Combings: 9 (Hurrah!), naughty thoughts: 26 (Hurrah!), cotton units: 2 (Hurrah!)
Calories: 1800 (Hurrah!), days have had steady groomer: 432!!!! (Hurrah!)

8:00pm

Living llama lie absolutely fantastic lifestyle choice! Wondrously clever of me to deceive Inca + world at large w/ cotton ball facade, thereby freeing self to enjoy true nature as lazy, cosseted roll-a-bout!

Even now am curled on corner of Incan mattress, sharing snack of grapes with pet guinea pig (wheek-wheek!). Of course, is theoretical sharing, for Viracocha is v. small mammal. Am assisting w/ snack consumption in helpful + benevolent fashion (taking all but one), as bunch of grapes far larger than pet unit.

See, only illustrates cushiness of llama way of life. Only task is to wallow on Incan cushions feeding self grapes. Have actualized dream! Have manifested vision!

Have seed stuck between teeth (Ouch).

8:10pm

Have been thinking.

W/b even nicer decadent existence if Inca were to feed me grapes instead. Is not like have demonstrated table manners w/ proficiency in knife and fork skills. Inca says not v. g. idea for llamas on parole to play w/ knives. Huh. So is no reason for Juan to assume llama accomplished self-feeder in non-cud areas (slurps cereal milk straight from bowl). Is only right Inca s/b concerned over llaman grape consumption and want to assist in mammal noshing in playful, steady-groomer-type manner. Wonder why Juan never offered?

8:16pm

Oh, is too much hard work feeding self grapes! Toil! Toil! Is all ever do! Viracocha exhausted as well (Juice-induced nap).

Must maintain precious energy. Will roll off mattress and find Inca so he can feed me.

8:19pm

Hmm. Inca v. busy w/ briefs (legal).

Will stand in front of him in cute-orphan-tyke-asking-for-fresh-bowl-of-gruel manner w/ grape stem between teeth (s/b irresistible).

8:25pm

Huh.

Inca not dropping briefs (legal)! Not even noticing adorable llama needing assistance w/ fruit consumption! Something v. wrong w/ that. General state of obliviousness to important facets/persons/dangers in immediate vicinity is traditional behavior of *me*, not steady groomer.

What could this mean??

8:26pm:

Gaahh! What if means over past year Juan has unintentionally absorbed characteristics of llama personality?? What if am pseudo-shacked up w/ supernatural sucker of stuff other than blood? Fearful suspicions arising that Juan is just so much psychic vampire amoeba- type-person, enveloping intangible soupcons of unsuspecting psyches in telepathic vacuoles for persona consumption!!!! Would be horrible! Would be terrifying!!!!

If true, Inca will start wearing non-sensible shoes v. soon!!! If not already! Gaaaahhhh!!

Will check Incan closet immediately.

8:28pm:

Is vast relief. All examples of Incan footwear w/in closet emitting appropriate aura of comfort and practicality. For now. Are obviously living/unliving on borrowed time. Must do something! Must act!

Must save Inca from self!!

8:31pm:

Hmm. Am such a right-type-person. Am completely non-wrong.

Is Inca under consideration (v. nice + considerate of me to consider him), which confirms accuracy of my analysis. La-la-la! Must be 100% correct about psychic vampire amoebic tendencies!

If were dealing w/ bordomist Spaniard, of course, would be another kettle of fish <-- See??! Bordomists encourage speciesist metaphor! Obviously v. bad-type-persons leading pseudo-llamas astray upon Path of Tedious Self-Doubt!

Steady groomer must be in danger from power of pseudo-llama-type-personality. Must devise some manner of Incan protection whereby Juan not afflicted by my infectious personality. Not that personal qualities in question are undesirable, mind you. Are v. nice actually. Yes, are! Extremely charming traits, even, assuming one happens to be mad single female living llama lie for over a year. Are extraordinarily silly qualities in contrast, when associated with 500-year-old Incan lawyer-type-person. Juan assuming cotton ball mystique and demanding brushings completely unappealing!

