A Busmas Carol

In media res.

“You will be haunted,” resumed the Ghost, “by Three Bus Drivers.”
Randal’s countenance fell almost as low as the Ghost’s had done.
“Is that the chance and hope you mentioned, Dante?” he demanded, in a faltering voice.
“It is.”
“I—I think I’d rather not,” said Randal.
“Without their routes,” said the Ghost, “you cannot hope to avoid work. Expect the first to-morrow, when the bell tolls Six.”
“Couldn’t I take ’em all at once, and have it over, Dante?” hinted Randal.
“Expect the second on the next morn at the same hour. The third upon the next morn when the last stroke of Seven has ceased to vibrate. Look to see me no more for I have to close the Quick Stop; and look that, for your own sake, you remember what has passed between us despite your copious toking!”

A BUNCH OF POINTLESS AND BORING EXPOSITION.

“Before I draw nearer to that scrapheap to which you point,” said Randal, “answer me one question. Are these the tire marks of the buses that Will be, or are they oil stains of buses that May be, only?”
Still the Bus Driver pointed downward to the boneyard by which it stood.
“Men’s fares will foreshadow certain stops, to which, if persevered in, they must roll,” said Randal. “But if the fares be departed from, the stops will require an all-day pass. Say it is thus with what you show me!”
The Bus Driver was immovable as ever.
Randal crept towards it, trembling as he went; and following the finger, read upon the nameplate of the neglected bus his own name, Randal Graves.

EVEN MORE POINTLESS AND BORING EXPOSITION, THIS TIME WITH SOME MELODRAMATIC HANDWRINGING.

“Hallo!” growled Randal, in his accustomed voice that was so frightening to little children their heads rang with the horror of the mill for days, as near as he could feign it. “What do you mean by coming here at this time of day?”
“I am very sorry, sir,” said the Permanent Temp (So As To Avoid Paying Benefits). “I am behind my check-ins.”
“You are?” repeated Randal. “Yes. I think you are. Step this way, sir, if you please.”
“It’s only once a year, sir,” pleaded the Permanent Temp, appearing from the Shelf. “It shall not be repeated. I was making rather merry yesterday with one of the coeds, sir.”
“Now, I’ll tell you what, my friend,” said Randal, “I am not going to stand this sort of thing any longer. And therefore,” he continued, not exactly leaping from his stool because he was lazy and middle-aged, and giving the Permanent Temp such a dig in the clip-on tie that he staggered back into the Shelf again; “and therefore I am about to raise your salary!”
The Permanent Temp trembled, and got a little nearer to the book cart. He had a momentary idea of knocking Randal down with it, holding him, and calling to the people in the court for help and a syringe of thorazine.
“A merry Busmas, Permanent Temp!” said Randal.
And so, as Random Patron observed, Cthulhu bless Us, Every One!