What the heck?

I just took a pancake to the head. What kind of city is this, flinging breakfast foods at unsuspecting, innocent petty vengence demons?

Another one, dang it! The Petty Vengence Demon Procedures Manual doesn't have anything about flying flapjacks, I'm on my own with this one. But I am pretty sure it is not the result of local public policy. PVDs are welcome everywhere. After all, we don't mess with history, alter time OR speed up harvests. The worst I can inflict is hemorrhoids.

Dodging further depredations to my hairstyle - a tasteful Gibson Girl-ish bun with whispy ringlets loose at the temples and nape - I back-track along the trajectory of the warm, fluffy projectiles.

Well, whadyaknow! A castle. If this were a cheesy horror flick, a mad scientist would be in residence. Checking my handheld Dimensional Positioning Survey® device, I get the coordinates, then call the home office. Occupant's name is Gudanov.

Boy, have I got a few ideas for you, Mr. Gudanov. I could go with a pun per day on the name. Or, something more situational.

Bother! Another near-miss. This place is so not low-carb-diet friendly.

Pancakes you got, syrup you want. I ground, center, and concentrate... heh, get it? Concentrate. Maple sap will be oozing out of the posts of the bed in the master bedroom for a week.

"Hey, Phred! Got any idea why the bird is hiding under the sink?"

"It's raining pancakes again, boss."

"Wow, no kidding. It's been a couple of years since last time, hasn't it?"

"Yup. Should I get the shovels?"

"Nah. Best to wait until it finishes up before we try digging out. But hey, free breakfast!" I run into the kitchen to get a plate.

A wooden door in the back of a dimly lit shop opens up and out I pop.

"Hey, Ms. Mann, long time, no see!"

The elderly woman who is my landlady nodded agreeably at me and kept rocking and knitting, one eye cocked at the TV.

Velvet Goldmine...again. If it wasn't Goldmine, it was "DOG: The Bounty Hunter.

I shook some unidentifiable plant detrius from my hair, spilled some purple pebbles from one shoe, amd hopped over to the couch.

"Man, it feels like AGES since I've seen you, Ms. M! How's things?"

She flicked the remote at the screen, and we both contemplated a naked Christian Bale for a second.

"Child, your room's are still there, tried to keep 'em clean and not mess nothing up too bad."

"STILL there?"

Well, crap. Goddamned interdimensional portals. They are so fucking unreliable when it rains.

"How long this time?"

She continued to work at the pink and lime striped baby bunting in her lap. (Well, I assumed it was a baby bunting, except it appeared to have 8 legs. It's better to observe than to ask directly with Mrs. M.)

"Oh, 'bout two years and a bit."

"TWO YEARS!" I shrieked. The old fingers went on calmly purling. "Two years in that glorified wormhole? Oh, I am PISSED about this. And that Gudenov guy up at Castle creepy is definitely getting a very POINTED letter about customer service."

I sniffed. "Ugh. After I bathe. Do I still have any clothes left here?"

"All of them, child. I stopped wearing corsets long about, oh, 200 years ago. Here," and she rose from her chair and pulled out a cut glass decanter with an amythest knob. "It's lavender and fairy musk and the essence of cloissione. Go run youself a nice hot bath and I'll bring you up a nice cup of tea."

Some things never change in Sang Sandre.

Most everything else does, though.

schpluttt!

Hmmm. There's a blueberry pancake on my window. And I'm on the 6th floor.

schplutt

I pull open the file drawer and find the stack of Batman Returns paper plates at the bottom. My drawer full of Things Yet To Be Mailed has a little glass log cabin filled with maple syrup.

I open the window, and wait expectantly.

I lie blissfully sunk up to my eyebrows in hot, perfumed water, enjoying the breeze coming in through the open window. I close my eyes, sigh happily and slide even further under, muscles finally going loose and happy in the heat.

My head is rudely knocked back against the porcelain by a high velocity sponge. I schreech, levitate dripping out of the water and scrabble the thing off my face thinking "Alien baby! Alien baby!"

It appears to be a pancake. I sniff cautiously.

Cinnamon. Cranberries. Pecans.

Huh. I nibble and it's pretty good. So I eat half, arrange the other half into a fragrant eye mask and slide back into my interrupted bath.

From the very sky a golden disc of breakfest food flies and smacks me square in the back, as my minion and I are out about town committing random acts of evil. I inspect the remains of this unwelcome food from the sky.

"It's a pancake sir." Explains my minion.

"I know that!" I smack my minion. "But why pancakes? Why not fire, or toads, or entrails, or something more more...."

"Ominous?"

"Right. This town needs some changes, raining pancakes from the sky simply will not do. I should threaten the mayor."

"You are the mayor sir."

"What?"

"You never actually did any paperwork when you said you withdrew from the race. You were still elected."

"Then changes will me made!"

"What about the city council sir?"

"I assure you they will come to see things my way, by one means or another. Come Deimos there is much work to do."

"Bloody Hell!"

Sgt. Chopper was sitting at the duty desk of Sang Sacre's militia headquarters when he heard the familiar Orkshire accent, and he looked up from his stack of paperwork as Captain Charpe stomped into the office.

"It's raining bloody breakfast food outside."

"Aye, sir, that explains it. I was about to inquire as to why you were using a pancake for an epaulette," Chopper said as he reached for the flapjack in question. He sniffed it, then swallowed it with a single bite. "Blueberry! Tasty, too. Oh, and that wasn't blood, sir. It was raspberry syrup."

"It's an expression, sergeant. Now, if you're quite done having your bloody breakfast, take a squad and find out who's behind it. I suggest you try the usual place first."

"Yes, sir. Castle Gudanov it is."

As I continue to look out the windows, pancakes begin the flap down from the sky. How odd - it's not pancake season is it?

Suddenly, I hear an approaching roar. A six-foot high flapjack goes rolling past the window and continues to roar as it envelops an unsuspecting resident out for a stroll in the cakes.

"Here is the paperwork, boss."

My minion hands me a stack of documents to sign. Increased police funding, good; funding for the new ministry of happiness, excellent; new greatly loosened pollution regulations, wonderful; and finally approval to buy out the Folly and turn it into a Wal-Mart Supercenter, ah priceless.

Nothing like a gang of chaos fiend demons to convince the city council to see things my way.

A lonely man in the bar finishes off his drink and starts to sit up when a hand grasps his shoulder.

"Hello friend." Says a friendly voice.

The man turns to see two perfect people. They are smartly dressed with perfect hair, perfect teeth, perfect complextion, perfect physique, warm smiles and lifeless eyes. The perfect man takes the barfly's hand in a firm but firendly handshake while the perfect woman gives him another warm smiles.

"We'd like to talk to you about how you can make our city a better and happier place." Says the perfect woman.

"Um...ok."

After a friendly talk, the lonely man now sports a button with a smiley face and the words "Ministry of Happiness" in small type and a pamplet all the quest to maintain happiness.

On the way out of the bar, he overhears someone complaining about how city hall is handling funds. That's exactly the sort of unhappiness spreading individual the nice people from the ministry wanted to know about.