It's a Wonderful Knife

by Robin Nance

Jack wishes he never existed...then gets his wish. I wrote this a good 2 years ago and the humor's a bit dated, but it's still one of my favorites. And hey, it's Christmas. *G*

IT'S A WONDERFUL KNIFE

...a Christmas Tale of how Donald Gets His Wings

**************************************

AUTHOR: Robin Nance

STORY TYPE: Christmas Parody

RATING: PG-13 (Language, Minor Violence)

SYNOPSIS: After a particularly bad day, Jack wishes that he'd never existed, then is shown by his Guardian Not-Exactly-An-Angel what the "Profiler" world would be like if his wish came true.... This story takes place somewhere toward the end of Season Two, except I've obviously warped -- dare I say "skewed?" -- the time frame a bit to coincide with Christmas.

DISCLAIMER: Yeesh, where to begin? I think I was a little sleep-deprived over the holidays and watched one too many Jimmy Stewart movies. Plus, after the pain that was "Coronation" I figured I could either hate Donald or try to find some way to bond with him -- so here goes nothing! As always, "Profiler" and its characters don't belong to me, I'm just using them for cheap thrills and I promise to put them back safely when I'm done. And I'm certainly not making any money from this little effort, so to Martha Stewart/Ken Starr/Steve Kronish, my gentle bashing is all in good fun, please don't sue me/subpoena me/write me into a bad episode -- I promise to go back to my day job now that this is out of my system! ...At least until the next inspiration hits my twisted mind...heh heh heh....

*****************************************

"I HATE this friggin' holiday!!"

Jack growled the words out loud, earning himself a few concerned stares from the package-laden passersby in the Atlanta Super-Savers Shopping Mall. He ignored them and kept walking, shivering a bit as the mall air-conditioning hit his damp coat --he'd been hiding out in an alley for hours in the middle of an ice storm and was soaked right through his clothes. He wanted to be back in his lair, in front of the fireplace holding a good stiff drink, but that was going to be difficult since at the moment he had no money, no car keys, no weapon, no disguise, no Christmas gift for Samantha and no one to blame for the whole mess but himself.

Jack being Jack, he decided to blame Christmas instead.

"Stupid holiday for stupid people to waste their stupid time and spend their stupid money and get right in my STUPID way...."

The generalized growling continued until he found a bench in the Food Court, where he settled in and glared at the long line of children and stressed parents who stood nearby waiting to talk to Santa.

The day had started well enough. He'd prepared a lovely bouquet of red roses and white poinsettias for Samantha. They were wrapped up in gold tissue paper and tied with a hand-painted bow -- Jack couldn't quite remember how he'd gotten so addicted to Martha Stewart's TV show but strangely enough, he was -- and he was planning to leave them on the doorstep of the firehouse. He'd been walking down the street, thinking smugly that no one would recognize the nondescript man in the jeans, work boots, and Kenneth Starr mask (he'd also developed a little Drudge Report addiction along the way, and anyway the Elvis look was getting a bit tired). He'd gotten as far as the sidewalk in front of the firehouse when some fool barreled into him and they both ended up sprawled in a snow bank. Jack pulled himself up, out of a pile of porno videos the other man had been carrying, and saw a profusion of wilted flowers and shredded tissue paper all over the sidewalk. Merry Christmas, Samantha!

"Nice going, you clown!!" he snarled.

"What the --" gasped a shocked, all too familiar voice, and Jack found himself looking right into the eyes of John Grant, who obviously had recognized that snarl right away.

He tried to think of something threatening and suitable for a serial killer to hiss at his foe, but settled for "Oh, crap!" mainly because he was under some pressure and because Grant was going for his gun. Thinking quickly, he grabbed a videotape up off the sidewalk and hurled it as hard as he could at the agent. Grant grunted in pain as "Nasty New York Nurses" winged him on the side of the head, and his shot went harmlessly askew. Jack seized the opportunity and took off running as fast as he could with Grant in hot, pissed-off pursuit.

And pursue Jack he did, for the next six hours, in and out of nearly every alley in Atlanta. Marcus Payton had joined in briefly; Jack overheard bits of a conversation where John was insisting he'd always known Jack Of All Trades was a Republican and Marcus had recommended that his friend get some professional help ASAP. Once Payton had abandoned the search, the local cops got in on the act, and Jack had gotten to know several dumpsters and a couple of winos a whole lot better than he'd wanted to while he waited for everyone to give up and go home. The cops lost interest once the ice storm began, but Grant had continued to comb through the alleys. He had very nearly discovered Jack hiding behind a discarded plastic Santa Claus when a shapely meter maid had ticketed his official FBI vehicle. Suddenly bored with the search, the agent had sauntered off for a little holiday flirting, and Jack was left alone in the alley, shivering in a pile of wet wrapping paper and melted-off mask and thinking that things couldn't possibly get any worse.

That was when his car keys, wallet and knife had slipped out of his pocket and rolled into the sewer, and he'd decided that it would be better to be damp and miserable indoors instead of keeping company with a plastic Santa.

So here he was, the FBI's number one nemesis -- broke, soaking wet, and stranded in the middle of a shopping mall on Christmas Eve. Deck the freakin' halls.

Voices drifted over from Santa's Castle, intruding on his ruminations.

"Ho ho ho, and have we been a good little boy this year?"

"Yeah, Santa, and I want the Commando Joe Blow-Em-Up Action Tank!"

"Well, ho ho ho, tell your mom that Super Toys is having a last-minute Super Sale, ho ho ho...."

Jack rolled his eyes in disgust. It was bad enough to have to hang out with a bunch of last-minute shoppers, but one thing he couldn't stand was screaming children, and the damn Santa line was getting longer and louder by the minute. How Samantha could actually enjoy having one of those little creatures at home every day was beyond him. He pulled out his one remaining Marlboro, happy to see that it at least was still dry and smokable.

"Hey Mister, don'cha know smoking's bad for you?"

He jumped and turned around to see a little boy dressed in a cowboy outfit. He was holding a shiny silver plastic gun and was pointing it at Jack's hand.

"Beat it, kid!" he growled and struck his one remaining dry match. An instant later he was sputtering in shock and staring at the soggy mess in his hand. Apparently he wouldn't be getting a Nicotine Fix anytime soon tonight.

"You'll thank me for that, Mister," the little boy was saying as he blew pretend smoke from his water pistol. "I just saved you a lung -- Mommy! Mommy! That man just called me a bunch of bad names!"

"You beast!!"

Jack wasn't too sure what happened next, except that he'd never seen such a large woman move so fast. He also hadn't realized that getting whacked upside the head with a Burp-Me Betty doll would hurt so much -- maybe he should've given Sharon one of those to practice with instead of a drill, he pondered as he found himself running for his life for the second time that day. Fortunately, he was able to outpace his large nasty Betty-carrying foe once she was distracted by another "Absolutely-The-Best-Sale-Ever" sign at Super Toys. He wasn't convinced that she wouldn't return with a vengeance, however (and maybe with a Diaper-Me Debbie doll to finish him off), so he wisely chose to put some rapid distance between himself and Santa's Castle.

He turned down a quiet access corridor and suddenly found himself in a large dressing room; cheap tables and chairs were scattered around and mirrors lined the walls. It seemed like a safe place to wait until the mall closed in half an hour, so Jack settled down into a discreet corner. He must have dozed off because he started at the sound of loud shuffling feet and a slamming door. Peering suspiciously out from his dark corner, he saw the mall Santa Claus stagger in and collapse on one of the chairs with a thud. He carried a brown paper bag and had apparently started in on a little after-hours holiday cheer.

"Jingle bellsh...jingle bellsh...jingle all the waaaayyy....Lousy little vulturesh with their stupid parentsh...'gimme this Santa,' 'gimme that Santa'...I know what I'd like to give you, you little...." Not bothering to even change clothes, he pulled on a big overcoat and staggered out again.

Jack snickered, and then noticed that Santa had left his bottle of Christmas spirits on the table. Curious, he tore off the brown paper bag and picked up an almost full bottle of something called Black Leather Malt Liquor. He'd never heard of it, but something about the name appealed to him; plus, he was still freezing and completely out of cigarettes and he deserved a little something.... Deciding that he'd rationalized enough, he took a cautious sip. A second later he was gagging and thinking that if he ever needed to destroy another lair this would be much cheaper than sulfuric acid and likely just as effective. Still carrying the bottle, he wandered carefully out into the mall once again.

He'd definitely been napping for a long time because the whole complex was deserted. The empty stretches of space were only dimly lighted, and the darkness plus the absence of holiday Muzak gave the place an eerie quality. His footsteps echoed loudly and he shook his head in amazement at the difference from the earlier cacophony.

"I suppose Mr. and Mrs. Atlanta Upstanding Citizen have put the kiddies to bed and are snuggling up under the mistletoe by now," Jack said aloud to himself. He'd meant to add a little sneer to the words, but somehow they came out sounding kind of pathetic and it bothered him. He took another gulp from the bottle; it didn't taste quite so bad this time. He had reached the end of the mall and the opening to its anchor store, Computer World. Grinning a little, Jack expertly picked the lock and walked in -- even though he'd had a bad day, he figured that he could at least get a little hacking done and maybe visit the 3Com section while he was here (he'd always wanted to adapt his Game to work on Palm Pilot).

He had to pass the television section on his way to the laptops, and he stopped for a minute to listen to the local news, clicking the remote every couple of seconds in the annoying manner peculiar to males of the serial killer variety and otherwise.

"...Hello downtown Atlanta, we had quite an ice storm today but it looks like things will be warming up for Christmas...." click "...Traffic all over the southern states is congested as people get ready for the holiday travel rush...." click "...still no word on the identity of the curly-permed FBI agent who tackled Independent Counsel Kenneth Starr outside his office today and accused him of doing evil things with orange electrical cord...." snicker/click "...And that's the news, folks. We'll leave you with some happy footage of families getting ready to spend a joyous Christmas with the ones they love. Happy Holidays to you and yours."

