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 And my manicure is even further out of date.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
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 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
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
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
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
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
“I won’t do it! He can’t make me!” Jessica paced across her lovely hardwood floors. Anxiety bounced off the rafters, making Jack bristle.
“Of course he can make you. He’s Satan, for crying out loud. The Deceiver, the Accuser, the Prince of the Power of the Air, Beelzebub. I could go on,” the little dog barked. “But I won’t. I'll just tell you straight out. I’m not having my soul harvested by you cutie. Not now. Not ever.”
Jessica stalked back into her kitchen, trading her protein shake for a gin and tonic. She took a huge gulp. And added more gin.
“I’m not into the whole soul harvesting thing, Jack. That’s the reason I moved to Dallas, remember?” She set down her drink on the coffee table and flopped into the overstuffed, extra-wide chair that dominated her living room. Her three-inch stiletto heels dropped to the floor with a thud, barely missing her pet’s tail.
“Listen, Jess. They’re going to come for you, you know. He’ll send someone.”
“Like he sent you?” she retorted.
Jessica remembered the day she found a little terrier curled on her welcome mat, shivering in the cold. And like a sucker, she picked him up, brought him in, and fed him. He never left.
He was like a cat that way.
Jack’s growling snapped her attention away from the memory. “I didn’t want to do it! You know that!.”
“Right. Exactly like I don’t want to become the anti-Christ. And exactly like you didn’t become my father’s spy.”
“Um. Yeah, well, about that . . . “ Jack’s voice drifted off.
Jessica’s head whipped around with supernatural speed. Her eyes like laser-beams following the sound of the animal's nails as it raced behind a low wall into the kitchen.
“I’m sorry! You don’t have to scorch my tail for it!” whined the creature.
That’s when Jessica noticed the smoking results of her laser stare. A pair of pencil-thin burns scored her pine floors, from the TV to the dining room.
“That’s just great. Just freakin’ great. My second new power today.” She grabbed her glass and knocked back the balance of her drink. “I’m going to need more gin.”
. . . to be continued.
(c) copyright 2008 Jennifer J. Knighton
Jessica Michaellson unlocked and entered her townhouse. She had no idea that four other people were discussing her future at that very moment. She was just happy she still had a job. And that she could smell lies. That made her happiest of all.
She dropped her keys on the sideboard next to the front door and walked through her entry-way into the kitchen. Pulling a protein shake from the fridge, she pondered the future.
“I think I’ll paint my office blue, and buy a few plants for the window.”
Jessica walked across the loft to a two-story window that overlooked downtown Dallas. The lights sparkled and shone in the Texas twilight.
“Maybe I’ll start investing,” she sighed. She contemplated Wall Street and the fortune she could accumulate with careful savings.
“Or maybe, you’ll harvest souls like your father,” snarled a hateful voice at her heals.
A red and white Jack Russell terrier growled at Jessica’s ankles, its fur bristling in agitation.
“Jack! What is the matter with you?!?!” Jessica squealed.
“You’re the matter with me, anti-Christ! Begone!” barked the little dog.
And that really pissed Jessica off. “Don’t you dare talk to me you mangy animal. If it wasn’t for me, you’d have been put down as the nuisance you are!”
Jack was not perturbed. “You don’t scare me, woman! I know who you are, and I’ll poop on your floor if I have to.”
“You’re lying you little twerp.” The anti-Christ was perturbed by her canine’s outburst. He had never been so volatile before. Never threatened her recovered pine-wood floors. “I can smell the licorice in the air. You lie! Ha!”
She couldn’t believe she’d just “Ha’d!” at a dog. She must be losing her mind. And what had he meant by calling her the anti-Christ?
Jack cocked his head to the side and snarled, “Jessica, you’d better sit down for this one.”
. . . to be continued.
(c) copyright 2008 Jennifer J. Knighton
“What?!?!” Donald screeched, vaulting to his feet, spilling his drink all over the mustard-yellow shag carpeting.
“You promoted the anti-Christ to Marketing Director.” Doug/Mr. Buttons was sitting with his tail wrapped around his front paws, staring directly at Donald’s face. He had a surprisingly human expression of pity on his little cat face.
Donald resumed his seat, using his tie to mop up the drink spilled across his hand and forearm. “The anti-Christ.” He whispered it. Exactly like one would whisper about a fatal illness. His eyes were wide, glazed. Shock.
Shock was not attractive on Donald Hefeweizen. Not much of anything was attractive on him, actually. Well, except for gravy stains on his shirt. Somehow, gravy stains made sense.
At that precise moment, in a black Mercedes on the other side of town, Jefferson Dunleavey screached, “what do you mean she’s the anti-Christ?!?”
Frank was having the ride of his life, having nearly been thrown from his bowl for the second time that day. If he’d know how much fun this could be, he’d have gotten Jefferson fired a lot sooner. The poor goldfish had a seriously inflated ego.
