A Were-Wheaten Christmas

   
   "A Were-Wheaten Christmas"
   
   Freddy Hart was here before, and is gone, and is back again.  A thirty-something babe of the airwaves, residing in the higher parts of the American South, fancying her gig as modern DJ Chick, and not putting too much product in her silky strands of mousy-brown, just below the collar, and she dressed kinda masculine, like an older boy, having blue steel, in spirit form, fluxing within and without her, like a medicine man morphing into Dr. Quinn.  
   Her only problem as Christmas approached was when she'd let loose a stream of the ingested, in liquid form; specifically, she made yellow snow, being a Were-Wheaten, all 104 pounds of her, a canine form unspoken, not listed in Advanced Dungeons and Dragons, yet bookmarked in the National Library of God, and she knew Jesus was adorned in a chestnut nimbus, as even almonds are super-healthy, building a fortress of  fever pitch, as that's the way her path commanded.
   Things were to get weirder, as they always did for Miss Freddy Hart.