Combings: 1 (but was licensed cosmetologist, so ok), calories: 2200 (tolerable), seconds since Vachon last flirted: 0, seconds since last snogged in fanfic: 102,470,400 (why? WHY?!)

4:00pm

Am working.

Yes, yes, know have never included description of actual monetary-unit-gaining activities, but was no point really. In midst of cushy llama lifestyle and Roman penthouse squatting, care and feeding of self rather cheap. Had grocery shopping excursions w/ the Inca. Could raid Cousinly Pantry. No need to worry cottony head regarding troublesome rent payments, utilities, scoring caffeine units, transportation tokens and nurturing severely depleted non-sensible shoe fund.

Well, good ship lollipop has sailed sans moi! No more candy days of llama leisure. No more lazy nights of stolen Cousinly contraband. No more cushy couches for me ßAm not Spaniard!

As Omnifemale, must support self! (Huh. Sad, but true.)

Have not one, but two jobs! Am busy bee. Am bustling metropolis. Am jam-packed!

Okay, must confess in privacy of diary that jobs not totally career-oriented and fulfilling as such, but serve greedy purposes. Career does not grow on trees, unless one is a lumberjack or similar. Does not!

Current forms of ex-llama employment are as follows:

One, am Shopgirl at ‘Bugby’s Shoe & Wax Emporium.’ Sounds terribly glamorous + exciting. Hmm. Actually, does not sound glamorous + exciting at all when inscribed on cold, harsh paper of diary, but is! Is! Spend all working hours at particular establishment surrounded by manna from heaven à non-sensible shoes! Is glorious! Is spiked w/ pleasure. Is strappy-toed sublime!

Even better, get employee discount! Go me!

Only drawback to work as sales associate is forced association w/ customer-type-persons. Gah! Like have time to worry if have such-and-such slipper comes in color periwinkle blue, or if so-and-so slingbacks stocked in size 11E. à What did moose need them for? I ask you!

Why do all the customer-type-persons have to come to me all needy and grasping? Is not like am there to wait on them hand + foot! Is not as though my job is to pander their neediness, flapping the flames of their consumerism w/ helpfulness + polite manner ß Am not Canadian!

Why can’t customers just give me their bloody money and GO AWAY?!?!?!

Selling shoes not the irksome part, really, other than repeated appearances of Christy in Mousketeer ears, demanding to know if the Minnie Mouse Collection heels are in yet. Tell her ‘no.’ Instruct her to ‘go away.’ Is no avail telling Nunketeer to leave shoe store. She just starts skipping up and down aisles singing, ‘It’s A Shoe World After All.’ GAH!!

Only thing worse than shoe customers are candle customers. Reiterate name of store is ‘Bugby’s Shoe & Wax Emporium’ — originally thought name meant young street urchins lined shop walls, offering consumers shine + song for a quarter. Was so wrong!

No, No, NO! Is buggery candle store! Really, should see some of the clientele! Gadzooks of vampires + New Age wick fanciers swarm the place. Is as fervent as an LCA crowd, only no one sticks candles down their pants to hooting + cheers (well, was the one time but had UF thrown out immediately!)

Still, Vachon is in here, like, every day! Don’t know why he needs so many damn candles. Is not like he’s spending time at church, fondling instrument of pleasure (guitar) by the light of candelabra. No, is couch-squatter, slouching in CERK Lobby at any given moment! (When not purchasing candles.) Hmm. Perhaps Spaniard stockpiling precious resources, in manner of American government squirreling oil reserves? Huh. Fat lot of cash to waste on stupid things that burn away, leaving drippy stains on carpet/rugs/snazzy red comforter that are impossible to remove, even with ice cubes. And, if Señor Vachon has so much dinero to splash on cornering the Canadian tallow market, why didn’t Spaniard buy Pardoe damn birthday present? A card, even!

Vachon = Slacker ß Confirmed!

Enough about Spaniard. He can write in his own diary if wants page space. Back to me!

As number two form of employment, am Lifeguard at ‘The Spa Experience’! Hurrah! Is job of cushiness! Get to lounge around pool all day, with nothing more tasking than water temperature checks + hydrotherapy-watching to furrow my pretty brow. And if pretty brow by chance furrowed, have access to the Baroness’s super employee special on Botox! Not that would inject self willy-nilly w/ neurotoxins. If not good enough for Dinty Moore stew, certainly not spiffy enough for my forehead. Is completely impractical solution to aging process, but if Baroness given time of day, she’ll poke anybody (w/ hypodermic).

But, still, point is luxury of options and benefits in the workplace. Never mind the aging-paranoid, needle-packing vampire Austrian royalty running around the gym — between the shoe discount + free pool access, am one Omniemployed gal!

But, wait! There’s more!

Have THIRD occupation — Am Plotter To Bring LaCroix Peace, Harmony And Contentment Whether He Likes It Or Not!

Still!

Must confess in privacy of diary that almost considered handing in resignation on this job, especially after party debacle. LaCroix v. scary when covered in cranberry sauce w/ kumquat attached to nose. Was filled w/ terror + made self scarce, fleeing to shelter in above-mentioned place of primary employment à Bugby’s Shoe & Wax. Shoes great comfort in uncertain times.

Rendezvoused at Raven two days later w/Pardoe, only to receive blistering lecture about leaving her to perform all ‘kitchen-bloody-vile-gawdawful-Ratpackers-went-mad-in-there-cleanup.’ Bonnie (not me) rather pissed. After three margaritas, Pardoe still pissed (squiffy), but forgave me for not contributing to the disinfection of the Cousinly Mess Hall.

Also shared news from LaCroix!

Apparently, the General issued Cousinly memo first thing Monday morning (12:01am), detailing New-And-Improved-Top-10-Least-Wanted-Plot-Devices. List included:

1. Divia
2. Old, Dead Guy
3. Nick Regaining Mortality
4. Natalie Having A Baby, Nick’s or Similar
5. Destruction of Cousinly Headquarters, Shrine or Similar
6. Fairies, Fanfic or Similar
7. Lichen Clinging To A Stone
8. Ratpackers
9. Kumquats
10. Cranberry Sauce

Hmm. W/ a little fear, perhaps. LaCroix still spine-chilling + looming when present, like giant, walking, talking tax deadline.

Huh. The Bonnies will soon sort him out! Will form new, improved plan! Shall remember to burp Tupperware of Serenity this time, vacuum-packing Roman doom-gloomer inside Merriment Bubble! Shall make LaCroix the Jingle Male! Shall!

Pardoe analyzed failure to inspire the General with any thankful vibrations in regards to festive party bombardment. Claimed equation carried too many unknown variables, specifically mad Ratpackers. Also pointed accusatory finger, as experiment not performed in closed system (Incan + Vaquera gatecrashers), resulting in spontaneous flirting on part of Spaniard. Asked Pardoe what Spaniard flirting had to do with plot to mess with LaCroix’s mind. Pardoe responded ‘Be quiet. Get me another drink.’

After brisk sampling of beverage, Pardoe explained Spanish relevancy. Said Vachon always relevant, even if only sitting in chair performing lump impersonation. Was part of his charm. Pardoe added comment that would certainly be even more charming if Spaniard got off his fantastic ass + got things done.

Pardoe then created diagram using Marker More Truly Permanent Than LaCroix (Sharpie) on cocktail napkins. Streamlined derivative from mess of jumbled suppositions that proved — yes, proved! — with 97.5% certainty, that Vachon’s flirtatiousness was significantly + inversely proportional to distance from card-carrying Vaqueras. Contradicted the Pardoe, saying that Vaqueras too lazy to carry cards, library or otherwise. Pardoe flicked rock salt at head + demanded that attention remain on her v. important point. Her point, said she, is the closer the Vaquera, the more Spaniard becomes rampaging gigolo.

Hurrah! If horny Vaqueras unwittingly playing with Vachon’s head, can our Plot To Bring LaCroix Peace, Harmony And Contentment Whether He Likes It Or Not be far from scientific success? No! No, it cannot!

Pardoe then informed me of Secret Plan Ingredient à Xmas

Shall deck LaCroix ‘til he beams like tinseled tree! Shall carol through halls ‘til General dons his gay apparel! Shall roast his chestnuts until Nunkies yearns for an open fire! Shall let it snow ‘til Uncle jiggles like bowlful of jelly!

Hmm. Rethinking last part. Don’t think vampires jiggle under any circumstances. (Could be trouble.) Also, roasting LaCroix’s chestnuts + open fires perhaps not best tactics for ornamenting his happiness in glorious, non-scorched manner.

Well, not to fear. Is only brainstorming stage of plan. Shall tweak to perfection at later date.

Shall!

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

Nancy was concerned.

"Here’s my concern," she said to Julia. They’d met at a wine bar to chat over important issues of the day: the potential of a war (with Iraq), the rising costs of horse feed and Valium salt licks, and how both women really stank at writing bad slash.

"My concern," Nancy repeated, "is Nick."

Julia held her hands out to either side, palms up, and shrugged. Was there ever any doubt?

"Nick becomes distracted so easily," Nancy mused.

"Maybe he has ADD," Julia suggested.

"Noooo," Nancy vetoed. "It’s not that type of distraction. He’s focused, just not on the present. Whenever I see him, he has a flashback to Thanksgiving and the sight of LaCroix buried in cranberry sauce."

Julia winked conspiratorially. "He’s probably just kicking himself that he didn’t volunteer to clean off Uncle. Remember that scene in ‘Spartacus’...?"

"No, Julia, this is not an Unnamed issue!"

"Dammit."

"I’ve named it — it’s guilt. Nick’s paralyzed with remorse over the kumquat incident. He can’t see that those insane Ratpackers were completely to blame. No, he just broods and mopes that his prank nearly enraged LaCroix to the point of biting the lot of us!"

Julia took a sip from her glass of Merlot, then sighed. "You’d think he’d be tickled less pale over that chance confrontation. All the tension...All the barely leashed violence... Blue eyes meeting across a crowded room...Blood lust supremo..." Julia suppressed a shiver of glee. "Considering the slow start, and the part where I spouted drunken crap poetry, that party had a smashing finish."

"Speaking of smashing..." How’s that for transition? "I heard that McLisa is still whapping the Ratpackers with newspaper from Here to Kingdom Come. Is that true?"

Julia nodded. "She’s going to have to take a break soon, though. Carpal tunnel syndrome, you know. All that repeated action, it’s bad for her wrists."

"Hmm. Maybe the moose will take over from her."

"Not sure. The moose has kept a low profile. A tricky character, that moose."

"Speaking of tricky characters..." Nancy is the Transitory Mama! "...Back to Nick. I hate to say it, but I’m beginning to emphasize with why Natalie keeps running off to all those coroner’s conventions. This guilt thing is a persistent infection, and Nick won’t take his antibiotics! He’s in a rut!"

Julia knocked over her wine glass. "Nick’s in rut?!?! Do you have pictures?"

"In A  rut," Nancy repeated, rolling her eyes. As if she’d share pictures! "A. Rut. The noun, not the verb. Got it?" Seeing Julia nod, Nancy continued her narrative. "Nick is dwelling on his kumquat shame to distraction. He needs to move on, let go of the past, and look toward the future with anticipation!" she declared, thumping her fist of the tabletop.

"And you’re just the Knight groupie to snap him out of it?" Julia shot her a cynical look. "Gee, I haven’t heard that one before." She signaled the staff by raising one hand. "Waiter? My friend here’s been drinking from the Mary Sue well. Can you bring her some fresh water and antiseptic?"

"I’m not having a Nickotine fit," Nancy protested. "Honestly, I really think Nick’s problem has a viable solution."

"Such as?"

"Well," Nancy began. She fiddled with the tablecloth, reluctant to meet Julia’s dubious stare. "I thought I might get some help from the Nunkies Addicts...or the Bonnies."

Julia continued staring at her. She was still waiting to hear the viable part of this solution.

"You see..." Nancy said as she nervously poked the table’s daisy centerpiece with her fork. "...whenever they’re around, Nick is on the alert. He always suspects them of naughtiness and nefarious plots. Often enough, he’s correct, so he gets to throw one or more of them in jail. At the very least, he gets to deliver a stinging, moral lecture. That makes Nick happy, happy enough to forget a kumquat bedbug nibbling on his conscience."

Julia the Basilisk issued nary a peep.

"So all I have to do is just nudge them a little. Christy, Jayne, Shele, the Bonnies — they’re all self-starters when it comes to offending Nick." Nancy lowered her eyes, pretending great interest in folding her napkin into the shape of a brick. "So..." she prompted shyly. "What do you think of my idea?"

Julia picked up Nancy’s glass of Merlot and quietly downed it in one gulp. She dabbed at her mouth before — ah! — clearing her throat. "Can I come? I want to watch."

Caffeine units: 6 (using chemicals as combing substitute), cotton units: 84 (snow effects on CERK windowpanes), seconds since Vachon last flirted: 172,800 (solid Spanish effort!), seconds since last snogged in fanfic: don’t want to talk about it

6:12pm

Plan tweaked!

Am en route to tree lot — Hemlock Grove Farms — as part of crucial station-decorating stage of Plot To Bring LaCroix Peace, Harmony And Contentment Whether He Likes It Or Not. Must pick out glorious evergreen suitable for decking of LaCroix.

Pardoe gave strict instructions over phone. Must choose impressive tree, prettiest tree of all, not overly stinky, but full in the fir. Must pick arbor of superlative botanical splendor, then pay nice man to cut it down in its prime, so fabulous tree will desiccate, die, then shed crap all over floor by Epiphany. Ah, Xmas! Is jolliest season of all!

6:24pm

Have just arrived at tree farm. Hemlock Grove Farms v. woodsy. For some reason, thought all indoors-sized trees would be...well...indoors. Huh.

As purpose of Xmas tree’s existence is to grace climate-controlled environment w/ chlorophylled charm + style, would it not optimize conifer quality if tree raised in nurturing surroundings as befits its future station? Need vegetative Harrow-type-institution in order to fertilize formative seedling years! Would install baby arbor-type-persons in traditional, prestigious greenhouse, w/ best horticulturalists to nurture their roots, prune branches into shape, and encourage growth of trees to be all that they can be!

Don’t desire ordinary evergreen — not some common, blue-needled root-sticker that trolls in rocky soil all day so can knock off a pint of sap when day is done. Want posh tree!

6:31pm

But how does one identify posh tree? Is not like tree emits ‘yaryaryar’ sound, or any sound really, except when chopped down. Then all trees produce tired, creaky sound, like octogenarian (non-vampire) getting out of chair.

Hmm. Will have to ask knowledgeable executioner (tree farm employee) about botanical pedigrees. Conveniently know such tree-slaughterhouse flunky, which is why selected this particular establishment — Dirk.

Dirk, Dirk, Dirk. Nunkies Anonymous cabbie, friend to Toronto’s Roma community, seasonal tree wrangler, and the second to last person to snog me in fanfic. Dirk.

Dirk.

Yes, miss Inca. Have scorned him for his own well-being + the sake of science. Still, has been 102,816,045 seconds since last snogged in fanfic. Situation has reached crisis status! Red Alert!

Ah-woo-gah!

Yes, miss Inca, but if Dirk were to, say, trip on gnarled root, his lips landing, let’s just hypothesize, ON ME for 10 or 20 seconds — hell, make it half an hour — in the process, well, would just have to accept it as fate. Is not like can control gravity. Cannot! So, if Dirk’s mouth were to accidentally come into contact with my person for some generous period of time, am prepared to grin, bear it, and chuck my Seconds Since Last Snogged In Fanfic tally back to naught.

Not that I want to encourage that type of thing. Am just saying am mature. Am sophisticated. Could be snogged w/o great fuss. Would not even blink. Is not hugely important or anything.

6:32pm

But, come on! Is just weensy-beansy snog! Snog me! Somebody snog me already!

Snog, snog, SNOG!!!

6:33pm

Whew. Got a bit worked up for a second there. Totally unlike cool, unflappable me. Am usually highly sedated river of calm. Composed like painting. Tranquil like really tranquil thing — the Red Sea, Miss World pageant, a rapper turned movie actor, New York City cab driver, etc...

Hmm. Perhaps am more flappable than previously estimated. List of peaceful things seems a bit off.

Enough hokey-pokeying around! Have taken deep, soothing breaths. Must not stray from objective. Am not at Hemlock Grove Farms for Yuletide Snog. Am here to Canadian Chainsaw Murder most fantastic tree in Ontario. Is task of which can be proud!

Now...must locate Snog without further delay. Oh, I mean, Dirk! (v. silly slip)

6:35pm

Do not spot Dirk. Is odd, for D. is v. tall. Tall, like tree. Yet all can spot is v. tall, actual trees. Most uncooperative of woodsy company to hide potential, accidental snog in such an obstructive manner. Obviously not posh trees, but verdant, street gang caliber. Rabble-rousing glen loiterers!

Where, where is Dirk?

Perhaps Dirk wearing green? V. festive + foresty, that, but difficult to track + trip. Huh. Would think Fanfic Fairies would conveniently garb snoggable character in Xmas tree lot in something other than camouflage. Why not put him in red, with flashing neon sign overhead, ‘Accidental Snog — Come and Get, But Not On Purpose!’ I ask you — why, why not? Everything always so difficult! WHY?!

6:38pm

Huh. Did not find Dirk. Apparently, has night off. Is just bloody typical. Am so unsynchronized, so out-of-kilter w/ cosmos, cannot even get accidentally snogged. Now believe is primeval plot. Is celestial conspiracy! Is rooted in the building blocks of life that if another snog came in contact with my person, universe would spontaneously implode. Am the Anti-Snog!

Oh, someone tapping my shoulder. Hope they don’t snog me. Would mean Apocalyse no doubt. Shall turn around + bitterly hope tapper has no lips. Fate of Canada at stake!

6:39pm

Turned around. Gawked. Did not get snogged. ßHope Canada is happy!

There, clad in flannel shirt w/ Hemlock Grove Farms logo, stood the most cherubic, innocent and helpful looking male on planet!

Really! Am not exaggerating! Never exaggerate! Honestly...do...exaggerate. Huh. But never mind that! Ignore reality. (Most of this diary certainly does.) For next eight paragraphs, am plain-speaking + honest! Am completely unembellished! Am uninflated! Am molehill that is actually mountain-sized! Veritas! Grappa!

