Spoiler: War 11. If you haven't read any of the war featuring the following RL people mentioned, this story will be completely incomprehensible to you. Also, if you are familiar with 'Bridget Jones,' the parody elements may hold deeper meaning.

Also must comment that people used in this story were very inspirational. If they weren't who they were, this story would not be what this is. It would also be a lot less semi-true.

Starring, in particular order:

• Bonnie Kate...Cousinly-Receptionist-In-Training
• LaCroix...Conversion Day Looming
• High Priestess Jules...Popular
• Vachon...Really V. Deep Troublemaker
• Juan Valdez...Incan Lawyer Really V. Needing Sleep
• Carmen...Treat-Mongerer, Cat
• Llani... Llama — Or Is She?
• Tracy Sue...Vaqmadre With Wardrobe Issues
• Nancy...On Mission of Fanfic (God Help Us All)
• Urs...Fix-It Gal!
• Nick...Does Not Want to Be Bad Gifter
• Janette...Excellent Gifter (Minus Shawalha<tm> Incident)
• Shele...Independent Mary Sue Fanfic Beauty Consultant
• Screed...In Frightening Cameo

Emitting a horrified gasp, the former Rat's-Ass (a.k.a., Ratpacker-by-Association) flung her body over the desktop, barring the majority of the tiny paper squares from view. "Eyes off! The Post-Its are mine! MINE! Reading them is MY JOB!!! I am a Professional-In-Training!!!! If you need to know the contents of the Post-Its, you must ask ME! No SNEAKY-PEEKING! Remember the Union!"

When no immediate profuse apologies at infringing upon her job description filled the air in sincere abashment, Bonnie gnashed her teeth. No one seemed to really appreciate the complexity of her job, but then, no one else was surrounded by people scheming to drive them crazy on purpose. And Bonnie was the Queen of Understatement, so when she mused people were trying to drive her nutty, they were REALLY TRYING HARD. She slowly turned her head to glare sanely at the source of her aggravation, maintaining maximum blockage of her Post-It domain from wandering eyes.

Bonnie found LaCroix, glaring sanely right back at her.

"Oh."

An eyebrow arched, swiftly followed by an impatient frown. LaCroix produced a leather bound volume from his Armani jacket that suspiciously resembled what llama-type-persons would call a diary. He scratched one quick tally mark, then shoved the book back into his coat, resuming the glare, but not the eyebrow arch. "I see your Cousinly-Receptionist-training is proceeding nicely."

"Thank you, I think," Bonnie replied. "Did you want something? A highlighter? A thumbtack? You can even have Post-Its — a whole, fresh, cellophane-wrapped pad of them! — just not MY Post-Its."

LaCroix straightened his already superlative posture. Somehow he loomed a good four inches taller without leaving the floor. "Actually, I would like you to do something for me."

"Sure, whatever. Here to make you ha—" Bonnie ducked her head toward the desk for a second to hide an emerging yawn. "Ahhhh...ha-ha...happy. So, what's up?"

LaCroix gestured toward the Bonnie-barred desk. "I want you to read me my messages."

"Okay. If you wouldn't mind assuming the position first?"

Another arched eyebrow. An under-the-breath curse in Latin. Another diary entry. "Indeed."

"Yes, indeed." Bonnie nodded. "No looming over the Cousinly-Receptionist-In-Training. The proper position for picking up messages is standing *in front* of my desk, where I can see you and MY Post-Its simultaneously. Anything else is just asking for a comedy of errors or a strike."

LaCroix assumed the position, but he wasn't happy about it.

Bonnie's eyes narrowed. "Did you just growl at me?"

"Yes, I did."

"Hmm." Bonnie thought about the ramifications of that quietly for a moment. "I'll just get your messages now, then, shall I?"

"You shall."

Bonnie surveyed her dazzling array of Post-It notes. "Hmm." She surveyed them a second time. "Hmm." Just to be thorough, Bonnie gave them a third top-to-bottom perusal. She peered up at LaCroix questioningly. "Were you *expecting* some kind of communication?"

LaCroix assumed a facade of disinterest. "Perhaps. It is August 23rd."

Like that meant anything to Bonnie. She gave the vampire a humoring look. "Well, I'm sorry. It appears that absolutely no one wanted to talk to you the entire week."

"No one?"

Bonnie shrugged happily. "Nope!"

"Not Nicholas wanting to schedule a golf date?"

"Uh-uh."

"Not Janette asking if I needed a new Shawalha<tm>?"

"No, and she wouldn't. Shawalhas<tm> are so three years ago."

"No Nunkies Addicts? No Nunkies Addicts have called for any reason?" LaCroix sounded highly skeptical.

"Oh, a whole swarm of them called," Bonnie informed him.

LaCroix held his arms open in front of the Cousinly-Receptionist-In-Training, as though he was welcoming a demon daughter for a cuddle. "And?"

"They all wanted to talk to Jules. In fact..." Bonnie motioned with flowing hands across the desktop, hinting that, if the receptionist career didn't work out, game show hostessing held promise "...all of these messages are for Jules. She's very popular. Everyone likes her."

LaCroix made a thoughtful sound. "Strange."

"No, it's not," Bonnie argued. "It makes perfect sense that Jules would get more friendly phone calls than you. Question: You or Jules — who's killed more mortals on screen?" Bonnie wrote out 'I EAT PEOPLE' in dark red pen on a Post-It and attached the memo to LaCroix's chest. "I rest my case."

"But it's the 23rd," LaCroix said pointedly. "Of August."

"Yeah, I hear that happens once a year. Really weird how the Gregorian calendar works. Spooky, even."

Probably fortunate for Bonnie, LaCroix ignored her rising sarcasm. Voice filled with disbelief, he murmured, "No calls for me, and yet it's the eve..." With a sudden idea, he held up an index finger. "Did any visitors try to get past your guard? Florists? Singing Blood-O-Grams? Legionnaires?"

Bonnie shrugged. "Not a one."

"How can that be?" LaCroix appeared momentarily bewildered, then snapped his fingers with decisive illumination. "The mail! Where's my mail? Naturally I have packages, as well as a stack of cards and invitations to various tasteful gatherings in my honor."

