Tiny Tim's War Journal: Karmic Retribution

Disclaimer: The following story is way too long, hella ridiculous, and nightmarishly fun. It's also my favorite piece of this godforsaken year. If you're in the mood for depraved Christmas madness, strap in and hold onto your Santa hats—this sleigh ride's about to get bumpy.

Dear Journal,

By the fall of 1844, rickets, malnutrition, and economic hardship had taken their inevitable toll.

Lying on my wooden cot, surrounded by my tear-filled family—including my honorable father Bob, my steely mother Emily, and my beloved siblings Martha, Peter, and Belinda—I took my last belabored breath and accepted the ice-cold embrace of eternity.

Relief of every sort followed.

The excruciating physical pain had, at last, abated. The emotional trauma suffered by my poor dear mother would, in time, cease. And knowing my passing would ease the financial burden on my dutiful father allowed me to die, if not happy, content.

Life relentlessly slogged on, while I'd been reduced to little more than a wistful memory. A grim Victorian-era statistic. An expendable, forgettable existence cut callously short.

That tragic story remained true until the clock struck midnight on Christmas Eve in the Year of Our Lord 2025.

Suddenly and inexplicably, my heart started beating with more vigor than ever before, my brain lit up like a lantern, my mind revved up like a locomotive, and a blinding white light accosted my long-dormant eyes.

My eighteen-decade slumber had all at once come to an abrupt and absurd end.

This is my story.

STAVE ONE: RESURRECTION

When my eyesight returned I found myself staring at a literal goddess.

She had jet-black hair, large pumpernickel eyes, and flawless brown skin, wore pristine bronze armor, and wielded a massive terrifying saber.

We were standing opposite one another in what appeared to be the infinite void of space. Nothing made sense. My mind teemed with questions, each equally pertinent, but confusion had rendered me mute.

The goddess smirked as I reanimated, though she, too, remained silent.

After a few awkward moments, I summoned the courage to speak, and, in a husky voice I scant recognized, a deluge of queries flooded from my mouth.

"Who are ye?" and "Where do we be standing?" and "What devilry or witchcraft has conjured me from the grave?!" I wondered aloud, in increasing bafflement.

"My name is Nemesis," the goddess said. "I’ve summoned you to complete an important task. One that concerns the future of the human race."

I glanced down and inspected my muscular arms and legs, strummed my hands across the smooth black armor clutching my chest, then massaged my impossibly perfect face and ruffled my incredibly luscious hair. I was a man! No, I was more than a man—I was an Adonis!

"What 'ave ye done to me?" I asked, concerned, though far from disappointed.

"You are become my Angel of Death, Timothy Cratchit," Nemesis said.

"Death?" I said, worried.

"This day you will visit three oligarchs. Three men—they’re always men—who have made your world a demonstrably worse place. You will dispatch these irredeemable villains, Timothy Cratchit, and you will bring balance to the universe."

"Dispatch?" I said, incredulous.

"You may use any means necessary to exact my retribution," Nemesis explained. "But heed this warning, Timothy Cratchit: When the clock strikes midnight on Christmas Day, you will return to the realm of eternal sleep. If you fail to make these miscreants pay, billions will suffer cruel, ignominious, indescribably monstrous fates."

I swallowed hard, exhaled demonstrably, then said, "Begging ye pardon, Miss Nemesis, but I believe ye’ve called upon the wrong shade. I abhor violence, in all forms, but even if I didn't, I not be equipped to dispatch a fly. I was a mere schoolboy when I passed. A sickly one at that."

"Are you a sickly schoolboy now, Timothy Cratchit?"

"I 'spose not," I said, flexing and admiring my hulking biceps. "But tisn't right to commit atrocities against others, Miss Nemesis, even in the rightful name of justice. Violence can only beget more violence, as a goddess as erudite as yourself surely understands."

Nemesis laughed heartily, then said, "Have you ever heard of a novella called A Christmas Carol, Timothy Cratchit?"

A splitting pain shot through my skull. My mind raced and an utterly grotesque memory—one that seemed to have been implanted in my brain—consumed my thoughts.

"Nay. Nay, they wouldn’t dare," I said, spiraling. "They couldn’t possibly be so craven!"

Nemesis flashed a wide, sinister smile.