Must stop llamafication of Juan, no matter what cost!

Must treat threat with same seriousness as did being bequeathed nipple-tweaking painting in ill-advised Last Will and Testament drawn up by Spaniard!

8:32pm

Huh. On second thought, suppose never did get around to preventing said willing of nipple-tweaking painting from beyond. Really should do something about that. Will! As surely as will keep Inca out of non-sensible shoes in foreseeable future! Go Me!

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

October 31st (Halloween!)

Combings: 0 (must save Inca!), naughty thoughts: 197 (channeling energy formerly directed at obtaining combings toward impish pondering), cotton units: 5 (am weaning for sake of Inca), calories: 1300 (Inca situation devastated appetite), days have had steady groomer: 434 (Sob! Poor Inca!), alcohol units: 6 (is holiday), uncomfortable garments: many

6:55pm

Eureka! Am right! 'Inca Cosmology and the Human Body' says Inca-types see the body as vessel mirroring and reconciling structures that comprise the Cosmos. Therefore, an Inca in close grooming proximity of knotty-pseudo-llama for extended period most certainly must run dire risk of starting to exhibit signs of pseudo-llamadom himself! Is reconciling! Is mirroring! Is proof am right in official-sounding book! Hurrah!

But not hurrah, as poor Juan now assuredly doomed to duct-tape-hoof existence w/ weakness for cad Battle Yaks!

New cruel, cold-hearted plan is to cut Inca off from grooming gravy train! Shall repudiate all combings. Shall distance self. Shall no longer share Omnifemale opinions + stuff, though highly valuable + intelligent + worthy of an Incan listen, but shall remain quiet + distant in an unaffecting manner. Shall become Cool, Unavailable, Ice Llama! Shall!

What's more, have realized that only long-term solution to maintaining four corners of Incan household in a secured, unchanged fashion is that pseudo-llama me must gently reacclimatize self into society as me, not pseudo-me, not cotton ball me, not me in llama wool coat, but me as ME! Hurrah! (I think.)

Will begin process of rejoining Homo sapiens activities by sneaking out tonight + shedding cotton balls + duct tape! Others will be disguised in costumes, but I will come as I am! (Once I strip the cotton + duct tape)

Am revolution of one! Am peeling back the layers + revealing true self by getting naked! (Though will promptly put clothes back on — TO in October v. chilly!) Am anti- Halloween princess! (Hmm. Self not actually princess, though. Or anti-Halloween. Hmm.)

Will refine plan once on road. Not literally on road, of course. Remember frightening conflagrations which happened last time when streetwalking featuring mime w/ invisible canoe + chickens driving fire engine. Will be proactive + catch bus. See? Am thinking ahead! Am not Playing Pat-A-Cake With Doom! (Unlike Incan brush enthusiast.)

Hurrah!

He looked up at her. "Did I make it?"

But before Bonnie could answer his question, a ding sounded from The Cousinly- Receptionist-In-Training's computer, followed not ten seconds later by the jingling of the small bell hung on the door marked "Authorized Personnel Only (i.e., NOT you)" as LaCroix strode into the lobby.

LaCroix paused for a moment on his way to the receptionist's desk, glaring at Vachon, who didn't look up as his fingers continued to fly silently over the strings along the neck of his guitar.

LaCroix cleared his throat, loudly, then turned to his receptionist. "Ms. Pardoe, do you have—"

"Yes, sir!" she answered, handing him a white envelope, which the General opened, removing an airline ticket and checking the reservation.

"Mmhmm, Lear Jet ... yes, this should do nicely. And what time will the High Priestess be by with the car to take me to the airport?"

"7:30, sir," the C-R-I-T replied efficiently.

"Inform me immediately upon her arrival." LaCroix then tucked his flight information back into the envelope and turned to leave, giving the oblivious Vachon one last glare before striding back to the door through which he had come. He placed his hand on the security pad, then pulled the door open when the buzz sounded, but before he stepped into his inner sanctum, he turned back to the occupants of the lobby.