Bonnie looked less decisive. "You do?" She rifled through her desk, pulling out a very shabby excuse for a pile of mail. "All I see are your subscriptions to the Noctambulist and Field & Stream."

LaCroix frowned at the pair of magazines. "This is everything?"

"Oh, wait! No! I dropped something!" Bonnie said helpfully.

"Yes!" LaCroix almost sounded excited. "What is it???"

Bonnie held out a flyer featuring a giant heart with wings. "It's a bulk advertisement from that new dating service 'Speciesmates.' They promise to find your perfect Existence Partner among all known creatures in the galaxy. Very progressive company. " Bonnie nodded. "I own stock."

LaCroix began to growl again.

"What?! It's a perfectly legitimate business service!" She shook a lecturing finger. "You know, you shouldn't be so quick to go all snarl-bad about this kind of stuff. You're the one who no one's calling, no one's visiting, no one cares about..."

LaCroix stopped growling, leaving him with an expression that was almost disappointed in nature. "And it's the 23rd...no one cares anymore..." He began to shuffle back to his sound booth, almost looking forlorn.

Bonnie waved him off. "Glad to help! If you want to come back later and hear how no one wants to speak to you, I'll be right here!"

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

Alcoholic units: 0 (blame on vampire associates), combings: 13 (would make sound of feline contentment if were not llama), cud units: 6 (cud units used up by combings: 2), naughty thoughts: 34 (reasonable), Altoid units: 30 (am curiously, strongly minty)

4:30pm:

Hurrah! Is unspeakably fantastic to be me! Am not whining loser on 'Survivor' emitting esoteric speech on 'playing the game.' Am not smarmy host on 'Survivor' emitting esoteric speech on 'playing the game.' Am jubilant winner of 'Survivor' emitting esoteric speech on 'playing the game'!!!!!

Am heroic-type-survivor-person with admirable fashion sense. Am Cher! Am Tina Turner! Am Jackie-O before death!

Am not negative-survivor-type-person being all revenge-y. Am not Alexandra. Am not Divia. Am not Vachon's cat. (V. cruel and furry Carmen)

Drought of unlovableness over! Was v. concerned, for while war ended with Relationship Paddock freshly shoveled of communal dung pile, fellow camelids revealed subversive tendencies via generating new moundish quantity of poo in my Corral of Desirability!! Was uncertain, for can llama have relationship w/o desire? Can certainly have desire w/o relationship (Perry incident at UF party), but is situation shape interchangeable like universal roundness of circles within circles? C/b situation compatibility of four-sided shapes instead, where squares are rectangles and rectangles are quadrangles and trapezoids are freakish and everything is polygon, but nothing is necessarily same thing, and whether one is square or rectangle or quadrangle or freaky trapezoid or simply polygon is fact of rulers and protractors, unless have eraser. Was told by Inca llamas cannot use erasers. Huh. And even if allowed eraser by Peruvian-vampire-type-lawyer-person, what shape s/b chosen to maximize attractiveness???? Circle? Rectangle? Could triangle or dodecahedron be silhouette of ultimate lust-causing cachet? (!!!!) Was understandably confused over geometry of future!

But all confusion in dustbin of past. Do not give dot what shape am in, for, after amazing orgy of combing courtesy of Spaniard and Inca, suspect have become Amazing and Transcendental Llama!! Hurrah!

Will practice humility now, as cat observing pack animal with disapproval. Carmen v. jealous of sharing territory with llama female. Must mind manners, as cat vindictive and swift — see aforementioned Divia comparison. Will not be flashy and rub in Amazing Transcendentalness for maximum feline nemesis suffering, though have plenty of reason to think self superior. Will be gracious and charming. Will thank Academy in humble manner. Will meekly inherit earth. Will not be smug. Will not.

4:35pm:

Maybe will be just a little smug.

4:37pm:

Have been swiped! Ow!

Carmen v. poor conversationalist with v. sharp claws. Have been informed delusion of Amazing and Transcendental nature is merely Afternoon-Afterglow of Night of Excellent Combing. Have been told in hissy terms that only Amazing and Transcendental mammalian currently occupying Incan household is Carmen herself, for is cat, and even stupid llamas should know all cats are Amazing and Transcendental. Was told to fetch Carmen treats immediately as servile apology for ignorant assumption re: sharing feline glory. (V. speciesist things, cats)

Am certain cat is mistaken. Am Amazing and Transcendental! Am! Will find way to prove it!

Will get Carmen treats first. (Am passive-aggressive llama)

4:45pm:

Am approaching Spanish lump on couch.

4:47pm:

Intense study suggests lump is sleeping. Will nudge in innocent manner with nose.

4:49pm:

Did not work.

Will nudge in naughty manner, instead. (V.g. plan)

4:51pm:

Did not work!!! Huh.

V. bad of Vachon to not arouse despite naughty prodding.

Slacker.

Will ask cat for advice. Carmen thinks knows it all. (Probably does)

4:53pm:

Getting Carmen more treats. (Bribe)

4:59pm:

Cat demonstrating technique for getting Spanish attention by sitting on Spanish face. Rather brilliant, must admit. Maybe...GAAAAAHHHH!!!!!!!

5:12pm:

Was Vachon giving poor reception to Carmen's face-sitting. Have now revised eagerness to try that. Verbose growling. (Vachon) Hissing and fang-baring. (Vachon and Carmen) Instinctive scratching. (Carmen) Surprised spitting. (Was me. Was surprised. Hit cat with spittle, so ok)

5:13pm:

Spaniard now has mega Carmen-Was-Here claw marks across features. Will heal in 5 minutes — do not know why Spaniard so annoyed, as if face has never been sat upon before. Is not in high school. Was never in high school!

Cat now in figurative doghouse. Cat self-grooming under Incan desk as deemed unworthy of Spaniard brushing. Will not be smug. Will not.

5:15pm:

Maybe will be just a little smug.

5:17pm:

Have received finger-pointing from Vachon!!! Actual quotation:

"And you, don't expect any combing, either. I'm not in the mood."

No!

Not fair!

COMPLETELY NOT FAIR!!!!!!!

Why?! Why?!?!?! WHY???!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!!??!

