Disclaimer: I own nothing. All Buffy the Vampire Slayer characters and Some Like It Hot characters are the property of their original owners.
Even now, the irony of it still appealed to him. He, a balance demon, always acted towards the champions of the never-ending war between good and evil in such a manner to keep them off
balance. It was fairly easy, really. All Whistler had to do was to dress up in some manner of incongruous attire, say the opposite of what he actually meant, and behave as dismissively as possible towards the taken-aback heroes or heroines.
Confidentially nodding to himself while in the otherworldly dimension of the Powers That Be, Whistler glanced down at his current costume. He had to admit, a full-dress army uniform of a Confederate colonel was sure to totally mystify the latest young girl who was about to become the next Slayer in this modern year of 1929. Even better was the heavy Southern accent, which he’d been working on for weeks, only to finally succeed in perfecting what several Warner Brothers cartoons a generation later would characterize as nothing other than a dead-on Foghorn Leghorn speaking style. That, combined with the usual enigmatic hints, was sure to set the latest superhuman teenager into the proper path for the remainder of her extremely short life.
A sudden quiver rippled throughout the pocket universe around Whistler, signaling Sineya’s spirit had just passed onto its newest victim-- Er, recipient,
that is. Giving an approving twirl of his grey handlebar mustache, Whistler vanished, now on his way to thoroughly bamboozle some gullible kid lower in the mortal plane.
However, things certainly didn’t come to pass as this balance demon expected. At all. The first clue for Whistler was the half-dozen tough guys lying unconscious on the floor of some building.
Unknown to the fiend, a mob leader and his henchmen about to rub out the sole witnesses to a Chicago massacre had just managed to pick the worst time ever to at last catch the guys they’d chased to Miami. It’d been quite a surprise to Spats Colombo and the rest of his Italian crew over learning exactly how those idioti had evaded them for so long. Still, less than a minute ago, the joke was going to be on the two…persons about to get taken for their very last ride by the gangsters menacingly advancing towards a terrified duo standing at bay back-to-back in their best outfits.
At that exact point, Joe and Jerry both in their heavy makeup and dowdy dresses as part of their scheme to disguise themselves by joining a woman’s band then simultaneously shuddered in their high heels. An instant later, those musicians now having truly evil grins on their faces brought up two pairs of clenched fists, and unexpectedly launched themselves at their enemies. Naturally, the fight was over quickly, with Spats and the others getting thoroughly pummeled into dreamland.
Standing proudly over the insensible bodies of their foes, a victorious Joe and Jerry then had something even weirder happen to them, besides just getting four times stronger and faster than they’d ever been in their whole lives. From behind the dress-wearing men, a loud voice bellowed, “OH, NO, YOU DON’T!”
Spinning around (while keeping themselves from falling over in their wobbling women’s shoes with the expertise of much recent practice), a saxophone player and a double-bass player gaped in tandem at the stranger there who’d somehow appeared from out of nowhere. Plus also for his own bizarre reasons, this newcomer was at the moment wearing the garments of a high-ranking Civil War rebel, all while looking straight up at the ceiling with an exceedingly furious face. Ignoring how Joe and Jerry were still gawking at him, that other guy screamed upwards, “I WON’T DO IT, I TELL YOU! NOT FOR SOMETHING THIS RIDICULOUS! I’M CALLING IN EVERYTHING YOU OWE ME! CHANGE IT ALL, OR FIND YOURSELVES ANOTHER FLUNKY!”
Nobody moved in the room for the next few seconds, until the man irately staring upwards abruptly relaxed, while giving an annoyed grunt which yet had a measure of satisfaction in this. It was then that Joe started to cautiously say, “Say, uh, mister--”
After bringing down his gaze, this addressed stranger impatiently shook his head while glowering at the two men in their women’s clothing. A gruff voice addressed them both, “Don’t bother, you’re not gonna remember anything. Everything will go back to the way it was two minutes ago before they caught you, which is all that long you’ve got to start running. Just get the hell out of here, will you?”
This time it was Jerry who blurted, “But what’s going on?”
“One minute and thirty seconds!” snarled the other man, who then added, “You really want me to tell those stiffs on the floor which direction you went when they wake up? BEAT IT!”
Glancing at each other in sheer bewilderment, Joe and Jerry next looked down at where Spats and his boys sprawled limply in their battered condition, all caused by two guys who’d just made those dangerous criminals even madder at them. Without a word, the musicians then sprinted in unison for the building door, showing a genuinely impressive turn of speed even in skirts and heels.
Giving one last baleful look at the absurd scene before him, Whistler vanished, leaving behind a final grumpy comment hanging in the empty air, “Not even a Hellmouth could be worse than this!”