tagCelebrities & Fan FictionCincinnati Apocalypse Ch. 02

Cincinnati Apocalypse Ch. 02

byCal Y. Pygia©

The problem with Americans--one of the many, anyway--Giles thought, was that they had too much of everything, including too much money and too much time on their hands. What else could explain the vulgar extravagance of a place like Disneyland?

The staff at the entrance turnstiles--guards, really, the former Watcher mused--had given him a hand-painted map--well, a brochure containing a tri-fold photograph of a hand=painted map--of the gigantic amusement park, showing its division into various "lands": Opening off the Town Square, Main Street, a promenade between false-fronted buildings resembling a pristine small town's chief boulevard led, to the left, to an implausible Adventureland and, to the right, to an equally unlikely Tomorrowland. Beyond Adventureland was New Orleans Square (so, presumably the park was in Louisiana, not Anaheim, California, after all, Giles told himself) and, beyond it, Critter Country. To the right of Critter Country lay Frontierland, then Fantasyland, and, finally, the circular park came round, as it were, once more, to Tomorrowland. The vast size of the park was intimidating, even with the map in hand, especially when he had to find one person among the thousands who milled and strolled about the wide lanes, crowded the various people movers, and waited in long, serpentine lines that folded back upon themselves numerous times as the park's visitors waited their turn for the few minutes' thrill this or that attraction or ride promised to provide. Americans, Giles told himself for the hundredth time since he'd become a resident of the United States nearly a decade ago, were definitely insane, there was no doubt about it. No wonder the demons had chosen to locate not one but two (and maybe more) of the inter-dimensional portals between their realm and the Earth, the Hellmouths, in such a country.

As he sought the Chosen One, Giles' gaze met many an incredible sight. Horse-drawn streetcars and double-decker buses transported passengers through throngs of passengers as the vehicles passed streetlamps blossoming with a bouquet lights inside frosted-white globes; brick sidewalks that fronted manicured parks planted with trees, green lawns, topiary, and banks and tiers of bright flowers; and decorative Victorian mansions. Among the multitudes, Disney characters strolled the neat streets, pausing to shake hands or hug children; to wave at no one in particular and, therefore, at everyone in general; or to do a couple of shuffling dance steps. Small bands, mimes, clowns, and other performers entertained groups of patrons who paused to see them play instruments and sing, juggle, walk on stilts, or act out a few simple slapstick routines. High overhead, in the central park, the American flag waved, as if awarding its red-white-and-blue approval to the performers' antics and bestowing a patriotic blessing upon the theme park itself.

"Americans!" Giles muttered, searching the hordes of guests for a glimpse of blonde hair; a petite, slender woman wearing a halter top and a mini-skirt or blue jeans (assuming that the one he sought was wearing such an outfit at all, which was a fairly safe bet, considering her keen fashion sense); or a necklace bearing a cross.

He saw not one, but several young women who met this description. None of them was the one he sought. Giles was thankful he'd thought of a stratagem by which he might gain the assistance of strangers in locating his quarry. He just hoped it worked.

Well, he thought, there was no time like the present to find out.

Giles surveyed the crowded street, seeking a likely candidate upon whom to try his ploy.

There! he thought. Winnie the Pooh! The honey-loving bear with the head stuffed with straw or sawdust or whatever it had inside instead of brains or Intel had always struck the former librarian as being rather dull, even for a fictional character-become-a-cartoon-become-a-costumed-Disney-theme-park character. Of course, Giles was well aware, the person inside the cumbersome Pooh costume might be anything but stupid. Still, the silliness of the character was somehow encouraging, and Winnie the Pooh seemed a good mark.

Drawing himself up to his full height, Giles dodged pedestrians, buses, and trolleys, making his way across the immaculate street to the spot at which Pooh stood, surrounded by admiring children.

He bided his time, waiting for the youngsters to collect their hugs and well wishes. When the band of tots moved on, Giles, reaching into his jacket, stepped forward.

"Mr. Pooh?" he said, feeling even stupider than he must have sounded, as he drew his wallet from the pocket inside his jacket, "I'm Special Agent Wheeling, FBI." He left the flap of his wallet drop, revealing the fake badge he'd purchased at a toy store. It was a solid-looking, respectable-looking but non-descript badge that bore the letters "FBI" in its center. He was hoping the Pooh person had never seen an FBI badge before (not that he or she was seeing one now) and that the star would look convincing.

"Mmpff," Winnie the Pooh replied. "Ummffph yaumpfgh."

"What?" Giles asked.

