Donald Hefeweizen Saves The World (pt. 16)

Bathsheba caught a flash of red to the left as it tore down the street toward the mall. Neither cops, nor angels, nor hellfire would deter it from its errand. To refurbish the rundown apartment she had assumed with the Jefferson Dunleavy identity.

That and bringing Jessica Michaellson to her senses. And back to Hell.

But, for now, it was becoming a “metro-sexual.” (Whatever that was.) And getting a hair cut. Even Hell had kept up on current styles.

Satan had saddled it with a geek extraordinaire. Not-to-worry. There was always Toni & Guy.

And that’s exactly where Officer Robertson found the demon. Getting it’s hair highlighted in a salon at a mall.

“You know, spiky highlights are so last season,” she whispered to Satan’s minion.

“I thought that was you, Candice. You are as lovely as ever. The bosom does you justice.” Jefferson/Bathsheba leered. Like a drunk at a truck stop.

“Yeah, well. You know. Sorry I had to give you a ticket. We have plans for Donald Hefeweizen and Jessica Michaellson. Can’t have you interfering.”

“You must be joking. I haven’t been shopping in three hundred years. And my manicure is even further out of date. I’m just glad to get a gate-pass for once in my un-life.”

Bathsheba was admiring its newly buffed nails, thinking it was much more fun to be a man in the 21st century. What with the nails and hair and fashion. Much more feminine than the last time it was corporeal. “I’m not really interested in what Lewis has planned. I’m just wanna have fun.”

“You always were shallow.”

“Shallow, but deadly.”

“True.” Candice examined her own nails. Bitten to the quick with torn cuticles. She loved being cop. It was exactly like delivering justice from On High. Except with more paperwork. “I think we should work together on this one. Neither of us wants her to be in charge.”

. . . to be continued.

(c) copyright 2008 Jennifer J. Knighton

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Donald Hefeweizen Saves The World (pt.15)

He’d never had dinner with a woman before.

Well, except his mom, and she didn’t count.

He’d also never had sushi. Or sake. Or used a pair of chopsticks.

Which is what he was struggling with when Jessica Michaellson walked into the restaurant. Complete with the same long legs, black skirt, and red lips she had worn in his office that afternoon.

Donald’s fists clenched, finally breaking the bamboo sticks, sending one rocketing across the room. Directly into the new diner’s left eye.

“Ow!” and “Shit!” and “Oops!” were exclaimed simultaneously by Jessica, McKinsey, and Donald. Respectively.

“Well, now you’ve done it. You just poked out the eye of the anti-Christ.” McKinsey was leaning across the table and whisper-yelling at our clumsy hero.

Then the little terrier at Jessica’s heels started to laugh. Actually laugh! Jack had rolled onto his back, kicked his little feet, and howled.

In a shadow across the street, a little blonde woman with a badge doubled over in the front seat of her patrol car. It’s not often she got to see an ugly fat man poke one of Satan’s children in its eye with a chopstick. And survive.

But that’s what happened. Donald survived. He didn’t even get to see the millisecond stream of hellfire that seared the sashimi on his plate.

He was relieved, however, not to have to eat raw tuna. Though he was surprised and confused to find grill marks on his fish.

He looked up to find McKinsey staring wide-eyed at his plate. “Double shit.” This time she was barely audible. And the expression on her face frightened Donald even more than going on a date with a girl.

And that’s when Jessica approached their table. “Donald Hefeweizen! Just the man I was hoping to see. I have a proposition for you.”

(c) copyright 2008 Jennifer J. Knighton

Donald Hefeweizen Saves The World (pt.14)

Donald scooped up his wayward feline to hastily approach the sliding window.

“Um, I’m not really here to see the vet. We were just stopping in for a minute. Uh. We just wanted to get off the street. Yeah, uh. Didn’t want the demon to get us.” Donald began. Racing along, not really paying attention to what he was saying. “Mr. Buttons said he was following us, but I thought, maybe, you know, maybe it’s just the traffic. You know how it’s always traffic out. But Doug thought we were in danger, so, um. Yeah, so, no vet for us.”

Donald wiped sweat off his forehead, wiped it on his pants, continued sweating. Profusely.