"Ms. Pardoe, are you or are you not the Cousinly Receptionist?"

"Receptionist-In-Training,  sir," she corrected him, with as much reverence as she could muster.

"In-Training? Still...? Hmm," he replied.

Bonnie waited for what the elder vampire would say next, but he just stood there, a faraway look glazing his eyes. Then, LaCroix shook his head, as if to clear it of cobwebs. "Yes, well, in any case, isn't one of your duties to keep this lobby tidy?"

"Yes, sir." It was true. Since the end of the war, since Shelley had worked off her war- time credit card charges, it had been her job to keep the lobby clean. She glanced quickly about the small room now. There was no dust, no piles of out-dated magazines, no dog-eared paperbacks, no stray or out-of-date Post-It notes. The place was cleaner than her own house! "Doesn't it appear clean to you?"

LaCroix allowed his eyes to travel back to the couch near the front window, then to linger for a moment on its occupant. Vachon did not look up, keeping his concentration on his guitar. He was still fingering chords, but now the digits of his right hand hovered just above the strings, strumming a silent tune. LaCroix continued to glare.

Then, just as suddenly as he'd entered, the General was gone. And, almost instantly the air was filled with music — she thought it might be "Haunted" from Type O Negative's 'October Rust' album, though there was a distinctive Beach Boys air to it.

Finally, Vachon looked up. "Thought you might be homesick for California." He smiled as he turned his attention once more to his instrument.

Once the tune ended and Vachon began plucking at the strings as if to refine their tuning, Bonnie observed, "You know, he thinks you're here all the time."

"I know."

"So, are you *trying* to get me fired?" she asked, slightly annoyed by his bemused tone.

"I've met the previous CERK receptionists, and you're the most over-qualified one so far, so I don't think you have anything to worry about, unless... Does he know about your secret life as a genetic research scientist?"

"No. And no one's going to tell him, are they?" — 'they' meaning Vachon in particular.

But the vampire just shrugged, turning his attention back to his guitar, before nonchalantly changing the subject: "So, what was the plane ticket for? Have you finally tricked LaCroix into leaving town?"

"I haven't tricked anyone, nor would I," she said defensively, just a bit offended by his accusation. She really was subtler than he made it sound! "LaCroix has *decided* to visit his cantaloupe plantation — the one Janette gave him for Conversion Day last year. Surprisingly, he doesn't seem to like trick-or-treaters."

"It's the high blood sugar," Vachon explained, looking up from his Gibson. "Makes us squiffy."

Bonnie shuddered. Regular vampires were bad enough; she really didn't need to see one high on anything.

She dipped her hand absently into the Halloween candy bowl as she set her mind back on her work. She checked the e-mail system and noticed — and not for the first time — that LaCroix had an awful lot of electronic mail in his in-box. This couldn't be a good thing. The man was busy, after all, important and busy — she knew this because he made a point, daily, of telling her so. And as Cousinly-Receptionist(-for-some-reason-Still)-In- Training, it was her job to make LaCroix's life easier, more efficient, and less stressful.

It didn't take her long to hack into the CERK e-mail system — user: admin, password: ***** — and set up both his 'nightcrawler' and 'rosebud' accounts to be forwarded to Post- It@CERKradio.com for future weeding.

Bonnie smiled to herself, then began to hum along to Vachon's latest tune, Oingo Boingo's 'Dead Man's Party.'

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

Jules had arrived two minutes early and LaCroix had left CERK at precisely 7:31 — it would have been 7:30 on the dot, but he had paused once more to glare at the Spanish lump that seemed to have taken up permanent residence on the CERK lobby's couch.

"Some people work for a living," the General commented.

"Yeah, I heard that," Vachon responded with an innocent face. "You know, some of my best friends have jobs" — he shot a quick glance over at Bonnie — "and really comfy couches."