Am not mammal guilty of face-sitting! Am llama without guile standing by! Am not Spaniard-scratcher! (Though starting to wish) Am not even Spaniard-spitter! (Am cat spitter, so s/b ok)

Am being punished for crime did not commit! Am Nick hung by lynch mob in tizzy! Am French Resistance floozy outside the lines! Am pawn of one-armed man!

How?! How?!?!?! HOW???!?!?!?!?!?!!?!?!!?

How could Vachon point???? How could call me 'You,' as if was not pet in keeping???? As if was not Amazing and Transcendental Llama????? HOW???????

Spaniard would never point at motorcycle. Would not. Hate Triumph. Hate it. Hate it. Hate it!!!

5:18pm:

Then again, infinitesimal chance of Vachon awoken by Triumph on face. Perhaps loyalty toward machine companion well-placed on Spaniard's part.

5:20pm:

SPANIARD IS GROOMING GIBSON!!!!!!!! (Changing guitar strings) Is not earnest instrumental care. Do not believe Spaniard intends to play Gibson, for Inca still asleep. Is grooming guitar out of spite, so cat and llama can see what missing. Will not envy strings as they are tightened and plucked! Will not! Will be Icy, Unavailable Camelid Princess.

5:26pm:

SMUG, BASTARD GUITAR!!!!!!!!!! Hate it! HATE IT! HATE IT!!!!!!

Is not furry and loveable like llama-type-persons or cat-type-persons, so how can Vachon love it? Is cool guitar. Must be handled carefully or is prone to be unresponsive.

5:27pm:

Huh. Spaniard and guitar have much in common.

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

Have abandoned notion of Amazing and Transcendental status where unjust Vachon is concerned. Will see if Juan is awake yet. Still have hope in that direction. Will refrain from sitting on Incan face as precaution.

5:30pm:

Inca still asleep! V. bad of him. Want him to get up and go away so can follow him in Amazing and Transcendental fashion. Inca should not be so lazy. Is not known as slacker in family. S/b up and at 'em! Should be go-getter!

Will stare at Inca, transmitting own alertness through llaman telepathic prowess. Will also transmit thoughts on unjust-brotherly-type-person. Maybe Inca will wake up and want to hear treatise on poor appropriation of Spanish punishment. Maybe Inca will give thorough brushing in front of Spaniard and Gibson(non-Mel) out of spite so can be smug in their directions. Rightful Comeuppance before or after proof of Amazing and Transcendental status does not matter as long as it Comes and Ups Theirs.

Excellent. Am staring at Inca now.

5:40pm:

Am still staring.

5:42pm:

Why are there no llama treats? Are llamas inherently less treatable than felines? Am not worthy of treats?! (Cannot be right!)

5:44pm:

Forgot to stare at Inca. Will start anew.

5:50pm:

Huh. Spaniard just entered with freshly strung guitar. Huh. Wants Inca to wake up so can amplify fondling of said guitar. As if care.

5:52pm:

Vachon has added powers of staring to own. Generosity not appreciated.

Guitar hanging around doing nothing. (V. v. much like Spaniard)

5:54pm:

Vachon blinked first!!!! Ha-ha!!!! Am better starer!!!!! Have superior visual focus! Surpass Spaniard in optic- GAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

6:05pm:

Was Juan bolting upright, yelling at us to quit staring at him as is waking him up. Vachon argued brotherly-type-person needed waking up as is not slacker in family. Juan v. sarcastic, as suggested hell had sprouted more snowcones than ASS Rally since slacker in family awoke first. Spaniard told Inca should have cat sit on face, see how likes it. Inca stared at me, as if would explain. Forgot pack animal does not talk around Spaniard for llama counterintelligence purposes. Hummed innocently.

Vachon told brotherly-type-person was plugging guitar into amp for noise-making amusement. Juan informed brotherly-type-person cranked Gibsons so early in afternoon made Inca cranky. Told Spaniard to pass time quietly brushing llama so that brotherly-type-person could accumulate additional sleep units.

Spaniard responded horribly. Asked how many brushings one llama needed. Declared was bored of brushing llama!

Bored!

BORED!

Spaniard said BORED OF ME!!!!!!!!!

Will curl up in corner now in cria position.

6:15pm:

Is cruel world where furry and loveable llamas can be abandoned in favor of old and string-broken guitars.

Would not be bad if had been rejected on grounds of rapid aging and impending cronedom. Could have cursed Spaniard as hypocritical ageist. Would not have been tragic if had failed inspection on grounds of wordiness and tossed over for glaring, iguanan goddess. Could have cursed Spaniard as cliche cad Battle Yak. But to be called boring...

WAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

6:25pm:

AM BORING!!!!!!!!!!!!

AM BORING, BORING, BORING, BORING, BORING!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Am choking on own boring sobs. Will hopefully drown in own boring tears.

6:35pm:

So many characteristics draw censure in society. So many unforgiving labels. Would rather be ugly than boring. Would rather be smoker than boring. Would rather be double-parked than boring. Would rather be leprous than boring. If were ugly, double-parked and leprous smoker, would still have parties endeared to me, vocal of my atypical wonder, crusading for my rights in the face of oppression. No one, No One, NO ONE, ever stands up for boring-type-persons. No one ever confesses to a secret boredom fetish. No one ever calls boredom an addiction. No one ever dreams of dull holiday. No one ever wishes for personality like dishwater. No! NOOOO!!!!! Everyone hates boring things! Is last bastion of acceptable hate: being a bordomist! Well, that and pigeon oppression, + most would probably pick pigeons over boredom, because can! Almost don't blame them. Pigeons horrible, but at least are not boring!

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

6:45pm:

Is v. cruel reality, to be told am boring by person everyone finds v. fascinating and glorious. Example: Vachon playing guitar in loud and disturbing manner + is v. interesting to Inca and Incan neighbors. V tosses about words like 'bored' as so much Spaniard hair. Does not care about emotional wreckage and sleep-deprived brotherly-type-person in wake.

Am really v. v. hurt.

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

Have been tempted from cria position in corner by sounds of Juan leaping out of bed then doing Pete Townsend impression with Spaniard's guitar and amp in next room. Gibson not so much single instrument anymore as is fragments of entire band. (The Inca rocks!)

