The Paradox Before Christmas/2

''Fun with time paradoxes! What more can a man want? Warning!: May cause headaches in case of mishandling, contrary to popular conception, time paradoxes are not made to be understood.''

Monsieur Scrúje was resting in his maison, near a fireplace stocked with various near-extinct types of wood from all over the globe, burning. Contrary to what his detractors said, Scrúje was not tight-fisted. Not in the least. He appreciated the good things in life, like being the sole owner of various magnificent works of art only to keep them locked up and not allowing anyone but him to see them. Or buying carious species of animals on the brink of extinction only to train his aim by letting them free and hunting them for sport.

Because Scrúje loved himself and wanted to demonstrate the deep infatuation he held for every tiny little perfect bit of his body by buying himself presents. Presents only for himself, because he despised people. Filthy little people, the poor ones couldn't rise above their petty misery and envy, the rich ones couldn't rise above their backstabbing greed. And then there were the little ones. Oh, Scrúje didn't want to start with the little ones.

He did like Christmas, mostly. People came in bands, in swarms and took money in his bank, money that they would give back him, with interest, lovely interest. They would use that money to buy and buy and buy as tradition mandated. To buy, especially for the little ones. Scrúje hated the little ones. That's what he hated most about Christmas. That and that he had to close the bank.

He tried to keep the bank open in his first year, but the employees entered a strike. Of course, they were poor. Lazy, miserable envious poor, sucking the money out of his pocket, his hard-earned money, but putting nothing back in. Sucking up and gobbling up the world's wealth and leaving almost nothing to the true hard workers. Scrúje learned his lesson, and the bank only had three other strikes since then. Of course, he raised the interest rates, out of spite. Lovely interest.

Scrúje loved the interest, the way his money multiplied. The way he made money out of money. He laughed at people that sold jewels, food, or even drugs, thinking that they would get-rich-quick with that. No. Scrúje sold...no, rented money, with interest. Lots of interest. He blessed his already long-gone parents that left a wealthy legacy to him. Money. Lots of it. He managed to multiply many times the sum over the years, but he would be nothing without initial capital. He loved his parents.

He looked out of his large window, made of Amazon wood and Saharan glass, by French artisans. The employees were leaving the bank early for their paid days of laziness. The scum. Scurrying back to their lairs, to their clans of he didn't know how many dozens of little ones. Annoying filthy disgusting little ones. Then he heard a faint sound coming from somewhere else in the maison.

The servantes had already left the home, having finished their jobs long ago, and Scrúje had no majordome. A thief, probably. He took his revolver from the headboard and went to check the noise.