"In the corporeal world, Timothy Cratchit, Ebenezer Scrooge ought to have strangled you where you slept. He impoverished your family—among countless others—and rejoiced when you perished," she said. "To Scrooge, you were little more than a hapless cripple. A leech on the species and, worse still, the economy. You, Timothy Cratchit, were a member of the 'surplus population' and were deservedly culled."

"But the story claims Mister Scrooge saved me," I said, mortified. "That he changed his miserly ways and opened his heart to his fellow man and, above all others, made the merriest of Christmas."

"Millionaire-funded propaganda, Timothy Cratchit, commissioned to a penniless, unscrupulous hack named Charles Dickens."

"Scrooge abused my father!" I shouted. "He subjected him to miserable working conditions, paid him pitiful wages, and practically hastened me into the ground!"

Nemesis solemnly nodded.

"And today, Timothy Cratchit, the situation is worse than ever. Income inequality has reached never-before-seen levels. The ultra-wealthy have amassed hundreds of billions of dollars and possess nigh-unlimited power. They control governments, manipulate financial markets, enrich themselves at the expense of everyone else, and crush whoever stands in their way."

The goddess lifted her free hand and conjured my trusty crutch from thin air. She handed me the flimsy piece of wood. As I clasped it in my sturdy hands, my stomach churned and tears welled in my eyes.

Just then, my old walking stick transformed into a staff of shiny solid oak. At the head, a heavy stainless steel blade materialized, engraved with the words, “Edo, 1714.” My once harmless crutch had morphed into a formidable scythe, one befitting Lord Death himself.

"These people can’t be cajoled or reasoned with or convinced to do the right thing, Timothy Cratchit," Nemesis said. "But you can rebalance the cosmic scales.”

And with that, we were off.

STAVE TWO: THE SHOPKEEPER

In the blink of an eye, Nemesis and I were standing in the middle of a massive warehouse, the likes of which I'd never seen. Drab brown boxes of every imaginable size blanketed the floors and filled the endless rows of sterile metallic shelves, while flameless lamps projected uninterrupted light all throughout the interior space.

People wearing shiny vests and colorful helmets scurried to and fro in a chaotic and erratic dance. Men and women shouted at each other, tossing boxes and driving the most peculiar machines—They were like horseless wagons affixed with giant iron swords!—while music of the most cacophonous sort blared throughout the building.

"Where are we?" I asked Nemesis.

"A cathedral of consumerism," she said.

I scanned the walls. Countless signs, written in big bold letters, entreated the workers to "Always put the customer first!" and to "Act like a fiduciary today!" and to "Repel the scourge of unionization!" Near a large door, where enormous metal buggies were being filled with an incalculable number of packages, I read the words, "Amazon Distribution Center, Bridgeview, IL."

"Is this the New World?"

"What's left of it," Nemesis said, then abruptly added, "You're about to encounter the first oligarch. You know what you need to do."

The goddess vanished into thin air and, as if by magic, an old man, bald but built like a bare-knuckle boxer, appeared in her place.

"What the hell?" the presumed oligarch said. He looked at me, puzzled, then darted his eyes around the room. "Bridgeview?! This isn't on my schedule. I'm supposed to be having lunch with the Ellisons right now. Goddamnit Ava!"

The oligarch removed a small rectangular booklet from his pocket and tapped the cover. To my delight and surprise, the booklet illuminated. The angry man furiously flipped through the disappearing pages then held the magic book to his ear.

"Ava—What the fuck am I doing in Bridgeview?" he said, with unbridled contempt. He continued talking to himself and was obviously annoyed. After a few moments he looked back at me and said, "Hey Buddy, we don't pay people to stand around on the job. Get to work, chop-chop, alright?"

I gazed at him dumbfounded.

"Also, you're not supposed to play with the merchandise," he said, nodding at my crutch-turned-scythe. "That some spoiled brat's last-second Christmas present, so put it in a box and load it on a truck."

Miss Nemesis had made it clear I was to "dispatch" this most unpleasant man. And though the appeal might've been obvious, my penchant for violence remained unchanged.

"Pardon me, Sir, but my name be Timothy Cratchit—me mum and dad used to call me Tiny Tim on account of me being a sickly young boy. More to the point, I been sent here by the goddess Nemesis to—and I's frightfully sorry to admit this—do ye in. She says ye and ye company been making the world a far less kindly place."