Vachon reacting as though Juan sat on face. Is p.o.ed re: inconvenience of guitar repair.

6:57pm:

Brotherly-type-persons trying to kill each other now. (Not boring)

Am spectator. (Boring)

7:10pm:

Someone at door! Wonder if should answer? Brotherly-type-persons still busy with highly non-boring mutual killing activities.

7:11pm:

Doorbell still ringing!

Maybe should not answer door. Though w/b helpful, am boring. Would not wish to drive obviously interesting and plot advancing visitor into spontaneous coma via lackluster presence. Will remain spectator. (Dull! Dull!)

7:12pm:

Door-opening problem solved inadvertently by brotherly-type-persons' throttling maneuvers. Have accidentally throttled door off hinges instead of each other. Juan and Vachon fell at feet of unexpected visitor. (Tracy Sue) Did not stop fighting for sake of joyous welcome, however, for sun not set and vampire-type-persons sizzling on stoop. (Distracted)

See? Inca and Spaniard now smoking-type-persons, and Tracy Sue still ever-so-pleased with them! Cruel, cruel world!

7:15pm:

Brotherly-type-persons have paused in fighting long enough to be diverted by Vaqmadre arrival. Am mocked by Tracy Sue's quality of non-stop excitement.

Tracy Sue is recently arrived from wild weekend in Texas. Apparently highly disreputable travel companions dropped her at Austin-Bergstrom International Airport mere minutes before flight back to Arkansas. Vaqmadre boarded flight to Toronto accidentally in rush. Slacker airline employees failed to notice her mistake until plane over Chicago. (Flew American)

Alas, Tracy Sue now stranded in TO with no money or Wiffle Bat O' Doom, forced through cruel fate to shack up with Spaniard or Inca until funds located for return trip. Like am supposed to pity her!

7:20pm:

Vachon and Juan pity her!!!!! (Suckers)

Brotherly-type-persons now arguing over which shack Tracy Sue gets to up. Spaniard argues is head of faction, so natural that shacking take place at faction headquarters. Inca argues is important member of his staff (legal), so natural that shacking at office is part of employee benefit package. Vachon sniffs at employment. (Expected) Tells Juan office guest-space already overflowing with tangled llamas, as if is bad Feng Shoe for hosting forecast! (!!!) Juan counters that llama is just Incan pet (huh) as Carmen is just Spanish pet. Vachon says yes, but cat much, much, much smaller. Have just been called fatty llama! Know it! (Abuse! Constant abuse at reattached hand of Spaniard!)

7:22pm:

Debate settled by Tracy Sue. (Is non-boring, therefore opinion matters) Vaqmadre will take turns shacking at each location. Added in wily reverse psychology that missing home very much so hoping brief visit only. Segued into reminiscence of screaming fine time at recent Ira Rook concert extravaganza in Austin, as though Inca and Spaniard not nearly as interesting as think they are. (TS v. devious!) Juan and Vachon immediately compelled to abandon offices of 'Valdez, Montoya & Montalban' in favor of endlessly stimulating vampire club (Raven). Tracy Sue invited Incan pet along as though llama not boring. (V. nice of her)

8:00pm:

Is dark, therefore acceptable conditions for interesting vampires to visit endlessly stimulating club.

8:01pm:

Departure not so easy, as Knightie/Nick&Natpacker/Unnamed-type-person blocking doorway. Is Nancy Kaminski, looking determined!

Am brimming with righteousness, for LaNancy is LaKnown for complete disinterest in Spaniard-type-persons. Is obviously here to visit fascinating, ex-boring llama. Will exclaim over llama cuteness. Will make merry gasps of amazement spellbound at llama wit. Will save day. Will wield opinion like mighty Shillelagh O' Doom. Will enter total, encompassing boring status of slacker into Hall of Fact. Will compare Spaniard to zucchini. (V. bland vegetable)

8:05pm:

Do not understand. Am completely bewildered. Am flummoxed.

Nancy not here to see me. Nancy here to see Spaniard! (???)

Nancy says wants to observe Spaniard. Research Spaniard. Delve into myriad of reasons Vaq-inclined-persons find Spaniard mesmerizing. Wants to measure all interesting facets of Spaniard persona and take notes. Been there, done that, but am not sharing information with Nancy-type-person as am very put out LaN is not here to find me enthralling and call Spaniard boring! Will tell LaNance LaNada!

8:10pm:

Upon further questioning, is revealed all Nancy-effort focused upon fly-on-walling Spaniard so as to write Vachon fanfic to end all Vachon fanfic. (No more than page)

Spaniard okay with that. (Ego! Ego!)

In order to maximize LaNancy's Total Vachon Experience, researcher persuaded through gentle reason and claims of good sense to forsake personal, nifty, green DelSol in favor of Helmet-less Death Ride on Triumph. (Whammy)

Tracy Sue riding shotgun with Inca in DeVille. Am riding in trailer hitched to DeVille, further confirming boring status. W/b consolation that cat not invited, if doubted for moment said feline already welcoming Screed over for fabulous kaleidoscope of ratsie-siccing even as tedious trailer rolled off into night.

11:30pm

Have not been allowed alcoholic units despite convenience of bar locale. Vile Incan overlord proactively curbing llush llama tendencies by declaring am dry county. Cannot drown boring sorrows in beer. Am watched like hawk. Am observed like amoeba under scope. Am perused like $5 bin at vintage clothing shop. Am ogled like Victoria's Secret catalogue. (Rather flattering attention, actually)

Tracy Sue complete llama opposite. Is humored. Is topped off (drinkwise). Strange Vaqmadre beer preferences indulged. Has consumed many glasses of preferred Prince Charming Barleywine. Is tipsy. Is weebling. Is wobbling. Is recruiting sober llama to act as balance provider during trek to Ravenettes' Lounge (potty without urinals).

Am pointed at by Tracy Sue. (Must run in faction) Laughs. Says, "No llama yakking!" Becomes dizzy at own joke. Harharhar. Humorlessly tug Vaqmadre toward lounge. Am confronted with sudden aggressive Vaq posture. (Swinging invisible Wiffle Bat O' Doom) Have been informed must not chew on leathers. TS clearly beyond wardrobe-awareness state of tippling. Is not wearing chewy leathers. Is sporting stylish stretch jeans. Clothing-oblivion sure sign of impending gastronomical rebellion. Will herd Vaqmadre to lounge with lightning speed.