My tapper looked cherubic, innocent, AND helpful! Was male! Know sounds as though am describing improbable legendary creature similar to griffon, hobbit, creative network executive, etc., but is true!!

Cherubim quality confirmed by shining, luminous aspect of farm employee’s eyes. Not shining in homicidal undead vampire manner. Not shining in scary Precious Moments figurine manner, either. Shining as if Beacon of Truth flowing forth from tree executioner’s beaming gaze! Eyes are blue and big and liquidy, like pools of big, blue liquidy stuff naturally equated to innocence, sweetness, and light.

Innocence of tapper not proven, but, as not the most lily-white ex-llama in the forest, have strong instincts about these matters. Feel overwhelming, all-consuming urge to corrupt poor lad. Could teach him to comb and brush, and if he was adventurous, plait a row. But am not cad Battle Yak. Shall resist temptation! Shall lead no lambs astray! Shall! (Shall not? Don’t know which I am doing. Just know that I am not doing it.)

Helpfulness of male employee, however, is not supposition. Is not just feminine hormone rush at sight of innocent-looking male wielding axe going to girly head + affecting judgment. Is not! Is extreme fact! After all, if male wielding axe did not look completely helpful, would have run + hidden due to completely different type of hormone rush.

My tapper spoke. Had a soft-voice, filled with wonder + good humor. Said "Excuse me, miss?"

He called me ‘Miss’! Proved tapper’s goodness! If rotten, surely would have called me ‘Ma’am,’ as one would address an aging schoolmarm or transvestite? Is not like one of those hungover college students working till at the grocery who refuse to check my ID when purchasing alcoholic units. (Ageists!) Tapper recognizes my youth + vitality! Is brilliant! Obviously will embrace confidence in his good judgment toward all things!

My tapper held up a carrot-colored fringed-suede bag. My carrot-colored fringed-suede bag. He said, "You dropped this by the spruce."

Lovely man! Saved my suede bag! Had to work for it, you know. Is very precious to me. And my bag rescuer was so helpful, so swift, not even the faintest smudge of melted snow besmirched its orange beauty. What’s more, tree farm employee so honest-to-goodness honest, did not rip off my Tannenbaum money. What a guy!

So is most cherubic, innocent, helpful looking male on planet, and is here to serve me! Is going to help me kill the finest evergreen in Canada! Yeesssss!

"Thank you so much for your help," I told my personal tree killer, then looked for his name tag in the hopes of showing good manners. ‘Tis the season for facades of kindness, yaryaryar... Expected name tag to read along lines of ‘Hello...My Name Is Certified Trustworthy,’ but name actually Woody, Woody... "Thank you, Mr. Kringle."

Woody Kringle. Name not so spiff, rather reminiscent of Danish pastry in litigation squabble. Still, Woody looks honorably upright, and uprightness highly desirable quality when translated to Xmas tree sales. Not to sound diagonalist or anything, do not want slanty tree. Want to slaughter vertical, posh tree for my holiday celebration. Otherwise, what is firry point? Am not cartoon. Is not bloody ‘Charlie Brown’s’ Xmas! Is Omnifemale Xmas, gleaming and bright! Hurrah!

6:46pm

Did not realize acquiring tree for decking of LaCroix would take so long. Thought could complete task quickly! Chop! Chop! Did not realize would have such a variety in options. Can’t just get Xmas tree, must choose  Xmas tree species affiliation: fir, pine, or spruce ß Ho Ho Ho, Merry Factionwittage! A tree is a tree is a tree, except maybe in the case of a pine, which, on second thought, sounds more like Nick’s type of decoration than LaCroix’s. Still, do not care about faction of tree. Am not factionwit! Have different qualitative standards!

Explained to Woody that am non-speciesist elitist. Only interested in posh trees. He assured me that all candidates spent two to three years in a high quality nursery before coming to Hemlock Grove Farms. Was not doubtful of verity in Woody’s words, but had to question class of nursery beginnings. None of trees wearing school ties, but brandishing limbs in full verdant glory, as if slags partying at nightclub, not superlative trunks of society interviewing for future timber career opportunity to shed upon CERK lobby floor.

Woody explained that Xmas trees do not receive ties until cut and sold off the plantation.

Cut?! Sold?!?! PLANTATION?!?!

Gasped.

Pleaded with Woody to confess the truth — knew he would — Hemlock Grove Farms was a farm, surely? Everybody knows farms are happy places, bucolic + joyful, where pigs make friends with spiders and nothing, ever, EVER, happens like a George Orwell novel.

Woody explained that Hemlock Grove Farms was known in the industry as a XMAS TREE PLANTATION.

Poor, poor, Poor, POOR TREES!!!! ß Slaves! Slaves, every rooted one!!!!

MUST LIBERATE THEM ALL!!!

6:40pm

Dammit. Only have enough cash to liberate one enslaved tree.

6:41pm

Have decided plan of action! Since can only liberate one tree, will free the largest, then use its plentiful garlands to spread the word regarding this grievous subjugation of its needled brethren!

As Woody as my witness, no tree shall ever be chained to the earth again!!! (Except for the S&M trees, of course. Lifestyle choices, to each their own, live and let live, etc...)

6:42pm

Am glad Dirk not here to accidentally snog me. Has worked this plantation for years — is cruel overseer in system of oppression. No doubt takes more pleasure in denying evergreens their freedom + rights than inadvertently laying lips upon petite redheads. Treeist bastard!

Woody — he is innocent in this matter, of course. Cruel Overseer probably fed him some spin on the slavery angle, some nonsense like ‘It’s the nature of trees to root in soil, exposed to the elements. Trees like being trapped in forests, unable to stretch, no room between their limbs.’ Cherubic, sweet Woody would believe every word, he is so good + pure.

Luckily, am not so good + pure myself. Am conveniently naughty + tainted. Will convince Woody to assist me in liberating largest slave at tree plantation. Shall form Out-Of-Ground Railroad, assisting evergreens in achieving new, free lives elsewhere!

6:43pm

Told Woody of plan to liberate largest slave at tree plantation.

Woody replied liberation of largest tree would cost $100 Canadian.

Huh. Do not think Woody understands Out-Of-Ground Railroad concept yet. Are extorting from Cruel Overseer, not the low-on-loonies ex-llama seeking to aid downtrodden branched-type-persons. Shall explain non-treeist manifesto to Woody in detail this time. Am sure he will see virtue in cutting me a price break while cutting slave to freedom.

6:45pm

Fa-la-la! Talked Woody down to $80, under the table. Though no tables in forest glen. Hmm. Never mind. Point is, tree shackled by roots in earth, kept down by the man, is just few axe-whackings away from crying freedom!

But no whacking — shall insist Woody dig up roots + bundle in secure, warm, comforting burlap — like sensible shoe for tree. Then tree will cry freedom in a less amputated manner.

6:48pm

FREEDOM!

6:49pm

Secret confession:

That was me crying ‘FREEDOM,’ not tree. In actuality, tree produced tired, creaky sound, like octogenarian (non-vampire) getting out of chair. Hmm. Bit disappointing, that. Thought tree would be more excited over liberation, emitting botanical ‘Hurrah!’ or at very least a rah-rah of the needles. Start of new activist movement, Conifers Halting Oppressive Plantations (CHOP, for short) v. lackluster.

6:50pm

Have conferred w/ Woody regarding tie situation. Think liberated tree should have tie, designating its posh status, yet do not wish to join in machinery of arbor oppression by binding branches. Woody suggested draping one tie fashionably about tree’s neck-trunk, leaving limbs furled in full bounteous glory. Is excellent compromise!

6:58pm

Is v. g. thing LaCroix’s Jaguar has moonroof. Tree would have never fit in passenger’s seat otherwise. Can hardly strap newly liberated Fraser fir to car like pair of skis or bicycle, can I? Would be disrespectful!

Nice, trustworthy Woody volunteered to ride along to CERK + maintain comfort of tree branches (out of driver’s side of windshield) from backseat. Is so helpful! Even better, am instilling values of excellence in innocent Woody by encouraging him to ditch work! Feel so proud! Have saved most cherubic, innocent, and helpful looking male on planet from career as professional oppressor of things evergreen + founded CHOP movement to unfetter Xmas trees from roots of plantation tyranny! At this rate of progress, decking LaCroix (w/ holiday cheer) will be a snap!

She'd hated to cover up the Cousinly-Receptionist Post-It Cabinet, but she'd had no other choice. It was the only wall suitable. And, Bonnie knew all too well, in her quest to throw the One Ring into Mount Doom ... erm, I mean, in her quest to repay LaCroix for all that he'd done for her, sacrifices would have to be made. Plus, it was only temporary and she'd tripled stocked her desk drawers with Post-Its and chocolate, which should see her nicely through the remainder of the holiday season.

"It still doesn't look like a fireplace to me," Vachon criticized.

"Well, of course not. We need a mantle first. Here," Bonnie said as she handed Vachon a small can of brown paint. "You can do the honors."

She then started rummaging through the bags, trying to find the cardboard cutout of the logs and roaring fire she'd purchased — with all that happened around this place, it simply wasn't safe to have anything more real than that.

Faux-fire in hand, she turned around and found that Vachon was standing back from the corrugated fireplace, admiring his work. She admired it along with him. "Wow, that looks great!"

"It's called forced perspective. And I used your White-Out to create this glancing light along the edge."

"You learn that from Michelangelo?"

"No. I was still pretty young then. I picked it up from this guy in the 1970's — Peter Maxx — before he started dropping acid and doing all these weird things with stars and colors and the like. You know him?"

"I was still pretty young then," Bonnie said.

Vachon turned to scrutinize her with narrowed eyes. "Sometimes I think you're older than you let on."

"Really?" she replied. "Because sometimes I think you must be younger than you look."

However, before Vachon could whip out even the smallest comeback, clever, flirtatious, or otherwise, a rumbling began to sound in the wall, in the wall covered with faux-bricking to make it look like a fireplace. The rumbling increased, sounding like it was coming closer, like it was actually moving down toward them. It sounded like something was actually sliding down their make-believe chimney...

Suddenly, the room was filled with billows of dust, then a great big plop landed on the floor. The rumbling had stopped and the dust began to settle.

The plop stood up then and dusted himself off. " 'Appy H'un-Thanksgettin’!" he said, more loudly than necessary.

Vachon and Bonnie stared. They both blinked. Then they blinked again. It was the kind of discovery that would have made Geraldo Rivera's night in the 'Al Capone's Vault' special!

"Uh, Screed?" Vachon began. "It's, uh, it's December, nearly Christmas."

"Oi been stuck h’in that bleedin' wall fer that long?" the carouche asked. "Blimey! Good thing ya gots yerself h’an h’infestation." The last was directed towards Bonnie. An infestation of what, she wasn't sure she wanted to know, and a bit cheeky of Screed to bring it up in company! "Took care h’of h’it fer ya, while Oi was h’at h’it. Glowing pinky ratsies — most h’unusual species that. Tasty h’all tha’ same, though," he said, chuckling and patting his stomach.

Bonnie and Vachon looked at each other, eyebrows raised in question and stunned amazement. They looked back at Screed, and then they looked at each other and shrugged.

Screed finished dusting himself off, juggled his satchel (from which several Cousinly Bathroom fixtures protruded) over his shoulder, put his hand to his head as if he had a hat to tip, then sauntered out the front door of CERK.

Bonnie surveyed the room. It was covered in a thin layer of dust. She hated dust. Well, that wasn't true. She hated dusting. Moreover, LaCroix would insist the lobby be cleaned, by her — damn that Shelley for paying off her credit card debt and not having to clean anymore. She almost felt sorry for having tormented the poor woman — almost — because, after all, she wasn't here when she needed her, so maybe her torment had been justified after all. If Bonns had her way, Shelley wouldn’t learn from her mistake, and would wind up at CERK again as Cousinly Janitor, preferably in the next five minutes. At the very least, before the start of the next fan fiction War (whenever that turned out to be).

"Ha!" Bonnie said, not realizing she'd said it out loud.

"Um, don't you mean ‘ho-ho-ho’?"

Bonnie glared at Vachon.

"Pretty dusty in here, isn't it?" he went on. "Guess someone ought to clean that up before LaCroix causes a hemorrhage."

Bonnie reached for a broom and was about to hand it to the flirting-with-no-means-to-an-end vampire — the least he could do was help her clean the mess up. Being a Rat’s-Ass meant cleaning up after the Ratpackers, but it shouldn't include cleaning up after Screed. Besides, the carouche was Vachon's friend.

"Okay, well ... um, guess I, uh, guess I'll just be going then."

Bonnie turned around and found the lobby now devoid of Spanish couch-squatters. She was alone, left holding the broom. She looked at the old-fashioned tool and mused heatedly: "Oh, if only I were a witch, buster! A real one, like Samantha, not liked those slutty Charmed ones who have all those rules to abide by..." She began to sweep. "Yeah! Your ass would be mine, mister. Mine!"

But as she continued to sweep, as the dust wafted gently into the air, coating her hair and her clothes and getting up her nose to addle her brain, Bonns pondered: "And I can think of a few more asses...Even a poncy LOTR elf would be more dependable to pick up the broom and get things done. No, no eternal flirting for the prettiest elf of all, no, no, even though has forever to flirt. No, no, he would probably be flirty just long enough to make sure there was mutual interest. Yeah. No endless flirting for him. No, ‘Tracy Sue, have you seen my new chrome stick shift ...? I'll show you mine, if you show me yours...’ No. No. No. No."

"You’d better not have said, 'Ho ho ho,' " she heard a voice warn from behind her.

Damn!

She turned. "Hello, sir," she addressed the always-imposing Lucian LaCroix. "Can I, uh, help you?"

"You can tell me what happened in here." Bonnie could tell that he was annoyed. Though LaCroix's voice sounded calm, there was a little muscle in his cheek twitching like Shakira's hips doing a salsa with Ricky Martin.

"Oh, this? Well, apparently, the last Cousinly Receptionist ... you know, the crazy one...." Bonnie said, not realizing that ALL the ones before her were crazy. "She, uh, apparently, didn't, uh, have the chimney swept. It's a once-a-year thing. But, perhaps she didn't know that. She was rather young. Anyway, so, we had a little incident, but nothing to worry about. I'm on top of it." She held the broom and dustpan up to give credence to her words. "And, first thing tomorrow, I'll have the chimney sweeps out here so that this never happens again. Could cause a fire and we wouldn't want that, now would we? Though, as I am a fabulously efficient Trainee in the Cousinly Receptionist program, I did remit the station’s insurance fees..." (Bonns didn’t mention that she’d subversively cancelled the ‘Acts of LaCroix’ clause on CERK’s policy, while she was at it.)

LaCroix looked at her, looked at the broom and the dustpan, then he looked over at the wall of cardboard-brick and with its brown-paint forced-perspective mantle and gaping hole where the faux-log-and-fire were supposed to be. Then he looked back at her. Bonns tried to remember if the box for ‘Organ Donor’ was properly checked on her license.

She swallowed hard and hoped he didn't notice. She then smiled her ever-the-innocent, hard-working, always-on-top-of-the-important-things-so-don't-you-worry-your-pretty-little-head smile.

"Very well then," LaCroix said, and then left through the door marked "Authorized Personnel Only — this means, NOT you."

Bonnie breathed a sigh of relief. That was close. It probably was a good thing that Vachon had left when he did. If the new faux-fireplace didn't fill LaCroix with the joy of the impending holiday season, then she doubted a Spanish slacker taking up floor space intended for their very large Xmas tree would have stuffed his stocking with merriment.

7:42pm

Have arrived at CERK with liberated tree! Parked at curb, as is shortest carrying distance to lobby. Told Woody to wait w/ car while I announced arrival. With any luck, will not need to exert self or carrying capacity of most cherubic, innocent, helpful-looking male on planet. Will encourage wicked Spanish lump on couch to stand + heft tree + get something done, instead.

7:43pm

Poked head in lobby. Found Pardoe dusting. Ratpack-type-persons must have dropped in for visit.

Asked Pardoe if Vachon available for laborious task. Pardoe emitted annoyed ‘HA!’ sound + made violent gestures w/ her broom.

Plan to fill CERK w/ holiday cheer obviously off to rousing start.

7:44pm

Poked head out of lobby. Found Woody now in driver’s seat of LC’s Jaguar, intent on fiddling with steering column. Urge to fiddle must derive from boredom. Woody stopped as soon as called his name + beamed me most trustworthy smile. Offered assistance in carrying evergreen indoors w/o hesitation or hint of slackerliness.

Fa-la-la! Xmas excellent opportunity to make new, helpful friends. Luurrrv it!

7:47pm:

Ta-da! Tree inside!

Tree certainly large to begin with, but seems bigger indoors, as if doubled in size during ride in car. Must be swelling w/ newfound pride since escaping bindings of servitude upon plantation. Is now sumo-wrestler tree, dwarfing all of lobby with presence. Is like spatial anomaly — a green hole — branches extending so far + wide, now appears Fraser fir’s limbs are giant incisors, chomping comfy couch, eclipsing door marked ‘Authorized Personnel Only — This Means NOT YOU,’ poking eyes out, etc.

Pardoe not happy re: tree, though is impressive + full in fir, exactly as she instructed. Said is too damn big + cannot dust around it — has allergies, you know!

Explained to Pardoe about CHOP (Conifers Halting Oppressive Plantations) plan to use liberated garlands of tree to spread message of revolution + uprooting! Pardoe choked broom, then went in search of medicating eggnog supplies.

Pardoe v.g. Omnifemale host, but also v. rude. Did not acknowledge most cherubic, innocent, and helpful-looking male on planet, much less spare time for introduction to Woody!

7:48pm

Hmm. Pardoe not so rude after all. Do not see Woody, either. Woody not here. Wonder where he went? Did not even get to tip (non-cow)!

7:50pm

Oh. CERK lobby has fireplace. Never even noticed that before! Would burn festive log, inspiring warm, cheery + smoky atmosphere by which to deck LaCroix, but that would be wrong. Can’t just go around hacking off parts of liberated trees + setting them on fire. Bit incendiary, that. Want to send message of coniferous peace + liberty, not immolation.