LaCroix turned quickly to his receptionist. "See that he does not distract you from your work. I've left much for you to do in my absence."

"Aye, aye, sir," she said, stifling the sarcastic impulse to salute.

"One 'aye' will do," he corrected before heading off to his awaiting car.

Not ten minutes later, the trick-or-treaters began to arrive.

With the first knock, Bonnie looked over at Vachon, Vachon looked over at Bonnie, both expecting the other to answer the door. "Slacker," one mumbled, getting up and pulling open the door.

Granted, the kids were cute, especially the younger ones, the ones too young to know why mommy and daddy were suddenly breaking the rule, "Don't take candy from strangers," which would undoubtedly lead those same kids to the later misunderstanding of the rule, "No parties while mommy and daddy are gone for the weekend."

"That's all you have, eh? What a rip!" one monster, er, one teenager dressed as a monster - no, make that one monster — protested when the candy dish was finally devoid of chocolate bars, leaving only SweetTarts and DumDums.

"That's it. I'm outta here," Vachon declared.

"Big night planned?" Bonnie asked, standing beside the Cousinly Receptionist's desk, figuring Halloween was probably to most vampires what New Year's Eve was to most mortals — a reason to party to excess.

Vachon shrugged a shoulder, but then mouthed the word 'no.' He looked her up and down, then up again, quirking a smile at her when their eyes met, causing Bonnie to wonder if she might imminently be invited along on his night of 'No Big Plans.'

"Later!" he finally said and was gone.

Bonnie sighed as she returned to her seat. All that flirting — a means to no obvious end — could not be a good thing, she thought to herself. And she had to wonder if he'd always been this way, or if things had changed for him once filming had ended. So many things, after all, had changed since then.

Another knock sounded on the glass — a tapping, at first, but quickly followed by a pounding when she did not rise quickly enough from her seat to suit the youth. She opened the door and the teen held out his pillowcase — this one hadn't even bothered to put on a costume. "Trick or treat!" he demanded.

"Trick," she replied as she flung the contents of the candy bowl high into the air, then watched the pieces rain down onto the sidewalk. Then she tossed the bowl inside, locked the door, and headed off down the street, with only one thought now on her mind: "I need a drink!"

7:56pm

Have just arrived at Raven. Clothing significantly lacking cotton products + appreciably more cleavage-friendly. Is black (Club + dress). Surely is enough description for imaginative-type-persons to fill in blanks. Is not like diary future article in Cosmo or similar. Most important + crucial part to establish is that I look like me, not like pseudo- llama. Hope had made this clear.

Will order drink to toast being Homo sapiens girl again!

7:59pm

*chin-chin!*

Mmm. Nice adult beverage for nice adult Homo sapiens girl. <--See? Am girl *and* adult! Is Beacon of Truth shining from ME!

8:22pm

Second drink has arrived. Is dark, dark pink (okay, is red actually) and has festive umbrella (v. girly)!

Will drink and emit mighty cheer!

8:33pm

Hurrrrrrahhh!!!!

9:18pm

Hmm. Have v. odd feeling.

Is not related to drinks (have consumed second now). Is strange sensation, as if some rude person constantly poking me in chest combined with general all-over phenomenon of being neck to toe constricted. Hmm. Don't know what could be. Chest looks normal (g). Is there (v.g.). Is girly-adult-Homo-sapiens-shaped (v.v.g.). Toes look normal. Are shod in spiffy non-sensible boots (excellent). Am baffled. Cannot mull this out! Makes complete non-sense that find self suddenly uncomfortable-type-person just because am girl-adult-Homo-sapiens-type-person. Think am victim of reverse-speciesism, if such thing exists. Certainly never experienced such distress in personal space while impersonating llama. Must figure out peculiarity. Will!

9:24pm

Obviously need third drink to stimulate thinking process. Will order straightaway!

