Charles Dickens wrote A Christmas Carol as an indictment of nineteenth century industrialization and economic social classes. The following is a modern take on the tale exploring a different issue.

Yes! and the bedpost was his own. The bed was his own, the room was his own. Best and happiest of all, the Time before him was his own, to make amends in!

“All of the Bill of Rights shall be sacred to me and I will defend every free man’s right to keep and bear arms!” Scrooge repeated as he scrambled out of bed. “Oh, Jacob Marley! Heaven be praised for this! I say it on my knees, old Jacob; on my knees!”

He was so fluttered and so glowing with his good intentions, that his broken voice would scarcely answer to his call. He had been sobbing violently in his conflict with the Spirit, and his face was wet with tears.

“Everything is here,” cried Scrooge, his eyes flashing around the room and glancing in particular at the silver picture frame and his gold watch. “They are here—I am here—the shadows of the things that would have been, may be dispelled. They will be. I know they will!”

His hands were busy with his garments all this time; turning them inside out, putting them on upside down, tearing them, mislaying them, making them parties to every kind of extravagance.

“I don’t know what to do!” cried Scrooge, laughing and crying in the same breath; and making a perfect fool of himself with his stockings. “I am as light as a feather, I am as happy as an angel, I am as merry as a schoolboy. I am as giddy as a drunken man!”

He had frisked into the sitting-room, and was now standing there: perfectly winded.

“There’s the door, by which the Ghost of Jacob Marley entered!” cried Scrooge, starting off again, and going round the fireplace. “There’s the corner where the Ghost of Gun Rights Present, sat! There’s the window through which I passed into the cold night! It’s all right, it’s all true, it all happened. Ha ha ha!”

“I don’t know what day of the month it is!” said Scrooge. “I don’t know how long I’ve been among the Spirits. I don’t know anything. I’m quite a baby. Never mind. I don’t care. I’d rather be a baby! Ha ha ha!”

He dashed to the nightstand and grabbed his cellphone lifting it to look at the date.

“It’s the next morning!” said Scrooge to himself. “I haven’t missed it. The Spirits have done it all in one night. They can do anything they like. Of course they can. Of course they can. It isn’t too late to get out a retraction before today’s Senate hearing. A lot to do today!”

He dressed himself “all in his best,” and at last got out into the streets. The people were by this time pouring forth, as he had seen them with the Ghost of Gun Rights Present; and walking with his hands behind him, Scrooge regarded every one with a delighted smile.

As he walked, he saw a taxi and a thought crossed his mind. He bent down to speak to the driver and instructed him to go to the bus depot later that evening when the bus from the suburbs came in and to transport Martha Cratchit to her father’s house.

“I’ll ferry her straight to Bob Cratchit’s door!” whispered Scrooge, rubbing his hands, and splitting with a laugh. “He sha’n’t know who sends it. Johnny Carson never made such a joke as fetching her to Bob’s will be!”

The hand in which he wrote the address was not a steady one, but write it he did. The cab driver was unsure of this development, but a few crisp bills soon convinced the fellow to go along with the scheme.

Scrooge moved on and had a full morning. He went to church, and walked about the streets, and watched the people hurrying to and fro, and patted children on the head, and questioned beggars, and looked down into the kitchens of houses, and up to the windows, and found that everything could yield him pleasure. He had never dreamed that any walk—that anything—could give him so much happiness. He also went to work and dashed off a quick editorial renouncing all he had written before to be sure it was in the evening edition. In the afternoon he turned his steps towards his nephew’s house.

He passed the door a dozen times, before he had the courage to go up and knock. But he made a dash, and did it. His nephew was the one who opened the door.

“Fred,” said Scrooge and his nephew had a look of astonishment on his face.

“Why bless my soul, it’s Uncle Scrooge!” Fred exclaimed.

“It is. I have come to dinner. Will you let me in, Fred?”

Let him in! It is a mercy he didn’t shake his arm off. He was at home in five minutes. Nothing could be heartier. His niece looked just the same and the two youngsters bounced and laughed with their great-uncle and Scrooge did feel great on that day.

“Fred,” said Scrooge hours later. “Can you ever forgive a bitter old man?”

“Forgive you? But of course, Uncle! I also wanted to ask you, I’m taking the kids to the shooting range tomorrow, would you like to accompany us?”

“Like it? I’d be delighted!” beamed Scrooge.

Presently, there was a knock on the door and Fred got up to answer it.

“Fred!” cried the visitor breathlessly. “Have you heard?”

“Come in, my friend,” Fred beckoned. “I have been out of touch today. What has happened?”

“Your Uncle’s latest editorial was read in the Senate today. It may have persuaded enough Senators to vote against the assault weapon ban! Oh, hello,” he said when he noticed Scrooge sitting in the next room.

“Hello Victor,” Scrooge said, surprising the visitor as he was unaware Scrooge knew who he was. “I’ve been telling Fred how wrong I’ve been and from this day forth I am dedicated myself to the preservation of gun rights. In fact, I was hoping one of you could assist me in locating a training class so that I might learn more for I intend to apply for a concealed carry license without delay.”

They talked long into the night, but Scrooge was at his office bright and early the next morning. He sat typing away at an editorial, a fierce scowl on his face, when Bob Cratchit arrived for work. Seeing Scrooge’s demeanor, he scurried to his desk and began working.

“Cratchit, come in here,” growled Scrooge, in his accustomed voice, as near as he could feign it. Bob Cratchit got to his feet and shuffled towards the office.

“I’ve been going over the statistics you compiled yesterday,” said Scrooge solemnly. “Now, I’ll tell you what, my friend,” said Scrooge, “I am not going to stand this sort of thing any longer. And therefore,” he continued, leaping from his stool, and giving Bob such a scare that he staggered back into his desk; “and therefore I am about to raise your salary!”

Scrooge began laughing and Bob Cratchit barely knew what to make of it.

“Now, I want you to get on that computer of yours and bookmark all of the Gun Rights Examiners. Use their work to debunk all the lies and mistruths put out by the anti-gunners.”

“One more thing,” Scrooge said as he walked to the window and ripped down the ‘No Guns Allowed’ sign. “You should have the same right to self-defense to and from work as you have anywhere!”

Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more; and to Tiny Tim, who did NOT die, he was a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a boss, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or village, in the good old world. He became one of the leading voices for gun rights and fought tirelessly to preserve and expand them all. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for his own heart laughed: and that was quite enough for him. For the rest of his days, and they were plentiful, he lived by the principle that we must carry arms because we value our lives and those of our loved ones, because we will not be dealt with by force or threat of force, and do not live at the pleasure and discretion of the lawless.

Part 1: Marley's Ghost
Part 2: The First Spirit
Part 3: The Second Spirit
Part 4: The Third Spirit