Jack stopped clicking for a minute and stared at the images flashing across the screen. Logs glowed in fireplaces and tiny lights twinkled brightly on Christmas trees; he counted ten happy couples kissing under sprigs of mistletoe and he punctuated each picture with a bigger gulp of the liquor. "Fools," he muttered to himself, but he couldn't quite walk away from the TV. A final shot showed a little blonde girl who was tucked into bed and cuddling a huge teddy bear. She had a big smile on her face and Jack almost smiled back.

"Sort of reminds me of Chloe. She certainly makes my Samantha happy. And actually she does seem nice enough, I suppose not all children are disgusting. I might even enjoy being around her once we got used to each other...."

He broke off, shaking his head in alarm. What the hell was he thinking? Evil masterminds didn't like children, for godsake! He took two healthy swigs from the bottle for good measure and stalked angrily over to the computer section – there was nothing like a little VCTF-baiting to make him feel better and take his mind off this miserable holiday from hell. He turned on a display Macintosh model and in five minutes had smugly hacked his way into the VCTF mainframe -- at least he hadn't lost his skills along with everything else today. He decided to look through the security cameras and see what strategies the hounds were working on to deal with him.

Jack hadn't expected to see a lot of activity on Christmas Eve, but he was mildly surprised to find the place locked up tight. Surely they hadn't given up on trying to capture him already. Not that there was a remote chance of their ever succeeding, mind you, but a little healthy competition was enjoyable -- where was everyone? He scanned through every camera in the building. George's computer was in sleep mode; the autopsy suite was locked up; Samantha's Jack Board looked untouched. Confused, he hacked into the program that displayed all film footage recorded by the security cameras over the past 24 hours. He laughed confidently as he took another drink – there'd probably been a flurry of frenzied activity in the place before they'd realized once again that he was too intelligent to ever catch. He double-clicked, the little Mac whirred loudly and said flurry was displayed onscreen.

Only it wasn't quite the flurry he'd expected. In fact it wasn't a flurry at all -- it was a party.

A huge lop-sided tree festooned in lights and bows was set up beside the conference table, which had been turned into a makeshift buffet station. Samantha was standing beside the tree, holding a cup of punch and trying to lead everyone in an off-key chorus of "Jingle Bell Rock" while Bailey smoked a cigar and George inhaled several platefuls of smoked salmon without breaking a sweat. Grace and Marcus had obviously made a couple of trips to the punchbowl themselves and were trying to tango to "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree." Even family members and friends had gotten in on the act, Jack realized with a pang -- Angel and Frances had managed to corner John under some mistletoe while Chloe and Denzel chased each other around the table. The audio left a little bit to be desired, but he was pretty sure that among all the snippets of conversation that included "presents," "holidays," "eggnog," "vacation" and even "Kenneth Starr," he couldn't detect a single "Jack."

"But my Game -- how about -- what about -- ME ??" For the first time in his life, Jack was completely at a loss for words.

He fast-forwarded and watched in disbelief as the happy little group disbanded, hurling "Happy Holidays" and "Merry Christmas" around like all the mayhem he'd caused didn't even matter. And in fact, he began to realize, on this particular day it didn't. He was as good as nonexistent today -- one stupid tree and some spiked punch thrown into the mix and he was totally ignored. And they'd been having fun without him. He'd always considered himself the glue that held the team together -- without his meddling and his tormenting them with his Game he figured they'd have absolutely nothing in common. But apparently he wasn't even...needed anymore.

Jack drained the rest of the bottle and pushed the computer away. His intellect had always served him well before and there had to be a logical explanation for all of it. He tried to pace, but after so much boozing his pace resembled more of a Santa-esque stagger.

"OK, I can correct this, I've had tougher problems before. I just have to focus, this holiday crap is affecting me, that'sh -- that's all. I'll get a bigger knife and I'll grow better roses, tons of them this time. Screw the orange cord, I'll use Christmas tinsel from now on, that'll teach them to ignore me! And Samantha will realize she needs me and next party I'll be the guest of honor and -- oh, who the hell am I kidding???"

He stopped cold, staring at his reflection in the Mac's monitor. "You're a has-been, that's the pathetic truth!" he slurred at himself, pointing an unsteady finger at the reflection. "Master of the Game my ass -- you couldn't even mastermind Samantha's Christmas present. They don't need you, they wouldn't even miss you. In fact Samantha would be better off without you...."

The realization made him stagger even more than all the alcohol had. Nobody cared anymore. The team that had bonded because of him was well past needing him. Nobody was losing any sleep, or party time for that matter, over anything he did -- not when they had their homes and their families and their trimmed trees waiting for them. He wasn't even Samantha's romantic nemesis anymore, he pondered as his heart lurched -- he was more like a nuisance. A nuisance who, even if he hadn't lost his house keys, had nothing to go home to anyway, no tree or presents or mistletoe or anyone to share that stuff with -- all he had was a Macintosh. Some life he had; it was pathetic. He was pathetic.

Jack looked around bitterly at the computers; then his gaze traveled up. And up, and up – and up some more, to the glass bridge on the top floor that led out to a balcony and the roof. The clarity was sudden and startling; he knew what he had to do. Squaring his shoulders, he managed to stagger to the elevators. Then, arriving at the top floor, he mustered as much dignity as anyone with a liver-full of Black Leather Malt Liquor could possibly do, crossed the bridge, climbed out onto the balcony and approached the edge of the roof.

"Sorry Samantha, but this is probably the best present I could ever give you anyway...."

Jack stared blankly at the flickering lights far below him. Oddly enough, his clothes had finally dried out and he was quite warm. In fact, he was primed for his final act. In a way, it would be a gift for them all. He smiled grimly as he pictured the headlines: "Cyber-Genius Jack Of All Trades Leaps to his Death from Atlanta's Premier Computer Store...." He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

"Excuse me, but aren't we going a bit heavy on the irony here?"

Jack yelped and spun around, almost falling off the ledge unintentionally before a hand that belonged to the voice's owner reached out and pulled him back.

"Who the hell are you?" he snarled, half relieved, half furious and suddenly very very sober.

"I'm the person who just saved you from having your ass spatula'd off the sidewalk on Christmas morning. The guy to whom you should be pledging eternal gratitude? But you can call me Donald."

With that, the disembodied voice stepped out of the rooftop shadows, and Jack found himself staring at a dapper little man in white tie and tails. He adjusted the red carnation in his lapel, picked off a few imaginary lint specks and then peered over at Jack with an inquisitive pair of bright blue eyes, obviously expecting profuse thank-you's from the would-be jumper. For his part, now that his heart rate had slowed down, Jack was seriously wishing for a knife, a long string of tinsel or even a Burp-Me Betty doll to rid himself of this pest.

"Eternal gratitude?" he repeated incredulously. "All you've done, you idiot, is join the long line of people who've managed to unravel every plan I've made today! What is it with this holiday? Is it the Christmas wish of the whole city of Atlanta to just get in my way?"

"You call taking a swan dive off a seven-story building a plan?" Donald chuckled, a clipped effeminate little sound that instantly set Jack's teeth on edge. "Oh, Jack, old pal o'mine, stupidity by any other name still leaves you dead." He picked at more imaginary lint.

"Listen, you little twerp, you better walk seven stories in my shoes before you --" Jack growled, and then stopped short as he realized what the other man had just said. "You -- you know who I am?"

Donald sighed. "I'm sensing hostility here. Look, Jack, I know everything about you. I was sent here to help you -- you were about to make a horrible mistake."

"My mistake, not that it's any of your concern, was that I took so long to do this. And if the VCTF sent you, tell them never mind, they won't have me to worry about anymore!" Jack turned shakily around, determined to get this over with before he could change his mind, but a loud burst of laughter from his companion made him stop in mid-turn.

"You think the VCTF sent me?" giggled Donald, wiping tears from his eyes with a spotless white silk handkerchief. "Oh, Jack, that's too funny! They have no idea who or where you are. You still have loads to teach them -- they couldn't plan their way out of a damp paper bag at this point. No, old pal, I'm employed by a greater authority than that. A...Higher Power, you might say." With that he folded his hands primly in front of him and glanced up at the heavens.

Jack followed his gaze quizzically, then fixed Donald with an annoyed, "let's-cut-the-crap" patented Jack glare. "Let me guess, you're my guardian angel, sent to convince me of the error of my ways and reform me by Christmas morning? I think you've been watching too many old movies."

"Hmm, I really can't recall any old movie that had that plot...." mused Donald. "No, Jack, I'm not technically your Guardian Angel. I'm more like your Guardian, ah, well, let's say Not-Exactly-An-Angel, but I am here to convince you that you're important and you need to stick around in this old world." He produced a pack of Marlboros from his pocket and extended it to Jack. "Here, it's a filthy disgusting habit but you seem to enjoy it, go ahead."

Still irritable but significantly happier to be exposed to a little nicotine, Jack lit up and inhaled gratefully. Donald "tsk-tsk'ed" a little as he carefully re-folded his silk hankie for the fifth time. "That is absolutely horrid, Jack, you do realize you're going to make some Oncologist quite happy one day -- although I have the strangest feeling that you've already done that...."

Jack grinned as a well-directed smoke plume curled around Donald's head and the white hankie was again hauled out to fan away the offensive air. "You're wasting your time," he commented. "My Samantha could tell you that once I make my mind up about something I'm not easily swayed." The mention of Sam's name bummed him out again and he puffed furiously for a moment. "Not that she's my Samantha anymore...."

"All right, enough!" snapped Donald. "Lord help us! Samantha this, Samantha that -- whine, whine, whine. That is quite unbecoming of a successful serial killer, Jack, and it's time to snap out of it!"

Jack was a bit startled by the vehemence in the words. "And exactly why do you care so much about what I do?" he shot back.

"Because you're my project and I need my wings by morning, dammit!"

A split second too late, Donald clapped his white-gloved hands over his mouth. His eyes were as wide as saucers and as Jack stepped closer to him the little man seemed to fold in on himself, totally mortified. "Oh crap, I guess it's too much to hope that you didn't hear that," he mumbled miserably.

"What did you just mean by that?" Jack hissed.

"Oh, criminy, I might as well just come clean," moaned Donald. "Jack, I wasn't exactly sent here by anyone...I sort of sent myself. I'm running out of time to earn a promotion and my wings, and you were obviously in need of help so here I am. Truth is, if I don't do a good deed by dawn on Christmas morning I'm going to be pigeonholed into the deadest of dead-end jobs you could imagine. I'll be subjected to the whims of my Boss for all eternity, and trust me, no whim from that man has ever been a good one!"