9:26pm

*reddish splash soaking page*

Completely forgot that had free use of hands (opposable digits no longer bound into hooved masterpieces via duct tape). Attempted nudging cocktail across bar w/ face in traditional llaman manner, only to tip said beverage over bar ledge + toward self. Have lost coordinated ability to grasp + catch through finger disuse, therefore lap now soggy + garnished w/ wedge of lime.

9:34pm

In midst of napkin dabbing at encroaching dampness of lap area, have figured out cause of discomfort!

Has been almost sixteen months since beginning of llama delusion. Have not donned first non-sensible shoe, or push-up bra, or scrap of hosiery, or any of the spectrum of unreasonable garments that girl-adult-Homo-sapiens place in proximity to their bodies in the name of kinky beauty regimens. Wore Speedo + cotton balls for hundreds + hundreds of days. Was like wearing cloud w/ green Lycra lining. Have been terribly spoiled in matters of wardrobe!

Miss Speedo (though was in need of good wash). Miss lingerie-free pseudo-llama lifestyle, though am resigned to leaving it behind for good of Incan personality resiliency!

9:45pm

Have second third drink. Used hands properly (v.g.).

Thought more of pseudo-llama life. Yes, was spiff as, not counting Vachon's cat, involved no maiming elements: no binding garments restricting flesh or evil + non- sensible footwear pinching toes (though still appreciate for aesthetic reasons, as with Spaniards + similar). Rolled around on Incan mattress a lot w/ guinea pig, etc. and completely missed fashion revival of eye-confusing-Pucci dresses + textured hosiery. Was v. comfortable + thankful in that respect.

But llama lifestyle not all pillowy and quilted. Had drawbacks. Had! Life flawed, even if filled w/ multiple brushings! Only got to talk to Inca, for one. Have many opinions + stuff. Am spouter of female viewpoint. Am channeller of feminine doublespeak. Would be nice to share views with other girl-adult-Homo-sapiens-type-persons again that are non-Vaquera (thus not inclined to seek revenge for past deceptions) and non-Nunkies Anonymous (thus not inclined to lambaste ex-Scribe for poor judgment in releasing Old, Dead Guy from sarcophagus + dropping Shrine on Patt's head + forgetting to pay Shrine insurance, etc.). Would be nice to be told how clever + smart + right + Omnifemale am instead of teased for being silly llama + petted until quiet or humming or something.

Also, have not been snogged in story since Fanfic-Fairies-knows how long! Was War 10, I think. Was previous century! A millennium past! So long ago, memory spotty + decomposed of all goodness. Am like stale piece of anchovy pizza left in box under coffee table for months + months + then some. (Repulsive thought. No wonder have not been snogged!)

Yes, perhaps did get away w/ molesting Vachon a year ago while taking measurements for Mercenary manufacturing enterprise, but genuinely thought self llama at time, so cannot count, for motives 99.99% pure! And was year ago! Yes, perhaps did share forbidden love beneath the cycads with Battle Yak, but object of tawdry affection proved cad, and still genuinely thought self llama, so, again, doesn't count. Right. And was year ago! True, rolled on carpet with Perry, making all-around sluttish spectacle of self at Julia's birthday bash. Well, genuinely thought self llama <-- what else would llama do??? And was YEAR ago!!!!!!!

But have proven self good person by abandoning Inca, thereby saving him from future bunions, fiber cravings, etc! Hurrah! Obviously, goodness will be marked + tagged by Fanfic Fairies + persons genuinely not thinking self a llama (i.e., me) + shall be kissed at earliest convenience!

Meanwhile, shall consume second third drink. Shall also be v. glad have cruelly scorned Inca. Am happy am girl-adult-Homo-sapiens-type-person! Whee!

The dark-haired woman on the other side of the bar stared back at her blandly. "What do you want?"

"Hmm." Bonnie contemplated the question for a moment, not committed to any details beyond the 'I need a drink' phase as of yet. "What do you have?"

Brianna shrugged. "We've got everything." She suddenly stilled and held up one warning hand. "Except Chablis. Don't ask for Chablis."