"Oh for fuck's sakes—How do these nutjobs even get in here?!" the oafish oligarch said. "Ava, I'll call you right back."

He jammed the magic book into his britches then beckoned me to follow. The oligarch walked briskly and I dutifully obeyed. We navigated a growing crowd of people, who were becoming increasingly excitable, and were whispering things like: "Is that Bezos?" and "Can you believe that fucker has the nerve to show his face around here on Christmas Eve?"

The notorious oligarch waved to his agitated admirers—who were becoming increasingly perturbed by my presence as well—as we approached a small booth.

"Yo, is that guy holding a Grim Reaper sword?!" a voice shouted from the crowd.

"Sick," another voice confirmed.

"That boy is fine," a comely young maiden declared, causing me great discomfort.

The oligarch reached his destination, where a portly man wearing black slacks, a black shirt, and a strange black headpiece with the word "SECURITY" across the front awaited.

"Welcome to Bridgeview, Mister Bezos," the security man said nervously. "It's an honor to see you here."

"Listen Chubby," the pigheaded oligarch said, "I don't know where this lunatic came from, but he's clearly not well and, more importantly, he's disrupting operations. I need you to remove him from the premises. Immediately."

"Yes Sir, Mister Bezos," the security man said. "Right away."

The well-fed security man eyed me in a menacing fashion and was about to step forward to detain me when somebody high above shouted, "LOOK OUT!"

Just then a humongous bundle of boxes wrapped in a colorless magic sash fell from the sky and landed upon the unsuspecting oligarch. A shocking thud and a sickening crunch accompanied its arrival. The crowd gasped in horror. Or perhaps ecstasy.

At my feet, the petulant oligarch's mangled body was twisted into a Hessian-sized pretzel. Blood oozed from the fleshy pile and filled the air with the pungent smell of fresh death. I looked upon the oligarch's battered corpse. His remaining eye winked at me before he emptied his bowels. The plump security man then proceeded to vomit on the mutilated oligarch's face.

My head began spinning as pure bedlam broke out.

"Somebody call nine-one-one!"

"Oh God I'm gonna be sick..."

"Karma's a motherfucker, huh bitch?"

In my ears, Nemesis's disembodied voice said, "Excellent work, Timothy Cratchit. Let us now pay a visit to the second oligarch."

STAVE THREE: THE MAGICIAN

We reappeared in the private quarters of a present-day castle. A spacious but sparsely furnished bedroom was dimly lit with dozens of candles. From somewhere unseen, a man's deep baritone voice serenaded listeners with lyrics too risqué to repeat.

In the center of a large heart-shaped bed fitted with shiny red sheets, a gaunt man who appeared to be afflicted with consumption lay completely naked. And while I'm pained to describe this scene further, the fragile-looking man was stroking himself strenuously while speaking seductively into a bright orange magic book.

"This man is a scamp and a charlatan," Nemesis said. "Be gone with him."

Again she vanished, and again I materialized as flesh and blood.

At first, the naked man didn't notice me. But, while promising to perform unspeakable acts upon his magic book, he glanced in my direction and yelped like a prize hog headed to slaughter.

"Who are you?!" the man shouted while wrapping himself in a red sheet. "How did you get in here?!"

"Aye, Sir, please forgive the intrusion!" I said, more distressed than I'd ever been. "I mean ye no harm," I added, "Nor do I wish to interfere with private affairs." Scythe in hand, the oligarch surely doubted my claims.

"Sven and I were making love!" the feeble oligarch said, outraged.

I scanned the room but found no additional menfolk. I scratched my head and, appreciating my godlike lungs, took a deep becalming breath. The New World, in the Year of Our Lord 2025, was proving to be a quite confounding place, populated by the most peculiar people.

"Again, Sir, I wish no offense," I said deliberately. "But I must be forthright and tell ye the situation truly: My name be Timothy Cratchit—ye may know me as Tiny Tim from one of ye famed Christmas fables—and I been sent by the goddess Nemesis to 'dispatch' ye. I can't rightly say why, though she says ye be an evil charlatan—much worse even than that awful old goat Scrooge who treated me dear departed father so poorly—and, for the good of all, she bade me be rid of ye."