Will grab napkin shield first.

11:35pm:

Tracy Sue sick.

11:40pm:

Tracy Sue continuing sickness.

11:45pm:

Can Tracy Sue still possibly have stomach????

11:50pm:

Tracy Sue entering post-gastro-expressional state of philosophical reflection. Just asked deep, meaningful question:

"Who knew too much Prince Charming could make a girl throw up?"

Any girl who's done a yak. Beer or bovine, a CAD is a CAD. Well, except for drawing-type-CADs, which have heard architects find v. useful. Am not architect, so completely trivial functionality to yak matter in question.

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

Have reached post-gastro-expressional state of crisis. Tracy Sue exclaiming word 'CRAP!' repeatedly. Well, not said word exactly, but v. similar non-PG-13 word semantically speaking. Don't know what fuss about, as TS in potty. Perfect locale for crap if is one.

11:54pm:

CRAP! (similar to)

Have learned sobering reality. Potty cannot solve Vaqmadre problem. Tracy Sue cursed with DEFECTIVE PANTS!!!!!!!!

Will not laugh. Will not snicker. Will not teehee, despite fact that 'defective pants' entry on short list of words and phrases ('swarm,' 'squash', 'Sabu,' 'craft', 'romantic Australian male') that inspire powerful urge to cackle like extroverted hyaena.

Am stoic. Am Rock of Gibraltar. Am solace in stormy sea. Am Claritin in allergy season.

11:55pm:

DEFECTIVE PANTS!!!!!!!!

OH, BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!

11:56pm:

Have had furry head dunked in commode.

Really v. v. repentant about laughing at Tracy Sue's misfortune. Am. Is not just toilet water talking.

11:57pm:

Further serious, MATURE examination of Vaqmadre's defective p....no, no...Tracy Sue's *unsatisfactory garment* reveals problem not in construction of jeans, but in poor resiliency of crucial zipping mechanism. Apparently is not vampire zipper. (Teeth falling out) Has left v. embarrassing gape in Tracy Sue trou.

Tracy Sue beside self. (In non-twin way) Cannot leave lounge with yawning fly. (Am inspiring boredom even in defective pants!) Cannot leave lounge without britches. (Fashion sense returning. V.g. sign of sobriety) Has sewing kit in purse, but is useless as does not contain spare zipper.

Do not know how to assist Tracy Sue. Would offer use of pack as crotch shield, but such offer would require vocalization of aid. Cannot speak to Vaqueras as part of llama counterintelligence. Must be alternative solution!

11:59pm:

Urs arrived. Is curious what Tracy Sue could be doing with a llama in bathroom going on half-hour. (Cheeky urchin!)

12:00am:

Tracy Sue demonstrated faulty jeans closure.

Urs astounded as if had never seen dead zipper before.

Welcome, Urs! Welcome to harsh, brutal realities of Mortal Fashion!

Defective! Pants! The Horror! The Horror!

12:02am:

Was not laughing again! Was not!

Double-dunking redundant! Am not llama donut!

Wool really amazingly absorbent. Am impressed with self. Am quicker-picker-upper!

Will roll in front of hand drier now.

12:05am:

Urs certain solution to Vaqmadre pant problem lies in duct tape. Suggests Vachon has some. Will have Tracy Sue's booty bound in no time! Urs will go ask!

Tracy Sue shouted at Urs. Something similar to 'Crap, no! Are you out of your freaking mind??? I will stake you. I will freaking go Divia on your buttocks if you do that!!!!!'

Uncanny how Urs picked up on Vaqmadre desire that she stay put. Said okay. Said would think of alternate non-duct tape solution.

12:07am:

Tracy Sue becoming paranoid. Suggests entire fiasco evocative of Rutledge-written xover, only at her expense. Would suspect, if did not know better, that silly Scribe on scene, spawning bad Raven bathroom karma. Does not suspect, however, as only company is Urchin problem-solver and wet-head llama basking in hot air. (V.g.)

12:10am:

Urs has new solution. Tells Tracy Sue to rip out bad zipper. Advocates puncturing of stretchy jean fabric at strategic intervals. Will transform crotch into lace-up model.

Tracy Sue asks v. important question: what will Vaqmadre lace up with???

Am being stared at by non-llamas. Feel suddenly protective of wool. Am not nudist llama! Must escape before am shorn!

12:20 am:

Have been violated. Have been assaulted. Have been clipped of fibers against will for sake of sturdy facsimile shoestrings.

Tracy Sue v. happy now, as fly no longer yawning (Naked llama less boring). Urs happy, too, as is responsible for Vaqmadre rescue/llama disfigurement. Happy, happy.

Everyone pleased as punch and skipping out of bathroom as if life and unlife of endlessly exciting party except for huddled, dull llama with naked patch on tummy.

Cannot look at naked patch. Own bareness too overwhelming.

12:25am:

Will gird llama lloins. Will inspect scene of wool-stealing vandalism in order to press criminal changes. Am not pushover!

Will look at naked flesh! Will gather evidence! Will outline in chalk! Will bag and tag! Will inspect bare -

12:26am:

Huh. V. strange.
Naked flesh is green with little white tattoo.
Can tattoos be white? And even if can, do not remember getting tattoo in question. Only recall 'Wools Valdez' emblazoned on leg during foray into prison lifestyle.

Naked green flesh. V. concerned about that as well. Cannot be normal. Granted, abnormal not boring, but in freaky trapezoidal way. Cannot believe green flesh desirable, even among odd polygons. On other hoof, perhaps verdant skin bias merely resultant of upbringing in colorist household. Must learn to embrace kelly shade of belly. Will not be guilty of colorism! Will not!

12:30am:

Wish tummy was purple.

Not colorism, but color consciousness, as green shade clashes with llama pack.

12:35am:

Ohmigawd.

12:36am:

Ohmigawd. Ohmigawd.

12:37am:

Ohmigawd. Ohmigawd. Ohmigawd.

12:38am:

Ohmigawd.