Still, fireplace in CERK lobby adds perspective.

7:51pm

Oof!

While staring at fireplace, bludgeoned self w/ wayward limb of sumo-tree. Could not pay attention to where going à perspective of fireplace v. forceful! Also, damn tree everywhere. Know is wallowing in newfound emancipation from toiling in soil, but does Fraser have to take up entire lobby + cause head trauma?

No doubt tree simply eager to share garlands + get word on street. CHOP-CHOP! Fight those who would keep trees rooted on the plantation! Seedlings unite! Free the Tree!

7:56pm

Pardoe back w/ medicating eggnog supplies (v.g.). Will indulge in small cup to soothe sore head, then start assimilating Fraser’s garlands for use in evergreen action coalition.

8:02pm

Mmmmm. Eggnog v. yummy. Pardoe invested tons o’ labor to mix + pour. Should show respect + appreciation for C-R-I-T efforts + have another, bigger, cup. Is polite thing to do.

8:13pm

Nummy-wummy. Luurrrrvvv eggnog! Don’t think got full cup last time. Drank so quickly.

Must get more. Must respect + appreciate full cup!

9:18pm

Ready trim n’ deck now. In spirit. La-fa-fa-la-fa-da-ho-uh-hrm-whatever.

Crisis àEggnog shortage. Cannot deck + trim w/o refreshment. Deck + trim hard work. Pardoe stumble upstairs. Get more eggnog. Pardoe super.

Will not get distracted from tree ‘gin. Will look for trimmy shears ‘til eggnog gets back w/ Pardoe. Will be prep then to trim + deck. Rah!

9:22pm

Trimmy shears found! Found in Pardoe desk. Top o’ stack Xmas cards. Got thinking. Have not sent Xmas cards yet. Not many Canadian postal days ‘til Xmas. Should do cards...huh...five days ago. Urgent need to spread cheer. Is Plot To Bring LaCroix Peace, Harmony And Contentment Whether He Likes It Or Not. Is v. important! Takes precedence, even over setting trees free (CHOP-CHOP!).

Shall make list. Hear eggnog stumble down stairs now w/ Pardoe. Goody! Shall refresh + write + trim + deck, in that order!

10:46pm

Feegggnooggggg. Yurm! Fa! What doin? Ah, ya à lissit o’ Xmassy cards! Write, write. Hurrrry. Cheeerrrrs!

10:58pm

1 down. Gahmillion cards to go. Where Pardoe? Need Pardoe help!

11:00pm

Pardoe serrvingg eggnogg to tree. Fa! Hostessy mostessy Pardoe is. Bedder not drink all tree! Pushee limb basstarrd!

Will swright carrdees nooow.

13:84pm

Carrdsdun! Gome!

Malethemnow. Bak n sec.

14:33pm

bak!

Wher eggnog? Wher Pardoe? Wher trimmy shears?

Pfft! Pardoe sleepn fireplace. Havto make own eggnoog fen fix tree.

4:43am

Fixid! Ruhhah! Uhf! Ohhh, buggerwhoputdesktherowknee?

Florr comfee. Gotsmuch done. Shuteyes. Weedlenap.

<slightly yellow drool stain on page>

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

Sunrise was nigh as Nick Knight idled his Caddy outside CERK. He recognized the Jaguar parked in front of the lobby’s entrance and wondered if he’d chosen a bad time to visit. He hadn’t been invited, after all.

<Do friends like you need invitations?>

Nick pictured how LaCroix had looked the last time he’d seen him — enraged, covered in red, quivering jelly, a small citrus fruit perched on his patrician nose.

<Maybe.>

Nick shook his head, stymied by his own question. The memory haunted him, and like a typical ghost of holidays past — like LaCroix, himself, actually — the image wouldn’t leave him alone. Nick had trouble sleeping. He had dreams of giant dollops of cranberry sauce dropping from the sky, splatting the heads of people he’d known — Jeanne d’Arc at the stake, Beethoven at the piano, Hitler before a crowd of Germans. All had been torturous nightmares — except for the Hitler one. The dictator had deserved burial in cranberry sauce and kumquats, at the very least.

Even worse, Nick had restless dreams in which figures from his present felt the splodge of chunky gelatin hit them by surprise, and Nick was always helpless to stop it. He would wake up in a sweat, flailing and screaming as Natalie, Schanke, Tracy or one of the Captains suffered a sticky fate. Sometimes his dreams would rehash the entire scene at the Thanksgiving party again. The Ratpackers would be wobbling and fighting over the tray of cranberry sauce in slow motion, events would be set in action, and Nick would try to shout a warning, only every time he tried to open his mouth, Bonnie Pardoe would be there pouring prime rib au jus down his throat from a silver gravy boat decorated with crosses along the side. Nick would try to move, to fly across the Cousinly Dining Hall and push LaCroix to safety, but he always found himself tied to a chair with festive orange and gold cellophane. It was horrific!

<Except for the time Janette appeared in the dream at that point, whispering ‘Immovable feast’ in my ear, and then she started to take off her...>

Nick shook his head to clear his wayward thoughts. This visit was an attempt to find some peace from his unholy, troubled days. If LaCroix had moved past the scourge of the cranberries, then maybe he could too.

So resolved, Nick shifted his Cadillac into reverse, then angled and straightened the vehicle until he was parked against the curb behind the Jag. He approached the CERK entrance, giving the door a casual pull, and went inside.

Nick walked into a tree.

Flummoxed, Nick stepped back and studied this interesting occurrence in more detail. There, reaching through the lobby doorway as though they were straining to escape, a broadening progression of limbs blocked most of his path. Fighting back flashbacks of wartime (non-fanfic) and foxholes, Nick dropped to the ground and began to crawl beneath the spiky obstacle, hoping that he wouldn’t inadvertently poke himself to death with an inconspicuous stick.

He emerged into the open lobby sooner than expected. Nick sat up, gingerly touching his hair. It was matted with sap, tufts of evergreen needles sprouting in so many spots that he must resemble an early stage Chia pet.

Nick turned to frown at the tree, but the sight of it from indoors caught him off guard. The evergreen looked like it had been violated, its branches whittled away by a crazed topiary artist and strewn about the floor with abandon, but only on the front side. The back half of the tree, the side facing the wall and door, remained dense and full. Nick bent for a closer look at the trunk, the burlap-swaddled roots which were propped in a bucket that contained an opaque liquid. He touched the fluid’s surface, then sniffed his fingers. His best guess, someone had added eggnog with a liberal dash of bourbon (non-vampire) to the tree’s water.

Nick leaned still closer to the bucket. Behind the base of the tree, he saw a pair of hiking boots shoved into the corner. Peering upward, Nick could see denim-covered legs rising from those boots.

"What the—?" Nick hefted the fir tree, shifting it away from the wall.

A small, youthful man sprang away from the wall, blowing a wad of evergreen needles out of his mouth. "Ptooi! I thought I was trapped for good! Thank you, sir," he said, shaking Nick’s hand. "I was cornered moving Bonnie’s posh Christmas tree into place. Amidst the carousing and festivities I could hear, I do believe she forgot about me."

"Bonnie?" Nick repeated, as though the word equaled a dire curse.

"No attention span, that Bonnie! Dare say a goblin could sit on her face, and she wouldn’t notice."

Nick nodded his agreement, but, before he started issuing a few Bonnie laments of his own, a sparkle about the man’s neck caught his eye. It was a piece of jewelry strung on a leather cord. Mesmerized, Nick reached out toward the glimmer of gold. "Is that a ring?"

"Is mine! My own! Not yours!" Before Nick could say another word, the stranger scurried out of the CERK lobby and into the darkness.

Bewildered, Nick scuffed his shoes over the garland littered floor for a moment, wondering if he should clean up things a bit. LaCroix hated messes. That’s why he entrapped a Cousinly Janitorial staff at regular intervals. Nick shuddered at the memory of his sire’s reaction the last time LaCroix had come to the loft on a Stray Cork Inspection. It was old military energy bottled up — once a General, always a General.

<LaCroix really needs a new hobby, optimistically something that doesn’t require bloodshed, but carries the same thrill. Keep him active, but out of homicide’s way,> Nick thought to himself. <Paintball, maybe?>

As intriguing as this line of thought was for the vampire detective, Nick stepped further into the lobby and discovered even more fascinating things. Fascinatingly weird, that is.

He found one Bonnie, the Pardoe, curled up in the grotto of a cardboard simulation of a fireplace. A stack of Post-It pads supported her head as a makeshift pillow. Stuck to the faux fireplace itself — Nick noted someone had done a pretty decent job drawing the forced perspective of said fireplace — were a dozen scrawled memos sending the holiday themed message, "LACROIX’S GETTING WHAT’S COMING TO HIM FOR XMAS."

<If only,> Nick thought. <If only.>

He found a second Bonnie, the Rutledge, blanketed under a pile of tree limbs. She slept soundly, a pair of trimming shears clutched firmly in one hand, a Sharpie in the other. She’d left the permanent marker uncapped, and as she slept, Bonnie had hugged the Sharpie to her cheek (facial). With each dormant wiggle and sigh, she scribbled more red graffiti between her jaw and her browline.

Nick grinned, then carefully pried the shears from Rutledge’s grip, so she wouldn’t stab something in her sleep. The Sharpie, he left untouched.

Just before Nick opened his mouth to formally announce his presence, LaCroix beat him to the punch. "Come in, Nicholas. Don’t be shy."

Nick glowered as he entered the room. "I was being polite. You seem to be enjoying your reading. I wondered if I should disturb you."

"Ah, yes. I’m partaking of a delightful story — a Christmas fable."

Nick started to laugh, but then he realized LaCroix was serious. At that, Nick decided he had to sit down.

"It’s a lovely cautionary tale by Donald E. Westlake," LaCroix continued, mischief dancing in his eyes as he noted Nick’s surprised expression. "A short story with the title of ‘Nackles.’"

"Nackles?" Nick gulped. That name sounded like an ominous Yuletide omen, bringing images to mind of jingle bells crafted out of barbed wire, or candy canes scratching a black board.

"Nackles, according to this story, is the opposite of Santa Claus. He roams the darkness, and feeds off the flesh of boys and girls."

"Charming. You have so much in common."

LaCroix raised his index finger and tutted. "Ah, I left out the most important detail. Nackles only feeds off the flesh of bad  boys and girls." He mocked Nick’s comment, echoing, "You have so much in common."

"In centuries past," Nick admitted begrudgingly.

LaCroix sipped thoughtfully from his glass of blood, then gestured toward the bottle, offering to share with his company. Nick declined with a wave of his hand. "No thanks," he added, smiling a secret smile. "There’s eggnog downstairs."

One eyebrow bobbed. "Indeed?" LaCroix made a sour face. "I trust there are no Spaniards downstairs spoiling the atmosphere, as well?"

"No," Nick replied solicitously. "Just eggnog...and Bonnies."

"Bonnies?" This time, both eyebrows launched skyward. "That sounds like one too many. I hope I don’t have to issue any new memorandums to match the occasion." LaCroix issued a low murmur, somewhere between a growl and a purr. "No matter. I have the fantasy of Nackles. It almost warms the cockles of my heart, the idea that, to every bad boy or girl, bad things happen."

Nick considered his own troubled dreams and grimaced. "I would think that idea would give you, of all people, nightmares."

"Maybe..." LaCroix coolly sipped at his crimson vintage. "...If I weren’t already dead."

Nick spared a moment of concern for the peacefully sleeping merrymakers downstairs. Then he remembered all the branches and limbs littering the floor, enough stakes to make Van Helsing evergreen with envy. They were OmniInsane, or something. They could survive LaCroix’s wrath over the decorations and mess. And, if they thought to make the Christmas trimmings gloomy enough, that just might please LaCroix in his current mood. His sire certainly hadn’t lashed out in recriminations over Thanksgiving yet. He hadn’t flinched or scowled once, betraying haunted fruit-dressed memories. That was a good sign wasn’t it? Still, there was only one way Nick could be sure, thus relieving his conscience...

"LaCroix, about Thanksgiving—"

"Say no more, Nicholas."

"No, LaCroix. I really want to say that I never meant for the kumquats to fall—"

"Nicholas, say no more."

"No, LaCroix. I mean—"

"I mean, say no more."

"But all that cranberry sauce. It’s giving me nightmares, LaCroix. I keep seeing you over and over, the sublime indignity in my head. It’s like I can never forget how foolish you looked—"

"NICHOLAS!"

Much to Nick’s surprise, he realized that he felt much more lighthearted than when he had arrived at CERK. He cracked his knuckles, a strange, confident cheer surging through him. "Care for a game of chess?" he asked LaCroix. The melody of an Christmas carol hummed in his head, and, for some reason, Nick knew that he was going to win.

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

December 18th

Caffeine units: Gah!, alcoholic units: Gah!, cotton units: Gah!, Xmas cards sent: Gah!, seconds since last snogged in fanfic: xxxxxxxxx (information now classified — Gah!)

9:23am

Fffphat! Whazzit? Whattizbwodygawdawfulnoizzit?

9:25am

Iz CERK bwoody phone. Git Pardoe answer it. Will smack her.

(Cwazit peoples call station middlemornin like place o bizness. Ffffha!)

9:26am

Erff! Pardoe smack back!

Annswerd bwoody noizzit phone tho.

9:27am

O tree on floor. Snice tree.

Go dozy ‘gin now.

9:28am

Hee.

Jus membered CERK station middlemornin IS place o bizness. Hee-faa!

Yawn sleepy.

11:03am

Mother Mary + Parliament Funkadelic! Head hurts! Gugh. Eggnog vile poison. Devil’s milk w/ nutmeg. Shall curl into ball until tummy less sad + skull ends revolution.

11:07am

Gah! Am sleeping on tree!

What happened? Why are liberated tree parts freely dumped on floor?!

11:08am

Gaaaaah! Looked at tree!

O TANNENBAUM! O TANNENBAUM! How mangled are your branches!
O TANNENBAUM! O TANNENBAUM! Have !$#%&*^ pruned you pear-shaped!

11:11am

Pardoe appeared, nursing beaker of restorative juice. Did not share juice. Pardoe said had been up since bloody phone began ringing, crazy people calling CERK station like is place of business in the middle of Wednesday morning. Did not share juice. Pardoe laughed + pointed + said, "Look at your face! Ha!" Did not share juice. Considered looking at face, for head doing impersonation of watermelon pierced by iron spikes. Eyes will surely pop out momentarily, enabling self-lookage w/o aid of reflective, narcissistic tools (mirror). Until then, will sit here while no one shares juice.

11:13am

Eyes still in sockets. Pardoe completed restorative juice consumption, completely w/o sharing, then gave parting instructions as bloody phone rang again to ‘clean up my mess.’

My mess? MY MESS? Surely is shared mess? Am not island! Am not Greta Garbo, being alone! What about Pardoe mess?!

11:14am

Oh. Just inspected sectors of Cousinly-Receptionist-Still-In-Training activities, from desk to fireplace. Areas all tidy, spic-span, with nary a wayward Post-It blemishing the surfaces. Only purposeful Post-Its blemishing surfaces, such as one stuck to side of computer monitor with note ‘TO BONNIE (YOU, NOT ME) — ORGANIZE YOUR ASS!’

Cannot disobey imperative of Post-It. Is Fundamental Law Of Universe, or something. Will get up + gather sheaves of garlands immediately, even though head will no doubt explode soon, thereby making neatness next to pointlessness.

11:18am

Gah! Gah! While cleaning mess found un-mailed Xmas card, twisted in folds of skirt swaddling root bag + bucket of mutilated Xmas tree! Here is what says:

'Happy Christmas to my dearest, dearest Old, Dead Guy!

I have so appreciated all your input in my life. You are a splendid, splendid reanimated master of evil, so strong, so undead, so good with spontaneous volcanoes and sarcophagi. Although we have had our high points and lows, it is important to not become mired in quests for revenge if one is to fertilize the future. I feel extremely close to you now in this season of goodwill and firry trimmings, both as a professional, and as a llama.

          With Real Love,

          Llani

Who else did I mail cards to? WHO?!?! And did I send them as cards from Me the Me, or from Llani the Llama?? DOOOOOOOMMMM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

11:23am

Misery. Found Xmas Card list. Included, but is not limited to:

LaCroix
Nick
Vachon
Screed
Carmen
The Inca
The Baroness
Viracocha
Dirk the Cabbie
Woody Kringle
Madame Kiki
Monsieur Louis Cabon
The Buff Slave Boys
Revenue Canada
Grand High Poobah, Mercenary Guild
NA High Priestess
Battle Yak
The Fanfic Fairies
Professor Utonium

Wish hole would open up in floor and suck me into Middle Earth. Don’t want to play Happy Xmas anymore. Cards beyond control, wreaking havoc, delivering embarrassing gibberish + spilling potential drunken secrets to all + sundry, emphasis on sundry.

To be true, it wasn’t so much a mound as it was a teensy pile. No, it wasn’t even a pile, for that term implies height, items resting atop one another. The Shrine’s surviving treasure counted among the vertically challenged; it was only a few items laid out on their sides, mimicking a crime scene of treasure more than anything else.

High Priestess Jules sighed, counting the surviving items of the Shrine’s collapse once more, just in case this time, by some miracle, it took more than the fingers of one hand to accomplish the deed. There were two beaded glass lanterns that had escaped chipping and cracking, as well as an excerpt from the Shrine mosaic featuring Nunkies’s face (technically, a broken thing, but with a mosaic who really notices? Besides, LaCroix’s visage remained intact, and the sight of clean grout, no matter how small, was a comfort to Jules in these fiscally troubled times). Lastly among the undamaged objects, Jules counted a pogo stick, and one novelty teacup.

Five items, sum and total. A measly five precious items remained intact from her once-majestic and decorous Shrine To Nunkies, and Jules wasn’t altogether certain that the novelty teacup, regrettably shaped like the head of a cartoon mouse, didn’t need smashing.

