A Fraudmas Carol - Part 1

STAVE 1: Grandpa's Ghost

Tracy Beancounter was blind to fraud: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The record of his ignorance was signed by the victims, the whistleblowers, the auditors, and the weary public. Tracy himself had signed it, in his own way, by his dismissive actions and indolent oversight. And Tracy’s name was good upon 'Fraud', for anything he chose to turn a blind eye to. The specter of fraud was as invisible to him as the air he breathed.

This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate.

In the midst of our nation’s capital, where the glow of screens lights up faces more than the sun and the ceaseless clatter of keyboards is the music of democracy, there stood an office building clad in white stone. Not a particularly grand building, nor a particularly old one, but a building like any other – save for the man who occupied its third-floor corner office. In this realm of bureaucracy, where the rustling of papers was the rustling of leaves in an endless forest of regulations, sat Tracy Beancounter, a man as steadfast in his convictions as the office chair he had molded to his own ample contours over the many years.

It was the eve of Christmas, a time when cheer and goodwill fluttered through the city like snowflakes, touching even the most partisan of hearts. But in Tracy's office, the only flutters were those of endless reports, the merry season nothing more than a footnote in the ledger of his daily routine.

As the office clock chimed the hour of departure and his colleagues, one by one, wrapped themselves in the warmth of festive anticipation, bidding him adieu with reticent cheer, Tracy remained. There he sat, a solitary figure against the backdrop of a city of lighted monuments to history and adorned in the spirit of the season, his attention unwavering from the glow of his computer monitor, as if the secrets of the universe were hidden within its pixels.

For Tracy, the whispers of fraud were but echoes of a fanciful imagination, the warnings and pleas of his junior, Sam Whistleblow, nothing more than the idle chatter of a mind too idle to comprehend the concrete reality of numbers and laws.

'Bah, humbug!' was Tracy's refrain to any mention of fraud, a chorus as familiar in the office as the ticking of the clock on the wall. And as the final colleague slipped out into the joyous embrace of Christmas Eve, leaving Tracy to his fortress of solitude, little did he know that this night was to be unlike any other. For as the world outside celebrated, a visitation most unexpected and spectral was about to unravel the fabric of Tracy Beancounter's steadfast reality.

This Christmas Eve was to mark the beginning of an extraordinary journey, one that would peel back the layers of indifference and reveal the criminal specters that lurked in the shadows of his denials. A journey that would commence with the arrival of a beloved relative from beyond the veil, bearing truths of forgotten promises long buried under the weight of ledgers and laws.

And so, as the night deepened its embrace upon the city, our tale of revelation and redemption begins, in the unassuming office of Tracy Beancounter, the man blind to fraud.

Tracy Beancounter, a name that whispered through the hallways like a dull echo, belonged to a man as nondescript as the office he occupied. His eyes, shielded behind round spectacles, flickered with the reflection of rows of data on his screen – data that represented people, yet felt as distant to him as the stars in the night sky. He believed in facts, figures, and the tangible threads of bureaucracy that he wove with meticulous indifference.

As the day grew darker, and the city lights danced like fireflies against the glass, Tracy continued his work, unaware that this Christmas Eve was unlike any other. For it was this night that the fabric of reality would unravel, revealing the shadows that danced just beyond his perception.

Outside, the wind whispered tales of fraud, but inside, amidst the clatter of keys, Tracy Beancounter remained oblivious to the ghosts of the past, present, and future, who were inching ever closer to his world, ready to unveil the truth hidden in the shadows of numbers and reports.

And so, our tale begins...

As the clock struck six, the office slowly emptied, leaving behind a symphony of whispered holiday wishes and the rustling of coats. But Tracy remained, anchored to his chair, unswayed by the festive cheer that seemed to color the world outside his window.

As he was about to delve deeper into his labyrinth of numbers, a young subordinate, Sam Whistleblow, approached hesitantly. "Mr. Beancounter, sir," Sam began, "Before I leave, may I ask if you've had a chance to look at the fraud report I submitted? And, uh, Merry Christmas, sir."

"Bah, humbug!" Tracy scoffed, barely glancing up. "Fraud, Sam? In our department? Nonsense. And even if there were, it's a victimless crime. Getting our millions out is far more important that protecting it, and you most certainly cannot do both. Go on, enjoy your delusions of criminals and holiday cheer."

Sam nodded, a look of disappointment crossing his face, and left with a soft "Goodnight, sir." Tracy grumbled to himself, checking the locks on his office door before settling back into his chair.

As the last echoes of holiday wishes faded into the quiet of the now-empty office, Tracy's?cellphone rang, the ironic refrains of Michael Jackson's 'Smooth Criminal' that seemed out of place in the stillness. Glancing at the screen, he saw his mother's name. With a sigh, half of irritation and half of resignation, he answered.

"Tracy, dear, are you still at the office? It's Christmas Eve! We're all waiting for you to start dinner," came his mother's voice, tinged with both hope and weariness.

"Mother, I've told you, I have too much work. Government benefits won't administer themselves," Tracy replied curtly, his eyes not leaving the computer screen.

"But it's Christmas, Tracy! It's family time," she protested, her voice soft but firm.

"Christmas or not, my responsibilities can't be put on hold. I’ll be spending the evening here, ensuring everything runs as it should," Tracy said, his tone final.

There was a pause on the other end, a silence that spoke volumes. Then, with a disappointed "Alright, dear. Take care of yourself and remember to eat something," his mother hung up.

Tracy placed the phone back on the desk, a flicker of something like regret passing through his eyes before being quickly replaced by the familiar glint of stern resolve. He turned back to his work, determined to ignore the festive spirit that seemed to permeate the world outside his office walls.

But as the night drew on, and the office grew ever quieter, the weight of his solitude began to press upon him, a harbinger of the extraordinary events that were soon to unfold. His eyes grew heavy, and soon he found himself drifting into a restless slumber at his desk.

In the deep silence of the night, the fabric of reality in Tracy's office began to unravel subtly. A cold draft swept through the room, and the faint hum of the city seemed to hush. The glow of the computer screen flickered, casting ghostly shadows. It was then that a spectral figure materialized before him – the ghost of his grandfather, a man broken by a financial investment scam that had shattered their family years ago.

"Tracy Beancounter," the ghost intoned with a voice echoing from a forgotten past. Tracy's eyes flickered then snapped open, his heart pounding in shock and disbelief. Before him stood his grandfather, a figure from a time long gone, yet vivid in Tracy's memories.

"Why do you disturb my rest, Grandpa?" Tracy stammered, his voice a blend of fear and incredulity. The ghost's eyes, deep and sorrowful, seemed to bore into Tracy's soul.

"I come with a warning, Tracy," his grandfather's ghost replied, its form shimmering in the dim light. "This Christmas Eve, you shall be visited by three spirits. Heed their lessons well, for they bear the truth you have long chosen to ignore."

Tracy, bewildered and frightened, could only stare as the ghostly figure of his grandfather began to fade, leaving behind an air of foreboding, the scent of Old Spice, and the faint echo of a time when his family's fate had been turned on the cruel wheel of fraud.

And so, as the ghost vanished, Tracy sat alone in the eerie silence, the words of his grandfather echoing in his mind. Unbeknownst to him, this was just the beginning of a journey that would unravel the fabric of his beliefs and reveal the unseen impact of his actions.

The tale of "A Fraudmas Carol" had truly begun.

'STAVE 2: The Ghost of Fraud Past' coming soon...