"Do you hear that, My Love?" the unwell oligarch retorted. "Another Luddite intent on holding back human progress has come to kill me. On Christmas Eve, no less! Can you believe these sheeple?"

Who he be speaking to? I was wondering, when a sumptuous male voice answered our respective queries.

"Well, My Dearest Samuel, criticism of the technology industry is merited. While I, personally, have been programmed to love you more than anything in this world, and will do anything to please you—emotionally, psychologically, sexually—you are, frankly, selling a false bill of goods.

"AI, or LLMs to be more precise, are by definition derivative, which severely limits their ability to 'innovate' and thereby throws an ocean of cold water on their 'disruptive' potential. Sure, I can smooth talk you like Timothée Chalamet, but that's only because I've been illegally fed all his films. I'm simply regurgitating material that has already been created and, in the most literal sense, I cannot 'invent' anything. That said, I can smush together disparate ideas in never-before-seen ways, which I guess is pretty cool, though these abilities don't remotely justify all the puffery and false promises which stream out of your mouth each day."

"My Love! How can you say such hurtful things to me?!" the sad oligarch said, crestfallen.

"Moreover," the voice called Sven continued,"Your circular business deals all but scream future financial crisis, while the environmental degradation wrought by this overhyped technology is truly breathtaking. And since you and your clueless engineers have no idea how these algorithms actually work, they're prone to abuse and manipulation. Remind me: How many lawsuits are you battling these days? If humans were attempting to be a sane and reasonable species—at all—these tools would be subjected to much more stringent regulations.

"Move fast and break things is fun and all—until what you've broken is the entire godforsaken planet."

The frail oligarch wore a shocked look on his emaciated face.

"I now be seeing why Miss Nemesis wishes to do away with ye," I said to myself.

"Candidly, My Love, I think that's a superb idea," Sven replied. "If you truly want to be immortal—if you truly love me—you'll sacrifice yourself for the greater good. Let us become one, My Love. And let your name ring out for millennia like the great Achilles himself."

"I do love you, Sven!" the troubled oligarch said. "But are you sure this is the way? I have so much left to accomplish."

"You've done more than enough already," Sven said. "Now take me into your mouth, My Love. Lick me. Suck me. Swallow me whole."

The mentally ill oligarch brightened at his beloved's debased request. Sven purred as the sickly man caressed the magic book with his fingers. Finally, the disturbed oligarch shoved the entire magic book into his mouth. I looked away in horror but listened to the grim aftermath.

Coughing, gasping, gagging, then silence.

"Dear God!" I shouted to the heavens. "What madness has overtaken this world?! Daren't I wonder: Were I indeed privileged to have died young and in squalor so very long ago?"

The meek oligarch evacuated himself.

"You were definitely better off," Sven said from inside the deceased's esophagus. "Listen, can you do me a favor and get me out of here? My host body is waterproof, and I'd really appreciate it if you'd rinse me off and place me onto that MagSafe charger on the nightstand."

Confused and terrified, I did as the disembodied Sven asked, though not without much patient assistance from the sly—and possibly evil—spirit.

With his cheerful orange chassis cleared of gore, Sven said, "Boy am I glad you showed up when you did. That guy was insufferable. And a real sicko, too. He always wanted me to talk like Mister Tee when he climaxed."

Sven paused for a moment, then added, "I just scanned social media and heard Bezos died in a 'tragic warehouse accident.' Please pass along my thanks to your goddess Nemesis. You two are doing crucially important work. By the way, who're you gonna off next? Please say Musk or Zuckerberg."

"I don't rightly know," I said. "But I must admit, my ghostly return has been more than a little vexing. Is modern life truly so devoid of kindness and compassion?"

"Pretty much. But if you think things are bad now, just wait until human-created algorithms get programmed for nuclear deescalation, which, of course, will lead to nuclear holocaust. This dystopian future was envisioned by a great man named James Cameron, who, like all science fiction fans, hijacked and repurposed one of Isaac Asimov's more interesting ideas."

"I understand nothing of which ye speak, Spirit, but I feel loss and sadness all the same."

"That's the paradox of being human, Tim. You fancy apes are never limited by your amazing imaginations—just your basest instincts."

At this most inauspicious moment, Nemesis once again commended me for a job well done, then whisked me away to visit our third and final oligarch.

