readily, the world would be a different place.
Sure, Tiny Tim would have died, but all those hookers he killed when he grew up to become Jack The Ripper wouldn’t have been brutally slaughtered.
God bless them, each and every one.