DOUGHNUT DISTURBS

 PROMPT:

“THE DOUGHNUTS HAD FAILED TO DE-ESCALATE THE SITUATION…”

Now you would think an anthropomorphic sugar-cop could handle just about anything but not this.

“The Red Hot House is on fire.”

“Well call the fire department then Cruller!”

Cruller was a Cruller Doughnut. He also happened to be the chief of police.

“This is the fire department, Glazed!” 

Glaze was an aptly named Glazed doughnut with a tendency to stray from the point.

“Or rather it was.”

Glaze’s eyes idled over as Imperial Officer Chief- IOC for short- burst from the blaze looking even shorter and redder than usual.

“Oh. Right.”

“Well this is a Jam.” said Cruller’s deputy joining the scene. 

“The worst I’ve seen in some time B. C.”

B. C. rolled her eyes.

“You say that at least once a week.”

“STOP BANTERING AND SOMEDAY SAVE MY FLAMING FIREHOUSE!”

IOC screeched as the scent of scorched cinnamon filled the air.

“Alright, ya hot head cool it!” B. C. called

“I could sit on him?”

Glaze offered.

“No no, we don’t need two sticky situations Glaze.”

“Suit yourself.” Glaze picked up the chief (doughnut cops have limbs made of licorice- ergo, virtually indestructible.)

and popped him in a nearby vat of whipped cream. (Always available in the van of any respectable donut cop. Usually used for outlining the bodies on some of the juicier and fruitier scenes. But- if necessary- also a good fire deterrent.)

There was a hiss as the cream took on a reddish hue.

All three cops hovering over it.

“Oh fabulous. Wonderful.” Cruller said. “You’ve murdered the fire chief.” B. C. took a few notes and wandered off. Glaze’s eyes took on an unusually glossy, non-glazey tone. it looked like he was about to cry.

Then with a sputtering- IOC burst forth out of the mucky red cream. White as a sheet.

He seemed calm for a moment. Not being on fire will do that too you. (Provided you’ve recently been on fire of course. That helps.)

Something resembling something that might not be a grimace played at his face. 

Not a smile. Glaze had stopped Imperial Officer Chief from burning to death but he was no lifesaver. He was- as we’ve established- a glazed doughnut.

“Well it’s never easy for an Imperial to admit he’s been impressed but-”

At that moment IOC (Let’s just call him that for the remainder of the story shall we? Easier on the eyes.)

glanced down. Thus IOC he was still white as a sheet. His reddish tinge which he’d been so proud of, even when not in fits of distemperant- had soaked off into the cream that stopped him burning to death.

“Why you…”

“Hey,” Glazed grinned “no need for sputtering chief the-“

“Fire’s out boys!” B. C. called returning from her errand. “And you’re out of your!”

“Welcome. You’re welcome SIR.” Said B. C. looking redder than usual.

As the three cops of Candyland packed up their stuff and left, Cruller turned to his deputy. “You know, B. C. I have to admit. I couldn’t have done it better myself.”

“You say that at least once a week.”

(B. C. was actually short for Below Cruller. Not Boston Cream. The Deputy was neither a cream donut, nor a jelly donut, nor as you may have initially suspected- Jam. She was Icing. Icing on a cake. Her name was Francis.