Have realized naked flesh not green at all! Naked flesh not really naked! Suspicious white tattoo features lettering. Says 'SPEEDO'!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Why? WHY?! Why would llama wear Speedo under fibers? WHY?????!!!!

12:40am:

Could it be...

Am not really llama?

NO! NNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!! DOOOOOOOMMM! DOOM!

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

"You've been propped on bar stools for a good three hours," Nancy said. "Now what happens?"

Vachon shrugged, tipped his glass and eyed the contents, perhaps making a mental note of the molecular structure or just admiring the pretty red color. He set the glass upright again, glancing over to the Inca. "What happens?"

Juan raised one hand. "I get another drink."

Vachon nodded. Good answer.

Nancy frowned. "That's it? Your entire motivation in this scene is to just sit around and drink blood?!"

Vachon paused mid-nod. "What's wrong with that?"

Nancy appeared ready to voice a strong opinion, but thought better of it. After all, she still needed a huge amount of material if she hoped to write the Vachon fanfic to end all Vachon fanfics. When her UF cohorts had assigned her this challenge during the war, she knew it would be different from her usual type of project. But this...this was... "Well, haven't you forgotten something?"

"Like what?"

"Tracy Sue!"

"I remember Tracy Sue. She went to the lounge with the llama." Blink. "A really long time ago. Huh."

Nancy waved her hands in the air, concerned that the Spaniard might slip away into a flashback set in Holland featuring a milkmaid, a goat and a defective corset. Not that she should have worried. This wasn't Nick, after all.

"You're forgetting that Tracy Sue needs a ticket back to Arkansas!" Nancy said. "She's in transportational limbo. Shouldn't you be focused on helping her out and sending her home?"

Vachon shrugged again. "Well, yeah. I was going to get around to that. I was kind of holding steady, you know. Keeping an eye on the situation."

"Waiting for a convenient solution to fall into his lap," Juan murmured sotto voce.

Vachon jabbed him with an elbow. "Hey, you're the one who wants to drag out her visit an extra week so she can catch up on your filing."

As the territorial male factor seemed to be blossoming out of control, Nancy waved her hands in the air again. "Can we eschew the bar fight this evening and stay on task? I'm going to return to my observation seat now. Vachon, it's just a suggestion, but you might want to think *proactively* about the Tracy Sue situation this time around. It would give your character more depth."

As Nancy slowly backed away, reclaiming her seat and binoculars, Vachon frowned. "She thinks I lack depth." He glanced at Juan. "I'm deep, right?"

Juan smirked into his drink. "Unfathomable."

"Ha-ha. Be serious. You don't think I'm shallow." Telling silence. "You don't, do you?"

Juan discovered a sudden fascination for his recycled coaster. "I plead the fifth."

"You're a lawyer in Canada. Can you do that?" Vachon shook his head. "Doesn't matter. Don't need your opinion. I have a Triumph. I have a guitar. I have a church. I have a circle of friends and you, dear brother, so I must have depth. I'm not some Neck of the Week sex object. I'm deep. I am well-developed, and that's the end of the subject."

Juan shrugged and turned back to his drink. After all, he'd only appeared in two episodes — who was he to point fangs? As far as the Inca was concerned, the subject was dropped. That didn't stop Vachon from twirling a drink umbrella fiercely as he muttered "Shallow...shallow...shallow..." under his breath.

Nick walked up to the bar. Not so exciting as it might sound, because, as usual, Nick appeared morose about something. He waved away the bartender's offer of a drink and asked to speak to Janette.

Vachon looked up from his umbrella twirling and said casually, "Knight. What's up?"

Nick hunched over the bar as though the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. "It's almost August 24th." Shudder. Groan. Head in shaking hands. "Do you know what the 24th is?"

Vachon nodded in what he thought was a very deep manner. "A Friday." He held up an index finger. "This year."

"No, no," Nick moaned. "It's not just a Friday. It's LaCroix's Conversion Day. I haven't gotten him a gift yet!"

"So don't bother." At Nick's astounded expression, Vachon elaborated. "You've given him -what?- 770-something presents by now, and look at you — you're a wreck! Take a year off. Hang out. No big deal."

"You don't understand," Nick replied, a desperate fire in his eyes. "Sure, I've given LaCroix Conversion Day gifts each year, but I haven't given him a gift he could *really use* for almost a century! I'm worried that over the years, I've become a bad gifter!"

"Lots of mortals are bad gifters," the Inca commented. "This could be a sign one of your cures is working."

Nick brightened momentarily. "It could, couldn't it?" This brightness was swiftly followed by another plunge into despair. "No. No! I just have to find one more decent gift! Just one more thing that LaCroix really wants for Conversion Day! Then I can stop gifting forever! Then I can enjoy life as a mortal!"

At that moment, Janette appeared behind the bar. "Nicola! What brings you to my club in such a state?"

Nick clasped her hands gratefully. "Janette! Janette! I'm so glad to see you!" As he scanned his immortal beloved's features, his expression became confused. "Janette — you look different. Have you had a...makeover?"

She scowled prettily. "Bah, Nicola! Must you use such mortal terminology? Vampires don't have 'makeovers.' Vampires have Fanfic Beauty Consultants." She flicked nails tinted with 'Prosy Purple' into her glitter-dusted decolletage and produced a business card.

Nick read:

"Buckaroo Shele — RABID, Independent Mary Sue Fanfic Beauty
Consultant. Providing all your hoser and coloring needs since July 2001.
1-800-SPRAY-ME"

"So your Fanfic Beauty Consultant suggested a bottle of artificial tan?" Nick asked.

Janette nodded. "At first I was understandably skeptical, but Shele pointed out how long I've been doing the goth matron look. She told me it was time to..." Janette made a plummeting hand motion. "...step out of the box. And the result...Je suis tres heureuse!"

Nick changed the subject with urgency. "Tell me, Janette. It's almost August 24th! Have you gotten LaCroix a Conversion Day gift yet?"

"Of course I have, Nicola!" Janette laughed. "I've had my gift arranged for months."

"What is it?" Nick pleaded. "What did you get LaCroix?"

Janette's eyes glittered with excitement. "I found LaCroix a plantation!"

Nick appeared forlorn. "A plantation. That's a really good gift. It even reflects nuances of his personality. LaCroix will really appreciate your thoughtfulness."