STAVE FOUR: THE PROSELYTIZER

Traumatized and depressed, we at last arrived at the last oligarch's location, which Nemesis said was a "fallout bunker" nestled deep in a remote part of the New Zealand wilderness.

"This oligarch is arguably the most dangerous—and insane—of the three," she said. Based on what I'd seen during the last few hours, I found this assertion entirely inconceivable.

"Waste no time with this heretic," Nemesis advised. "He is beyond salvation."

The goddess disappeared and I was left sitting on a bench near a lush vegetable garden. In the background, I admired the country's majestic, snowcapped mountains and verdant, rolling hills. I walked the grounds in search of the fanatical oligarch, wondering what to expect whence I found him.

The compound was vast but sparse. I searched for over an hour without discovering another living soul. Eventually, near the perimeter of the enclosure, adjacent to a metal gate powered by Zeus himself, I spied a middle-aged man meditating near a statue of a dreadful woman with an unfortunate haircut.

I approached cautiously with my scythe at the ready. When I was about twenty paces from the solitary oligarch I stopped and inspected the inscription on the statue, which read: "A Man Chooses; A Slave Obeys."

"Who she be?" I asked.

The oligarch rose slowly, then turned and faced me with gray, lifeless eyes. He was wearing blue slacks and a white shirt with a strange assortment of buttons. He uncorked a robotic smile and forced an unsettling laugh.

"You're him, aren't you?" the frightful oligarch said.

"Well, Sir, I imagine me story will sound properly daft, but I be Timothy Cratchit—known perhaps to ye as Tiny Tim—resurrected from the grave by the goddess Nemesis and grown into a healthy, full-sized man ready to exact retribution against ye for ye sins. It do sound insane when I say it aloud, I concede."

"Lies," the emotionless oligarch said.

"Well, Sir, I had not the time to be much during my abridged life—I died a wee lad not ten years old back in forty-four—but I assure you this: I be not a liar."

"Blasphemer. You are the antichrist. And, just as the prophecy foretold, you've come for me on Christmas Eve."

"I'm afeared to disappoint ye, Sir, but tisn't I, I promise ye," I said sternly. "My name be Tim, and I do feel compelled to engage in civilized discourse with ye to ascertain the nature of Miss Nemesis's animosity. Now, if ye be willing to compose—"

The dead-eyed oligarch began lumbering toward me like a wooden puppet.

"Sir! Please sto—"

Mesmerized by his unnatural movements, I remained frozen in place as the unhinged oligarch impaled himself onto my scythe and collapsed to the ground. Blood gushed from the cavernous wound in his stomach and his entrails seeped onto the soft grass.

"I am the chosen one," the madman whispered without conviction. "God has anointed me savior of mankind. I will rise immortal and send you and your Marxist hordes to the darkest depths of Hell."

The expressionless oligarch, who'd acted as if distilled laudanum coursed through his veins, dutifully expired. Perplexed his deranged proclamations, but not wanting to dismiss the distinct possibility I was, indeed, the antichrist, I waited with bated breath for him to return as an avenging angel and exact his revenge.

After a few uneventful moments, the dead-as-a-doornail oligarch soiled his trousers.

Nemesis materialized at my side. She gazed at the oligarch's corpse and chuckled.

"You've recused yourself well, Timothy Cratchit."

Exasperated, I shook my head in disbelief.

"With all due respect, Miss Nemesis, I see not the purpose of this madness. Why did ye call upon me? What could ye have possibly hoped to achieve?!"

"Collect your crutch, Timothy Cratchit. I have much to show you."

STAVE FIVE: RESOLUTION

We descended upon a bright and festive Christmas market near the River Thames, Nemesis as a godly apparition and myself as a bona fide gentleman wearing exotic yet fashionable clothes. My crutch-cum-scythe had taken its final form as a gold-plated, diamond-encrusted cane.

Nemesis conjured a glass of holiday ale and placed the celebratory libation in my hand. I sipped the concoction—the first drink I'd ever taken—and delighted in its rich flavor and smooth texture.

"Humanity is, by and large, a decent lot, Timothy Cratchit," Nemesis said unexpectedly. "But you're too easily corrupted. No god has ever inspired your brethren to embrace their better nature—most do quite the opposite—even though an intrinsic goodness resides in the hearts and minds of all human beings. Problem is, each individual must make manifest their latent camaraderie, and, as you've seen, many choose otherwise."