The Cousinly-Receptionist-Still-In-Training wrinkled her nose. "Everything except Chablis. Hmm." Bonnie gestured absently at the person getting squiffy at the bar next to her, indicating the martini glass filled with some reddish potential refreshment that obstructed the woman's face. "I don't want anything with rum in it. What about what she's having? Is there rum in that?"

Brianna shook her head. "No, that drink's all vodka and liqueur. Like a Cosmopolitan, only made with some imported currant syrup that all the Goths like to tipple. It's called a Whammy."

"Hmm." Bonnie frowned. "No. Whammies don't sit well with me." The mention of a Whammy made Bonnie think of LaCroix, which was contrary to her current goal of relaxing and getting her mind off of LaCroix. She propped one elbow on the counter, supporting her chin contemplatively with her hand. All she wanted was a drink. Surely the process to fulfill that need should be simple, without questions, ramifications and catchy labels? "I'll just have water," she said resolutely. What could be more refreshing than that?

"What kind of water?" Brianna asked, deadpan. "Carbonated? Flavored? Nutrient- enriched? Caffeinated? Filtered? French? Canadian? Italian?"

"Um, bottled and non-fizzy will do nicely. I don't have a nationality preference," Bonnie answered.

Bonns tapped the counter, inspecting her neighbors at the bar in more detail as she waited for her beverage. Her fingers stilled as she recognized the person to her right.

After the unfortunate crisis with the Old, Dead Guy (a.k.a. Qa'ra) during the last fan fiction War, LaCroix had issued a memo listing his Ten Least Wanted Plot Devices to all the Cousinly troops in an effort to stymie future creativity and keep the remaining, prominent faction headquarters and accessories intact. Divia had ranked #1, and the Old, Dead Guy #2. Bonnie was currently staring at the person who had narrowly squeaked past the Iron Chefs to capture the #9 spot.

She gulped and lowered her eyes. If only LaCroix hadn't left the country! What fun it could have been! And, clearly from his washout attitude toward Halloween, LaCroix needed to have a great deal more fun and cheer. The Cousinly-Receptionist-Still-In- Training emitted a disappointed sigh, but couldn't resist addressing the Whammy drinker.

"Bons! You're alive and well!" Bonns exclaimed, addressing the ex-Scribe of Nunkies Anonymous with spontaneous excitement. "That's fantastic!"

The Cousinly-Receptionist-Still-In-Training's triumph (emotional) over this discovery ebbed as she realized Rutledge was writing in some kind of journal and acting as though no one had spoken to her. She waved one hand in front of the redhead's face. "Hello? Bonnie?"

Rutledge snapped out of her quiet scribbling, looking up with surprise. "I think someone's calling me. It's been months and months since anyone's called me..." Her eyes widened with recognition. "Bonnie!"

"That's our name, last I heard," Bonns commented, accepting a plastic bottle with a paper umbrella poking out of the top from Brianna. "On second thought, after setting the Old, Dead Guy free, your name could now be 'Ms. Mud.' So...since you're here and obviously in one piece, Qa'ra didn't put a doomsmack on you back in War 11?"

The redhead's reply was dutifully somber. "Nope. Far luckier than Patt in that respect."

There was a moment of kinetic silence.

"You know, it sounded like I was the last person to see you before you went missing," Bonns mused aloud. "Nothing 'strange' happened in the lab, did it? You weren't transformed, split, altered, or encased in Jell-O, were you?"

Rutledge shook her head. "Not exactly."

"Oh." The Cousinly-Receptionist-Still-In-Training took a sip from her water, deftly avoiding stabbing herself in the nose with its paper umbrella. Bonns plucked the decoration from her drink, placing it safely on a Raven coaster. "So you were just hiding out to avoid the High Priestess induction like Nunkies Anonymous suspected?"

Rutledge nodded half-heartedly. "Kinda. You did a wonderful job taking my place in the ceremony, by the way. Very dramatic. You totally avoided peril *and* the Wrath of Jules! Very tricky, that. I meant to send you a 'Thank You For Saving My Ass' card earlier, but, well...Sorry."