The bear waved a paw, signaling Giles to follow before leaving the curb, walking around a nearby corner, and stepping into a narrow alley between two buildings.

Warily, Giles had followed the costumed character. He watched the bear closely as the person within the costume, after a bit of a struggle, removed the ponderous head, revealing herself as a pretty, elfin-faced redheaded woman with a pixie's hairstyle. "I'm Gail," she identified herself. Then, she translated what she'd tried to say a few moments ago, encumbered by the Winnie the Pooh costume: "What can I do for you?"

Giles showed her a photograph in his wallet. "I'm looking for this woman. Have you seen her?"

"What'd she do?"

Giles ignored her query, repeating his own question. "Have you seen her?"

Gail shook her head. "I don't see much of anything inside this outfit."

"Are you certain?" Giles asked. "Please. Take your time. Be sure. This is a matter of some urgency."

Gail shook her head. "Sorry, but I'll keep my eye out for her, not that it's likely to do much good inside this costume."

"Thanks." Giles turned to leave.

"Wait. How do I reach you, if I do see her?"

"Oh." He hadn't thought of such an eventuality. He hesitated. "Call the L. A. office of the Bureau," he answered. "Ask for me, Special Agent Wheeling."

Gail watched the tall, good-looking man in the three-piece tweed suit stride back into the crowds. Funny, she thought, how an FBI agent had a British accent. She shrugged, took a deep breath, and, hating Walt Disney and all he stood for, pulled the hot, heavy, restrictive costume head back over her own head, strolled back onto the Town Square, and was almost immediately assailed by a group of wide-eyed, shouting children who were as delighted to encounter Winnie the Pooh as Gail was disappointed to see them.

Buffy had brought a jacket with her to Disneyland so she could put it on when the temperature dropped along with the sun, but, unfortunately, she'd left it in a locker, planning to pick it up later today, in the afternoon. She could certainly use it about now. Had she had it, she could have held it in front of her, to hide the bulge of her male genitals. Now that the artificial log in which she, her boyfriend Nathan, seated behind her, and Dawn, who sat in front of them, had braved the final, 85-foot plunge down Splash Mountain's flume. As it was, it was time to disembark from the canoe, and she had nothing with which to hide her cock and balls except her purse, which was absurdly small--tiny, in fact.

Dawn's purse wasn't, though! Buffy thought. "Dawn, let me see your purse," she called to her younger sister.

"Why?" Dawn demanded.

"Just let me see it."

"No."

"Dawn!"

"Okay, okay!" Mercifully, she handed her humongous purse back, over her shoulder.

Buffy snatched it from her sister's hand. "My God! This thing weighs a ton! What do you have in here, anyway?"

"Stuff," Dawn said, her tone petulant. "My stuff."

"I don't know how you manage to lug this thing around with you all day," Buffy said. She started to lift the flap to examine the handbag's contents.

"Don't go digging through my purse," Dawn ordered. "Give it to me."

"I need it."

"For what?"

"I just do. I'll tell you later, okay?"

Dawn considered her sister's statement. She shrugged. "Okay, just don't go digging through it."

For the past several years, Dawn had been a kleptomaniac. No one knew. No one even suspected. She'd never been arrested. She'd never even been spotted by store detectives or security guards. Even here, today, she'd stolen pounds of merchandise from a dozen shops and stores along Main Street without arousing anyone's suspicions. That's why her bag was so heavy. It was full of ill-gotten gains--jewelry, novelties, souvenirs, trinkets. Stealing from Mickey Mouse was a new low, Dawn thought. It wasn't something she was proud of having done, but she couldn't help it. She was as addicted to shoplifting as gamblers were to betting against the odds, as drunks were to alcohol, and as drug addicts were to the poisons of their choice.

Dawn was intelligent, and, although she gave little conscious thought to analyzing the motives of her behavior, she understood, almost intuitively, why she was driven to steal even things for which she had little or no use. Were she the moon, instead of a girl (or a cosmic key given human form as a girl), she'd be ever eclipsed by the power and the glory that was her big sister. In every way, without needing even to bother trying, Buffy was better than Dawn. Although Dawn was pretty, Buffy was prettier. She was also stronger, faster, had more stamina, was quicker witted, funnier, more sociable--and on and on the list went. They only thing that Buffy wasn't that Dawn was, Dawn thought, was stealthier. Buffy didn't need to be sneaky very often. As a result, she wasn't too good at skulking except when she was hunting a vampire to slay. Dawn, to the contrary, was very adept at hiding, at stealth, at sneakiness, and at dishonesty. As a shoplifter, she was an amazing thief. At home, her dresser's drawers were full of testaments to her skill at stealing--proof that, in this area, at least, she excelled over Buffy.