And they call ME crazy, Jack mused to himself. "You mean you're in trouble with the Man Upstairs?" he inquired sarcastically, elevating his eyes heavenward as Donald had done earlier.

"No, with the one Downstairs...." shuddered Donald, pointing at his feet. Jack felt a little shiver ripple up his spine -- he was pretty sure Donald wasn't referring to the Starbucks on the first floor of the mall.

"You mean you work for...." he began uncertainly.

"Yes -- Steve Kronish. At least that's what he's calling himself these days, apparently he feels 'Mephistopheles' is too old-fashioned for the Nineties and he wants things in our realm to 'lighten up a bit'...ugh, what a term!" Donald shook his head sadly. "And I'm stuck being his personal assistant."

"So why don't you quit if you're so miserable?" asked Jack, intrigued despite himself.

"And do what?" snorted Donald. "I almost made it into this realm once. I would have been a very elegant villain, you know, very well mannered and well coiffed. Except some hack psychiatrist stole my shtick, threw in a little cannibalism to boot and escaped first. Now I'd just be some second-rate wannabe, no one would take me seriously. The only way I can ever hope to move up is to get appointed to SK's Board of Directors."

"You're telling me that Hell is run by a Board of Directors?"

"Mmm-hmm, they tried to run it like Congress but it was too unorganized so they studied corporate structure at Microsoft instead. Rest assured, old pal, you'll probably be on the Board yourself one of these days -- but not yet, it's not your time. You have to stay here and help me. Otherwise, I'll be stuck as SK's water-boy forever, and that is not a pretty picture my friend, let me tell you."

He began to pace around the roof, furiously picking at invisible lint as Jack just stared. "Do you have any concept of what it's like to be around that man, twenty-four/seven? 'I need another iced latte, Donald'....'Hey, let me bounce an idea for this new show off you, Donald'.... and oh, 'Continuity in writing is highly over-rated, Donald', that's my favorite line of all! And then there's the need to maintain an 'atmosphere' where he feels his creative juices can flow. That means I have to run around like a fool providing aromatherapy and lighting candle after candle after candle. Do you have any idea how long it takes to light -- oh, never mind...."

He wound down with a sigh, stopping a few feet in front of Jack. "I have a few more hours to earn my wings by helping out someone who the current Board feels is a worthy candidate. You're the personal idol of half the guys down there, Jack, if I help you I get my wings and I'm a shoe-in for election."

Jack shook his head -- this night had taken an incredible turn for the weird and he still wasn't sure he wasn't just having a booze-induced nightmare. "Believe it or not, I wish I could help you," he offered. "I'm beginning to understand what it's like to be stuck in a dead-end position. But I'm as obsolete as you are -- no one wants a boring nemesis."

"But -- but -- you're the Master of the Game!" Donald chirped, trying to stir up some enthusiasm. "I mean, just think of it! You're the bane of the VCTF -- the relentless stalker of Sam! -- the inventor of Jill! You're Jack Of All Trades!"

"I'm the one thing I never wanted to be -- old news," Jack retorted bitterly. "Forget wishing I were dead -- it'd be better for everyone if I'd just never existed in the first place."

Donald sighed heavily. "Well, then I guess I'm just wasting my breath trying to reason with you," he murmured. "Very well, Jack, if that's the way you want it...."

"Thank you," grumbled Jack, approaching the roof's edge and relieved that he'd finally be rid of the annoying little man. "Now if you don't mind, I'd like to be alone to do this, so if you'd just give me a little privacyEEEEEEEEEEEE.....!!!"

His words ended in a howl of surprise as a pair of white-gloved hands contacted his shoulders and his Guardian Not-Exactly-An-Angel shoved him off the roof.

****************************************

Jack jumped up, out of a pile of empty computer boxes, and whirled around wildly in a full circle.

"Where the hell am I? Didn't I just --??" He patted at his body gingerly, searching for broken bones, but he didn't even have a scratch or a hair out of place. Relieved, he looked a little more closely at his surroundings. He was alone and standing at the center of a large high-ceilinged room that was filled with various computers, all of them giving off a quiet electronic humming sound and bathing him in eerie blue light from their blank screens (a nice touch, he had to admit). Hundreds of unlit white candles were scattered between the computers and on the floor.

"What is this place?" he wondered aloud as he hesitantly touched one of the computers. "If I really fell seven stories does that mean I'm..."

"Welcome, Jack!"

Jack jumped as every candle in the room instantly burst into flame with an audible "whoosh." He glared as the familiar tuxedoed figure came into view. Donald had added a black top hat to his ensemble and spread his arms wide in the manner of the perfect host.

"Don't the candles just add to the whole experience?" he enthused. "A couple weeks ago Martha did an entire episode devoted just to candle arranging, did you catch it? So sorry I wasn't here to greet you in person, Jack, but SK was on my back about freshening up his latte again and I -- aieee!!" He gurgled in alarm as Jack's hands closed around his throat.

"You -- pushed -- me -- off -- that – roof, you little insect!!" Jack snarled in his ear, punctuating each word with a tighter little squeeze. "I don't know where the hell we are or how you did this, but congratulations, you've inspired me. Who needs orange cord, let's see what I can do with my bare hands!"

"Now Jack...don't be hasty about this, old man," Donald managed to squeak out. "I swear you're going to thank me for this and one day we'll have a good laugh and -- oh, for godsake Jack, let go of me or you'll never get out of this place!"

Jack summoned up as much control as he could and released his grip -- Donald had a point. He stepped back and watched as the little man caught his breath, straightening his collar and fussing with the white bowtie. Calm down, Jack -- listen to him now, kill him later, that's the way to handle this.

"That was hardly very gentlemanly of you, Jack," Donald was huffing. "You have no idea how hard it is to find a good dry-cleaner in this place and you've got Cheetos stains all over my collar...."

"Let's try this again," Jack commented acidly. "Exactly where am I, and how do I get out of here?"

"You're in the Lobby," Donald sighed, finally straightening the tie to his satisfaction.

"The lobby of what?"

"Well, your Lobby, actually," the Guardian Something-or-Other replied. "This is the waiting area, the launch pad before we start our journey."

"And our journey would be...."

"It's the journey you wanted, Jack," Donald replied. "The very thing you were wishing for on that roof. Come on, let's begin now! Here's that way out you were browbeating me for...." He gestured for Jack to join him in front of the largest monitor in the room. In fact, it looked just like a large-screen TV, but there was a keyboard attached. Jack looked the contraption over skeptically.

"You mean they use WebTV in Hell?" he queried, tapping on the keyboard.

"Oh please, what else did you expect?" Donald shot back. "It is Hell, after all. Here we go, Jack, hold on to the keyboard!" He pushed a button. For an instant Jack heard a loud electronic sound and then everything was obliterated by blue light. He felt himself falling and spinning once again but there was nothing he could do.

"Donald you just wait, I'm going to kill youuuuu -- "

**********************************

Jack picked himself up out of the dumpster where he'd landed and shook pieces of broken drywall out of his hair -- this falling into garbage was beginning to get a little old. His scowl deepened when he noticed that his travel companion had managed to land effortlessly on his feet and was trying to stifle a giggle.

"Well, here we are!" Donald announced. "Stop Number One on your destination. Hurry up, Jack, let's go."

Snarling a little just on general principle, Jack jumped down from the dumpster and looked around at the depressing surroundings. The two men were standing in an alley that served as a nondescript entranceway for buildings that had obviously seen their better days decades ago. Cracked bricks and peeling paint covered defeated-looking hovels that bore signs advertising "Joe's Tattoos" and "Downtown Bail Bonds." The hum and honking of traffic was audible in the distance, but the immediate surroundings were absolutely lifeless. Jack reflected that his lair at its very worst resembled a Bob Vila "after" project compared with this dump.

"This is disgusting," he muttered. "Where are we now, Donald, and what does a deserted run-down alley have to do with this journey of yours?"

"Number one," Donald began in a professorial tone, "welcome to Hell's Kitchen, New York City-- it's quite a famous little neighborhood but a bit off the tourist track. Number two, this is your journey, Jack, I'm just your humble tour guide. And number three, it's not quite deserted yet -- one person is still here, toiling away on Christmas Eve." He gestured for Jack to follow him, and they approached the worst looking building at the innermost corner of the alley. A half-broken neon sign blinked pathetically, and Jack raised his eyebrows in surprise when he read the text.

"'B. Malone Private Investigation Service?'" He chuckled. "Who's this, some second-rate relative of Bailey's who couldn't make it into the FBI?"

"Why not see for ourselves?" Donald replied noncommittally.

"Oh sure, let's just break down the door and announce ourselv --"

Jack gasped as Donald propelled him forward with another annoying little shove between the shoulder blades, and they both passed right through the heavy metal door as if it were an illusion.

"What the hell --" Jack stuttered as he began to develop a churning, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Donald, how did we -- how could that -- what's going on here??"

It was Donald's turn to look irritated. "Jack, you're supposed to be a pretty intelligent fellow," he sighed impatiently. "Haven't you figured it out yet? You got your wish, my friend -- you don't exist. You were never born, so the laws of physics and gravity and such don't apply to you anymore. Not that you ever worried about obeying any particular laws when you did exist." He chuckled at his own little joke. "And since you were sure that the world would be so much better off without you, I thought I'd take you on a little tour to show you some of the more successful benefactors of your selfless decision. Come on, the office is at the end of the hallway, follow me."

Jack swallowed hard several times. Wishing for it was one thing; the reality of not existing was something altogether different, and a bit much to comprehend all at once. He summoned memories of the VCTF at their Having-A-Great-Time-Glad-Jack's-Not-Here party and got angry all over again. No, it IS for the best, it IS....

He followed Donald down the grimy, dimly lighted corridor toward an open door. A lop-sided sign repeated the same information as the neon one outside. Strains of an aria from "Carmen" reached their ears from beyond the door, interspersed with belches and unintelligible mumbles. He turned toward Donald, suddenly nervous.

"Who is that?"

"Go on and find out," urged Donald with another little nudge.