"You should have!" Bonnie said firmly. "Feedback is much appreciated!"

"Yes, yes," Bonnie agreed distractedly, twirling the remains of her Whammy in her martini glass. "But, you know, the postal system has truly speciesist policies about selling stamps to non-Homo sapiens...And I could hardly ask the Inca for a stamp, could I, for he would have demanded to know what it was for. The Inca is soooo nosy," she intoned in a confiding manner. "And he doesn't think llamas should deal in mail, for they don't have bills (non-fowl) and stuff, and since llamas don't get to vote, they have no need to write their political representatives and request reform in postal revenue standards. Huh," Bons sniffed rudely. "It's very unfair — makes me want to throw a rally!" She shook a militant fist in the air. "Pack Animal Pen Pals Unite!"

The Cousinly-Receptionist-Still-In-Training scoffed. "What do llamas, the Inca and the Canadian post have to do with my feedback?!" Suddenly her eyes widened, and Bonns jabbed the air between them with her water bottle. "Wait a second, you know exactly what I did at the Nunkies Anonymous ceremony. You were THERE!" she declared in an accusing tone. Bonns cogitated, wielding her intellect like a mighty stick on the piņata of the unexplained until answers rained forth. She gasped, took several deep gulps of water, then gasped again, saying in a frenzied whisper, "But you *weren't* there. Yes! No! YES!!! YOU WERE A LLAMA!!!!"

//* Note: The above conclusions signifying the chain of logical steps Bonnie Pardoe took in identifying that Bonnie Rutledge had, in fact, been impersonating a llama since July 2001 have been passed through a 'Deduction for Dummies' filter. The reality of her startling and brilliant conclusion involved several low earth orbit satellites, the behavior of covalent electrons when San Francisco loses the World Series, a Venn diagram of Forever Knight Toronto using barware, maraschino cherries and a toothpick, and a very scary thing involving differential calculus and the color blue. This fanfic has been edited for your protection, because we care. *//

Bonns put in an extra gasp for good measure, then asked in a puzzled voice, "What happened?"

Bons waved at her description-minimal black dress. "I got better."

"Why? How? When?" Bonns rained questions in a flurry of thought theory. "And you've been living with the Inca all this time? But you — ! And he's a — ! How did that work?! Explain!"

Bons pushed her beaten diary across the countertop with great pomp and circumstance, albeit still odd pomp and circumstance since she used her nose. "It's all in there. You can read it."

Bonns eagerly latched onto the journal, then paused. "But you've obviously been keeping the contents of this notebook a deep, dark secret. How can you be sure I won't blab?"

"I trust you because no one else does," Bonnie answered solemnly. "The Vaqs are, well, you know...Hmm..."

"Hmm..." Bonnie agreed. "And the Cousins...?"

"Don't even trust LaCroix. Why would they listen to you?"

Bonns nodded. This was a highly reasonable prediction. "And the Ratpackers?"

"If they ratted the truth, who would understand a word of it?"

"True," Bonns, a former Ratpacker-by-Association, knew that all too well, so she played her trump card. "And the Addicts?"

The redhead's expression faltered. "Well, yes, if you were to share the contents of my super-secret diary with the Nunkies Addicts, I would be screwed." She threw her hands into the air and squirmed in her seat as she whined, "But I WANT to tell! It's so brain- deadening only sharing the naughty parts with a stupid diary! I want to spill my guts!"

"Naughty parts?" The Cousinly-Receptionist-Still-In-Training flipped the ex-llama's journal open. "There are naughty parts? In that case, let's have a look." After the first few pages, Bonns drained her bottle of water. "My, you certainly were well-combed! If you catch Brianna in passing, tell her I've evolved to grenadine margaritas and keep them coming!"

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

Hours later, one super-secret llama diary and many girl-adult-Homo-sapiens beverages consumed, Bonnie raised her margarita glass in a toast, "To Omnifemales, I say 'Hurrah!'"