After the Ratpackers’ shenanigans at that awful holiday party the Bonnies had thrown, Jules’s hope of a generous donation from LaCroix to fund the start of construction on the Shrine Mach II went up in cranberry sauce. Just because she’d been present, no matter that she was only on the scene in order to maintain some sense of reserve and polish, LaCroix damned her included in the ‘festive rabble plaguing him.’ It was completely unfair! Festive? Rabble? No sir, not Jules! Nothing of the sort! Plague? The only infection that troubled Jules was a bout of indignation brought on by LaCroix’s unreason.

Jules prodded the teacup with her heel, hoping it would chip. If she couldn’t purge funds from LaCroix for the new Shrine, where could she get the money? Where?

"My teacup!" Christy appeared, bolting over a heap of furniture rubble to embrace the china souvenir lovingly. "It’s my lucky night! I thought this baby had met its doom!"

"If only," Jules muttered. There was nothing refined about mouse-shaped porcelain.

"I love it! I got this cup on my first trip to Disney World. It’s so cool! See? When I do this..." Christy held onto the teacup and began to spin madly in place. "...I feel just like I’m there, on a ride!" Christy ceased her whirling dervish, wobbled dizzily, then tripped over the rubber stop of the pogo stick.

Jules eyed the pile of Addict on the ground worriedly. "Christy! I hope you’re okay!" She said nothing regarding the mouse teacup.

"We’re good!"

"Oh." Jules emitted a tiny sigh. You couldn’t win them all. And, apparently, when you were High Priestess of The Shrine To Nunkies, you couldn’t win, period. "I’m glad you’re in one piece." She emphasized the word ‘you.’ "What exactly are you doing here, Christy? ‘Tisn’t the season for Nunkies Addict activities. We aren’t warmongers."

The Nunketeer grinned wickedly. "Speak for yourself. Last night, I dreamt that I was at the Happiest Place In Florida and saw Patt."

"Patt?"

"Actually, I saw Goofy. But, see, Patt was Goofy."

Jules nodded. Patt had  been rather goofy, especially after a few beers.

"I walked up to Goofy and gave him — err — her a big hug."

"Him," Jules corrected. "Goofy is male."

"No, her!" Christy insisted.

"No, HIM."

"What makes you think YOU know?"

"I’m a High Priestess."

"Hmph. Well, I know this Goofy was of the feminine persuasion, because she took her head off!"

"It was a suicidal Goofy? Oh, dear."

"No, she took off the head of her costume.  A lot of small children still screamed, though. Not me. I saw that the person in the Goofy costume was Patt."

"How nice."

"It was! She said something really incredible to me, too. It really meant something."

"What did she say?"

Christy assumed ghostly tones, with a Louisianan accent. "’The Shrine will rise again.’ Isn’t that awesome? Can you believe it? Patt said we’re going to rebuild the Shrine To Nunkies! It’s amazing!"

"I’VE been saying we’re going to rebuild the Shrine for months." Jules’s voice was as crisp as a cracker. "No one has been amazed. Honestly!"

"Yeah, yeah, but you’re here," Christy said, then assumed her ghostly tone again. "Patt is beyond this mortal Slinky."

"Coil, Christy. The expression is ‘mortal coil.’"

All at once, the wind lifted. The gust of night air twisted the High Priestess’s skirts, tangling them about her legs. Christy clutched at her head as the sharp current threatened to blow away her Nunketeer-monogrammed Mouse Club cap. Both women heard a deep moaning sound, as if the Earth had a monster hangover, then a crash of glass, like a beer bottle breaking.

Just as swiftly as it had arrived, the wind died on a hiss. Christy gulped nervously. "Did...did you hear that?"

"Yes!" Jules paced the Shrine’s ruins in disgust, then shook a fist at some unseen enemy. "It’s that place across the street, the Bovine Sex Club. Every night it’s a ruckus, and — Nunkies help me — sometimes they have karaoke!" She paced some more. "We need soundproofing! We need insulation! We need walls! I tell you, Monsieur Cabon is ready to tear his hair out!" The High Priestess clutched her head, suggesting that the maitre-d’ of the Jeweled Peach was not the only one hovering precariously at the edge.

"Oh, speaking of Monsieur Cabon, that’s really why I came. I’m meeting Jayne here so we can confer with Louis about this year’s Have A Heart Feast."

Jules issued a vigorous denial. "We aren’t doing that."

"Oh, come on! We have to! The feast is Patt’s legacy! It’s for the homeless and indigent!"

"Christy, our faction is homeless and indigent."

"Ha!" The Nunketeer twitched her head so that her mouse ears momentarily gave the impression of a bull preparing to charge. "We aren’t broke. You’ve simply hoarded every sestertii into your Shrine Rebuilding account."

Jules steamed, wishing, not for the first time, that she was in a good Roman economy, where it was perfectly acceptable for thousands to go hungry while the patricians squirreled the coinage for a new fountain or big, stone thing. Honestly! The conditions under which she had to work! "The Rebuilding Account is at a level of insufficient funds for its purpose. You can hardly expect me to dole out the cash I slaved to earn by selling rocks on eBay. What about your ‘The Shrine Shall Rise Again’ dream? That money will make the dream happen! It can’t go toward feeding grubby orphans and street people. Shrines don’t just pop out of nowhere at the whim of fan fiction!"

"Since when?" Christy countered. While Jules sputtered, the Nunketeer waved her hand, shooing away the High Priestess’s protests. "I wasn’t asking for your precious Shrine Fund, anyway, so there — neener!" Christy stuck out her tongue before pursuing an explanation. "That’s why Jayne and I are visiting Cabon. We’re hoping everything will work out the same as last year."

"There was no Have A Heart Feast last year," Jules dismissed.

"Oh, you think you know so much — ha! We  held a Have A Heart Feast. Did I mention this was Patt’s legacy?" Christy rubbed one of her mouse ears impishly. "You just weren’t invited."

Horror struck the High Priestess’s features. "How can that be? I’m popular. So it is written in fanfic, and so it shall ever be!"

"There’s more to life than fanfic. You know that. We make plans, we do things, we indulge in all manner of evil shenanigans that never gets posted. Just because something really happened, that doesn’t mean it shows up in one of these silly stories. And just because something appears in fanfic, that doesn’t mean it really happened. Everything is a lie, and everything is true. THAT is Nunkies Anonymous." Christy saluted, then waited, as if she expected a choir to appear from the ether, singing a factionwitty rendition of ‘Te Amamus Nunkies.’

Jules crossed her arms and stared ruthlessly at the Nunketeer. "If that statement is a feeble segue into revealing that the Shrine collapse and Patt’s demise were all just part of a bad dream, and I’m supposed to wake up now and find Bobby Ewing in the Sacred Cold Shower, I will throttle you with Nunkies Anonymous’s sole remaining pogo stick."

"Well, that’s another evil plan flushed." Christy absently moved to sip from her mouse teacup, but recalled the circumstances of its presence, and that it was empty. "Come on. I’m thirsty. Let’s exchange some plot-progressing dialogue while I get cocoa."

As they strolled into the Jeweled Peach, Christy explained how the Have A Heart Feast did not require pirating Jules’s precious Shrine Rebuilding fund. "We always host it at the Peach, so the Shrine’s destruction hasn’t created a hiccup in venue. Last year, Louis donated the food, and wrote it off in the restaurant’s taxes. Shele does the decorations gratis, provided she can use the opportunity to build her pyramid of world domination and recruit new Mary Sue Fanfic Beauty Consultants during the event. See? Hosting the feast again should be no sweat. Patt’s legacy continues. Rock n’ Roll!"

As Christy emitted this cheer, they came upon Monsieur Cabon, already in conference with Jayne. Louis appeared distraught and ready to cry. Jayne appeared devastated.

"But, Louis...Louis!" she implored. "We’re counting on you!"

"Sorree, M’amselle Jayne. Eye am zee boo’oo, too, but zee Peach must stay open to zee paying customers all season! Last year, Eye managed, but zen Eye had zee financing of zee Addicts from zee first ‘alf of zee year. This year, rien d’assistance! Zee sassy club across zee street ‘as frightened away zee most refined customers of zee Peach! J’adore des Addicts, but Eye can only geeve you zee food for your soiree. Eye ‘ave no shelter to offer."

Hearing this, Christy sputtered, "But it’s Patt’s legacy!"

Cabon shrugged helplessly. "Alors, zee Peach ees my legacy. Eye cannot go bankrupt. Eef we do not stay open for business, my legacy goes poof! Where would zee Addicts get zeir tiramisu? L’horreur! Zee camels, zey will starve! S’il vous plait, M’amoiselle Christy, do not ask thees of me!" He broke down then, falling to his knees, hugging Christy and Jayne’s ankles as he sobbed. "Boo’oo! Boo’oo! Eye ‘ave failed zee crazee ladies! Oh, Boo’oo!"

Jayne patted his head consolingly. "It’s all right, Louis. We’ll think of something." She exchanged a sad look with Christy, then both women stared at Jules, who had been busy filing her nails during the emotional exchange.

The High Priestess could feel their stares. She paused the busy grinding of her emery board, imploring, "What? WHAT?"

Christy was highly reluctant, but plowed ahead. "After I said we don’t need your money...we need your money."

"Absolutely not."

"Jules, pleeeease! It’ll be fun! We just need enough to cover renting a banquet hall."

"No. I don’t do  Christmas."

"All right, no banquet hall. What about a hotel suite with a kitchenette?"

"No."

"A room at LaQuinta?"

"NO!"

Jayne noticed a bold flyer pasted of the wall behind Louis’s seating station. It hardly fit the elegant mood Monsieur Cabon strived to maintain throughout the restaurant. "What’s this? Someone must have whammied Louis to tape this onto his paneling." She plucked the flyer off the wall as she read, "’Reward Offered For Lost Llama — Contact The Inca.’" Jayne’s eyes boggled as she digested the figure mentioned.

Jayne turned victorious eyes upon the other women, brandishing the flyer so they could see. "This is it! I know what we can do! You can cover me in cotton balls and duct tape, I’ll pretend I’m a llama, and we’ll get the reward from the Inca to use for the Have A Heart Feast!"

Jules tilted her chin imperiously. "How absurd."

Christy stroked one mouse ear doubtfully. "And normally we would leap on an absurd idea like a frog to a lily pad, but..."

"But my idea is too absurd," Jayne finished, her shoulders slumping. "You’re right. Nobody’s gullible enough to confuse a grown woman in cotton balls and duct tape with a living, breathing llama, not even a Cousinly Receptionist."

"What else can we do, if Ebenezer Jules won’t cough up any cash?"

If Jules was a cat, her hair would have puffed and doubled her size. "Hey!"

The front door of the Jeweled Peach opened, producing Nancy and Julia. "Hi, guys!" Nancy cheered as she adjusted her scarf. "We just dropped by to see if you had any kooky holiday imbroglios unfurling."

"Yes," Julia chimed in, "I’d be happy to influence your mischief, but in a strictly executive capacity." She stripped off her gloves, stuffed the gloves into her jacket, then clapped her hands in a business-like manner. "Cough it up. What’s brewing? Give us your problem..."

"We’ve got the solution!" So forceful was Nancy’s enthusiasm, the Addicts took a step back. Louis hid behind his seating podium.

"Err, we need a place to throw a festive party for the homeless and indigent," Jayne said slowly.

"A cheap place," Christy amended. "As in, free."

Nancy and Julia exchanged a look. Nancy wiggled three fingers in the air. Julia scratched the side of her nose and lifted one foot. The Addicts, bewildered, moved away another step. Nancy and Julia exchanged a new look. They really should have studied their copy of ‘Secret Hand Signals For Dummies’ before they came to the restaurant. Nancy and Julia shrugged. <Oh, well.>

"I know just where you could hold a festive party!" Nancy offered helpfully.

This offering was surely too good to be true. Jayne took a step closer, hardly daring to hope. "You do?" she asked tentatively.

"Yeah! NICK’S LOFT!"

From his hiding place, Monsieur Cabon emitted a hysterical, horsy laugh. "Nee-haw-haw-haw!"

Jayne glanced at Christy from the corner of her eye. "The whole pretending-I’m-a-llama scenario — doesn’t sound nearly so absurd anymore, does it?"

"Not so fast." Christy held up a hand, stalling any further torpedoing of Nancy’s suggestion. "Nick likes  homeless people. He feeds homeless people. It’s canon from ‘Dark Knight.’ He just might go for it!"

"As much as it pains me to remember our faction’s Christmas idiocy past," Jules admitted, "Nick was the one who organized a mummer’s play as the first Have A Heart Feast’s entertainment."

"That’s true," Jayne agreed cautiously, "but we’re still talking about Nunkies Anonymous asking Nick Knight for a favor. He’s not going to say ‘yes.’"

"So don’t ask him!" Nancy instructed breezily. Julia smirked in silence. "I’ll help you break into the loft at night, while Nick’s at work. You can decorate the place for the party so Nick will be overwhelmed when he returns home! He’ll be unable to resist." <Unable to resist arresting a few Addicts for breaking and entering,> Nancy thought to herself. <This will cheer Nick up immensely. Oh, goody!>

Jayne frowned worriedly. This plan had doom written all over it. Still, everyone else looked enthusiastic, even Jules, who was perfectly content to approve of any plot where she wouldn’t have to celebrate Christmas or spend money. "I suppose," Jayne allowed.

"When do you think we should try decorating Nick’s loft?" Christy asked.

Nancy made a great showing of consulting her mental calendar. "Oh, as soon as possible, I would think."

"We’ll have to clue Shele in on the plan," Jayne warned.

"We can do that right now!" Nancy declared. "Where’s Shele?"

"She should be at CERK. The Bonnies had some kind of tree emergency."

"At CERK?" Julia said, making a steeple with her fingers. "Interesting. Very interesting. Get your coats. We’ll drive you."

"I was freeing Fraser from the shackles of a rootist, treeist tradition, founded upon the bondage and trade of leafy-wooded-type-persons!" Rutledge raised a fist, commencing her new favorite chant, "Free the Tree! Free the Tree!"

Pardoe met Shele’s speculative gaze and confirmed the truth. "She was drunk."

"Ah."

Rutledge paused in her chanting and marched militaristically about the lobby, no mean feat in her non-sensible shoes. "And it’s not MY Xmas tree. That implies ownership. I do not own this tree. No one owns this tree. It is not chattel. It is emancipated, free to roam the earth as it so pleases. CERK lobby is merely offering temporary shelter to Fraser, my friend, my coniferous comrade!"

Shele tapped her chin with her index finger. "Let me guess. She’s still drunk."

Pardoe shook her head. "Strangely enough, no. It’s posttraumatic stress, I think. Bons spent the day distributing CHOP manifesto pamphlets and garlands to members of the Toronto populace. I get the feeling it did not go well. Apparently a homeless person threw one of Fraser’s branches onto an open fire and started roasting chestnuts."

"Animals!" Rutledge shrieked. "Pyromaniacs!"

Shele could see why no one took Rutledge seriously. For one, she had an enormous, red Sharpie scribble on her face, and was apparently unaware of it. Shele, of course, would never point this out, preferring to snicker furtively at Bonnie behind her back.

"Don’t fret," Shele told Pardoe, who was becoming increasingly concerned that Rutledge’s...<hand motion>...psychological problem with greenery might give LaCroix the impression of Cousinly Receptionist inefficiency were he to witness it. "I’ve got my baby DVD in my backpack. If we just sit her in the corner with the Powerpuff Girls and a snack, she’ll quiet down in a jiff and take a nap. Then we can discuss motifs for the tree."

True to Shele’s word, within half an hour Rutledge was dozing peacefully by the faux fireplace. With Bonns’s help, they reattached Fraser’s remaining garlands with a generous amount duct tape, then doused the tree with fake snow and tinsel.

"If you were a vampire," Pardoe mused hypothetically, "you know, an old, grouchy, Roman vampire, would this tree make you happy?"

In a blur, Vachon appeared on the comfy couch. Instead of stroking his instrument of pleasure (guitar), he held his cat Carmen in his lap. "Sure. All that wood in one gorgeous, flammable package — vampires love Christmas trees."

"Really?"

"No. Not really." A pause. "LaCroix hasn’t come down yet to see the big, holiday effort, has he?"

"No."

"Excellent." Vachon slouched more deeply into the comfy couch, Carmen fretting over his chest with her paws.

Bonns eyed the purring feline with suspicion. Carmen was a Vaquera — she was encouraging Vachon to flirt, dammit! Pardoe crumpled a Post-It into a small ball and threw it across the room. Carmen leapt off of Vachon’s lap in a shot, which only demonstrated the ramshackle value system of your average Felis amazingus transcendentalus. Cats jumping off Spanish laps willy-nilly: what was the world coming to?

Bonns turned her attention back to the Spaniard. "Are you going to help with the snowflakes?"

"I could."

"But are you going to?"

"I’m flirting with the idea."

Pardoe bit back a curse. Where was that Vaquera cat? Maybe she could shoo her furry, flirty, amazing, transcendental self back to the church, given the right persuasion of treats, catnip, or Alsatian.

Carmen had discovered the cotton balls meant to be used on the windows of CERK as snow effects. Instead, the cat employed them as toys. She smacked the white tufts about the lobby floor, clutched each fluffy, distressed morsel in her jaws like prey, then dumped each cotton ball on the sleeping Bonnie’s head until the napper looked like an avalanche victim. Eventually, Rutledge had difficulty breathing through the mound of white. She sneezed "Ah-choo!" and opened her eyes to find Carmen staring at her with a knowing catly gaze. "Gah!!!"

The jingle bells Pardoe had affixed to the lobby entrance erupted in a jamboree of ringing. A herd of coat-bundled Forever Knight fans entered the station, Jayne at the forefront.

"Let me guess," Vachon said. "You’re carolers. Sing some Billy Squier, and I’ll help keep LaCroix from throwing you out when he hears what I hear."

"We’re not here to sing," Jayne said, though she had plenty of musical numbers under her down-filled sleeves, like NunkAnon’s perennial favorite, ‘Santa Nunkies.’ "We need Shele."

Shele held out her hands at her sides. "Doesn’t everybody? Needy, needy. Everyone is so needy!"

Christy piped in, "There’s been a change of venue in that...<wink-wink>...thing that you’re supposed to do with us."

Shele assumed a thoughtful pose, considering the possibilities. "Lake Ontario Bike Week?"