"Yes, won't he?" Janette laughed. "Oh, you should see it, Nicola! The plantation is fantastic! They grow cantaloupes, and the entire staff is composed of migrant workers, so it is really a gift within a gift, non?"

"You've always been an excellent gifter," Nick said admiringly. "Well, save for the Shawalha<tm> incident."

Janette staked him with a frown. "We were to never speak of that again," she said crisply. "Everyone has an off year." She slanted Nick a telling look. "Some people have quite a few off years." Flashed a sweet, poisonous smile. "So, Nicola, what are *you* giving LaCroix for his Conversion Day?"

His blond head sank back into his hands. "Nothing. It's ten to midnight, and I have no gift." Nick lifted his chin, his eyes emitting a yearning entreaty. "Please, Janette. Help me. Give me one of your gift ideas! The plantation — we could go halvesies!"

"Oh, Nicola..." Janette sighed, softly caressing Nick's cheek (facial). "The predicaments you get into could make the stars weep." She dropped her hand, shifting to a firm tone. "But no, I will not share my gift with you. Do not ask me again."

The rejection stunned Nick. "But, Janette! Why??"

"Because you are a bad gifter, Nichola. If I were to humor your folly, I would run the risk of tainting my own impeccable taste. I cannot do that. I will leave now. You must find your own gift, cher. Do not follow me. Let me go in peace."

"What will I do?" Nick asked no one in particular. "What will I do?!"

Vachon had a plan. "What if I told you I have access to information about what LaCroix wants for Conversion Day, all for the price of a plane ticket?"

Nick glanced at the Spaniard suspiciously. "You know what LaCroix wants for Conversion Day?"

"No," Vachon said honestly, "but I know how I can find out."

"How long will this finding out take?" Nick questioned. "I only have 24 hours."

"I can be back here by sunrise," Vachon promised. "Do we have a deal?"

Nick nodded. "Deal."

The two vampires shook hands.

As Vachon and his brother waved the vampire detective off to the precinct, Juan said incredulously, "I don't know why you look so pleased. How are you going to find out what LaCroix wants before dawn? If he hasn't told Nick, there's no reason he's going to tell you."

"He's not going to tell me," Vachon countered, adding, "At least not directly."

The Inca wanted to hear more. "What do you mean?"

"During the last war, I discovered that LaCroix keeps a diary. His deepest thoughts, his secret desires — they're all in there. All I have to do is grab the diary, read the latest entries, and I've earned Tracy Sue's ticket home. Hardly any work at all."

"And where does LaCroix keep this diary?" The Inca asked slowly.

"During the war, he had it locked away in his penthouse, but I'm thinking now, in peacetime, the old guy might have it on him." Vachon became suddenly contemplative, rubbing the stubble on his chin. Perhaps this job would involve more work than previously assumed.

"Oh, and you're just going to sneak up to LaCroix, frisk him, then walk away?" Juan's voice was sarcastic.

"Hell, no. He'd totally stake me." Vachon was still thoughtful as he drained the remains of his glass. "No, I have to come up with a plan. A complex plan. A plan that a shallow character would never think of in ten seasons, even if it was 'Gunsmoke.'" He glanced over his shoulder toward Nancy, who was rooted in frenzied note-taking. "Yeah, I'm deep. I can do that."

Alcoholic units: 7 (boring Homo sapiens drunk), caffeine units: 9 (boring Homo sapiens spaz), combings: 0 (cannot risk defective fiber incident!), cud units: 0 (!!!!!), naughty thoughts: 12 (all wool related), cotton units: 14, calories: 4600 (had month of speciesist eating habits to catch up on)

2:00am:

Am NOT LLAMA.

Magnitude of naked revelation overwhelming. Believed self llama for 47 days! 47 DAYS!!!!!! All just cruel fantasy. Am not voluptuously woolen. Do not have dainty hooves. Bedroom beckoning eyes so much over-applied mascara. Suspect degree of personal packish cuteness highly overestimated.

No wonder am not Amazing and Transcendental Llama. Am not llama at all. Am delusional human female swabbed in well-combed cotton balls and duct tape. V. glad did not contribute to communal dung pile. V.v. glad. Proves am not complete gullible idiot.

But that could believe self llama, believe self unfortunate Scribe cursed into camelid capacity by Old, Dead Guy — establishes am not Bright Thing. Am not 75 Watts. Am not 60 Watts. Am low-lumen bulb fit only for heightening creaky contrast of shadows in storage shed of pitchforks and plowing devices so that wolf crickets may hide in stealth and leap out at unsuspecting, gentle farmers for night of horror.

Ability to talk really should have tipped self off.

2:10am:

Not so bright of Inca, either.

Maybe Inca thinks am v. intelligent llama (Consoling)

2:15am:

Am living llama lie.

Resolved, therefore, as normal, trapezoidal person trapped within web of deceit with no one with whom can confide safely, to seize plan of action which lying freaks have embraced for generations with fair success:

WILL KEEP LYING.

Want to be llama. Don't care if am really Homo sapiens female. Want to be cute. Want to be pet. Want to roll in grass with non-human friends. Can maintain appearances! Can!

Will sneak out of Raven and locate supply of cotton balls. Will replace damaged areas of fibers using super glue adhesive.

2:20am:

Then again, have seen sequel to 'American Pie.' Perhaps super glue not to be trifled with near delicate parts of pseudo-llama anatomy.

Will use industrial-strength nail polish instead.

2:22am:

Is there industry that requires nail polish? Manicure, pedicure w/b service. (???)

Hmm.

2:23am:

But manicure, pedicure can be in service industry. Yes, yes. Must be it. Multi-facetedness of business model.

Goody. Plan of lies works well within boundaries of corporate theory!

2:25am:

Have collected self (was scattered). Am leaving lounge. Am venturing back into Raven. Llama pack strategically aligned so as to minimize visibility of telling Speedo blemish.

2:27am:

Am completely fabricated. Am mired in falsehood! AM LIVING THE LIE!!!!!

2:35am:

Duplicity actually going quite well.

Perhaps all associates low-Wattage. Perhaps all just really want to believe! Are toddlers with Santa. Are Mulder with aliens. Are Nick with everything.

