The creaks in the 'Wide Variety Pub' had really begun to annoy Gentleman James Challings. It wasn't that they made him feel off balance, or that their creaks were louder than The Who in concert. No, the creaks couldn't be fixed. How had he managed to solve so many other problems, but a damn squeak had, in the divine order of things, somehow resolved to best him? He'd manage to deal with the lowlives who had once frequented the pub. Heh, that problem had been fixed easily when he started to hire security. It wasn't even that big of a dent in his profit - he did, after all, own much of the crime in the small town and its surroundings.

He had bought the pub years ago, almost a decade, in order to secure a respectable business front. It was located smack-dab in the middle of the mall, making it a bit of an eyesore on the otherwise PG-13 'hangout'. But he tried his best to limit its influence on the outside area when he could. It was somewhat ironic, though, that he made almost as much money from the pub and a few other businesses he'd bought in the years since as he did from more illicit activities. But he always managed to make sure crime never devolved into violence. He made crime safe. Most of his opponents said this was so he'd look respectable to the populace, so cops would have less of a reason to take him down, so that his small army of lawyers would have even more evidence should he be taken to court, or just because it was good for business. Maybe they were right. Challings was a complicated man. He was a crook, yes, but he had his reasons for being one.

That was when heavy breathing suddenly caught his attention. His bodyguard, Jorge Raoul Cristo, stood next to him and had his eyes transfixed on the doorway. Despite the relatively peaceful surroundings, the tall and burly man was acting as if it were a battle scene and he was escorting the elderly Challings to safety. He wouldn't have any trouble doing so - despite Challing's muscular build, Cristo would not have been out of place as a lineman in the NFL. Challings rolled his eyes at the overzealous bodyguard, restraining himself from saying "Get just one for the Gipper."

Cristo'd been working for Challings since before he came to the town. Both had previously worked for La Costra Nostra in New York, and both had several of their men with them when they left the mafia about twenty years ago. It was with that small powerbase that they went to the small town and began to invest in a bright future. They couldn't make as much money as they might in, say, Chicago or L.A., but there was relatively little competition and Challings honestly liked the people of the town. They were hospitable and likeable, for the most part. That might've been part of the reason why he tried so hard to limit crime in the city.

Challings reclined in his booth, located in the left part of the pub. It wasn't anything fancy, and it definately didn't scream 'VIP'. Hell, he wouldn't have minded if someone walked up to him and started a conversation, although Cristo definately would have. Cristo was loyal to a fault, but so were dogs - but it's that kind of thinking that leads a person down a very dangerous road, so Challings quickly got the thought out of his head. "Calm yourself, Mr. Cristo," he said, calmly. He wrattled a finger on his desk as Cristo nodded once in response.

"Challings... you bastard," came a voice from the door. Cristo and Challings rolled their eyes almost in unison as the source of the voice made its way through the front. It was practically foaming at the mouth, and that complemented the rest of its features. Was this a demon? Sent from Hell to do away with non-alcoholic beer? Or perhaps it was some half-wolf, half-human creature who only came out when Cristo's alcohol level was above zero. Wishful thinking. It was Challings' ex-wife. "Did you really think that I'd accept this?" she screamed, waving a paper around in the air as she practically charged the elderly gangster. The bartender, a kind and middle-aged man named Sal immediately looked away, wiping the bar as if he hadn't heard the ear-piercing scream.

"Let me think, Ms. deSantis," Gentleman Challings said, his tone calm and reserved, not at all the way ex-spouses speak to one another. His green eyes, meanwhile, focused on her. She was blurry. It didn't help that she was approaching at lightning speed. "You take my estate in Miami as well as full control of my ownership in several stocks on the NASD-"

"I don't want to hear that bullshit!" she said. For all her faults, his ex-wife was... she was a bitch. "I can't accept this."

"You don't have to," he responded, a wry humour to his tone. "It's the law, and I expect you to abide by it." The statement would've made him burst into laughter, had he not been face-to-face with Lucifer incarnate.

"Oh, that means a lot coming from you, Jim. I see you've still got the puppy dog with you," she scoffed, motioning to Cristo with her eyes. He narrowed his gaze and a fist clenched, although the fact that he hadn't killed her yet spoke much of his character.

"Ms. deSantis. You will leave my establishment now. Insulting me is one thing, but insulting my employees another matter entirely." He meant what he said: he cared little for his personal pride and glory. He cared far too much for other people to be a gangster, and yet, here he was. She kenw that, and she stormed off without another word. Cristo and Challings exchanged a glance as she left, and Challings let out a sigh. "My, my, I suppose next I shall be visited by the ghost of Christmas Present."

As if on que, a small and scrawny little man entered the pub. He was dressed in a trenchcoat and a fedora that obscured most of his features. Good God, the man could've been one of Capone's lackeys in "The Untouchables". He had a cigar in his mouth and his look was one of frustration mixed with doubt. Whatever was troubling him, it probably wasn't good for Challings. The pub was almost like his office - filled with people who wanted his attention for stupid things. The man finally reached the semi-VIP booth and spoke, his voice almost a whisper compared to the yodelling James Challings experienced only moments before.

"Boss," he said, and his features came into the full view of Challings. This was Mr. Leo, one of his business associates who was responsible for bringing most of the alcohol to the pub. "I've got some bad news."

Challings rolled his eyes. What else was new? Honestly, everything was bad news these days. "Yes, yes, out with it, then."

Mr. Leo told him what the bad news was. "One of me mates found it about five minutes ago and called me. I don't know 'bout you, boss, but seems like a gang killing, to me."

Challings nodded his head and took the information in slowly. There'd always been dealers in the city, but it was small time stuff, and Challings made sure that they didn't sell to kids or get involved in anything big-time. But he couldn't control everything. So one or two would always fall through the cracks and ruin it - Challings knew that. And he also knew his power was growing, and so did the lower-rung crooks. There'd be no gain in finding out more about this murder. Logically, it'd be best to let this one slide. What'd it matter? Let the 'defenders of justice' handle it.

But: it hurt his heart to hear about a kid killed over this... this shit. It was a nickname they gave marijuana, any drug, really - almost out of affection. But there was no better word to describe it than that. It was then that he knew: he couldn't let this slide. Despite his rage, he struggled to maintain his usual calm. His words carried no hint of malice, instead being spoken in a very grandfatherly manner. "Let us not jump to conclusions, Mr. Leo. If you know where this place is, please, show it to us and we shall see for ourselves, no?"

Mr. Leo cringed slightly. "But Boss, don't you think we'd risk, you know, the police? Findin' us there? And all that..."

"We always are, aren't we, Mr. Leo?" he asked, as he, Mr. Cristo, and Mr. Leo walked into the mall's parking lot and left in a black limousine for a McDonalds.

The car pulled up to the McDonald's parking lot and the three men got out, Cristo out of the driver's seat. It was a relatively nice place, but the neighbourhood around it and several teenagers who thought they were funnier than they actually are had taken their toll on the building, in equal proportions. 99 Billion Served had turned into 99 Breasts. The playground in the back of the McDonalds had several small children playing, all belonging to a married couple sitting on one of the outside table-benches. Would they be damned to suffer the same fate? "This is it," he said, in the direction of Mr. Cristo.

"What?" Cristo asked. The word was what Challings was expecting. The three of them took a look around, and took a deep breath. Any crooks in the area would recognise them immediately.

"The ghost of Chrismas Future."