"No."

"Moulin Rouge Puppetry Pageant?"

"No."

"The ‘Thunderbirds’ project — redecorating TinTin’s apartment?"

"No! The Have A Heart Feast!"

Shele feigned enthusiasm. "Oh. Yeah. Right." A pause. "We’re still doing that? That’s so 1998."

"It’s Patt’s legacy!" Christy declared.

"Oh. Yeah. Right. So, when do you need me?"

"Right now."

Pardoe called a penalty, holding her hands perpendicular to one another. "Time out! Uh-uh. No way. We’ve got dibs on Shele for the night. She’s helping to transform CERK into a winter wonderland for LaCroix’s enjoyment!"

Christy, Jayne, Nancy and Julia snorted in chorus.

Suddenly, everyone hushed. The door marked ‘Authorized Personnel Only — This Means NOT YOU’ swung open, revealing to everyone’s surprise, Nick and LaCroix. Both appeared unusually chipper. Nick waved to everyone, then, humming ‘Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer’ under his breath, he left.

"It’s a Christmas miracle!" Nancy breathed.

LaCroix inspected the state of the CERK lobby, raising an eyebrow at the tree, the snow effects, and the Spaniard still squatting on the Cousinly couch, but he made no caustic comment. "Ms. Pardoe," he announced smoothly, "I’m having a strange case of holiday spirit."

The Bonnies exchanged a discreet high-five. (They’d read ‘Secret Hand Signals For Dummies’ cover to cover!)

LaCroix continued his request. "Procure for me some stockings, switches and bags of coal. I’ll need..." He counted mortal heads. "Seven of each." LaCroix shot Vachon a quelling look. "Make that eight."

The Bonnies’ shoulders drooped. They’d given LaCroix the holiday spirit, but he still wasn’t particularly nice. 

Pardoe saluted. "Yes, General. Right on top of that, General. Dare I suggest you’re being a bad gifter, General?"

The sound of fabric ripping curtailed LaCroix’s response. The ancient vampire looked down and espied Carmen, her forepaws propped just below his knees, scratching Armani for all her claws were worth. LaCroix froze and glared at the cat with eyes of death. (You know, pretty much his usual stare.)

Vachon, for his part, ditched the comfy couch with extreme agility and made his farewell. "Just remembered. Gotta see a fairy about some sugarplums." He snatched Carmen free of LaCroix’s tortured suit and dashed into the night, the sounds of Carmen’s protests echoing in their wake, "Ree-ow! Rrowr-rrrr!" (Which is cat-speak for "What? You get to flirt with death all the time!")

As if to prove he was equally dashing, Nick suddenly reappeared in the lobby. He was no longer merry and humming. He was extremely concerned. "My Cadillac is gone," he said to LaCroix. "Did you move it?"

LaCroix exuded supreme coolness and dignity, pretty impressive considering he had one trouser leg shredded into confetti. "My dear Nicholas, when and why would I have touched your automobile?"

"I just thought..." Nick began, then shook his head. "I parked it behind your Jaguar, by the curb. They’re both missing."

LaCroix arched an eyebrow as he turned to his Cousinly-Receptionist-Still-In-Training. "Would you care to offer an explanation?"

Pardoe was a truthful person. "No, not particularly."

Rutledge, however, did not know when to be quiet. "The Jag can’t be missing. Look," she said as she pointed. "The keys are hanging on their official Cousinly Peg."

Nick’s turmoil intensified. "And I have the Caddy’s keys. The crime rate soars during the holiday season," he lamented, then rested a consoling hand on his sire’s shoulder as he made his prognosis. "Our cars have been stolen."

<The Jaguar — stolen? When just two more oil changes would have earned him a free one?> LaCroix roared, his heart promptly shrinking three sizes.

Once the vampires had flown off to file police reports at Nick’s precinct, the mortals were left to their own plot devices.

"Tough break-in, that," Rutledge grumbled. "Just when LaCroix was showing signs of seasonal brainwashing."

"Yes," Pardoe said morosely. Her expression shifted, becoming questioning. "I wonder if he still wants all that coal?"

Shele joined her musings. "I wonder if he still wants to give Vachon hosiery."

Pardoe shook her head. "I don’t think LaCroix meant that type of stockings."

"Then he should have been more specific," Shele retorted. "If he meant ‘Big, Red Sock,’ he should have said ‘Big, Red Sock.’"

"That’s not the issue. The issue is that LaCroix’s mood is now fouler than ever. Think. Think!" Bonns implored. "What can we do now to Bring LaCroix Peace, Harmony And Contentment Whether He Likes It Or Not? Think!"

Rutledge pondered this challenge. "We could find his stolen car."

Pardoe scoffed. "Right. Like, in a metropolis the size of Toronto, we’ll trip over LaCroix’s Jaguar. While we’re assuming impossible tasks, why don’t we plan to find the Caddy, too?"

"Ooh! That would be nice of us!"

"You should join our plot," Nancy said, seizing her opportunity to recruit trouble’s handmaidens into her ploy. "We’re breaking into Nick’s loft."

Bons clapped her hands and looked pleadingly at the Cousinly-Receptionist-Still-In-Training. "Can we? Can we, huh? I haven’t broken into Nick’s loft in ages!"

Pardoe appeared reluctant. "That doesn’t fit in with our goal of making LaCroix happier."

"Sure it does." This time, it was Julia offering manipulative wisdom. "We’re breaking into Nick’s loft so that Christy, Jayne and Shele can decorate it for the Have A Heart Feast. That will rejuvenate Nick’s festive cheer. LaCroix will be more open to celebration by association," she concluded, her voice growing dark and mysterious, "because of their eternal connection. It’s all part of The Relationship." Nancy made spooky sound effects for emphasis.

Pardoe rubbed her chin, then sat at her desk, quickly adding a few calculations to her experimental notes. "Hmm. When you put it that way, it just might work!"

"Great!" Christy bounced with enthusiasm. "Let’s go!"

The Cousinly-Receptionist-Still-In-Training’s face darkened. "Not tonight. Tonight has been filled with doom."

"And I need time to acquire Xmas-y supplies," Shele added. "Make it tomorrow night. Tomorrow will be less doomy."

So agreed, the women began to make lofty plans.

Lofts to break into: 1, calories: 2500 (candy cane junkie), free tree units: 2, seconds since last snogged in fanfic: XXXXXXXXXX (Nosy buggers!)

9:59pm

Not to toot own horn, but have brought heaps + heaps of resources to new Plot To Bring LaCroix Peace, Harmony And Contentment Whether He Likes It Or Not By Bringing Nick Peace, Harmony And Contentment Whether He Likes It Or Not.

Assumed guise of non-activist + called Hemlock Grove Farms. Asked Evil Plantation Overseer (Dirk) to put Woody Kringle on the phone. Dirk did. At first, Woody Kringle v. shy, asking if something was wrong, but as soon as displayed interest in freeing more trees from drudgery + borrowing large slave wagon used in Xmas tree transport (truck) for hush-hush holiday fellowship, Woody volunteered gobs of help, as expected. Will bring trees! Will bring vehicle! Will chauffeur loft-breaking troops between the two towers (station and water)!

Could Woody be any more helpful? ß No!

Now Nancy, Julia, Christy, Jayne, Pardoe + I are waiting for Woody + truck outside of CERK. All of us are clothed in garments from Shele’s Naked Ninja catalog (v. trendy). LaCroix suspects nothing. Well, not entirely true. LaCroix always suspects something.  Just not this.

10:00pm

Oh! Here comes truck! Must be Woody + right on time!

10:01pm

Huh. Truck has driven past.

10:02pm

Curious. Truck backing up again.

10:03pm

All is explained. Garments from Naked Ninja catalogue too effective. Woody could not see us. Explains Naked Ninja motto, ‘Security Through Obscurity.’ (Julia was disappointed. Thought motto had something to do with War 10 management.) Also explains why everyone but Shele stepped on toes twice while waiting for truck. (Shele uses radar to prevent personal space invasion rather than best-guess method.) Will all don Santa hats (Ancient Elven Tracking System) until time to do something sneaky.

10:05pm

Woody has outdone self! Truck filled w/ holiday goodies: wreaths, candles, candy canes, ribbons, boughs of holly, falalalala, televisions, camcorders, two huge lumps covered with Naked Ninja tarps...

Hmm. Don’t really see televisions and camcorders as festive trappings, but suppose can make holiday home movies marking joy of occasion. Will not touch tarps, since Woody said don’t touch tarps.

Ooh. Woody has pretty ring strung about neck. Want to touch it. Looks precious.

10:06pm

Huh. Will not touch ring, since Woody said don’t touch ring.

Woody v. touchy about touching many things. Wager he received poor marks in kindergarten re: not sharing toys, finger paints, paste, cooties, etc. w/ other children.

10:08pm

Is really pity about ring. Looked touchable.

Ring also had writing upon it, Klingon or similar. Wish Wooby was here. She could have read ring (Probably says ‘Don’t touch, this means YOU!) + if Woody told her to keep hands off, bet there would be some smacking w/ bat’leth (Klingon-type-persons v. touchy).

Oh, well. Am not type of person to wax neurotic for pages + pages in diary re: inconsequential details.

10:09pm

But is not like would have smudged ring.

Or even pinched it. (Same could not be said for handling of Woody.) Yaryaryar.

10:16pm

Riding in back of truck w/ the Pardoe, Shele, Jayne + Christy. Nancy riding in truck cab, as person most familiar with directions to Nick’s loft. Julia also riding in cab because was ‘a wise decision.’

10:18pm

Julia on to something. Not to sound like boredomist, but riding in back of lorry v. dull. Nothing to do!

Well, nothing to do except eat candy canes + sing Xmas songs, but am not that desperate!

10:23pm

<candy cane drool smudge on page>

Ooh! Pardoe starting rousing rendition of ‘I Saw LaCroix Kissing Santa Claus’! (v. slash)

10:29pm

Huh. Hear sound in distance, like siren, beacon or similar. Huh. Truck stopping, not in at-traffic-signal-or-bossy-sign manner, but in turning-off-ignition manner.

Wonder what could mean?

10:31pm

GAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!! DOOOOOOMMMMM!!!!!

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

"Pull over," Nancy suggested. The police siren had blared behind them for two blocks now. She was beginning to suspect Woody didn’t understand what the sound meant.

"Better not," Woody said, flashing Nancy an immensely trustworthy smile.

Nancy blinked, momentarily stunned by the bluey-gooey blueness of his eyes, but her conscience persisted. "No, you really should. You’ve done nothing wrong. Besides, I can see from the side mirror that Sergeant Pulte is behind the wheel. He’s swell! He probably just wants to wish us a friendly Merry Christmas!"

Woody grimaced, giving Nancy a dark, almost greedy look. "You’re friends with the cops? Bonnie never mentioned that."

"Oh, that’s because Bonnie isn’t  friends with Metro PD," Nancy said breezily. "Why, they love nothing better than to throw her ass in jail for all sorts of nonsense."

"Rutledge defines nonsense," Julia agreed. "I also vote for pulling over, by the way."

Woody shook his head. "That’s a bad plan."

Julia could barely find the ire to begrudge him, he looked so well-meaning. "No, it isn’t. Have you seen ‘The World’s Lamest Car Chases’? Let me paint the scenario for you: you’ll drive recklessly for an hour, endanger our lives, then, finally, you’ll do something really stupid and run into a utility pole, or a fire engine carrying chickens, etcetera. Then, frantic, but refusing to give up, all passengers who’ve survived up to this point will pile out of the crushed vehicle and run around like lunatics, at which event, the police tackle and cuff everyone, then read them their rights." Julia scoffed. "I hate running. And handcuffs — been there, done that, EVERY war. You really should pull over." The ListCobra’s voice brooked no argument.

Still, Woody argued. "No, you don’t understand."

"Pull over, or I’ll give into my urge to handle that pretty ring of yours."

Woody slammed on the brakes.

Sergeant Pulte, as promised, was every inch a swell guy. "Howdy, Nancy! Merry Christmas! Could the three of you please step out of the cab? Be careful now — watch your step!"

As Nancy cheerily complied, she asked, "What’s this about, Officer?"

"We received a hot tip at Metro that a truck matching this description was engaged in illegal activity."

"What?" Julia stared crossly Nancy, muttering under her breath, "We agreed we wouldn’t call in the hot tip until the others were actually in the loft!"

Nancy held up her hands, pleading innocence. "I know. I didn’t call them!" she whispered urgently.

"Well, I didn’t call them! Who called them?" Both women looked accusingly at Woody.

His gaze beaconed blue bewilderment. "I absolutely did not call them."

Nancy and Julia glanced at each other. Would Woody lie? With eyes like that? Never!

"So..." Sergeant Pulte continued, oblivious to their complex pantomime, "...Officer Gray will just take a quick look in the back of the truck..."

Nancy gasped. "Officer Gray???? Good Gawd, NOOOO!" She clutched Julia’s arms and shook her. "She is the opposite of Pulte in every way! She has no sense of humor! She ALWAYS finds people guilty! We’ve been framed!"

"No one has done anything illegal yet," Julia reminded her. "And we’re the ones framing people around here. Who’d want to frame the framers? It’d be a frame-for-all! I’m confused. God, I hate confusing plots like this."

Nancy was too panicked for reason or confusion. "It doesn’t matter! Officer Gray will arrest us just for breathing! Quick!" she yelped at Julia and Woody. "Hold your breath! No, wait, she’ll fine us for asphyxiating, too. Doomed! We’re doomed!"

Julia fidgeted worriedly. She normally did not fidget worriedly as part of her character, but then, Nancy did not normally deconstruct into yelps of doom in times of stress. Obviously, theirs was a monstrous fate, indeed.

Nancy and Julia trailed dejectedly behind the nice Sergeant Pulte as he circled the truck. They found the carrier container opened already, the other women lined up in the road like a chain gang, hands held where all could see them, Santa hats and mouse ears tucked shamefully to their chests. Officer Gray, a barrel-chested, forbidding woman, scowled as she yanked one of the Naked Ninja tarps off of its cargo. A flash of pointy sea foam fins marred Nancy’s vision.

"Oh, crap!"

"What?" Julia demanded, squinting in the same direction. Officer Gray had just lifted the second Naked Ninja tarp, exposing the rear end of a Jaguar, complete with ‘NTECRWLR’ license plate. "Crap!"

"Wait a second!" Pardoe called, assuming a feisty, indignant tone. "Those aren’t ours!"

"Exactly," Officer Gray clipped smugly as she decamped from the truck’s haul. "These vehicles were reported stolen last night."

"No, no, no," Bonns said. "I meant that we didn’t know those hot wheels were hidden in our truck! It’s a mistake!"

"Right!" Rutledge said. "We didn’t put them there. Or those — now that I think about it — highly suspicious televisions and videocams! Isn’t that right, Woody?" Silence. "Woody?"

The ignition of the truck roared to life, there was a screech of burning rubber, and the vehicle sped down the street as though the wolves of Isengard were breathing on its bumper. (Which, considering the wrath of Officer Gray, wasn’t too far off base.)

"Catch him!" Officer Gray bellowed. Pulte scrambled into their squad car, but he found he could not give chase without creating a murder-load of paperwork. Both Bonnies, Christy, Jayne, Julia, Nancy, Shele and Officer Gray (though she was too snarky to admit this was a problem) were all standing between the police vehicle and the wayward, speeding truck, their mouths agog with varying expressions of dismay, horror and antipathy. "Curses! You let him get away!"

A few minutes later, Julia looked over at Nancy. She was sprawled against the black-and-white, being patted down for dangerous weapons. Sure enough, Officer Gray confiscated Nancy’s green editing pen.

"This is another fine mess you’ve gotten us into," Julia said, bristling at her handcuffs (they weren’t as nice a quality as the ones Les employed in wartime).

"You’re welcome," Nancy replied as they were marched off to join the others in the police wagon. "Gee, and to think I could have stayed home, walked the dog, and washed my car. That’ll teach me!"

Vachon, seated on the couch under the window, which read 'KREC' from the inside, looked up from his guitar and smiled.

"You were expecting, maybe, Santa Claus? Because I don't think he tends to visit big, unbelievers like yourself. He'll probably just mail you your lump of coal."

"What are you doing here?" LaCroix demanded, still in that calm, rather sexy (unless you're a couch-squatting Spaniard doing the opposite of flirting, i.e., flinging rather sarcastic comments at someone you oughtn't to be pissing off quite at the moment, since it is, technically, his couch and all), breathy voice.

"If you must know: trying to work out the tablature for 'The Twelve Days Of Christmas.' "

"Twelve?" LaCroix goggled. "There are twelve days of Christmas? What happened to just the one? You mean I've got to put up with all this hohoho, merry, fa-la-la-la fodder for an additional eleven days this year?"

Vachon just nodded. He was still smiling, and thinking how cute LaCroix was when he got irritated and his ears turned all pink like that; well, 'cute' in a completely macho and I-only-sleep-with-girls-because-I'm-the-vampire-equivalent-of-Don-Juan-in-a-snazzy-leather-jacket sort of way. Yeah, that was it.

LaCroix turned suddenly then. "Ms. Pardoe—" he began, but stopped when he realized the desk was empty. He turned back to Vachon. "Where is my Cousinly-Receptionist-In-Training? She’s not at her Post-Its."

Vachon looked around, made a feint as if he might actually get off his fantastic ass to look behind and beneath the desk, but in the end just sat there. "El bano," he finally said. "The little girl's room. Too much coffee, no doubt," he said, though, in truth, he had no clue where she was, hadn’t for two nights.

"Too much coffee? Ms. Pardoe doesn't drink coffee. She's naturally caffeinated. That's why the Perks won't have her — their loss."

"Apparently yours as well," Vachon muttered under his breath.

"What? What did you say?"

"I said, apparently, you're swell," he bluffed, and then realized what a sodding git he must sound like. "You know, for her to come and work here for you, of her own volition. Right? I mean, you didn't whammy her or anything, did you?" Vachon stared at LaCroix, waiting to see what the elder vampire would do, how he would react to such an accusation (such an accurate one at that).