Her need to be better than Buffy in at least one area of life was one reason that Dawn stole. Another was that stealing undermined her older sister's purpose as the Slayer. As the Chosen One, Buffy's life was dedicated to protecting people from evil. The wickedness from which Buffy protected others wasn't anything as mild as shoplifting; it encompassed more important things like rescuing people and saving the world. Nevertheless, a criminal activity, no matter how paltry, was opposed to the good that Buffy both represented and accomplished. As such, Dawn's shoplifting was a symbolic slap in the face to Buffy. It allowed Dawn to gain the upper hand, if only in secret and symbolically. To flaunt her criminality, Dawn didn't even bother to remove the price tags from the items she stole!

There was a third motive for Dawn's shoplifting, too. If and when she was caught, there'd be hell to pay, which would make Dawn the center of a lot of attention--from the outraged shopkeeper or manager, from the police, and, finally, from Buffy. More than anything, Dawn, craved her big sister's attention and love, but Buffy was always too busy saving the world to have time for Dawn and her needs. If Dawn's shoplifting sprees eventually got her into trouble with the law, though, Buffy, as her legal guardian, would have to pay attention to her. Until then, her successes proved her superiority over Buffy where furtiveness was concerned, at least, and was a jibe at Buffy's status and work as the Chosen One. Plus there was the loot itself. A girl could get a whole lot more by stealing than she could by shopping.

"Whoa! What's this!" Nathan cried.

Buffy clutched Dawn's handbag more tightly to her groin, wondering in horror if her date had spied the unsightly bulge of her male genitals in the crotch of her jeans. "Uh, what's what?" she managed to mutter.

"Isn't that Dawn?" he asked.

It was. Or, actually, it wasn't. It was a photograph of her, lifting her top to expose her breasts--what there were of them--to the camera that had flashed as the canoe had topped forward and slid down the steep drop that ended the Splash Mountain ride in a plunge down the flume and a huge splash of water. Dawn's tits were on display to the world--or, at least, to the Disneyland guests who milled about the attraction's exit.

The Slayer stared at her little sister's naked chest. The sleek orbs with their stiff, standing nipples and swollen areolas showed her that Dawn wasn't so "little" a sister as she'd been only a year or so ago. "Dawn!" Buffy cried, horrified.

Dawn grinned.

"How could you?" the Slayer demanded.

"It's easy," Dawn answered, clasping her top. "Want me to show you?"

"What's gotten into you?"

"Buffy, don't you think we should buy the picture?" Nathan asked.

"Buy it?" Buffy repeated. "Why on earth should we buy that?"

"So someone else doesn't?" he asked.

"Good thinking," Buffy admitted.

Dawn didn't know how her photograph had gotten past the Disneyland Tit Police, as, she knew from discussions with her friends, it was the theme park's policy to destroy such photographs rather than to display them for sale, and the staff was usually very strict in enforcing this policy. Maybe one of the guys in charge of the vendor's stand thought Dawn was a hottie and wanted to showcase her breasts, she reasoned--or hoped.

"How much is a photo?" Buffy asked the clerk behind the booth's counter. Naturally, to increase Buffy's mortification, the clerk was a guy, and a geeky one, at that. According to his name badge, he was Dalton.

"Ten bucks."

"I'd like to buy that one," she said, pointing in the general direction of Dawn's risqué picture.

"Which one?" Dalton asked.

"That one," Nathan intervened on Buffy's behalf. He pointed directly at the photograph of Dawn.

Dalton grinned as, turning, he spotted the picture. "Good choice," he said, taking the photograph down from the wall behind him and setting it on the countertop. "You want a frame for it?" he asked.

Looking at Dawn, Buffy replied, "No, we're going to burn it."

"Wow. That's a shame," Dalton opined. He winked at Dawn. "She has quite a rack."

Dawn's grin widened. "Thanks."

"I'll thank you to keep your gross opinions to yourself," Buffy reprimanded him, "before I speak to your supervisor, who is--let me guess--Mickey Mouse?"

After Buffy paid for the photograph, ripped it into confetti-size pieces, and discarded it in a nearby trash receptacle, Nathan said, "So, ladies, where to next?"

"The lockers," Buffy answered. "I want to get my jacket."

Nathan looked puzzled. The temperature was hovering around ninety degrees Fahrenheit. "You cold?"

"Not yet, but the sun will be going down, and--"

"Buffy, it's only three o'clock," he advised her.