McKinsey continued beaming at the man. Then she did something else no woman had ever done before in the presence of our ugly hero. She leaned forward.

And winked. Smiled and winked.

Donald immediately flushed a shade of red that was almost purple.

“I can see them too!” McKinsey exclaimed. “Don’t worry about Officer Robinson, she’s one of the good guys.”

“Wh-wh-who?” Donald stammered.

“You know, the angel cop. She’s the only one of the force, you know. She does a great job of keeping the demon population down. This town would be Hell without her.”

“You can see them?!?!” Donald practically screeched. In his excitement, spittle flew from his lips and landed on the girl’s scrubs.

She promptly wiped it off. “Don’t worry. Happens all the time. Especially with the big, jowly dogs. So, how long have you been able to see them?”

“All my life.” Hefeweizen answered soberly.

“Me too,” she squealed. “We should get together and share notes. Hey, have you had dinner yet? I get off in about a half an hour. Do you like sushi?”

Donald’s mind raced as the lovely McKinsey babbled on. Suddenly, he felt a little less alone in the world. And a lot more scared.

(c) copyright 2008 Jennifer J. Knighton

Donald Hefeweizen Saves The World (pt.13)

On impulse, Donald jerked the car into a strip center with a twenty-four hour veterinary clinic. “Doug, play along,” Hefeweizen ordered. He grabbed the cat, climbed out of his little car, and marched into the building.

It was a dingy, dismal place. Cracking plastic chairs whose vinyl-covered stuffing was coming unstuffed. A miserable florescent light buzzed continually and flickered intermittently. The odors of dog chow and pet urine mingled to form what was probably a biohazardous gas.

Donald sat, dropped Doug/Mr. Buttons on the grimy floor. “Take a peak out the door and see if it followed us into the lot.”

“By ‘it’ I’m assuming you mean the demon?” Doug purred the question as he made a figure eight around Donald’s ankles.

“Good kitty,” he smiled down at the former-human. The not-smiling faux-cat promptly nipped the ankle closest to his very sharp teeth.

Donald squeaked.

Across the waiting room, behind a sliding frosted glass window sat a pink-cheeked girl whose cornsilk hair was pulled into a ponytail falling past her shoulders. Her name tag read “McKinsey,” firmly placing her in “Generation X.” She was cute. Everything about her was cute, from her little button nose to her butter yellow nursing scrubs covered in little kittens and puppies. And she smiled. At everyone.

Including Donald. Which was surprising, since pretty much no one ever smiled at him. They glared. They grimaced. They even, occasionally, growled. But they never smiled, or grinned, or looked at him in any way that implied pleasure.

But there she was, smiling at an ugly man whose lazy eye and thin lips were screwed up in pain, making his throbbing white pimple the centerpiece of his visage.

The she laughed. No . . . she giggled, Donald observed. No woman had ever giggled at him. But this one was.

McKinsey couldn’t contain her amusement, when she politely asked the new arrival, “sir, I’ll need you to come over here for a moment.”

. . . to be continued.

(c) copyright 2008 Jennifer J. Knighton

Donald Hefeweizen Saves The World (pt.12)

At that exact moment, Donald Hefeweizen breezed down the interstate in his lemon yellow Smart Fortwo ultra-compact. He gaped as he passed an angel writing a speeding ticket to a demon in a BMW convertible.

Since when has the Dallas PD employed angels? he wondered.

Donald had always thought it was the other way around, with Satan’s minions writing all those tickets. Though he’d never had proof.

Although he could never figure out the cop who stopped him four separate times last June. Once a week for a month. Same cop each time. Definitely OTHERWORLD-ly. Wasn’t a demon. Or a troll. Could have been a goblin. But probably a faery. With a mean streak.

Donald shook out of his reverie, taking an exit toward downtown. And a certain Anti-Christ’s loft apartment.

He didn’t see the four car pileup that resulted from yet another distracted driver. Nor did he see the demon in the BMW follow him off the highway.

But the angel/cop saw it all. And she had the license plates. For both.

“D, I think we’re being followed,” mewed the fluffy white passenger curled in the back window.

“Of course we’re being followed. We’re in one of the largest cities in the nation. There are millions of cars here. Bound to be someone going where we’re going.”