LaCroix drew himself up to his full, and rather imposing height — Vachon was slightly disappointed to see the color drain from his face, his pink ears fading back to their normal pallor — and said calmly, "Of course I did not whammy her into accepting the position of Cousinly Receptionist. That would be ... wrong ... and not very nice."

"Yes, yes, it would," Vachon agreed.

LaCroix simply turned away and left the lobby.

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

December 21st

Lofts broken into: 0, calories: 0 (prison torture), alcoholic units: 0, caffeine units: 0, cars stolen: 2 (Woody bastard!), hours w/o freedom: 46, seconds since last snogged in fanfic: 0 (Do not get excited.)

8:41pm

Ohmygawd...ohmygawd...ohmygawdohmygawdohmygawdohmygawd.

OH...MY...GAWD.

Could Xmas Plot To Bring LaCroix Peace, Harmony And Contentment Whether He Likes It Or Not By Bringing Nick Peace, Harmony And Contentment Whether He Likes It Or Not be any more #!$%&* up? ß NOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!

In jail again. Why do always wind up in pokey for stolen cars? Is so v. unfair, especially as am completely non-culpable in instance under punishment. Am not guilty. Am w/o blame. Am 100% fault-free! Do you hear me, Officer Gray??? Testify! (Huh. Probably will, the ticket-happy orc.)

Have shared small cell in cruel, Canadian prison for almost two days w/ gnarliest collection of miscreants + reprobates ever to taint pages of fan fiction (Julia, Nancy, Shele, Christy, + Jayne). Pardoe also here. Oh, and three French sexual entrepreneurs, though regrettably not Madame Kiki. (Too bad. Could’ve caught up on tricks.)

Am still v. traumatized by treatment while processed at station. Officer taking fingerprints would look at me, then repeatedly erupt in spasms of laughter. Had to redo prints twice, as professional kept jiggling hand, causing unsavory inkage. Mug shooter just as mirth-ridden. Hooted and hollered, pointing at my face as he flashed me. Did not think v. nice, mocking photogenically challenged individuals like that. If plate not already full rescuing trees from tyrannical plantation-owners, would issue manifesto lickety-split! Then mug shooter began passing pictures around precinct like was v. funny joke, causing delight + joy amongst precinct workers, including Captain Reese. Demanded to see! Was my right as obviously funny-looking-type-person!

Gaaaaah! Found reason so many persons staring + pointing at face, wetting pants over jollies! Have huge, HUGE, red Sharpie scribble on right cheek (facial)! Gaaaah! Sharpie ink more truly permanent than LaCroix! Will take days + days to scrub clean!

Huh. Wonder why none of close, dear, sweet friends told me looked like Gorbachev in drag?

First thing police confiscated from my person was diary + recycled pencil. Current entry made possible by barter with new sexual entrepreneur friend, Choo-Choo. Paid unspeakable price for raw sienna crayon + napkins, hence zeroed snog balance. Is not question of sexual orientation, morals, etc. Prison life clearly matter of survival of fittest (or sluttiest diary slag) + whomever has most crayons wins. Got word Crazy Guy in Cell D carrying periwinkle in pocket. Hope is not vile rumor. Will see.

Will also show new friend Choo-Choo my ‘Wools Valdez’ tattoo. Will impress her, am sure (v. tough). Already is in awe regarding Sharpie blemish on face (said was scar from physical graffiti incident).

9:05pm

Have commenced cell meeting to discuss issues laid before the assembled newly-disenfranchised. Tonight’s issues include:

1. Bonnie (the Rutledge) has a big red Sharpie scribble on her face. No one told her. Could have used Mary Sue concealer or similar if had known.
2. Discuss.
3. Need bail money. Have no bail money. Discuss.
4. Nancy wants to petition Nick. She says he will fix entire misunderstanding. Discuss.
5. Woody lying, thieving bastard. Discuss. (Most popular issue.)

After 10 minutes of getting not v.g. answers from cell assembly, still no satisfaction re: Sharpie scribble issue, except shouted offer from Crazy Guy in Cell D to lick my face. Rumor of periwinkle in his pocket vile + unfounded. (Was goldenrod.)

9:17pm

Nancy wants to talk about Nick.

Took vote.

Everyone else wanted to talk about lying, thieving bastardness of Woody.

Better luck next time, Nancy!

9:25pm

Nancy still wants to talk about Nick (v. stubborn Kaminski-type-person).

Jayne asked v.g. question. Asked if Nick would pay bail for all. Is, after all, richest man in Canada.

Nancy answered. Said Nick was sure to pay her bail, probably Julia’s if she didn’t try anything w/ his remote. Nancy seemed v. happy w/ this answer. Everyone but Nancy + Julia v. unhappy w/ this answer. Nick issued tabled again until Nancy + Julia pry themselves from under bunk beds.

9:27pm

Bail issue continued w/o consideration of Nick. (Normal behavior for all now involved in discussion, actually.)

Christy wondered if should call High Priestess Jules. Has Shrine Rebuilding Fund, easily convertible into Get Addicts’ Asses Out Of Jail Fund. Jayne dubious. Said Jules would not part with slim dime of money, not even if LaCroix told her to.

Jayne far more enthused re: concept of approaching LaCroix for bail fund. Could worship him + beg at feet. Could wear togas + would be great fun. Pardoe said no. Said no, no, no. Pointed out that majority of cell assembly suspected of stealing LaCroix’s Jaguar. Have no proof of innocence + LaCroix not that big on proof of innocence to begin with, see ‘Outside The Lines,’ ‘Love You To Death,’ etc. Would do something dire to our personages, for certain. Suggestion caused giddy sighs + drooling in Christy + Jayne (Nunkies Addicts having v. strange definition of dire). Vote taken. Approaching LaCroix resolution lost 3 votes to 2, w/ 2 abstentions (Nancy + Julia still trapped under bunk bed).

9:32pm

Shele suggested I use my newfound prison slut powers to obtain chocolate crayon. Then could maybe make deal w/ Mercs to get us out of prison. Told Shele no such thing as chocolate crayon, but thanked for input.

9:34pm

Pardoe v. thoughtful. Suggested maybe calling Vachon. All votes in favor of idea. So decided, Pardoe drew attention of Guard Guy, in order to use her one phone call. Called CERK (is always there, lump on couch, right?).

Phone ringing now.

9:35pm

Phone still ringing.

9:38pm

Ringing of phone ongoing.

9:40pm

Lazy Spaniard! Get fantastic ass off of comfy Cousinly Couch + answer damn ringing phone already!

9:46pm

Guard Guy forcefully removed phone from grip of cursing Pardoe after 10 minutes of Spaniard-calling w/ no answer. (Guard Guy v. impatient-type-person!)

Pardoe v. disappointed. Expected Vachon to be helpful + true friend, not slack yak who can’t even pick up damn phone when most urgently needed! Whispered to Pardoe that she should not be surprised. Story is how gawdawful long? Has had enough examples to become totally disillusioned before now.

Know exactly what’s going on. Pardoe is Vachon’s poncho, just like llama was the Inca’s poncho — a friend you flirt with and brush on a daily basis, but always dump on floor forgotten when chance to fondle instrument of pleasure (guitar) or stare at briefs (legal) presents itself. And Alan, U of T physicist, was her ponchohno, a relationship ruined by snogging and flirting with a poncho. And the Ratpackers are my ponchomakers, for giving me the disguise that made it possible for the Inca to be my poncho. And Pardoe is my ponchoamiga, as has learned my secrets re: living the llama lie! And Choo-Choo is my ponchoho, you know, the kind of poncho you make in prison...

And ponchos v. stylish this season. Fashion Television says so. Not that get Fashion Television in prison, but is not point. Point is, someone, somewhere knows that the Bonnies, as living, breathing ponchos in action, are All That. Hurrah!

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

Vachon sat at the Cousinly Receptionist’s station, studying CERK’s ringing phone intently. He was growing a bit bored. Bonnie had been gone a while now, and the phone kept ringing. When was she going to come back and answer it?

After another few minutes, Vachon sighed and began to wonder if maybe he  should answer the phone. He swiftly scrapped that idea. It wasn’t his responsibility to answer CERK’s phone, and even if it was his responsibility, that didn’t mean he’d do it.

Still, what with Bonnie gone so long, answering the phone might help her out. You know, until she came back. Not that he wanted  to answer the phone. He wasn’t a receptionist kind of guy.

Vachon reached out a languid hand and picked up the receiver. "Hello, you’ve reached LaCroix’s Pleasure Palace, Vachon speaking."

All he heard in response was a dial tone. Strangely disappointed, Vachon replaced the telephone’s receiver. It was these modern callers — they were so impatient. In the early days, no one picked up the phone for a good half hour of ringing!

"Ms. Pardoe," LaCroix said as he entered the lobby, seeking his Cousinly Receptionist. However, it was Vachon who looked at him from behind the desk. LaCroix glared. (Yeah, basically his usual expression.)

"Something I can help you with?" the Spaniard asked.

"You can tell me where my receptionist is."

"Can I? Hmm."

"Yes, you most certainly can."

"Well, alright then. She's not here. She's ... out."

"Out? Out where?"

"Recepting, of course. What else would she be doing? It's what you pay her for, isn't it? You do pay her, don't you?"

"Of course, I pay her. Or someone does. Probably." LaCroix looked pensive for a moment. "What is she doing out, when she should be here, waiting with bated breath to fulfill my next selfish whim?"

"Um...." Vachon stalled. He didn't know and, while he had no problem lying, most of all to LaCroix, he needed a moment to think up something really good. "She, um ... she said ... see, there was this ... problem. Yeah, there was a problem, not her fault, someone else's — I'm sure she's taking down names as we speak for near-future retribution — uh...."

"Yes?" LaCroix said, his patience as thin as a well-worn, summer toga. "What exactly was the problem?"

"Blood. Um, your weekly supply of blood."

"What about it?"

"It was, um, cow. Yup, I couldn't believe it either! Somehow, they got your order mixed up with Nick's. Funny, eh? If you think about it," Vachon smiled, tried to laugh, but found his throat was too tight.

"I fail to see anything humorous in that," LaCroix said, his face like a marble bust of himself. "But, Pardoe is handling it, you say? Fixing the problem so that my daily meals shall not be affected?"

"Yeah, whatever," Vachon said, nodding.

"Very well," LaCroix said, then he turned and headed toward the door. He paused before opening it. "When Ms. Pardoe returns, do thank her for me, for taking the initiative, and tell her that I will be back later."

"Sure thing!" Vachon waved casually as LaCroix strode out the front door, glad to see LaCroix's backside — you know, in a happy to see him leaving sort of way. Yeah, that's it.

Calories: 400 (prison slimming system), alcoholic units: 0, caffeine units: 0, crayons: 4 (won melon + copper in comb fight), hours w/o freedom: 119, seconds since last snogged in fanfic: 197,823 (v.g.)

3:18pm

Zen. Zen. Zen. Zen.

3:19pm

Zen.

3:20pm

Zen. Zen. JayneSingingBloodyCarolsAgain. Zen.

3:24pm

Is not that dislike carols, or even Jayne’s singing voice. Is just that, upon 342nd reprisal of filk ‘Woody Got Run Over By A Reindeer,’ feel overwhelming desire to cram precious new crayons through own eardrums.

5:22pm

Nancy still harping about Nick, even though cell meeting not in session. Acts like Nick is freaking Canadian ambassador. Worries that Nick does not know she is in jail. Worries because Nick did not show up at formal arraignment. Reminded her was at ten in morning. Nancy still not convinced. Thinks Nick would have slapped on Skin Pretty sunscreen + crusaded to rescue like Knightly-type-person.

Huh. Maybe Nancy has point. Nick is...the whatchamacallit, um, right...the hero...right! Nick is the hero of the show! (Cannot be right. Can it?)

Shall humor Nancy. Can ß Have crayons of power! Will slip note to Guard Guy for Detective Knight + appease Nancy’s concerns.

5:24pm

"Dear Nick:

Nancy is in prison. Did you know that?

<waves>

Bonnie (the Rutledge)"

There! Note all done!

Now just have to slip Guard Guy something.

6:02pm

No word from Nick re: Nancy’s unfortunate incarceration.

6:45pm

Still no word from Nick. (Perhaps having flashback?)

7:38pm

Hurrah!

Sergeant Pulte just visited lockup. Said Nick wanted to meet Nancy for tete-a-tete in interrogation room!

Go Nancy! Go Nancy! Go Nancy!

8:02pm

Nancy back!

Oh. Does not look particularly cheered by visit w/ Nick. Looks rather miffed.

Oh. Sergeant Pulte now taking Julia to interrogation room for Knightly tryst. Why, that dirty, two-timing Nick!

8:05pm

Nancy has explained that meeting with Nick in interrogation room not tete-a-tete, but actual interrogation (place of assignation big hint). Nick thinks Nancy in on Caddy pilferage as part of factionwitted prank!

Apparently Nick the Suspicious derived Nancy the Wicked theory via kumquat gift to Vachon at Thanksgiving party. Thinks gift evidence of diabolical nature. Nancy insulted (understandably), as Nick was in on entire scheme. Thinks if Knight logic valid for her guilt, then Nick must be guilty, too (a-ha!).

Guess this also means Nick not coughing up bail.

Typical.

10:18pm

Christy gone on visit to Nick’s Chamber of Shame. Everyone has had go at him now but me. Is v. unfair!

Have commenced cell meeting in Christy’s absence to discuss issues laid before the assembled newly-disenfranchised. Tonight’s issues include:

1. Jayne wants to sing Xmas carols. Julia will kill her if she does. Discuss.
2. Only method of personal refreshment is stainless steel commode in corner. Is v. cold on bum. Discuss.
3. Nick v. wrong to believe Nancy guilty of crime did not commit. Discuss.
4. Caught Bonnie (the Pardoe) looking at Guard Guy’s ass. Discuss.
5. Woody still lying, thieving bastard. Discuss.

Want to talk about Pardoe ass-looking. Think v. important topic. Most potent + timely compared to non-ass topics.

Pardoe says was accidental looking, as ass just in her line of sight, taking up space.

Hmm...line of sight...

As classification, line of sight description would put Guard Guy’s ass in radio, microwave or infrared bands of the electromagnetic spectrum. Radio v. subject to attenuation — not good for ass endurance (would mean saggy in baggy jeans, uniform, etc).

Infrared tends to be better for short ranges — you know, like quick snog — but is v. subject to interruption of dependability by rain, sunlight, cloud cover, going to next room...Huh. Think Vachon's ass may fall into 'Infrared' category (hope not, for Pardoe’s sake!).

Microwave...well, like <waves> personally, except for ‘micro’ intimations — hope ass can be seen w/ naked eye — but hope terrestrial microwave is not category of ass under question — v. boring, v. stagnant, v. absolute, as is aimed in one direction and unmoving. A lichen-clinging-to-stone ass.

What want on Guard Guy is spiffy, geosynchronous, satellite microwave ass, moving as one with looker’s planetary orbit! Not too fast, not too slow, just right to relay naughtiness, even as perfect speed + height of ass satellite avoids any hurtling through the atmosphere + burning to a crisp w/ falls toward ground! Problem w/ geosynchronous microwave satellite asses is they are v. rare — planet can only support 90 of them! Probably all dating damn supermodels, anyway (v. unfair).

Hmm. Just turned discussion of Guard Guy’s ass into data communications metaphor. Cellmates are staring as if have gone mad (as well they should).

Oh, goody! Christy back! Is my turn for interrogation!

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

*RING*

"CERK Talk Radio, where the nights are long, and the Nightcrawler is longer. How may I direct your call?" Vachon said when he picked up the phone.

"Hello?" said the deep, resonant, and dead sexy voice on the other end of the line.

"Hello. May I help you?" Vachon asked.

"Who is this?"

"Who is this?" Vachon reiterated the question.

"I bloody well know who I am, who are you?"

"Who wants to know?" Vachon asked, getting ready to hang up the phone in annoyance. He wondered if this was the sort of prat Bonnie usually had to deal with as Cousinly-Receptionist-In-Training at CERK.

"May I please speak with Ms. Pardoe?" the voiced grated out through the line. <Rather ruined the dead sexiness of it,> Vachon thought.

"May I ask who's calling?"

"Vachon?" the voice asked.

"No, I'm  Vachon. And you are???"

"About ready to take your foolish head off at the shoulders if you don't tell me where my Cousinly Receptionist In Training is and why she isn't answering this phone."

"Oh. Hi, LaCroix."

"Well?"

"Well, what?" Vachon asked into the phone. LaCroix really did have the worst phone etiquette, even for an antiquated vampire.

"Where. Is. Ms. Pardoe?"

"Bonnie? Oh, um, hang on a tick." Vachon pressed the hold button on the phone and set down the receiver. Bonnie was still missing. Had been, for five days. Vachon wondered if he ought to be getting worried or something.

Then again, answering this damn phone was sucking up just about all his energy at the moment. She was probably fine. Out, doing last-minute Christmas shopping, throwing back double eggnog martinis, something like that. Yeah, except for maybe needing a cab ride home, he was sure Bonnie was fine. Okay, too.

"Hello?" Vachon said, picking up the receiver again.

"Hello," LaCroix replied.

"Um, how can I help you?" he asked again.

"Ms. Pardoe — Bonnie — put her on the line. I need to speak with her."

"Have you thought about buying her a cell phone?" Vachon asked. "You know, Christmas is coming up pretty quick and if you bought her a cell phone, you would always be able to reach her — day or night — twenty-four, seven..." Vachon's voice trailed off, realizing his suggestion probably wasn't such a good one after all. I mean, look what happened to poor Sandra Bullock in ‘Two Weeks Notice’ — she ended up with Hugh Grant! Bonnie’s boss was LaCroix. Yikes.

"Just put Ms. Pardoe on the phone."

"Yeah, um, sorry, can't do that. She's, uh, hanging mistletoe."

"Mistletoe?"

"You know, green fungus-y stuff with little white berries? You hang it over doorways to encourage strangers and unwanted relatives to kiss you as you greet them at the door...."

"Why would anyone want to encourage that?!"

Vachon shrugged, and then realized that LaCroix couldn't see him — thankfully, considering he was only wearing a Harley Davidson bathrobe and fuzzy bunny slippers. "Tradition," Vachon finally replied. "A long-standing Christmas tradition."