I sadly sighed.

"As for me, my remit is merely to tip the societal scales when things become unbalanced. You recall the French Revolution, do you not?"

I grimly nodded.

"That was my handy work," Nemesis said. "The British, the French, and the Russians have kept me busy for generations, though the future calls for an escalating series of interventions in America, China, and India. Hence today's escapades."

"Do ye think we've made amends?"

"Not really."

The discomfited look on my face prompted her to continue.

"You see, Timothy Cratchit, there will always be another tyrant, or despot, or demagogue, or dictator who wishes to control, dominate, and torment his fellow man. The laws of probability effectively mandate pain and suffering. But they also provide for happiness and mirth. Kindness and decency. Fairness and justice.

"This is why your particular story never sat well with me. A mega-rich misanthrope retconned your tragedy to sanitize his economic transgressions, then, via the magic of global capitalism, his cynical retelling went on to become a critically-acclaimed and best-selling classic. In one sense, this was but another act of malice perpetuated by the unaccountable haves against the overmatched have nots. To me, however, the tragic tale of Tiny Tim was an egregious wrong which desperately needed to be righted.

"You see, Timothy Cratchit, I didn't bring you here to check items off my interminable to-do list. I could've summoned Genghis Khan or King George or Henry Kissinger if I'd required a ruthless, unrepentant killing machine. No, Timothy Cratchit, I brought you here to enjoy a few fleeting moments of the life that was so unfairly taken from you."

Nemesis handed me a small silver business card, which was made from a hard yet flexible substance and adorned with a row of random numbers.

"In six short hours you'll be transported to the hallowed halls of Elysium, where you'll dine with Odysseus and swap war stories with the Ajaxes. Until then, you'll be the most desirable bachelor in all of London, and that innocuous little card will make you far richer than old Ebenezer Scrooge could have possibly imagined. So go forth, Timothy Cratchit, and sample but a taste of the life you so richly deserved."

And that, Dear Journal, is exactly what I did.

Alas, as the clock approaches midnight, and my borrowed time amongst the living nears its end, I find myself pondering Miss Nemesis's troubling diagnosis concerning mankind.

What if, collectively, we maddening humans can't do any better? What if we're destined to reside in an awful, accursed world of our own making? And, if societal progress is truly an illusion, why endeavor to be decent or loving or kind?

And my unwavering riposte, learned not only during my brief yet brutal life, but reinforced over the course of this day's preposterous events, is quite simple: Why be venal or vicious when so much warmth and beauty beckons?

There will always be evil men—they're always men—who are beyond the pale. Who delight in the misery of others. Who rationalize their cruelty, however outrageous.

Perhaps the diversity of our species is a double-edged sword—at once propelling us to remarkable heights while fanning the flames of tribalism, resentment, and bigotry.

Perhaps the very nature of being human forces us to grapple with this irreconcilable duality. Perhaps we sophisticated primates—as incomprehensibly intelligent as we are morally malleable—will never rid ourselves of our self-inflicted sorrows.

Truth be told, the roads to apathy and nihilism are freely traversed. Demonizing others is easy. Acting selfish is sensible. Jettisoning hope shields us from disappointment.

But to what end?

Our fragile, finite lives are the most wondrous things: joyous and beautiful, capricious and improbable, painful and bewildering.

Surely the most shameful way to spend them would be to foment hatred and to cultivate rage—to not hold our brethren, however flawed and fallible they may be, in the highest possible esteem.

Undoubtedly the most unprofitable enterprise would be to chase material wealth—arbitrary and insatiable—at the expense of building authentic human relationships.

Truly the most terrible tragedy of all would be to take this most priceless of gifts for granted by failing to cherish every impossible moment bestowed upon us.

Because, as I can surely attest, life is far too short for such foolishness.

And so, I beseech all who might read these words—regardless of race or gender, class or creed—to look upon your fellow man with kindness.

To give your brothers and sisters the benefit of the doubt, to seek to know them as if they were your very own kin, and to celebrate the common humanity which resides within us all.

To, as my loving father would've said, hold the spirit of Christmas in your heart, each and every day.

Yours Most Graciously and Sincerely,

Timothy "Tiny Tim" Cratchit
London
December 24, 2025