"I know, but if we get it now, we won't have to get it later, and--"

Nathan laughed, shaking his head. Her reasoning made no sense, but he'd learned long ago not to point out fallacious logic to a female. "Okay," he replied, "you've convinced me."

"Can I have my purse back now?" Dawn whined. "Please?"

"No," Buffy said.

"Why not?"

Buffy kept possession of the handbag, using it to conceal the bulge of her cock and balls. "I'm not speaking to you after what you did," Buffy snapped, hoping this tactic would end her sister's complaints and inquiries.

Dawn snapped back, "Fine!"

Nathan, walking between them, was glad he'd been born a guy and was, therefore, able to live a simple life without breasts, purses, and PMS.

"Americans," Giles muttered again.

He'd employed his toy FBI badge twice more and had been sent in opposite directions by Disneyland employees who'd claimed to have seen Buffy. They could be telling the truth. Disneyland was huge, and the impulsive and spontaneous impulses of young people often pulled them this way and that, preventing them from following a more methodical approach to whatever business was at hand. However, it was also possible that the employees had seen a girl--or girls--who, to them, resembled the Slayer. There were, after all, quite a few pretty blondes in Southern California. Of course, there was a third possibility as well. The employees could have deliberately misdirected him, playing a practical joke on him. In any case, despite his impersonating an FBI agent, he was no closer to finding Buffy than he'd entered the park an hour or so ago, and it was vital that he find her, before it was too late, as, once again, the fate of the world was at stake.

An apocalypse was at hand--or, more precisely--was imminent in--of all places--Cincinnati, Ohio. Buffy's presence was needed--again.

And, here Giles was, at Disneyland, where he had about as much hope of finding Buffy as he would a conservative politician at the Democratic National Convention. Nevertheless, he told himself, he must persevere--the fate of the world and all that.

He'd given up on his impersonation of an FBI agent. His new strategy, which, he told himself, was just as lame, was to look for blondes about Buffy's size, hoping against hope that, sooner or later, he might spot her or her little sister, Dawn. "Not bloody likely," he muttered, searching the crowds for anyone who resembled the Slayer. There were a lot of young women, many of them blondes, walking this way and that along the theme park's Main Street, but none of them was The One Girl In All The World.

Buffy strode quickly through the throngs of Disneyland guests, some of whom cast angry glances in her direction as they stepped hurriedly aside to avoid her colliding with them and others of whom made rude remarks. Buffy ignored the gazes and the curses alike, concentrating solely on reaching the locker in which she'd stuffed her jacket for safekeeping and upon her keeping Dawn's purse jammed against her crotch. They'd left Splash Mountain and Critter Country far behind and were closing fast on Main Street, where the lockers were located.

"Wait up!" Nathan called.

"What's the rush?" Dawn called, straggling behind both her sister and Buffy's boyfriend. "It's not like we're going to Cincinnati."

Nathan frowned. Looking over his shoulder at the youngest of their group, he repeated, "Cincinnati?"

Dawn gave a curt nod of her head. "Cincinnati."

"Buffy?" Nathan called, "are you going to Cincinnati?"

"No!" Buffy called back, not bothering to pause or look back. The lockers were just ahead, halfway down Main Street, and nothing would keep her from them and the retrieval of her jacket. Once she'd tied the coat around her waist to make a makeshift apron of the garment, she could return Dawn's handbag to her. More importantly, she could sort out her very confused thoughts concerning her late acquisition of a cock and a pair of balls to go along with her cunt and tits. No doubt, something hellish was going on somewhere and, once again, she was the victim of it.

Had she not asked her friend, Willow the witch, to delete the memories of her previous experience as Buffy the Shemale Vampire Slayer from her mind, the Slayer would have known that her present state was caused by the recurrent side-effects of a Feral demon's nasty bite several weeks ago. Then, after having anal sex with her mentor (the price of admission to the demon dimension where Willow had been being held by the devil Baphomet), Buffy had saved the day once more, this time rescuing Willow, whom Xander's jilted bride Anya, a vengeance demon, had dispatched there to avenge her cruel treatment by the witch's best friend (Xander). It was all very complicated, but even the complexity of the bizarre adventures, during which Buffy had learned about Xander's bisexuality, had had sex with Anya and Willow (and Giles), and had been gang-taped by a horde of really nasty demons, mattered; Buffy, thanks to Willow, had no recollection of any of them. Therefore, her acquisition of male genitals had come as a complete and terrifying shock to her. She wanted answers, but, first, she wanted her jacket.

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byCal Y. Pygia© 0 comments/ 17134 views/ 4 favorites

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