“I think it’s the BMW we passed. The one that was getting a ticket. You know, the one with the demon in it!” The cat was screeching at this point. Not a pretty sound.

“Stupid cat,” the ugly driver grumbled.

“On second thought, maybe you’re right. Maybe he’s not following us. Maybe he’s just returning to headquarters.” Mr. Button’s self-satisfied grin was enough.

Donald exhaled. Painfully. “Well, crap.”

. . . to be continued.

(c) copyright 2008 Jennifer J. Knighton

Donald Hefeweizen Saves The World (pt.11)

Jefferson Dunleavy ogled his own ass. Which was strange, considering he was straight as a ruler.

“You’re right. It’s not bad.” Frank remarked. “But, you could use a few hours on the StairMaster.”

Just what Jefferson needed. A critical goldfish.

“Are you nuts? There’s a demon running around in a Jefferson suit, and you’re focused on my ass?!?”

“Well, you were focused on your ass. I thought I’d offer some constructive criticism. A few lunges would make you a babe magnet.”

“A few lunges would make this body a babe magnet.” Both fishes’ eyes bugged out.

“Yup. She’s a demon alright.” And just as Frank was getting the hang of active conversation, the body-snatcher walked right back out the door.

The Bathsheba in Jefferson clothing flopped into its convertible BMW and sped away. Heading north toward the mall. She thought she might take her new body out for a night on the town. Get a feel for how it handles the curves.

It had been seven centuries since she’d been allowed to indulge in the carnal pleasures offered by human existence. And her assignment could wait twenty-four hours while she caught up on modern debauchery.

She suspected she could teach twenty-first century heathens a thing or two.

Bathsheba was grinning like a kid in a candy store when she saw red and blue flashing lights in the rear-view window of her convertible BMW. “Figures.”

A petite, blonde officer whose uniform was too small for her ample bosom approached the passenger side. Authoritatively.

“I’ve always loved a woman in uniform,” Bathsheba purred.

“License and proof of insurance, please.” Officer Robertson glared at the dark-haired young man with disdain. Of course he loved a woman in uniform. He’d say anything to get out of this ticket. She hated his type.

Bathsheba stared. And smiled a wicked, naughty-thoughts smile. Officer Robertson continued her glare, unabashed.

Bathsheba/Jefferson looked away first.

Victory! thought Officer Candice Robertson. I’ve got him, now.

. . . to be continued.

(c) copyright 2008 Jennifer J. Knighton

Donald Hefeweizen Saves The World (pt.10)

Jefferson Dunleavy caressed the fender of his new car. Black, sparkling, convertible. Just like he’d always wanted. He whistled as he strode into the building, contemplating the new life stretching before him. He absently climbed two flights of stairs to his apartment. He was imagining a shopping trip to the Galleria. New clothes, new shoes, new sunglasses. Designer underwear.

He chuckled and smiled to himself, unlocking the door to his apartment. He dropped his backpack in the foyer and walked Frank into what passed for his living room.

Frank saw the intruder long before Jefferson saw her. Well, hell, thought the goldfish, at least he’s already set me down.

A rumbling engine-like purr stole the air from Dunleavy’s lungs. “Frank, there’s someone behind me, isn’t there?” He was surprisingly calm for someone so completely frightened. “And this is exactly like some b-rate horror flick. If I turn around I’m dead. If I don’t turn around, I’m dead. Shit.”

He didn’t even get to see his destroyer before she struck.

He did, however, get to see her. . . er, himself?. . . afterward. Only, it all looked wrong, distorted somehow.

“Everything looks wrong from the inside of the bowl. You get used to it after a while.”

Jefferson whipped around. Well, he didn’t actually whip. He drifted around, sort of floaty. And began to roll over.

That’s when he saw Frank. Big as life. In the water beside him. With him!

“Wha. . . ” Jefferson mumbled in shock. It came out in bubbles.

“I cannot believe I am stuck in this body. In this apartment.” Bathsheba’s purring voice slowly assumed Jefferson’s baritone. “Well, at least I’ve got a budget.”

Bathsheba slowly perused the contents of the apartment. “What a disaster. Everything will have to be replaced.” She craned her neck around. “Well, at least the derrière will work.”

. . . to be continued.

(c) copyright 2008 Jennifer J. Knighton