Bonnie lifted her martini glass, hardly splashing any of it over the rim, and echoed, "Hurrah, Omnifemales!" There was a short pause as she peered hesitantly at her company. "We *are* the Omnifemales in the equation, aren't we?"

"Of course we are," Bonns affirmed, rapping the cover of the diary with one fist. "You hit the nail right on the head with your reflections — except for the part where Cousinly Receptionists are gullible idiots."

"Well, everybody knows diaries contain some crap," Bons excused.

Bonns's features took on an arrested look, like a cat that has just noticed a bobbing string. "Think I heard that in a movie once."

Bons wiggled the fingers of one hand insouciantly. "Well, everybody knows movies are full of crap."

"Hmm...But your last point..." Bonns argued, "I think it is crap-free! What if the Inca *has* begun to assume aspects of your personality, simply through continuous exposure? I've heard stories of such things occurring to people in normal relationships. One day, they're two people with independent identities living at the same address; the next, they're sharing the same hairstyle and have matching penny loafers!"

"Ehhhww!" Bons cringed. Penny loafers were nearly as foul as Birkenstocks in her non- sensible estimation of footwear.

"Exactly," Bonns nodded, more particular over the issue of nappy haircuts than comfy shoes. She developed a very deep expression, warning in dire tones, "And it doesn't stop there. This might not just be about you and the Inca, you know."

The redhead tilted her chin to one side, her forehead puckered like the 'Before' image in an ad for Botox. "Are you sure? I am rather self-absorbed. It could very well be all about me!"

"No," Bonns assured her, a scientific glint twinkling in her eyes. "The Inca's alleged assumption of certain pseudo-llama traits could be indicative of a mystical permutation of the undead condition heretofore unknown by mortals and immortals alike! What if all vampires assume personality peccadilloes of the mortals around them? Think of the implications!"

"You mean, if this *isn't* all about me," Bons said slowly, "if we were to stuff LaCroix into a white beard and red suit and throw a herd of greedy tykes at him, he would become Santa Claus through mob child rule?"

"Hmm," Bonns said reflectively, sipping her margarita. "Hmm." Her expression was infused with a sudden excitement. "That's it! We need to test your theory about the Inca on another vampire to confirm its validity. It would be terrible for you to cruelly scorn Juan only to realize long after you've cannonballed into a dating pool without steady groomers that the sacrifice was all for naught!"

The redhead gasped, clutching her Whammy glass defensively. "No! The Horror! The Horror! How? How?!?!"

Bonns gave a scientific shrug. "Maybe the Inca was merely *concentrating* on his complex briefs (legal) during the incident in question. I suppose it's possible that he's not a psychic vampire amoeba at all, but merely uncooperative and independent enough to be free from your needy pseudo-llama whims and wiles when he so chooses."

"That's a revolting thought."

"Precisely. Not flattering at all, and certainly not plot-inspiring. Since I have vowed that it is my honorable duty to see to LaCroix's happiness, he's the obvious experimental test subject! Do you know that LaCroix doesn't celebrate Halloween? He has no holiday spirit whatsoever!"

"Well, he is just sort of naturally scary, isn't he?" Bons pointed out. "But I don't suppose that counts. You're referring to his appalling lack of celebratory effort toward festive occasions in general, aren't you?"

"Exactly," the Cousinly-Receptionist-Still-In-Training agreed, then added confidently, "We'll soon sort him out. If your theory has any merit, we will be able to play with LaCroix's mind through science!"

Bons clapped her hands with glee. "Oh, goody! Yes, that will work!"

Both Bonnies tilted their glasses in the air, cheering, "Omnifemales, hurrah!"

Bonns flipped open the llama diary to its first blank page and began to scribble a diagram with a recycled pencil. "Here's my plan..."

Want to know the plan?
Want to know whether it works?
Want to know when Nick will show up in the story?

Give into your true, silly nature and join us next month for Season Of Unreason II: Flirty November!