"This is the strangest holiday," LaCroix replied with a long sigh.

"Yeah, well, you know those mortals...." Vachon glanced at the stack of LaCroix’s personal mail he’d been pirating through all evening. "Oh, this will kill you. The other Bonnie sent you a Christmas card. Let me read it to you." Vachon cleared his throat and assumed a feminine octave.

"Dearest LaCroix,

I know that your job as the Nightcrawler is very different from mine. But I totally respect that, because it is a real craft. You sit in a real chair. You fiddle with a real microphone. You say real things. You are such a vigorous, vital Roman, glistening bravely in the moonlight, it’s hard to believe so many Nick & Natpackers find you a pompous crank. Although we have had our ups and downs, it is important to not hold onto resentment, like lichen clinging to a stone. I feel extremely close to you now, both as a vampire, and as a man.

With Real Love,

Bonnie (the Rutledge)"

Vachon tossed the Christmas card back on the top of the pile. "That lady (and I use that term loosely) has a way with words."

"Indeed," LaCroix growled. "So, when will Ms. Pardoe be finished hanging ... what did you say? Miss LeToad? When will she be finished?"

"Oh, um, not quite sure. She just started and, uh, there are an awful lot of doors here at CERK, did you know that? Lots and lots of doors. But, not to worry: I'm covering the phones for her, so you won't miss a single important call. Merry Christmas," Vachon said as he hung up the line.

He shook his head and took a deep breath. Vachon hoped wherever Bonnie was, she returned soon.

*RING*

"CERK Talk Radio," Vachon said, when he'd picked up the receiver, "where no one sounds better in leather pants than the Nightcrawler. How may I direct your call?"

Hmm, well, maybe Bonnie didn't have to hurry back too quickly....

10:25pm

Have thought it out. Why am I last to see Nick in interrogation room? Is like superficial kickball team stigma, as though am least popular-type-person among studly blond vampire detectives, so says poll in ‘Maxim’!

Huh. Nick’s attitude v. perkyist + redheadist. Shall tell him nothing.

NOTHING!

10:31pm

OK. Zen.

Obviously am not torture-inclined-type-person, or interrogation-compatible. Caved, falling to floor + clutching Nick’s knees, whimpering like Marshall in hands of Scary Chinese Guy on ‘Alias’ before door even shut. Not v.g. showing re: strength of character, bravery, Omnicapability, etc.

Wailed repeatedly, "WE DID IT! WE DID IT!" ß Don’t know where that came from. Are completely innocent (except for Woody — bastard!). Can’t believe I squealed like Ratpacker, much less squealed shameless, inaccurate sputterings that not true. Is result of living on edge — ten women sharing one bathroom corner for five days. Prison manufactures criminals, yaryaryar.

Then Nick said, "I believe that you didn’t steal my Caddy. I started to catch on after Julia wrote her ‘Why Woody Is A Bastard’ essay." Also asked me to stop choking his calves (non-cow) + sit in chair like civilized person. Shall.

Right. Am seated. Huh. If Nick knows we didn’t steal One True Gas Guzzler, why still in lockup, having cell meeting discourse re: Guard Guy’s ass? Should be free as Fraser fir, running about streets of Toronto, causing all manner of havoc. Will ask him.

10:37pm

Nick explained that have been screwed. Told him that knew that already. Prison cruel flesh crayon market. Nick sighed + explained in greater detail. Nick said intends to drop charges like nice-type-person, but some people not-so-nice. The Crown Prosecutor’s office thinks circumstantial evidence presented by Officer Gray makes everyone look v. guilty. All stuck in prison until Nick apprehends Woody + whammies full confession.

Over Xmas! And didn’t do anything!

Asked Nick why hasn’t apprehended Woody already. Is hero of show + everything! Expect results!

Nick got a bit snarky then. Said is vampire homicide detective trying to be mortal-type-person, not some poofy wizard in pointy hat that makes stuff happen with wave of staff. Said he knows that Woody employee of Hemlock Grove Farms + has precious ring no one allowed to touch.

Well, la-dee-da. If Nick knows so much, why Woody not the one rotting in prison? Why is he  not Choo-Choo’s new ponchoho, sitting on ice cube toilet?!?

10:38pm

Oh. Apparently Woody now in Auckland.

Bastard! Not only fools everyone into thinking is cherubic, innocent, helpful-type-person w/ shiny blue eyes, not only refuses to let everyone stroke his ring, not only frames everyone for robbing LaCroix + Nick of beloved autos, BUT GETS BLOODY HOLIDAY IN NEW ZEALAND!!!!

Know should not hold onto resentment, but $#@&%!* hate Woody now. Hate his precious ring too. Hate them, Hate Them, HATE THEM!!!!!

10:49pm

Right. Gave Nick statement of entire contact w/ Woody, from arrival at Hemlock Grove Farms to screeching getaway in truck + beyond. Told Nick everything! Huh. Probably should have stopped before less-than-flattering true-crayon-confession. Nick giving v. odd look.

Nick promised to send along a few, safe personal effects + shipped me back to cell. Rather deflated after Knight meeting. Now have grain of hope for freedom, but only makes prison life seem more bounded + oppressive. Must be how trees on plantations feel. Will think emancipative thoughts + maybe perk self up again.

10:53pm

Returned to lockup to find Jayne resumed singing carols + Julia clinging desperately to bars, begging Guard Guy to move her into Cell D w/ homicidal maniacs, where could engage in philosophical conversations + sleep peacefully at night.

December 25th

Calories: 820 (DeBrabant Foundation food subsidy), crayons: 6 (Nick is  good gifter!), hours w/o freedom: 141, seconds since last snogged in fanfic: 283,916 (excellent progress)

6:54am

Is Christmas. Santa brought nothing (unless sixth day smell of Shele’s socks counts as present).

Bastard!

11:00am

Ooh! Exciting news from Guard Guy! Have mail!

Have card from boss at ‘Bugby’s Shoe + Wax Emporium.’ Have package from the Baroness at ‘The Spa Experience.’ Have card from The Fanfic Fairies.

Is like Christmas in prison!

11:01am

Oh. Right. Is Christmas in prison.

11:02am

Envelope from Bugby did not contain card, after all. Actually enclosed gift certificate for free pair of non-sensible shoes (luurrv Bugby!), with scrawled note at bottom that read "Feel close to you as a shoe, and as a man, too. With Real Love, Bugby" Huh. What did I write on his Xmas card? Hope was not inappropriate.

11:03am

Package from the Baroness contained red Speedo. Comfy + v. flattering. Brings out color in Sharpie scribble on face. Package also included note: "Dear Bonnie, Thank you for your lovely card. Yes, you are right, only another woman would understand. I feel close to you both as a professional, and as Austrian aristocracy, too. With Real Love, The Baroness" Oh, yes, do hope cards not inappropriate!

11:04am

Card from The Fanfic Fairies actually golden ticket for Free Personal Tranquility Device of Choice. Yeessssssss!! Fanfic Fairies v.g. gifters!!!!

11:05am

Julia spotted golden ticket for Free Personal Tranquility Device of Choice. After failing to wrestle it from my grip, suggested best use of ticket would be to get everyone out of jail.

Why, yes, v.g. idea, Julia!

Err, except that have already used ticket. Thought magic thoughts. Wished magic wish. Silently hoped that all trees at Hemlock Grove Farms would be freed for Xmas. CHOP!

Everyone in cell staring at me as if am ending to ‘Last Knight.’

What? What?!? WHAT?!?!?!?!?!

11:07am

Oof! Shall make friends again w/ denizens of Cell A just as soon as pry self out from underneath bunk bed.

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

"Merry Christmas, LaCroix." Vachon picked up a present resting beside the Cousinly Nexus Of All That Is Information and passed it to the looming, older vampire.

LaCroix sneered at the extravagantly ribboned box as though it was a sack of potatoes. "You shouldn’t have."

"I didn’t. It’s from your Cousinly Receptionist." At least, Vachon thought it was. He’d found the item days ago inside Bonnie’s desk with a large Post-It affixed, warning, "Keep Away! This Means YOU!!" Who else would be rummaging in her desk other than LaCroix? It must have been for him.

Vachon had decided to help Bonnie out since it was Christmas night, and she hadn’t returned to the station yet. Vachon had wrapped the gift so Bonnie would look like the thoughtful employee he’d made her out to be since Sunday. That made six days’ absence total. Maybe she’d gone on a ski trip, or sunning on a beach in Thailand. The past few evenings had clarified that being Cousinly Receptionist was a lot of damn work. Wherever Bonnie was, good for her, catching a break!

LaCroix eyed the plethora of spiral bows, wondering if they were booby-trapped. "Then shouldn’t Ms. Pardoe give the gift to me personally?"

"She’s shy." Yeah, right. "Bonnie didn’t want to be here," Vachon said, figuring that much was the truth, "just in case you hated it."

For a moment, the ancient vampire was flummoxed. "But I got her nothing in return."

"Join the party." Vachon grinned an I-am-a-gift grin.

Giving a sharp nod, LaCroix eviscerated the wrap job in a flash. Ms. Pardoe had given him a ‘Lord Of The Rings: Fellowship Of The Ring’ DVD. "What a delight. The Collector’s Edition. Four discs." LaCroix’s expression shifted into a snarl. "Eternity is too short for extended footage."

"Too bad. I would have guessed you were a hobbit kind-of-guy." LaCroix’s displeased growl reminded Vachon of a call that had come in earlier for the General. Should he kick the Roman when he was down? Yes, yes he should!

"Uhm," Vachon cleared his throat. "You have a phone message."

"I do? For me? Really?" LaCroix’s disbelief was understandable. The last time he’d had a genuine message from someone desiring to talk to him, it had been...well...before Ms. Pardoe.

"No, not really." A pause. "Just kidding. Really. It’s from Hemlock Grove Farms," Vachon reported as he handed over the appropriate Post-It.

"My Xmas tree plantation? What about my Xmas tree plantation?"

"It’s no longer a plantation, more a big plot of dirt. Every last spruce, pine and fir, the crops for the next thirteen years up and disappeared some time after eleven this morning."

"WHAT?!?"

"Maybe the trees didn’t like being on your plantation," Vachon needled.

LaCroix made a sound suspiciously similar to ‘Gaah!" and roared off into the night. Vachon chuckled, winking at the Fraser fir as he settled more comfortably into the Cousinly Receptionist’s chair. Out of the corner of his eye, the cover of LaCroix’s forgotten DVD caught his attention. <Huh. The elf isn’t that  pretty...>

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

December 25th continued.

5:42pm

Ooh! Nick has brought Christmas feast (takeout from Thai Burger Palace)!

Unfortunately, Nick only provided two burgers, a large order of fries, and one papaya milkshake for seven people. Huh. Obviously experienced Topper/Jeannie flashback at moment of order. Forced issue of sharing, not the strongest character trait of assembled personages in first place. So evidenced by Shele, who sat on last half of fries shrieking, "If I can’t have them, no one can!"

5:45pm

Ooh! Nick also brought Christmas presents.

As cruelly-jailed-for-crime-did-not-commit-type-persons (Dr. Richard Kimble, the Hurricane or similar), as opposed to cruelly-not-jailed-for-crime-did-commit-type-persons (Woody, OJ or similar), Nick felt sorry for all (is v.g. at that).

Gave everyone toothbrushes + floss. (Nick v. big on dental care. Prison no excuse not to floss.)

Gave me small package w/ two new crayons to add to collection of four! Brick red + pine green (v. Nick, v. Xmas-sy). Nick v. thoughtful to increase my Rainbow of Power. Is v.g. gifter, after all!

Also gave me personal effects of...folded piece of paper. Huh. Not diary ß WHY??? Paper already written on, too, in Incan hand:

"If you can keep your spirit when all about you
     Blame you for their shortfalls or their rotten luck...
If you can trust your judgment when all men doubt you,
     But make allowance that your judgment may suck..."

Oh, is copy of Omnifemale version of ‘If’ poem from Thanksgiving. Must have still had in pocket when frisked. Will be v. heartwarming in cold Canadian correctional facility. MISS INCA (non-beauty pageant).

Christy given novelty mouse teacups, matching one already has. Christy v. happy. Now can have mad tea parties.

Julia given new Valium salt lick. Julia now v. popular.

Nancy given rare Travis McGee novel: ‘Death In An Evil Pink Shirt.’ Nick also told Nancy he’d whammied Schanke into washing snow muck from her car + walking Carrie Ann. Nancy v. impressed.

Bonnie (the Pardoe) given ‘His Master’s Voice’ earplugs. Product apparently secret Knightie weapon. Simply insert into aural cavity (sounds dirty, but isn’t) + earplugs emit signal that cancels out exact frequency of LaCroix’s vocal stylings. Can still hear sounds of Spaniards, coroners, mortal partner, etc. Item must-have for Cousinly Receptionists + reluctant vampire progeny alike!

Shele + Jayne given karaoke machine (luckily 2 microphones or would have been prison riot) w/ accompanying tape of ‘Chansons De Moulin Rouge.’ (God help us all.)

5:52pm

Huh. Having second thoughts re: v.g. gifting of Nick. Everyone got spiffy, thoughtful, groovy gifts + I got two crayons. Parceling out of good gifts now seems highly slanted in directions non-mine. Bet even LaCroix got three  crayons. Bet LaCroix got prettiest crayon of all à neon carrot!!!

Ha! Just for that, am giving Nick nothing for Christmas!

NOTHING!!!

5:53pm

OK. Confess wasn’t planning to give Nick anything, anyway. But he doesn’t know that, so nothingness acquires solidity + meaning. Is rather like theme of entire story.

December 30th:

Calories: 915 (but all calories of torture from Myra Schanke’s fruitcake — ugh!), crayons: 7 (found plum nub in shadowy corner), hours w/o freedom: 277 (v. poor progress), seconds since last snogged in fanfic: 15 (Accidental trippage of Choo-Choo demolished all advancement in this area)

12:28pm

Jayne + Shele’s Xmas gift from Nick big hit in lockup. Karaoke singing of Madonna number all morning + not even Julia choking people, smashing electronics, etc., for has Valium salt lick from which serenity derives.

6:25pm

Nightly conferences w/ Nick stagnant re: capture of Woody. Do not understand. Nick knows bastard is in New Zealand. Why can’t vampire just fly halfway around world one night in style of Ashes-To-Ashes Divia + throttle truth out of shining-blue-eyed, scum-yak-pig deceiver?? Why not? WHY NOT??? ß Absolutely no reason!

Nick nodded when asked this pertinent question, but gaze vacant + distracted. Beginning to suspect Det. Knight invested in set of ‘Her Bonnie Voice’ earplugs for Xmas + is tuning me out.

9:13pm

Have commenced cell meeting to discuss issues laid before the assembled not-so-newly-disenfranchised-anymore. Tonight’s issues include:

1. ‘Like A Virgin’ is/is not Xmas song. Discuss.
2. Resurgence of bail money issue: Have no bail money. Discuss.
3. Bonnie (the Rutledge) using only prized roll of toilet paper for diary + must/must not be stopped. Discuss.
4. Official changing of Woody’s name to ‘Woody the Lying, Thieving Bastard, So He Is, Ere He Shall Ever Be.’ Discuss.

Bail money issue v. important right now. Nick hero of show, but apparently doing nothing but catching homicidal maniacs roaming streets, curing vampirism, + snogging Janette/Natalie/Neck Of Week in confusing, random order. What a bum! Even Nancy edgy regarding Nick’s progress. Has been trying to become mortal for years + years w/ no positive results — what if is pattern for acquisition of Woody’s confession? Gah!

Also haven’t failed to notice that, even after accepting our innocence, Nick (richest man in Canada) still hasn’t made offer to supply bail money. Julia suggested that there are certain people in cell that Nick thinks not safe to roam Toronto streets. Was looking at me when made suggestion. Huh. Did not realize Julia had twitch. Unless...meant to imply... me! Cruelty, thy name is Julia!

Right. Shall pretend I did not hear slur + re-read my Omnifemale poem for comfort.

9:16pm

Right. Am reading poem. Says:

"If you can dream — and fall in love with wistful hope...
     If you can plan — and not make plans your prison..."

Don’t make plans your prison. Huh. Steaming helping of pointless advice for Omnifemale in jail!

Strangely not comforted by words inscribed by Inca on paper. Will quit reading crap poem, fold paper back up + stuff into Speedo next to heart, instead.

9:17pm

Oh. Paper from Inca has writing on other side. Did not even notice.

Note says:

"If you find my llama, please contact me. I am offering a reward for her safe return. With Sincere Intent, The Inca"

After signature, note included phone number for law offices of ‘Montalban, Montoya & Valdez.’

Hmmm...With Sincere Intent...The Inca is sincere. Has intent. Sincere, sincere, sincere. Intent, intent, intent.

Sincere. Intent.

Ooooh! Maybe means sincerely intends to take me against bars of prison cell in mad, passionate, filthy Mary Sue embrace + make me squeal like guinea pig (wheek-wheek!)!!!!!

Or maybe just means Inca really wants llama back. Either way, lovely sentiments. Shall just show note to others + obtain feedback.

9:18pm

Hmm. Jayne v. excited by Incan note. Leapt to feet, hopped like monkey on crack, pointing at Christy as she yelled, "I KNEW IT! I KNEW IT!!! MY PLAN WILL SET US FREE!!!!!!"

Jayne finally caving to prison stress + is now utterly bonk-nutters. Poor Jayne.

9:22pm

Amidst scatty laughter, Jayne explained earlier plan to disguise herself as llama with cotton balls + duct tape, thereby allowing others to turn her in for reward money. Don’t think so. If Jayne wants combing + petting, needs to find her own damn Inca! Leave mine alone!

9:23pm

Well, technically, Inca not mine. Is Tracy Sue’s. Mine is The Inka, rather a wanker, actually (only interested in combing floor w/ Spaniard’s teeth). Still, Tracy Sue lent me her Inca + Juan never combs + pets Tracy Sue, anyway, so OK.

Point is, is time to employ llama counter-intelligence on Jayne. Shall congratulate her on bravery in assuming cottony disguise, then slyly mention strawberry patch in Incan corral.