“Exactly what I said. She’s the anti-Christ, and you’ve been chosen to help save the world.”
“Me?! Save the world?!? From a leggy brunette stock broker?!? Are you crazy?!?” Jefferson’s eyes bugged out of his head as he stared at the distinguished man sitting next to him.
Lewis Phister was tall and lean with dark hair that was greying at the temples. In a tailored pin-striped suit and polished black leather shoes, he was the epitome of distinguished. It was a clever disguise.
“I am not crazy, Mr. Dunleavy. The world needs you. Will you do it? We’re prepared to offer you adequate compensation,” Phister finished his pitch as they pulled to the curb in front of Dunleavy’s complex. “You’ll find everything you need in your apartment, as well as suitable transportation in your parking lot.”
That’s when Jefferson saw it. A black BMW convertible in his usually empty space. A wide smile crept across his face. “I’ll do it.”
. . . to be continued.
(c) copyright 2008 Jennifer J. Knighton
“Good Lord, Donald, could you have found an uglier car? It’s your fault, you know. Stevens’ll sue you for sure for this one.”
“I had a great day, Mr. Buttons. Thanks for asking.” Donald turned toward the front door of his mustard-yellow 1970’s ranch-style house. He had three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a wet-bar in the living room. He was proud of his home.
His neighbors thought it was a boil on the face of their restored, gentrified neighborhood. Which is to say - they’d all repainted and installed hardwood floors and central air, while Donald had held the line on modernization. His house still had window units. And shag carpeting. Original.
Mr. Buttons, the faux-feline, scampered ahead of the man, with an impatient twitch of its tail. Glaring over is left shoulder, it mewed, “I hate it when you call me Mr. Buttons. Hate it!”
“Well, what else should I call you?”
“Doug. You should call me Doug.”
“You keep saying that. Is Mom home?” Donald shared his ranch-style house with his mother, whom he resembled in all but personality.
“She’s out with her girlfriends. Playing Bingo. But, they’ll probably go to La Bare afterward. I hope I’m that much fun when I’m her age.”
“You are her age.”
“Hmph.” With that, Mr. Buttons, aka Doug, flopped onto his side and began grooming his backside. With feeling. While staring at Hefeweizen.
Donald mumbled something sounding vaguely like “stupid cat” and proceeded down the hall into his living room. Setting down his briefcase, he tugged his tie loose, and headed for the wet-bar.
“I’m not a cat, you know.”
“You keep telling me that. Contrary to all appearances.”
“Oh, come one. You know I’m not really a cat. The same way you know that woman you promoted is not really a human.”
“How did you know about Jessica?” Donald stammered and nearly dropped his Old Fashioned. (Easy on the vermouth, extra cherries.)
“I know a lot of things Donald Hefeweizen. You should probably sit down for this one.” The faux-cat paused and took a deep breath. “Jessica Michaellson is the anti-Christ.”
. . . to be continued.
(c) copyright 2008 Jennifer J. Knighton
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
Jefferson Dunleavy couldn’t figure out why he was being escorted from the building. He had worked for Metroplex Brokerage for the past five years, and in all that time, he had never done anything wrong. Well, nothing anyone knew about anyway.
So, he had refused to sign the Non Compete Agreement that was pressed upon him by some toad in Human Resources.
“Hmph! Human Resources. Should’ve called them Hell’s Rejects. It’s closer to the truth,” he thought.
He wasn’t wrong.
Not even Hell would accept Donald Hefeweizen. At that exact moment, THE DEVIL, himself, was plotting the demise of the abominable HR Director.
Jefferson Dunleavy was still standing on the cement steps in front of his former employer, a goldfish bowl under his left arm (complete with water and a fish named Frank), a twelve-pound backpack attached to his right shoulder, and the personal contents of his cubicle in a cardboard box at his feet.
And he had now idea how he was going to fit everything on his bicycle for the ride home.
That’s when a black town-car pulled up in front of him. And stopped.
A thin, blonde woman in a red leather catsuit slinked out of the driver’s side door and prowled around to stare at Jefferson. Only she didn’t really stare. It was more the way a wild animal might consider its next meal. She licked her lips.
Jefferson shuddered. And nearly dropped Frank.
The tinted rear window slowly rolled down as a low voice called from the back seat, “Bathsheba, don’t scare the poor boy. Invite him for a ride home.”
“Yes, sir,” she purred. “Mr. Dunleavy, my employer wishes to have a word with you. And since you seem to be in need of some assistance, we’ll be happy to escort you and your belongings home. I’ll have someone see to your. . .” She sneered at his shiny blue 10-speed. “. . . conveyance. It’ll be there when we arrive.”
With that, she turned on her heel, opened the rear door and held the goldfish bowl as our supremely ignorant software programmer climbed in.