"Would you stop with the shoving, that is really beginning to piss me off, just give me a second here --"

"Freeze!! Gotcha, ya sunuvabitch, don't move!"

The bellow was painfully familiar. Jack's growl ended in a little squeak as he stepped through the door and right up against Bailey Malone's revolver. He froze as ordered, vainly wishing that he had a nonexistent gun concealed on his nonexistent person to combat this very real, very loaded-appearing weapon. Donald laughed harder.

"God, Jack, you're really a bundle of nerves. He can't see us. We're not here, remember?"

"But then how come he's pointing that thing right at --"

Bailey chose that moment to whirl to the right and scream the same threats and obscenities to the lamp on his desktop. As Jack struggled to keep his knees from buckling out of sheer relief, he noticed the way Bailey was staggering. The stench of cheap scotch permeated the entire room, and he walked over to a half-empty bottle that was balanced precariously on the edge of the desk. Half a dozen empties were in the wastebasket below it and Jack knelt to read the labels.

"'Black Leather Malt Scotch, only the best, aged 4 1/2 weeks.' Who are these people, the official endorsers of skid row?" He shook his head in disgust. "God, what the hell happened to Bailey? He was the one member of the VCTF who had a little intelligence besides Samantha and now look at him, he's a pathetic drunk."

"Well, cut him some slack, things got a little tough for him once the FBI let him go. They never needed a Violent Crimes Task Force because their Number One Enemy never existed, so he never made it past junior field agent. Then there was the question of his little drinking problem and his tumultuous family life -- let's just say that there were a few too many skeletons in his closet and the Bureau felt it would be better to put him discreetly out to pasture. That was several years ago. He tried a few jobs that were more conventional, but it just wasn't his style. So he decided to come back to his childhood neighborhood and be a PI."

"Doesn't seem like he's doing very well at it," Jack observed, grimacing at the water stains on the ceiling and the big stack of unpaid bills that littered one corner of the desk. For some reason the scene made him feel bad -- though not exactly someone he'd consider an equal, Bailey had been a worthy adversary and this end seemed a little less than what he deserved.

Donald brushed off a spot on the desk with his white hankie and perched gingerly at the edge. "Oh, he gets by. Once in awhile a jealous husband hires him to take some dirty pics of a cheating wife, or a landlord wants him to spy on some suspicious tenants. And despite his shortcomings, not everyone has given up on him. Speaking of which...."

He gestured to the doorway where soft footsteps could be heard. Jack fought the urge to duck behind a piece of furniture, but he made himself stand at the desk beside Donald. Bailey also heard the footsteps and he cocked his gun unsteadily once again.

"Freeze, dammit, ya dirtbag!" he slurred loudly. "Or if you're here to hire me, come on in and have a lil' drink."

"Daddy?"

"Frannie?" Bailey's face contorted in a mix of happiness and shame.

"Oh, Daddy, not again...."

Jack choked and stared when Frances Malone entered the room. As soon as he'd heard her voice he'd conjured up a rather pleasing mental image -- the girl could be whiny and irritating, but she was nice to look at. He'd expected her to be dressed in her typical sexy/trashy miniskirt and leather jacket, so he was a little unprepared for the plain grey suit and sensible shoes she was wearing. And he was totally unprepared for the black habit and the heavy silver cross at her neck.

"Frances is -- Sister Frances?" he sputtered in shock. "Frances Malone is a -- nun?!?"

Donald surveyed the scene somberly. "She's an intelligent young woman and she needed some sort of guidance that she wasn't getting at home with a drunk father and a runaway mother. She did the best she could under the circumstances. What'd you expect, Jack, that she'd be some little college girl carrying on an affair with a dangerous older man and -- whoops, different story, never mind. Shh, listen...."

Bailey had seemingly sobered up a little out of sheer embarrassment and was vainly trying to straighten his wrinkled suit. "Frannie, you shouldn' be out in this dangeroush neighborhood sho late...." He slurred despite his best efforts to speak carefully, and Jack felt himself cringing, mortified for his old enemy.

"Daddy, we missed you at Midnight Mass and I got worried. You said you'd come to the Mission and celebrate with us." Frances wrinkled her nose at the empty bottles of scotch. "Daddy, how could you? You said you'd try, you were really going to quit this time!"

"Listen kiddo, life is tough right now, that's all," Bailey responded, staggering toward her. "The holidays are always rough on me, you know that. After New Year's it'll be better, I swear --"

"You swear!? Daddy, after New Year's it'll be 'after Valentine's Day, Frannie, I'm a lonely man.' Then it'll be 'once it's spring, Frannie, it'll be warmer then.' How about once you're in the hospital again, Daddy, or arrested, or thrown out on the street again for not paying the rent?" She stabbed at the stack of bills, nearly bumping into Jack who jumped out of her way just in case she could feel him.

"You've gotta understand, Frannie, times are tough!" snapped Bailey. "I don't have that nice little convent to protect me like you do. You don't know what it's like to be in the real world, you don't have to struggle and bleed to earn a living!"

"Oh no, that's right," Frances shook her head with a sardonic smile. "I get that very generous stipend for teaching at the elementary school, and it goes right into my luxurious retirement savings. Only it's all gone now from bailing you out time and again. No more, Daddy, it ends tonight. I'm tired of being disappointed!"

"Frannie..." Bailey whined, stumbling toward her.

"I was so excited that you were coming to Mass tonight," Frances quavered, her big eyes swimming with tears. "I told all the other sisters, the Mission director, everyone. But you'd rather be here with your bottles and your FBI delusions than with your family, even on Christmas Eve. I'm tired, Daddy. I argued with Mom and Arianna already tonight, they think I'm silly to not give up on you. And I've prayed and I've asked for guidance, hoping they were wrong, but maybe I'm the one who's wrong. Maybe they're right about you after all."

At mention of the others' names Bailey's temper returned and he drew himself up as straight as he could. "All right, be that way!" he roared. "If you wanna side with those traitors, do it! Just leave and don't come back, I don't need you!" He waved the bottle of scotch around; Donald frowned as a few droplets narrowly missed his lapel. "I don't need anyone!"

Frances looked like he'd just hit her, but she squared her shoulders and tilted her chin up, defiant even as a nun. "Very well, if that's the way you want it," she replied icily, and turned to go.

"Frannie...." Bailey staggered forward and fell onto the carpet. "I'm sorry. Don't go, don't leave me. You're all I have."

"Oh, Daddy," Frances sobbed, falling to her knees beside him and embracing him as her tears fell onto his hair. "It's all right, I'll never leave you, you know that."

"I'm sorry I disappointed you on Christmas, Frannie...."

"Shh, don't say anymore, Daddy, it'll be OK, I promise. I'll make it OK."

"Enough of this! Get me out of here now, Donald!" Jack turned his back on the scene, not quite meeting Donald's inquisitive gaze.

"What's the matter, Jack? -- got a little something in your eye?"

"Shut up! I'm fine, I just want to leave. I don't -- I don't want to see any more of this. Please."

"As you wish," murmured Donald. He opened a coat-closet door and revealed the same whirling blue haze that had engulfed them from the Lobby. "Follow me, Jack -- the night is still young...."

********************************

The electric blue and the sense of falling didn't bother Jack so much the second time, possibly because he was still a little upset over witnessing the previous episode. He actually didn't focus on the journey at all, and so was mildly surprised to suddenly find himself standing in the middle of a busy urban intersection directly under a traffic light.

"Dammit!" he yelped as a bus screeched to a halt right in front of him. "Oh, Donald," he snarled at his companion -- who had once again managed a perfect landing and was sitting primly at the bus stop reading the Wall Street Journal -- "here's a thought: since you're my Guardian Pain-in-the-Ass tonight, how about paying a little more attention to what happens to me?"

"Oops, sorry about that," chirped Donald, blinking innocently. "Well, that Hell's Kitchen jaunt was a bit of a downer, wasn't it? Never fear, we're in Los Angeles now, land of dreams, where there's always a party going on -- including one down the street that you might find interesting...."

He jumped up and led the way down a very noisy and gaudy avenue. Apparently a certain crowd was determined to gets its just-this-side-of-legal jollies, Christmas Eve or not. Jack shook his head at the various signs proclaiming all of the different Live, Nude, and Depraved things for sale and tried not to blush in front of Donald -- the killing thing notwithstanding, he really was a little bit of a prude, and being locked in the mall all night was beginning to look like an appealing alternative to being here. A couple walked by hand-in-hand in matching black leather dog collars and skin-tight pink vinyl shorts and he tried not to choke.

"Now you know that's gotta chafe...." observed Donald.

"Thank you, that's more information than I need, Donald! Why are we here?"

"Well, I thought you'd like to see how a few old friends are celebrating the season. And trust me, at the Lizard Lounge 'tis the season to do anything, anytime, at any price."

They stopped in front of a gaudily painted, very noisy nightclub. A large blinking neon sign depicted a grinning cartoon lizard wearing a bikini and holding a whip. As Jack tried once again not to choke he heard two familiar voices.

"Hey Georgie, that was some slick dancing, babe. Gotta cigarette? I need a smoke break before I go out and spread a little more Christmas cheer."

"Coming right up, Angel. God, what a bunch of lousy tippers -- I usually get a fortune when I wear the whips-and-chains outfit and tonight it's pathetic!"

"Angel? George? Working here?" This time Jack just gave up and choked for a good five minutes. Looking amused, Donald stood by and hummed along with the Lounge band's rendition of "It's Raining Men" until his companion had collected himself.

"This can't be the same Angel and George," Jack muttered when he could breathe again. "I must be dreaming, this isn't real...."

He tried to reconcile Samantha's whiny roommate with the heavily made-up woman in the short leopard-print dress and boots. George was even more unbelievable. He'd apparently shunned the clean-cut preppy hacker look and had opted instead for the Shirtless Harley-Dude-Boy-Toy effect -- leather chaps, fringed bikini, chains and all.

"It is real, Jack, but of course they're not the same Angel and George," Donald replied as he leaned against the neon lizard. "These are the Angel and George who exist in a world where you don't, remember? And technically, the Lizard is a gay dance club so only George works here. Angel's more of an, um, independent contractor."

"A hooker??!"