9:24pm

Jayne has fainted (v.g.)

9:27pm

Recovering consciousness, Jayne experienced Epiphany. Declared donning guise of Incan llama v. dangerous if caught, therefore should be assigned to someone more expendable — i.e., not her.

Will draw crayons out of Santa hat to see who gets job. Naturally using my crayons, so shall rig drawing. Ha!

9:28pm

IS ME! ME! I GET TO BE A LLAMA!!!! HURRAH!!!!

Letting the door swing closed, Bonnie’s eyes shined with amazement as she drank in the lobby atmosphere: velvet swags in deep shades of red and green hid the dreary, beige cinderblock walls. The fluorescent lights, formerly untouched and harsh, had been completely replaced by chandeliers that intimately lit the paintings of Renaissance cherubs flying between clouds on the ceiling. Subdued strains of traditional carols played on guitar guarded the silence, infinitely more pleasant than the ‘James Brown’s Funky Christmas’ CD Rutledge had left playing. The sign by the stairs that said, ‘Authorized Personnel Only — This means NOT YOU!’ had been retouched in gold leaf Victorian lettering. Over every doorway — and CERK had a lot of doorways — there hung a tuzzy-muzzy of ivy and mistletoe. The tree now looked as though Rutledge had never gone at it with trimming shears — the tinsel and fake snow had been replaced with strings of tiny gold beads, crimson ribbon, and mouth-blown glass ornaments that looked older than Coca-Cola’s first Santa campaign. Formerly a fir on the verge of a nervous breakdown, their Fraser had become the prettiest tree of all!

Somehow, someway, CERK had truly been decorated for Christmas (but as someone on ‘Changing Rooms’ would say, Christmas with some sex in it!).

The decorations dazzled her. Amazed her, even. But even more astonishing and miraculous was the sight of Bonnie’s desk, no longer a stainless steel cage of modern business, but a substantial bureau crafted from walnut with lion’s paws for legs. A coordinating flat-screen computer monitor and phone sat on top, but it was the chair that truly astonished the Cousinly-Receptionist-Still-In-Training. It was the DaVinci of chairs, another piece of Renaissance work, practically a throne, with elegant moldings on the arms and about the head, and plump ruby cushions with matching welting lining the back and seat. What’s more, the fantastic chair had Vachon’s fantastic ass sitting in it, and he was busily manning the Cousinly phone.

Bonnie angled her head, disbelieving the scene in front of her. "NOW you answer the phone?!"

Vachon glanced her way, smiled a ‘hi,’ then ended his phone conversation. "You’re late," he said simply. Vachon eyed her from head to toe, then back up again. "You look terrible."

<Hello? More than a week without a proper shower, Einstein.> Bonnie thought, but Vachon spoke again before she could complain aloud. "So...you may have noticed the decor changed a little while you were out," he said. "Desks are sexier with paws, don’t you think? More predatory."

Bonnie blinked. "You did all this?"

"Well, they’re Screed’s ornaments. He got them off of Nick for one of his old Travis McGee novels..."

LaCroix erupted from the door marked ‘Authorized Personnel Only — This means NOT YOU!’ Bonnie froze like a reindeer in headlights as the General focused his cold, blue stare in her direction. "Ms. Pardoe...Finally. I’ve been looking for you."

<I can explain. I can explain. Oh, can I really?> her head buzzed, but the only syllables that escaped her throat were, "I...err...gah!"

"I understand you’ve been very busy this holiday season." LaCroix approached, making Bonnie uncomfortable via proximity.

"Yes. About that...I—"

"No need," LaCroix interrupted. "Vachon explained everything."

"He did?" Bonnie glanced at the Spaniard in question. He winked. "That must have been interesting."

"Yes. The hanging of Miss LeToad, the blood bank mix-up, the bizarre sleigh incident, the kidnapping by elves...And, in addition, you performed your Cousinly Receptionist duties above and beyond your past performance. Quite amazing."

"I did?" Bonnie studied Vachon again. "Oh, no. I couldn’t have. You’re too picky to be completely satisfied. Aren’t you furious about something?" 

LaCroix glowered malevolently at the Christmas tree. "My plantation, my beautiful plantation. When I get my hands on the person responsible for that CHOP manifesto..." He issued a murderous growl, then straightened his shoulders as he assumed a more pleasant manner. He smiled — yes, smiled — at Bonnie and said, "But that hardly concerns you. These decorations, on the other hand," LaCroix waved a hand toward the chandeliers and naked cherubs.

Bonnie gulped. "Yes?"

"They are...less repulsive than I expected."

"Thank you, sir. I try not to repulse too much, sir."

"Well done," LaCroix congratulated, then loomed close enough that Bonnie could see — ehhw! — up his flared nostrils. "Never. Do. It. Again."

"Can I get that in writing, sir?"

"Maybe." LaCroix moved to leave, but paused by CERK’s entrance. As he plucked a sprig of holly from the decorations for use as a boutonniere, he said, "One more thing..." LaCroix assumed an expression somewhere between a smile and a grimace. Whatever he was preparing to say obviously pained him greatly. "Thank you...for my Christmas present."

As Bonnie frowned in bewilderment, the General left. Bonnie turned to Vachon, stating, "I didn’t get LaCroix a present."

"Sure you did. I found it in your old desk."

"Nooooo. No, tell me you didn’t give LaCroix my ‘Lord Of The Rings’ DVD! That was mine! My Christmas present to me!!"

Vachon shrugged. "I guess you can always tell LaCroix that and take the gift back. You know, after doing something so unpleasant and unthinkable as thanking you, he probably won’t mind at all..." Vachon shot her a knowing grin, then pushed himself out of the new Cousinly Receptionist’s chair. "By the way," he asked casually, "where have you been for the past week and four?"

Bonnie walked toward the door marked ‘Authorized Personnel Only — This means NOT YOU!’ "Jail."

"Ouch." Vachon winced sympathetically. "Still, I missed you while you were gone. Annoying LaCroix is a task best shared."

"It is," Bonnie agreed, glanced thoughtfully at the lobby’s decorations, then back at the Spaniard. "But somehow, you seemed to have gotten things done."

Vachon nodded and moved closer. "A lot done. Working a job..." He moved closer still. "A crappy job that only a gullible idiot would love."

Bonnie realized that Vachon had her backed up against the door. To open it and get upstairs for a much-needed shower, she’d have to physically move him out of her way... or something. "I never said I love my job."

"Mmmm." It was a mysterious sound, part understanding, part curiosity. Vachon purred it in her ear. "This stint I’ve done — covering for you while you haven’t been around — I feel like I’ve turned over a new leaf. It’s good to quit flirting with things for a change, to get off my ass, quit the evil, and get things done. I think, after tonight, I’ll be a completely different guy." Vachon dipped his head, his lips almost, but not quite, touching the side of her throat. He breathed deeply...

<Great,> Bonnie thought, <Smell me when I haven’t had a decent bath for eleven days,> all while places from her heart to her knees were melting. "R-really?"

"No. Not really." He grinned wickedly, as if to say, ‘Had you going there for a second, didn’t I?’

As she reared one hand to smack him, Vachon caught her with a word. "Bonns."

He made her name a sigh, a tease, infuriating. "What?"

"Look up."

She did, tilting her chin to look overhead. Dead and center above her, a posy of mistletoe dangled from the lintel. Bonnie tilted her head back down, then lifted one shoulder in a gesture of supreme disinterest. "I don’t care. You may have done lovely things to the lobby and kept me from getting fired, but I’m too tired for this kind of crap tonight."

"Really?"

The left corner of Bonnie’s mouth quirked as she clutched Vachon’s shirt. He didn’t resist as she traded places with him, pushing his back flat against the door as she murmured in his ear. "No." It was her turn to sigh and tease. "Not really."

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

The loft buzzed with voices and the clinking of tableware. Nick smiled at his congregation of visitors from a local shelter. In the end, he was rather glad the Nunkies Addicts had suggested that he host the Have A Heart Feast. The celebration was a little late this year, but surely the homeless + destitute deserved the optimism of a New Year’s celebration more than anyone.

Nearby, the television blared with a news report featuring Tawny Teller, the upper quadrant of the screen featuring helicopter footage of a glen of evergreen trees. "Reports indicate that this forest appears to be moving west. Experts are unclear as to why this is possible + where the trees are ultimately headed. One Canadian visitor offered us her candid opinion." More video footage replaced Tawny Teller’s face with Christy’s. The Nunketeer pointed to her mouse ears, declaring, "They’re going to Disneyland!"

Shaking his head, Nick turned away from the television, deciding he preferred the glow of the good cheer his company provided to that of the LCD. The spirit of giving could work wonders — just look at the High Priestess of Nunkies Anonymous. Jules had kindly volunteered to look after all the children at the party, completely taking Nick by surprise. It just went to show that people could change, could grow, and could become better than they once were. Nick resolved to...

<Wait a second.> Nick scanned the crowd closely. He didn’t see Jules anywhere. No children, either, for that matter.

Nick dashed up the loft stairs, but he only found a couple making out on his bed. Nick did a ‘Baby, Baby,’ averting his eyes.

"Excuse me," he said meaningfully, as in ‘Could you do that somewhere other than on top of my black satin sheets?’ He didn’t get a response, unless you counted the smacking sounds and moaning.

Under other circumstances, Nick would have insisted, but he was really concerned that Jules had disappeared along with all the homeless children and orphans. He returned downstairs and began to discreetly ask around after the High Priestess.

"Nancy, you haven’t seen Jules, have you?"

"What? You mean since  her adopted posse of tykes tied up Julia, Jayne and Shele, rifled their pockets, then locked them in the downstairs bathroom, saying that they were playing ‘Roman Imperial Decree’?"

"Err, yeah, since then."

"Nope! Can’t help you — sorry!"

Nick delved into deeper thought. If he was a money-hungry High Priestess with a dozen children under the age of ten on his hands, what would he do? Illumination struck. "Got her. I’ll be back! Watch the party, eh, Nancy? Make sure people stay out of the fridge?"

"Sure!" Nancy said enthusiastically, then asked in a more hesitant voice. "Err...could you unlock the bathroom before you go? That line against the wall isn’t for the buffet."

"The key’s in the fireplace."

"Of course it is."

Nick flew to Eaton Centre, then searched through the glass galleria for familiar faces. Sure enough, scattered around the Centre Court fountain, he spotted them.

Entering on foot, Nick walked up behind Jules. She stood to the side, keeping watch as the children held out Styrofoam cups taken from the feast, peddling to the passers-by as they sang:

"Christmas Is Over
High Priestess Wants A Shrine
Please Drop A Twooney If You’ve Got The Time
If You Haven’t Got A Twooney
Then A Looney Coin Will Do
If You Haven’t Got A Looney Coin
Then Piss Off You!"
(At this point, some of the older children inserted a rude gesture.)

"That’s nice," Nick commented over Jules’s shoulder, startling her. "Nothing personal, but I always liked the Muppet version of that song the best."

One hand held against her chest, the High Priestess replied austerely, "My original lyrics were more refined, but you know how cheeky London orphans can be."

"London, England?"

"London, Ontario."

"This is illegal, you know. Plus you’re taking advantage of those children for financial gain."

"It was their idea, plus  I promised them ice cream." Jules assumed a beatific expression, as if her sainthood would arrive any second.

"I could put you in jail."

Jules batted her eyelashes. "What? And deprive the homeless and orphans of ice cream? That’s rather dark of you."

Nick scowled impatiently. "I mean it. How much money could you possibly need? You’ve been collecting for over a year!"

"Hmm." Jules tapped her chin with a perfectly manicured nail tabbed in ‘Pompeii Purple.’ "With Jayne and Christy’s cut of the Inca’s reward money, I still need...hmm...gobs!"

"How much? Give me a number," Nick said sternly.

Jules set her jaw and mulishly reported a figure, much smaller than Nick expected.

"Okay. I’ll write you a check," he told her. "Just quit breaking the law, get the kids their ice cream and haul them back to the party. Are you happy?"

Visions of new Shrines danced in Jules’s head. "You’re kidding. You can’t mean it."

Nick met her eyes in all earnestness. "I mean it."

"Then I’m happy. I’m the happiest High Priestess on Earth!" Jules twirled in place, laughing as she imagined brilliant new grout and accoutrements galore. "I could kiss you!"

She could have, but she didn’t.

Jules wasn’t that kind of High Priestess.

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

December 31st:

Calories: 4570 (addictive taste of freedom), cotton units: 436 (textile of freedom), crayons: 72 (bought own box), hours w/o freedom: 0 (hurrah!), seconds since last snogged in fanfic: 86,715, Incas: 1 (perfect number)

11:55pm

What a difference a day makes!

Most importantly, am out of prison + curled on corner of Incan mattress, sharing snack of grapes with pet guinea pig (wheek-wheek!). Juan here, nestled beside me, lost in briefs (legal).

Oh, yes, + am llama again.

Denizens of lockup Cell A put forth amazing team effort this morning, gathering cotton balls, trading precious crayons for duct tape + clear nail polish. Was fabulous Mickey-Rooney-hey-kids-let’s-put-on-a-show-we-can-do-it production, harking back to Decembers of yesteryear, when doom not rampant + plans came together like clicks of seat belt, salt + pepper shakers, hotdog + bun, etc. Was v. nice to be part of something larger than self, but yet all about self-gratification. Was Xmas spirit! Granted, was technically past-Xmas + in prison, but Xmas spirit all the same (v.g.).

Best part about plan to disguise self as llama + return to Inca for reward money is the layers of lies! Now, not only have ponchoamiga Pardoe, keen to all secrets + deceit connected to living llama lie, have five new ponchomakers (Shele, Christy, Jayne, Nancy + Julia), who think they are in on big secret — that they have fooled Inca into thinking self llama when not really THE llama. Little do they know that real Incan llama really IS ME. Will no doubt trip over each other to protect big secret, which coincidentally is identical to true big secret. Also gives me 5 new buddies with which can be real Homo-sapiens-adult-girl-type-person when not busy nuzzling Inca + receiving combings. Is v.g., for in spiffy times + bad, Omnifemales need their friends ß v. true sentiment. True, as in FACT!

Wildest part of resumption of llama lie was that ploy to gain Incan reward money completely unnecessary (unless you ask NA High Priestess)!

No sooner than Jayne had left message at law offices of ‘Montalban, Montoya & Valdez’ re: llama discovery, Sergeant Pulte appeared at cell w/ happy news! Apparently Nick had listened to yammering, was not just tuning out suggestions that should fly to New Zealand + sort out Woody’s confession. Of course, Nick had v. important hero-of-show work to do, so couldn’t take night off to whoosh. Asked Vachon to do flying instead. Spaniard told vampire detective he couldn’t fly to New Zealand, had to work. Had to answer CERK phones. Nick told Spaniard that if he didn’t want to do favor, just say so, no need to lie (v. unbecoming). Vachon suggested Nick get lost + call Inca instead, as brotherly-type-person had nothing better to do than look for lost llama + needed to get out more. Nick did.

Rest is history!

Inca traveled all the way to Auckland, because was quest + right thing to do. Sometimes v. glad Juan so preachy + obsessive about being mighty warrior of Athualpa, child of Mother Moon. Gets more done that way.

Found Woody fallen into jewelry scam w/ some rough trade, but no matter, Inca soon sorted him all out. Whammied confession, then obtained locations of Cadillac + Jaguar. Caddy working in Hollywood. A bit underweight + had highlights done, but is basically OK (Nick v. happy). LaCroix’s Jag not as OK (LC not as happy). Paint job chipped. Not in one piece. Not really Jaguar anymore. Is more like thing caught in stampede of Canadian Christmas trees + squashed in rooty vandalism spree. Poor Jag. At least Jules no longer has to worry about bloody cookbooks in the trunk.

So all were released from jail w/o needing bail money, yet call still made to Incan establishment. What to do? What to do? Call Juan back + say ‘Oops, slippery llama skipped off again, sorry!’? No, could not dash Incan hopes so cruelly! Went through w/ scheme, anyway, splitting reward 7 ways. Do not know what Pardoe, Nancy + Julia plan to do with money. Shele will purchase new toys. Christy + Jayne promised their cuts to Shrine Rebuilding fund, so Jules happier than would expect considering state of Jaguar. Shall donate my share to Heifer International (llamas saving families in crisis). Feel rather good about self, despite deceit, lies + return of Communal Dung Pile (llama loo not v. posh).

But most important result of deceit was that so v. glad to see Inca, + Inca so v. glad to see me. Draped cotton wool over him like real poncho + licked his face (hooven version of snog) in bliss. Juan did not wrinkle nose once, or deliver lecture regarding what silly, worrisome pet I am, not even a little bit (though know wanted to).

Know that spurned Inca for his own good, but realize did not save him at all. Inca spent separation lonelier w/o me, me lonelier w/o him. So what if both end up wearing non-sensible shoes + scribbling in mad diaries? 'We are the makers of manners...yaryaryar...' Can accept Inca as poncho of v. own in mutual-exclusive brushing pact. Have comb. Have enough crayons for two. All is well w/ four corners of Universe.

Reunion w/ Inca illustrates valuable lesson — is always best to run away from problems, have party, then get thrown into prison instead of actually dealing with issues in head on fashion. All will work out satisfactorily in the end, so why bother w/ anyone’s feelings or muck about in mire of honesty + communication? Live, Omnifemales, Live!

Oh, also learned that science full of crap, just really smart-sounding form of spitting into wind + seeing if one gets smacked by loogie in return. Shall leave all nonsexual experimentation in future to Pardoe.

In closing, dearest, dearest diary, another year’s volume departing, w/ New Year again goosing us from behind. Hope enjoy self, cheering in the baby wanker 2003, getting squiffy! Because all live in strange and unreasonable times, you see, things never quite working smoothly or exactly as expected. But do work eventually, tinker toys of progress, signs of accomplishment + joy, pages being filled w/ great adventures interspersed w/ spam, boredom, bills, neuroses + sleeping. But enough thematic yammering, as if am a Samwise giving meaning to it all. Have no meaning. Haven’t! Will just make one last v. important point à Feel v. close to diary right now, both as a woman + as a llama.

With Real Love,

Me