“Jefferson Dunleavy. I have a proposition for you.”
. . . to be continued.
(c) copyright 2008 Jennifer J. Knighton
That's when THE UNIVERSE paused and took a deep breath.
For the first time in his life, Donald didn't see a huge part of THE OTHERWORLD, even though she was sitting in a leather guest chair on the opposite side of his carved cherry-wood desk. Instead, he only saw a pair of long legs peaking from beneath a short black skirt. And red lips, perfect for kissing.
Provided the brown eyes above those lips could overlook the growing blemish on his chin.
Donald reminded Jessica of her father. Except without the glowing red eyes and cloven hooves. And the horns. Mr. Hefeweizen definitely didn't have horns, though the pimple was making a run for it.
She couldn't quite figure out where to look. Lazy righty eye? Left eye? So, she settled on the pimple.
Really, was there anywhere else one could be forced to look? It was like a train wreck - she didn't want to stare. She couldn't help herself.
"Promoted?! Why? I thought you were going to fire me!"
"Oho, no! Not you, dear. We're going to fire the software programmers. Seems today's dramatic losses can be attributed to a virus . . . er . . . a glitch . . . a bug . . . something. Anyway, we fired him."
"Wow!" Jessica exclaimed. She had heard a lie. she never realized how easy it was to pick up on a fallacy. It smelled like licorice. And it made her happy.
That had never happened to her before. Her father had always said he could smell a lie. Why didn't he just say they smelled like licorice? Would have make much more sense.
". . . the corner office on the third floor. It should be ready for you by Friday." Donald Hefeweizen was talking about something important.
Jessica was too busy smelling his words to hear anything he was saying.
. . . to be continued.
(c) copyright 2008 Jennifer J. Knighton
Jessica wasn't actually from Dallas. Where she was from was Hell. Which, in reality, is a lot like Dallas - hot, congested, polluted, and filled with bad drivers and women with fake bleach-blonde hair, fake nails, and fake boobs.
And that's why she liked to live there. It felt a lot like home, but was far enough away that her dad couldn't drop by unannounced. Much.
No one knew who her dad was. Well . . . everyone knew who her dad was, but they liked to pretend he didn't exist. So did she.
He was the reason she moved to Dallas and became a stock broker. Only, she was the worst stock broker ever to sit in an ergonomic chair at a carved cherry-wood desk. And today, she was about to be fired.
It was turning out to be the worst Thursday of her life. That morning, she had lost some poor sap his entire life savings, a whopping seven million dollars, while simultaneously losing the company nearly as much. No one was quite sure how that had happened. They generally blamed Jessica. And the devil.
They were right.
Her father, THE DEVIL, was trying to convince his wayward daughter to move home and take over the family business. He had arranged for her to be fired from her job, foreclosed on her house, and repossessed of her car.
What he didn't know about was Donald Hefeweizen, HR Director. And he didn't know that his well laid plans were about to be quashed. By an ugly man with a lazy right eye. And a pimple on his chin.
"Ah, Ms. Michaellson. Please have a seat. I have good news! You've been promoted!"
. . . to be continued.
(c) Copyright 2008 Jennifer J. Knighton
Donald is not an attractive man. He's not even plain. In fact, he's downright ugly. From his pasty white thighs to his lazy right eye - everything about him is ugly.
And that makes him extraordinary. And brave.
One would have to be brave to walk around looking like that. With a nose like that.
It wasn't just his appearance that was extraordinary. Donald could see The OtherWorld.
At least, that's what he called it. The OtherWorld. Capital letters. Bold print. Understrike.
THE OTHERWORLD
Ghosts, demons, pixies, fairies. Everything that one can imagine, and a lot that one can't. And he didn't even need to be inebriated. He could see THE OTHERWORLD when he was completely sober. THAT was the scary part.
Well, that and his amazing ugliness.
Our story starts on an ordinary Thursday - usually a happy day as it's almost the end of the work week. Our Donald was working at his ugly job. (Again, everything about this man was ugly. Everything. Including his job.)
Anyway . . . Donald was sitting in his ergonomic office chair, at his carved cherry-wood desk, behind a sign marked "DONALD HEFEWEIZEN, HR DIRECTOR." He was preparing a Non-Compete Agreement for some poor sap who was about to be fired. After they had signed the document.
That was when the most beautiful creature on the planet knocked on his office door.
He immediately decided to fire someone else.
Her name was Jessica Michaellson. She was long and lean. A "tall glass of water," as his grandmother would say. Everything perfect and beautiful in the universe.
Except her voice.
"What? Are you gonna fire me or what?" she bellowed in a nasal, squeaky voice. She might have been from Jersey. She said she was from Dallas.
. . . to be continued.
(c) Copyright 2008 Jennifer J. Knighton