Donald rolled his eyes. "Well, if you want to split hairs, yes. Don't look so surprised, old pal, what did you expect? Angel's art succeeded because she was able to incorporate so much angst and suffering into it -- who knew that being stalked would inspire so much creativity? Without you to threaten her and her friends, she didn't have enough angst to paint tears on a mime. She lost touch with Sam once she graduated and ended up coming to L.A. to find her dreams. Ah well, dreams change, right?"

Angel was yawning as she finished the cigarette. "My customers are being cheap tonight too," she was complaining to George. "I can't tell you how many times I've heard 'hey babe, how about a little holiday discount?'"

George snickered. "Well, sweetie, don't let them talk you into it. God, look at the time, I've gotta get ready for my next set! Merry Christmas Angel, be careful tonight!" He headed back into the club in a swirl of leather and clanking chains.

"And George?" stammered Jack. "He's intelligent, he's a great hacker -- not up to my level, of course, but -- but how did he end up like this?"

"Why would the Bureau need a hacker? They didn't have a hacker nemesis to combat. Besides, you already know that Bailey was never put in charge of anything, so nobody was there to offer poor old Georgie a helping hand to a better life. Truth is, I doubt he could even operate a calculator at this stage. And so he headed west to find his dreams, too. Odd, isn't it, how he and Angel met up anyway? Isn't the irony just sort of fun? ...Speaking of fun, George really does have a few good dance routines worked out for the holidays. I think he's about to do his Frosty the Snow-Stud number, wanna see?"

"No, I do not want to see that!!" snapped Jack, his face turning Santa Claus red. "I've seen enough of this place, isn't it time to continue the tour?"

"Very well, party pooper," grumbled Donald. "Sam's right, you're wound way too tight. OK, let's take a little side trip to Chicago...."

***************************

"Hmm, this is a bit unexpected...."

"Donald, we are locked in a linen closet. I thought the laws of physics didn't apply to us, Donald. Why are we locked in a linen closet??!"

"Just cool your jets, Jack, I have the rule-book right here, I'll have us out before you know it. Now, I wonder what chapter covers closets?...."

Jack groaned and slid down to a sitting position on the floor, trying to stretch his legs out as much as possible. He still couldn't get comfortable and he was beginning to understand why Sharon had been so mad at him for locking her up like this. His Guardian Incompetent was still muttering to himself and periodically fumbling at the door handle, and Jack had the feeling he'd be calling the closet home for some time. He sighed and rested his head in his hands.

Now that he had some forced downtime, he could review everything he'd been shown tonight, and he had to admit that the effects of his not existing were a bit different than he'd anticipated. He'd always (rather proudly) figured himself to be the nastiest, thorniest complication in everyone's life, but the People-Formerly-Known-as-the-VCTF weren't exactly having an easy time without him either. In fact, they seemed to be screwing up their lives without any help from him at all.

The side trip to Chicago had found Marcus Payton crouching in an alley and nursing a gunshot wound to his arm. He'd stumbled into a nearby run-down tenement building, where a ragged looking Grace Alvarez had accepted cash to dig the bullet out of him and apply a little rubbing alcohol and a Band-aid.

"It's all quite simple," Donald had explained. "Marcus became a crooked cop. The gang he was supposed to be investigating bought him off. Police work was a dead-end job, and the gang paid much better. Eventually, Chicago PD figured it out -- I think that bullet was from them, but you never know, maybe Marcus has outlived his usefulness to the gang boys too. He's constantly on the run, so he can't just walk into an emergency room."

"But Grace is a pathologist," Jack had protested.

"And do you know how hard it is to find a good forensics job these days? There aren't any rose-covered bodies showing up in Atlanta, Jack, remember? Times are tough, especially for a woman with four kids and a house-husband who can't find a decent job himself -- as you can see, she's had a bit more time for motherhood too, since you're not around to provide so many autopsies to distract her. Grace teaches forensic science part-time at the university, but it doesn't pay the bills for a household of six. She does what she has to, gets a little cash on the side. And now she's Marcus' personal street surgeon -- ah, there's more of that irony for you. But look at it this way, old pal, at least they don't have to worry about you."

"I think I'd be the least of this group's worries!" Jack retorted. "What a way to spend Christmas Eve -- drunk, shot, dancing in a strip club. It's worse than being locked in the mall, they're just so -- pathetic. This is ridiculous, I can't have made that much of a difference in their lives. Come on, Donald, isn't there anyone out there who's doing better because I don't exist?"

"Funny you should mention that..." grinned Donald, and he'd led the way into another swirling blue haze. And right into the locked linen closet. Jack glared up at his companion who was intently reading out of his little handbook.

"Any flashes of brilliance yet, Guardian Pain?" he growled.

"You know, Jack, I'm beginning to sense a little attitude problem," Donald remarked mildly. "If you ever hope to get anywhere with Sam you're going to have to do some serious personality work --aha, got it!" He slammed the little book shut triumphantly. "That was a nuisance -- stupid White House security system, it even extends into our realm. Come on, Jack!" He gestured once and then melted through the closet door.

"Stupid what? Donald, are you telling me we're in --" Jack scrambled to his feet and followed Donald into a hallway carpeted with the Presidential seal. "Donald, why the hell are we in the White House?"

"I believe you wanted to see if anyone benefited from your not existing," Donald replied. "Well, obviously, old pal, some folks have. Come on, a few close Presidential Friends are having a little Christmas Eve party, let's have a look." He dusted off his top hat and gestured for Jack to follow him down the hallway. Jack stepped hesitantly behind him, throwing a few nervous glances over his shoulder at the uniformed guards and Secret Service agents who dotted the hallway. Apparently they were still invisible since no one was rushing up to arrest them. He relaxed a little, relieved, and began to get interested in the opulent surroundings.

"I have to admit I never thought I'd see the inside of the White House when I did exist, much less now," he remarked. "Hey Donald, how about a little side-trip to the Rose Garden?"

"No time, Jack, the party's in full swing," Donald called over his shoulder. "Hurry up, follow me!" He stopped in front of two large pocket doors, gesturing impatiently. Jack hurried to catch up, noting the sounds of muted laughter and classical music that teased his ears from the concealed room -- it was as far away from Hell's Kitchen and the Lizard Lounge as he could imagine, and he finally began to feel reassured that he'd made the right choice for Samantha's sake. This time the two travelers melted quite easily through the doors, and Jack found himself staring up at the largest, most lavishly decorated Christmas tree he'd ever seen.

Donald smiled at Jack's awestruck expression. "It's nice to know that something can impress you, Jack," he commented. "Of course the tree was done by professionals -- the buffoon in office wouldn't know how to do any of this. In fact I think his previous trees were decorated with those little plastic ring thingies that hold six-packs together. Thank goodness Martha voted for him and was willing to whip up this little soiree...."

Jack ignored his companion's chatter and began to wander around the room, looking for familiar faces. The famous were present in full force -- he recognized senators from both political parties, some foreign dignitary types, and even a movie star or two --but all through this House, no one was stirring from the VCTF.

"Well, where is she?" he demanded as Donald walked up to him with two glasses of champagne.

"Where is who?" Donald asked with another innocent, calculated-perfectly-to-piss-Jack-off blink.

"Who do you think? Samantha! Look, I'm happy she's doing so well, it's a relief, but I just want to see her for myself and then we can end this stupid tour. So what is she -- First Lady? A senator?"

"Patience, Jack! I never said specifically that Sam was here," cautioned Donald. "I did say that some of your old pals were doing much better without you, and they're in here somewhere. Trust me, you'll know them when you hear them. Here, it is a party after all, have a drink while you wait." He thrust one of the glasses into Jack's hand.

"Wait, Donald, if we can walk through walls and people can't see us, how come we're able to drink their champagne?"

Donald grimaced and made an exasperated, strangled little sound. "Jack, you fixate way too much on the little details, has anyone ever pointed that out to you before? Here's a thought: why not just enjoy it? Believe me, in this realm and any other, Dom Perignon is far superior to Black Leather Anything."

Jack shrugged and took a sip. What the hell, it's almost Christmas. Now if I just had a cigarette....

At that instant an ear-splitting shriek shattered the tranquility, followed by a stream of disturbingly familiar giggles.

"Oh gawd, it's so beautiful!! Yes, Coop, of course I'll marry you!!"

"Hey, everyone, she said yes!"

The crowd parted, clapping and cheering politely, and Jack did an authentic spit-take as he saw Sharon Lesher and Nick Cooper, dressed to the nines and groping each other under a large sprig of mistletoe. Every few seconds Sharon would break the embrace to gaze at the ten-carat diamond on her left hand; then, squealing, she would resume a full-scale nibble assault on her fiancé's nearest ear.

Jack half-staggered up to the happy, overly demonstrative couple, his eyes glazed over with a degree of shock he hadn't known he was capable of feeling only a few hours ago. "But -- but he's dead!" he finally sputtered to no one in particular. "I saw Sharon kill Coop, I was right there -- I gave her freakin' instructions, for godsake! And she's supposed to be back in prison.... Sharon! How dare you!" he snarled suddenly at his wayward apprentice. "After all the time I spent with you, teaching you everything I know, you go off and hook up with this -- this -- boy toy!?"

Donald put a placating hand on his elbow. "You might as well calm down, Jack, she can't hear a word you're saying. Remember that you-never-existed thing? Still applies, buddy. Besides, Coop's a better match for her than you ever were, they have a sort of tacky charm together, don't you think? ...Oh dear, I wonder if he realizes his gum is stuck in her earring?"

Coop and Sharon, quite oblivious to the otherworldly discourse going on beside them, continued to cuddle and plan for the future.

"Oh, Poopie-kins, I can't wait to be Mrs. Nick Cooper!" Sharon enthused, still dividing her attention between the ring and her intended's ear.

"Neither can I," Coop responded between gum smacks. "You look so hot tonight! You're da bomb, baby -- trust me, I know."

Sharon giggled. "And you can defuse me anytime...."

Jack made a gagging sound. "Ewww, ick, I didn't need to hear that exchange!" He shuddered at a few newly created mental images that had been firmly implanted for all time. "Donald, how did this happen? Why is Nick Cooper engaged to my apprentice instead of skewered on the end of a Black and Decker Drill-O-Matic?!"

