Donald Hefeweizen Saves The World (pt.5)

Donald Hefeweizen strode from the building feeling accomplished and successful. He had saved the job of a fascinating young woman. At least, he assumed she was fascinating. She looked fascinating.

And he got to fire that obnoxious twit from software who actually refused to sign the Non Compete Agreement. Donald knew that was going to come back to bite him in the ass, but he’d worry about it when it happened. If it happened. God, he hoped it didn’t happen.

Nonetheless, he was mostly please with his day. He took a deep breath of steaming Dallas air, and admired a black Mercedes pulling away from the building. It’s license plate read DIAVOLO.

He shook his head. The things people would put on their cars. Perhaps the driver didn’t know it made their cars easier to recognize to criminals. And to cops. Ah well.

Hefeweizen crossed the street with a crowd and entered the parking garage on the corner, searching for his brand new, lemon yellow Smart Fortwo Pure ultra-compact. He found it where he left it, barely contained within a stall marked COMPACT.

The stall was the reason he bought the car. And the gas mileage.

Otherwise, the car was as disappointing to look at as was its owner. In exactly the opposite ways. Where the vehicle was small, Donald was large. Where it was precisely organized, Donald was disheveled. Strangely, the two belonged together.

They certainly got a lot of stares traversing the toll-roads and expressways. What neither realized was that together they had caused seven collisions. This week. And one distracted driver actually drove into his lowered garage door.

“Evening Harold!” Donald Hefeweizen called to his neighbor, “did your brakes fail?”

Harold Stevens climbed from his car, scratched his head, and glared back at Donald. “I don’t know which insurance agent to call for this one. That’s some car you’ve got there.” He continued to mumble something about damn nuisances and slammed his front door behind him.

“Nice work, D,” chuckled a high-pitched voice.

Donald looked down to find a flat-faced, solid white Persian cat sitting in what was left of a flower bed. The cat, which is what Donald insisted on calling the creature though he knew it had once been human, had muddy paws, a leaf stuck in its fur, and an attitude.

. . . to be continued.

(c) copyright 2008 Jennifer J. Knighton

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