Donald wrinkled his nose as he nibbled on a miniature cheese blintz. "You know, Jack, I've been meaning to mention that home-improvement-hardware phase you went through, I hope you got it out of your system for good. It had such a -- messy quality to it that it quite disappointed me. But I see you're in no mood for constructive criticism," he amended quickly as Jack took a menacing step toward him. "Let's see, what were you asking me? Oh yes, Nick and Sharon. Well, once again you can take the credit. No Jack -- no VCTF -- no reason for Coop to ever meet up with Sam. But he did get called in to a bomb threat that was taking place at the very prison where you'd found Sharon, on the very day she was getting paroled. He defused the bomb, they ran into each other as they were both leaving the prison -- birds sang, flowers bloomed, young love was born -- you get the picture. They've been together ever since. And I must say that love has reformed Sharon Lesher considerably. She's quite the model citizen now, you know -- she's launched a campaign to eliminate pornography in all its forms. She's even coined her own personal motto -- 'Shut Down Smut.' It adorns quite a few bumper-stickers in Washington these days, she'll probably run for office on that platform."

Jack snorted skeptically. "I don't see any smut getting shut down in here -- I think they'd better be hosed off soon before they become the next attraction at the Lizard Lounge." He looked up as another thought struck him. "Okay, Donald, so Sharon and Coop got together because I never existed. I hate it, but I can buy it. Now tell me how come Coop can afford to buy Sharon that ring and take her to the White House?"

"Well, on the very day that he would have eaten that drill in Jack's World, he survived to walk into a Seven-Eleven for some gum and a lottery ticket. Turns out he was the sole winner of $20 million. That was enough for him to leave the bomb biz and make some pretty powerful friends."

Jack glared at the gum-covered lovebirds. "Great, so the entire VCTF has hit the skids but Smut Girl and Bomb Boy are doing wonderfully without me," he growled. "This isn't quite what I'd planned, Donald."

Donald grinned. "Hmm, funny how plans tend to get thwarted when one doesn't exist," he murmured. Jack opened his mouth to grumble at his Guardian Pain, but was distracted by more giggles from Sharon.

"So, honey, when should we set the date?" she purred at Coop.

"No question -- the day of luuuurrrrrve, February 14. It'll be perfect," Coop responded with a leer.

"Oh, a Valentine's wedding! It's wonderful! Poopie-kins, you're so romantic!"

"With you at my side it'll be a Happy Valentine's Day, Sweet-Cheeks!"

Jack blinked. "Oh hey, now this is too much -- he steals my apprentice and my best lines and I'm supposed to just sit back and do nothing?"

His complaints were interrupted by a flurry of activity near the pocket doors. An excited murmur ran through the crowd, and even Coop and Sharon paused in their grope-session to stare at the cadre of Secret Service agents who were assembling at the far end of the room. The tallest and most menacing of the agents stepped forward. "Ladies and gentlemen," he boomed, "please welcome the President of the United States -- "

"--and the Prez wants to party!" interrupted a voice that had taunted Jack through a dozen Atlanta alleys only that morning.

Jack grabbed Donald by the lapels and yanked him forward so they were nose to nose. "Donald, whatever you do don't tell me that's who I think it is," he stammered, not daring to look around his companion's top hat toward the President.

"Easy, Jack! Cheeto's stains and no dry cleaners in Hell, remember?" huffed Donald, breaking Jack's grip and anxiously smoothing down his jacket. "Criminy, I certainly wish you'd stop killing the messenger, my clothes can't take much more of this. You're the one who wanted it this way, not me. You made the choice not to exist and now the rest of the world is stuck with --"

"President Grant! President Grant!" A high-pitched chant arose from the center of the room and Jack watched as a bevy of smitten females rushed up to the curly-permed leader of the free world.

"Easy, ladies, don't crowd!" laughed John. "There's enough of me for all of you -- ow!" He grunted in pain as a well-directed elbow from the First Lady connected with his stomach. "I mean -- uh, I'm flattered but of course I'm not interested, I'll be spending Christmas with my lovely wife and children." He started to throw a casual arm around his wife's shoulders but stopped in mid-throw when she shot him a look that warned him he was risking amputation.

Donald chuckled. "Now she has potential -- I have a feeling she'll be on our Board of Directors one of these days."

"OK, Donald, that was an amusing little joke, now tell me the truth. That clown isn't really President. He can't be, it's just too ridiculous. He really has a job that involves cleaning out a french fry machine, right? Right?" Jack's voice took on an edge of desperation as Donald shook his head sadly.

"Sorry, Jack. John stayed with Atlanta PD because there was no VCTF to recruit him. And one afternoon he managed to thwart a mugging attempt and rescue the lovely daughter of a very powerful Senator. They started dating and got married rather suddenly when little John Grant Junior was conceived. I think the Senator decided he could either kill the man who knocked up his little girl or see to it that he had a very good job to support his growing family."

"But how can he run the country?" retorted Jack. "The man can barely walk and chew gum at the same time -- no, wait, that's Coop. Oh, you know what I mean, Donald -- how did he ever get elected?"

"It's amazing what good looks and your father-in-law's millions can accomplish," Donald replied. "Oh, he's had his problems, mind you. It's well known that he has an eye for the ladies, and his marriage isn't exactly what dreams are made of. And there was that international fiasco awhile back when he tried to dial out for a pizza on the Red Phone and ended up bombing Canada by mistake. But his faithful followers still love him -- 'believe' in him is the term they use. The media has actually taken to calling them the Believers."

For some reason, that word caused a shiver to ripple up Jack's spine. "I swear I've heard that before.... Well, at least the dignity of the office must have rubbed off on Grant somehow, right?"

His question was interrupted by a whoop and a "Hey, everybody, it's a Presidential order – conga line!!!" Without further ado, the Man-With-His-Finger-on-the-Nuclear-Button grabbed a lampshade, plopped it over his head and led the party guests around the Christmas tree, belting out "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer" at the top of his lungs. Sharon and Coop hopped into the rear of the line, still punctuating the dance with little kisses whenever they got a chance.

The First Lady pulled a Marlboro out of her purse and lit it viciously. "Clown," she hissed through the smoke.

"I really do like her," Donald commented.

Jack stared at the scene in front of him, shaking his head numbly. "It wasn't supposed to be like this at all," he finally muttered. "This wasn't what I wanted at all."

A clock chimed somewhere in the distance and Donald pulled out his pocket-watch, frowning nervously. "Well, Jack, if you aren't happy with the way the world is behaving, there is a way to change it," he responded.

"Yes! Anything but this nonsense. What do I have to do?"

Donald's eyes lit up. "You can take back your wish -- decide that you do want to exist after all."

"Correction -- anything but that!" snapped Jack. "I meant what I said on that roof and I still mean it now -- it's for the best."

"Oh, come on, Jack, after all that I've shown you tonight can you honestly say that you still think the world is better off without you?" retorted Donald. "You said it yourself, everything's wrong! Bailey shouldn't be a has-been drunk, George shouldn't be shaking his groove thang at the Lizard Lounge and there should most definitely not be a President John Grant! What there should be is a VCTF, because these people need each other to function the way fate meant them to -- and in order to do that they need a Jack Of All Trades. They may not like that fact, they may never even admit it, but they do. Some things are just meant to be, Jack, including you! Don't you see that yet?"

"No! I don't see that!" The electric blue mist had started to swirl around his feet again and Jack suddenly had to shout to be heard. "And I don't care about the rest of them! It doesn't matter, I just want my Samantha to be happy. And I know she's better off without me, Donald, how could she not be? I mean, just think about all that I've done to her, she has to be happier now!"

Donald shook his head in annoyance. "You know, Jack, you assume an awful lot about Sam," he snapped. "Without you around, she has just as much opportunity to screw up her life as anyone else does." The blue mist was swirling about his shoulders now and the White House scenery was fading behind the two travelers.

"Then prove it to me, Donald, show me she's worse without me and I'll change my mind!"

"There's no time, Jack!" Donald stuffed his watch back into his pocket and looked around wildly as more clock chimes sounded from somewhere over their heads. "You have to trust me on this! Believe in yourself, Jack, it's now or never!"

"Then it's never! I'm sorry, I know you wanted your wings, but I can't take the chance, Donald, I know I'm doing the right thing for Samantha! I'm glad I never existed and I wouldn't change a thing!"

Donald met Jack's eyes sadly as the mist engulfed his face. "Well, so much for that," he sighed. "I fought the good fight with you, old pal, but you told me the truth on that roof -- once you make your mind up it's damned impossible to change it. Even when you're dead wrong."

The chiming was getting louder and making Jack's head ache. "What is that?" he queried, looking around.

Donald gave a formal little half-bow. "That means the tour is over. Congratulations on getting your wish, Jack -- see you 'round the neighborhood." He melted away into the mist and Jack once again was spinning into oblivion, this time by himself.

********************************

"Donald?"

Jack blinked as the unexpected brightness of mid-morning sunlight accosted his eyes.

"Donald?" he repeated. "Where are we now?"

There was no answer from his Guardian, and as he looked around he realized with a little stab of panic that he was alone. Jack being Jack, he decided it was better to be angry than anxious.

"Oh, I see what you're doing. I didn't cave in and help you get your wings, so now you're going to punish me by dumping me in the middle of nowhere. Well, fine, Donald, be that way! Who needs you anyway? I can take care of myself."

The words didn't come out as forceful or convincing as he'd wanted. Jack frowned, then told himself sharply to stop worrying and start focusing; he turned slowly around in a circle and began to study the surroundings. He was standing in a large field that was interspersed with patches of dirty melting snow and battered brown remnants of last summer's grass. A copse of sick-looking trees was clustered at one end of the field; at the other end, about five hundred feet away from him, stood several rows of rusted looking mobile homes.

"Very funny, Donald," he growled out loud as he began to walk toward the only sign of civilization. "WebTV and trailer parks all in the same night -- this must be Hell."

A gust of wind rippled across the emptiness of the field and raised the hairs on the back of his neck; shivering and grumbling, Jack huddled further into his coat. He cautiously approached the nearest trailer, noting that the little metal box was situated at some distance from the others, as if it were a bit too run-down and ugly even for the rest of the mobile homeowners to accept. A few battered looking Christmas lights dangled from leaky windows; threadbare sheets and torn shirts were draped over an old rope clothesline. A TV blared monotonously from somewhere inside, and he thought he heard water running in a sink along with the banging of pots and pans.

"What a dump," he muttered, half in distaste and half in pity for the sorry creatures who were forced to call this glorified tuna can home.

The door banged open suddenly and Jack froze in alarm as three children came flying outside, heading straight toward him. He struggled to strike a natural pose and look like some perfectly normal stranger who was lost and in need of directions, all the while preparing to run at the first scream. But the laughing threesome ran right past him without so much as a glance, and he relaxed again as he realized he was still invisible. The oldest child, a blonde girl of about nine, almost brushed against him as she passed, and although he shrank away from her Jack stared hard at something familiar in her face. He couldn't quite place it, however, so he decided to watch the children for a few minutes and maybe get some clues as to exactly where Donald had dumped him.

The children had stopped a few feet away from him and were kicking at the patches of snow. The family resemblance was obvious; all three had blonde hair and blue eyes. The youngest child, a girl of about five, was holding a worn doll. Her brother was about seven and wearing a faded New York Yankees jacket. He hopped over a few more snow patches and came to rest beside the older girl, who had found an old tree stump to perch on and was flipping through a ragged Winnie the Pooh book. Their clothes were clean but wrinkled and obviously second-hand; Jack glanced down at the heavy gold watch on his wrist and felt a very unexpected pang of guilt.

"You and Winnie the Pooh," the boy taunted affectionately. "That's a book for little kids, why do you still like it so much?"

The older girl smiled wistfully. "I like how Pooh goes on adventures," she replied. "He follows all his dreams. I want to follow my dreams someday."

"Yeah, well, I'm dreaming of snow," muttered the boy, kicking against the muddy ground. "I sure wish we'd get another storm. It's not really Christmas morning without snow."

"Yeah, but Mommy said she'd make us a snowman cake for dinner. That'll be fun!" piped up the little girl as she joined her sibs.

"She sure was banging things around in the kitchen this morning," the boy observed. "I hate it when she and Dad fight, now they won't talk to each other all day."

"What did Mommy mean when she said Daddy stole stuff from her?" asked the little one. "Daddy's not a thief, is he?"

The older girl looked up sharply. "Of course he's not, Zoe. What are you talking about, what stuff did she say he stole?"

The little girl paused and tried to summon the words; she was frowning in concentration and Jack suddenly realized he was frowning too, in anticipation of her answer. "She said he'd stolen her ed -- her edda --"

"Her education," the boy supplied. "She said he'd taken that and her dreams, whatever that means. Then they yelled about him drinking beer and now they aren't talking." He looked up anxiously at his older sister. "It was a really bad fight this time. What's gonna happen now, Chloe?"

"Chloe?!" gasped Jack. He called her CHLOE??!!

Her face and voice turned a final key in his memory, just as the girl looked up and pushed her hair from her eyes in a manner that was quite obviously, painfully, hereditary. "It doesn't mean anything, Joey," she said. "You know how Mom always says she wanted to finish school but she couldn't because she had a family instead. And she always gets mad when Dad drinks, but she gets over it. I think she's just getting all weird 'cause of the baby coming."

Jack felt cold wood against his back and realized that he'd sat down on the tree stump beside Chloe. "This isn't real," he said to her, half-expecting her to hear him. "You don't have any sibs. You don't live in this godforsaken place, because that would mean that -- "

"Kids!" An all-too-familiar voice interrupted him. "Get in here right now!"

"Aw, man," muttered the boy. "Now she's mad at us. I hate this hormonal shit."

"Joey!" snapped Chloe. "That's horrible! Where did you learn that language?"

"Well, it's what Dad says all the time...."

Jack snickered a little, then jumped up from the stump as the familiar voice continued its tirade. "Kids!! I said now!! Chloe! Zoe! Joey! Hurry up!! Lunch is ready!"

Groaning a little, the kids began to run back to the trailer, Jack hurrying after them in half-dread and half-anticipation. At least he could finally be near his Samantha again -- even if she did have an annoying penchant for those "oh-ee" names in this universe. The three sibs and one nonexistent serial killer stopped short in front of the trailer as a tired, very pregnant-looking woman hung a final shirt over the clothesline.

Jack's first thought was that the sad-eyed figure standing in front of him couldn't be the Samantha he knew. Of course, he amended, if Donald were here he'd say that's right, she's NOT that Samantha at all -- she's the Samantha that exists because I never did....

The woman flipped back her hair like Chloe had done, then massaged her swollen belly with a groan. "God, I'd better have a New Year's baby so I can get this over with," she muttered to the clothesline.

"Mommy?" Zoe was pulling on the hem of Samantha's housedress. "When is Santa coming? Shouldn't he be here by now?"

A pained look crossed Sam's face; Jack was reminded of Bailey's expression when Sister Frances had confronted him. "Santa's a little late this year, sweetie," she replied. "He hasn't been working too much and he has some bills to pay before he can bring toys. Maybe he'll come in January."

Chloe stepped forward and put an arm around her sister's shoulder. "Come on Zoe, let's get ready for lunch and then we can give your doll a new hairdo." She led the little girl up the steps and into the trailer. Jack glanced between the retreating children and Sam's shame-filled face.

Poor Chloe, she's already a substitute mother for her sibs. That's a hell of a way to lose your childhood, no wonder she wishes she could follow her dreams like Winnie the Pooh.... Of course I didn't exactly help her childhood by killing her father, did I? Maybe this is still a better situation for Samantha, maybe if I just watch a little longer it'll be obvious....

As if on cue, a loud belch broke through his thoughts. Jack glared at the door of the trailer, where a decidedly unkempt and drunk-looking Tom Waters had appeared. He carried a bottle of beer in one hand and he staggered a little as he crossed the yard to Samantha.

"Sam, I'm starved, hon!" he slurred, giving his wife a good-natured slap on the behind. Sam yelped in surprise and Jack ground his teeth, fists clenched as he pondered that there never was a good knife around when you really needed one.

"Lunch is on the table," Sam ground out, turning her back pointedly.

"Aw, c'mon, Sammie, don't be such a hard-ass," whined Tom. "It's Christmas, I don't wanna fight. It's not a very good example to set for the kids, is it?"

His words seemed to strike a chord; Samantha turned on him with a sudden snarl. "It wasn't a very good example to drink up all our Christmas Club money either, was it?" She raked a hand through her hair violently. "God, Tom! I mean, it's bad enough that you got fired from the high school for showing up drunk, but to actually be found drinking with your students??!! At a keg party where you bought all the alcohol?! We're just all lucky you weren't arrested! What the hell were you thinking to do that five days before Christmas?"

Tom pulled himself up to his full height, but couldn't quite repress a tipsy stagger as he took a step toward her. "I told you, it wasn't like that!" he protested. "I'm under loads of pressure, Sam, no one wants to hire high school history teachers these days -- that school really values student evaluations and I needed to be popular with them!"

"Oh, yeah, that's a great way to be popular with the kiddies -- buy their beer!" snapped Sam. "Doing it one time is stupid enough, Tom -- but it's cost you five jobs in the last four years, for the same damn mistake! It's not that no one wants to hire history teachers -- they just don't want to hire you! And the kids and I are paying the price, living like this -- " She indicated the trailer with a violent sweep of her arm.

Tom looked momentarily wounded by her words; then his face reddened in anger. "Oh, so I guess now you're going to analyze all my faults," he sneered. "I guess it's time to profile me, right?"

Sam's face twisted in sudden pain at the words and she blinked hard, as if she were trying to keep back tears. Jack stepped forward so he was standing beside her, hovering protectively. "And what's wrong with that?" he growled in Tom's direction.

Tom knew he'd pushed a button in his wife; his voice became louder and his expressions grew more expansive as he pressed the issue. "Oh, yes, that's right, everyone, now it begins!" he shouted. "Now she'll moan about how old Tommy screwed up her life, got her pregnant and whisked her away from college -- how she could have been so much better if she'd followed her dreams!" The sarcasm was practically dripping off the last words and Samantha shrank into the clothesline as if each vowel were physically pummeling her. "Those great dreams of being a psychologist -- a big-time profiler for the Feds!"

Sam's eyes were bright with unshed tears. "Well, dammit, it's true! If I hadn't listened to you and not finished my degree, I could have had a life like that -- I could have been someone who made a difference!"

"You were, Samantha!" Jack insisted, glaring at Tom. "You are!"

Tom snorted. "Oh, yeah, right!" he laughed. "Your place is to be a good wife and mother, not to chase some stupid pipe dreams of being a government shrink. What do you think, Sam -- that you of all people could have become some superstar? Maybe joined the FBI or something like your old pal Bailey? Talk about a pathetic drunk, now -- you should be pointing the finger at him, not me. Yeah, right -- you'da made some kinda profiler."

"I could have!!" wailed Sam.

"She could have, you bastard!" snarled Jack, nose to nose with Tom. "And she would have been the best!" I would have seen to that.... I DID see to that, when I existed....

The honking of a car horn broke the tension; Tom turned around and waved to a battered sedan that had pulled up in front of one of the other trailers.

"That's Buddy and Tim," he announced, draining his beer and letting the bottle fall to the ground with a thud. Jack glanced down and noted the "Black Leather Lager Beer" label; he made a mental note to invest in that company if he found any stockbrokers in Hell (and he was pretty sure there'd be a few).

Sam's eyes had narrowed in suspicion. "What do they want?" she queried.

"We're going to Ed's to play a little poker," Tom replied. "I'll be back in a couple hours."

Sam's face fell. "Tom, no! It's Christmas and we're broke!"

"And you think I want to hang around all day and hear you harping on that over and over? Gimme a break, Sam, maybe I'll win some money today and then you can work on all those dreams of yours."

"Tom, if we don't pay our bills by New Year's we're going to be homeless -- "

Tom spun around. "God, Sam, shut up!! I have to deal with three loud kids and a whiny pregnant wife all day, who the hell wouldn't want to get away from this for a few hours? Merry damned Christmas!!" With a dismissive wave of his hand, he staggered down the dirt path to the waiting car. As the old sedan creaked away in a cloud of dust, Samantha put her head against the clothesline pole and began to cry softly.

"Oh God, I hate my life, I hate my life," she sobbed into one of the clean sheets.

Jack stepped up to her awkwardly, swallowing hard. "Don't cry, my Samantha," he soothed. "It'll get better, I promise. I'll make it better."

She didn't respond, of course, and he shyly tried to place a comforting hand on her shoulder -- only to frown in horror as his hand passed right through her and the nauseating realization hit him at last. I CAN'T help her. I don't exist.

"Donald! I can't help her like this!" he called. "I have to help her, Donald!"

There was no answer. Samantha continued to sniffle into the sheet; Jack glanced toward the trailer and caught a glimpse of Chloe's forlorn face looking out at her mother. He pulled away from Samantha and ran out of the yard, into the field where he'd first found himself. The wind had picked up and the sky had turned a steel grey; flurries were beginning to pepper the landscape but there was no magic to this Christmas snow, just a sense of bitter cold and desolation. Jack kept running, turning in full circles and shouting at the top of his lungs.

"Donald! I know you can hear me, you have to hear me! I was wrong, Donald! You were right about everything -- it's not supposed to be like this! Samantha needs me, they all do! I don't care if they don't realize it, I realize it now! Donald, help me, please! I want to live!"

The wind whipped through Jack's hair and snapped at the hem of his coat. He was still alone. "Donald!" he screamed. "You're my Guardian, you can make anything happen, I know it! Please don't say it's too late! I want to live, Donald! I want to live!!"

He tripped over something in the field and fell hard against the cold ground, still screaming the words.

********************************

"Donald! I want to live!"

Jack's eyes flew open and he sat straight up, kicking tangled bed sheets off his legs in a spasm of panic. He bolted to his feet and had paced wildly for a good five minutes before he realized that he was back in his lair, in his own bedroom. Drawing a shaky breath, he sat down heavily on the bed and ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. Oh my God...I'm home, I'm actually home....

The digital clock at his bedside gave off a faint blue glow, its display noting that it was 7:00 AM on December 25. Hesitantly, Jack reached out to touch it, wincing a little in anticipation of watching his hand pass innocuously through it. He sighed in relief and then smiled when his skin contacted cool plastic.

"I do exist," he muttered raggedly with a widening grin. "I'll be damned, Donald did it! He actually did it!"

His smile turned to a laugh. Jack jumped up from the bed and headed for his computer room, then yelped in pain as his bare toes contacted something heavy and solid beside the bed. Well, dammit, THAT sure proves I exist.... He reached down and picked up an empty bottle of Black Leather Malt Liquor.

"What the hell -- ?"

Jack frowned as memories came flooding back to him. Oh yeah, the mall...I was locked in and I got raging drunk when I saw that VCTF party video. I must have found my way back home somehow. Hey, wasn't I up on that roof? ...or was I???

A thought struck him and he glared at the bottle. "This whole thing was nothing but a -- a dream," he murmured. "Realistic as hell, but just a dream." He sighed in relief, and then started to laugh at his foolishness. He needed a cigarette, then maybe he'd calm down and stop acting like such a scared kid. There was probably a pack of Marlboros by the computer.... Jack turned the corner, entered the computer room and stopped dead in his tracks as his cocky smile morphed into a slack-jawed stare.

Sitting primly beside his computer, just to the left of his jar of Cheetos, were an immaculate black top hat and a flickering white candle.

**************************

"Mom, can I have another candy cane? Please?"

Samantha laughed at Chloe's longing expression. "OK, but that's the last one. I planned a nice big dinner for the two of us and I don't want you getting sick before you have some."

"I won't get sick, I promise!" Chloe grabbed another candy cane from the big jar on the table and skipped back to the tree. Denzel was stretched out underneath it, half-napping beside a huge pile of gifts; he yawned and flapped his tail a couple of times in welcome, then cuddled down again for a snooze as Chloe poked through the myriad dolls and books she'd received.

Sam smiled as she watched the scene in the living room. They were having a wonderful Christmas, even though Angel would be away visiting relatives for the whole week. She missed her friend, but it did give her some nice quality time with Chloe that her work had persistently interfered with for months. She bent down to examine the browning turkey in the oven, then jumped a little as the intercom buzzed. She glanced at her watch quizzically -- 11:00 AM on Christmas morning was an odd time for an unexpected visitor.

"Yes?" she called into the intercom.

"Dr. Waters, would you mind coming downstairs for a minute? There's a special delivery for you."

Sam frowned slightly -- the agent's voice sounded a bit muffled and she had the distinct feeling that he'd been dipping into the holiday eggnog a little early. Still, it was Christmas after all, and even Jack probably took off for holidays....

"OK, I'll be right down," she called. Not bothering to disturb Chloe, who was already deep into one of her new books, Sam stepped into the elevator and descended to the first floor. She flipped a strand of hair back from her face absently as she waited for the doors to open -- who would have sent her something? She'd already exchanged gifts with everyone at work yesterday. Maybe Bailey's guilt had gotten the better of him and he'd decided that the embroidered socks he'd given her looked a bit cheap beside the hand-made humidor she'd bought him. Sam grinned -- Bailey was going to need a few pointers on proper gift giving when he was ready to date again.

The doors slid open and her smile changed to a gasp of shock at the scene that greeted her. The two agents who were supposed to be guarding the firehouse were slumped in a corner, snoring loudly. A six-foot Winnie the Pooh doll with a huge red bow around his neck dominated the doorway; standing just in front of the doll was a man dressed as Santa Claus and holding a huge bouquet of red roses. Sam tried to scream, but she was too astonished to produce more than a little squeak. "Jack ? -- " she managed.

Santa laughed a little as he approached her -- it was a nice laugh, she thought, then got irritated with herself for admitting that.

"Don't worry, my Samantha," Jack murmured with a smile. "It's Christmas, I don't want to play games today. You'll like these gifts, I promise. Number one, the narcotics should wear off in a few hours and those hounds will be none the worse for wear -- that's my gift to them. Number two, the bear is for Chloe -- tell her it's never too late to follow her dreams. And number three -- this is for you."

And before Samantha realized what was happening, Jack pulled her into his arms, pushed away the fake Santa beard and gave her a kiss that made her toes curl. About three minutes into it, Sam remembered that she should be fighting, or protesting, or...probably not kissing him back so enthusiastically. As if he felt her coming back to her senses, Jack broke away suddenly and rearranged the beard.

"It's good to be back," he said with a wink. "And someday, my dear, you'll agree with me. Merry Christmas, Samantha."

In the next instant he was gone; Samantha heard the banging of the firehouse door and looked numbly at the roses that were nestled against the Pooh doll. She realized she was grinning and blushing like a schoolgirl, and she shook her head in amazement. "Merry Christmas to you too, Jack," she mumbled, blushing harder when her lips started to tingle from their recent activity.

A snort from one of the agents in the corner brought her back to reality, and she regretfully pulled her cell phone out of her pocket. It was time to call Bailey and let him know about the drugged guards. But Chloe would really love that bear -- how had Jack known she adored Winnie the Pooh? -- so maybe she wouldn't mention that particular gift. And perhaps she'd just keep one or two of those roses for herself. Oh hell, she'd keep the whole bunch -- it was Christmas, after all!

"Bailey?" she spoke into the phone. "Sorry to bother you on a holiday, but -- no, I really liked the socks, honestly! Look, everybody's safe over here, but I thought you should know that I've just been visited by my faithful serial kisser -- um, I mean killer!"

**************************

The Chairman of the Board of the Underworld adjusted his red power tie and assumed an authoritative expression -- it was the annual election of the Officers and he wanted to project an appropriate appearance, one that said "For the umpteenth time I'm going to win by a landslide." But really, he smirked, how tough could that be? The competition was paltry at best. It suddenly occurred to him that his life story would make an exciting mini-series and he looked around in irritation -- where in Hell, literally, was that damned Donald?? He was getting a story idea and needed a sounding board and a good latte, but his assistant had been scarce since yesterday. Grumbling, he decided he'd have to dock Donald's salary after the elections. Or at least take a chunk out of his wardrobe expense -- he'd been babbling about the need for good dry cleaners for ages now and it was getting a little old.

He pushed open the heavy doors to the Board Room, and stopped in amazement when he saw a familiar tuxedoed figure sitting in his chair, surrounded by applauding Board members and smoking a large cigar.

"Lucas!" he thundered. "What is the meaning of this??!"

Donald glanced up and blinked innocently. "Oh, hi there, SK!" he chirped around the cigar. "Sorry to shock you, old man, but I'm afraid there's been a little change in plans."

His former boss started to reply, then stopped and stared in amazement at the pair of solid gold wings that glinted against Donald's spotless lapels (well, it is Hell, after all, they couldn't be feathered angel wings, now could they?). Donald noticed his glance and sat up a bit straighter.

"Oh yes, these little things," he grinned. "It's the funniest thing, SK -- who should I happen to run into on Christmas Eve, in a mall of all places, than our renowned hero Jack Of All Trades? It seems he was having a bad day -- in fact, he didn't even want to go on anymore. But I was able to show him the folly of his thinking. Thanks to me, Jack is back and happier than ever to be doing what he does best. We really bonded, you know. Oh, he'd probably be a little miffed at me for using the old clock-chiming-'there's-no-time'-abandoning-him-in-a-horrible-place trick" -- he paused, looking a little anxious and running a hand along his collar where some orange fingerprints would likely have been placed -- "but I think he'll thank me for it one day. And hey, he taught me a few things too. Like how to enjoy a good smoke once in awhile -- I mean, a bad habit can't kill me if I'm already in the Nether World, right? And, oh yes, by saving Jack I earned my wings -- and the respect of my esteemed Board members -- and a unanimous vote to be Chairman."

"But -- but -- " the former boss-man sputtered. "Dammit, Lucas, you're not supposed to be Chairman! You're supposed to be my assistant! There's -- there's -- no continuity to this idea at all!"

Donald pulled out a stack of papers and donned a pair of spectacles. "I know -- isn't the irony just sort of fun?" he enthused. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I have a Board to run. Oh, and SK, on your way out could you get me a latte?"

****END****