Delusion — not just for swimsuit shopping and estimating cost of mini-breaks. Is everywhere I want to be and priceless (like MasterCard or VISA-type-thing). 'Will you be charging that to your Delusion today?' Yes, yes, please!

2:40am:

Spaniard and Nancy-type-person absent from Raven. Huh. Tracy Sue and Urs admiring Janette photos of cantaloupe plantation. Inca at bar transcribing brief (legal) from cocktail napkin. Is titled 'Last Will And Testament Of Javier Vachon.'

Ominous, that.

2:42am:

Can people who have already died have final wishes honored when dust bitten a second time? Reeks of double-dip in death pool to me. (Ego! Ego!)

2:45am:

Then again, Spaniard has will (stubborn), therefore is qualified to testify.

Ooo...hope am left snazzy red comforter. Like it! Like it!

Hope cat is left Evil Pink Bathroom.

2:47am:

Gaaaaahhhhhh!

Have been willed nipple-tweaking painting! Why? WHY?!!! Don't care if French! Is not classy! Does not scream 'Am refined pseudo-llama!' Screams 'Am pseudo-llama with kinky beauty regimen!' (V. true, but shielded in web of lies)

Spaniard is completely impossible! Had better not get staked! Will kill him! Llani will smack! Will not be known as pseudo-type-llama-person associated with random tweakings!

Spaniard v. bad gifter. Must track down V and enforce flattering revision of Last Will.

Must purchase cotton balls, industrial-strength nail polish on way. (Am female disguised as llama. Kinky beauty regimen comes first.)

2:50 AM — AUGUST 24TH — NO ONE CALLED LACROIX.
NO OVERNIGHT PACKAGES FOR LACROIX.
NO ONE CARES ABOUT LACROIX.

Still humming, Bonnie pried the Post-It paper free and planted it on the wall of CERK reception, right next to the 2:45 AM message that ran along a similar theme. In fact, Bonnie had remained so punctilious and faithful to her duties as Cousinly-Receptionist-In-Training, she'd composed Post-It notes regarding the slumped demand for LaCroix's company every five minutes since roughly five o'clock. Personally, Bonnie thought the Post-Its made for a spiffy new spectrum of wallpaper for the station lobby. Colors, colors, colors, and Post-Its as far as the eye could see!

So filled with joy at a job done right was she, it took Bonnie a full five minutes to notice that someone was looming over her shoulder and reading the scribbled memos without her approval. She paused to check the clock, scratched out a hurried '2:55 AM — AUGUST 24TH — LACROIX — YOU MEAN THE BOTTLED WATER?'

Bonnie slapped this speedy note over her credenza, simultaneously whirling around and snapping, "WhatAreYouLookingAt?!?!"

Bonnie found Vachon (in his own body) staring at her, sans blink, looking strongly like he intended to hang out and talk and listen to her opinions and stuff.

"Oh."

Vachon still didn't blink, but he strolled up to one Post-It riddled wall, trailing his fingers along the scraps of adhesive paper as though he was strumming his guitar. (Deep breath) "You took the Cousinly Receptionist job anyway."

"Despite the Mississaugan tribal cure?" Bonnie said in a cool, facetious manner. "Yes, I did. And that doesn't make me gullible or an idiot."

Vachon stopped strolling. "Did I say that?"

"I can see right through you," Bonnie accused. "You were thinking it!"

Vachon glanced over his shoulder and called to Nancy, who had set up a research station on one of the CERK lobby couches. "Just because she guessed what I was thinking, Nance, that doesn't confirm that I lack depth."

Nancy assumed a humoring voice as she took notes regarding the scene. "Of course it doesn't."

"It confirms that..." Vachon scowled. Bonns was giving him a knowing look, as though she perceived exactly what he was going to say next. Predictability in character was almost as bad as no depth. He clenched his jaw. "It just confirms that Pardoe isn't an idiot." Pause. "Or gullible."

"Hmmm." As much as Bonnie had suspected Vachon was going to make those statements, they still boiled down to a man admitting he was wrong without the threat of immediate incineration. He was playing her for a schmuck! He *did* think she was a gullible idiot! It's not like she woke up in the morning thinking, 'Yes, I'd like to buy a bridge and some hot pants, please. I want to be a model so I can enrich my mind! I want to herbal shampoo for the tingle!' How insensitive for him to so much as hint she could be so stupid!

"You're not here to chat about my career choices!" Bonnie declared smartly. "You're up to something. What?"

"When I asked you about the job thing, it was a sincere inquiry. I don't ask shallow questions," Vachon said pointedly in Nancy's direction. He rolled his eyes as Bonnie cleared her throat meaningfully, and he added, "Not a lot, anyway."

"And you sincerely don't understand that my diligence as Cousinly-Receptionist-In-Training may not be an experiment in foolish insanity, but really a plan with layers upon layers of cunning and guile and Post-Its," Bonns nodded. "Fine, fine. What's your other reason for being here?"

"I want to see LaCroix."

Bonnie spouted a cry of dismay. "Ahh!" She flicked wild eyes toward the mounted clock. "2:59!!! Ahh!" Grabbing Vachon (by the arm — this Bonnie's not a llama, remember?) and yanking Nancy off of the lobby sofa, Bonns shoved them urgently toward the front door. "Go! Now! This minute!"

"Come on," Vachon complained. "I just want to see LaCroix. There's no need to freak out completely."

"I'm not freaking out completely," Bonnie said, jerking open the entrance and shooing Nancy out into the street. "I'm just performing my Cousinly-Receptionist duties as I see them."

"They've already driven you insane," Vachon countered.

"Ha! Better factions have tried! Now go! Quickly!" Vachon didn't budge. Bonnie grimaced and pulled out the big guns. "You know, only a two-dimensional character couldn't dig deep in this moment and trust me enough to stand on the other side of this door for the next 63 seconds."

Whoosh! *slam!*

Bonnie's gaze meandered up to the mounted clock. Three a.m. on the dot. "Coast is clear," she said aloud in a self-satisfied voice. Humming a new song as she returned to her desk, she wrote out a fresh Post-It message with loving strokes of a black permanent pen: 3:00 AM — AUGUST 24TH — NO ONE IN CERK LOBBY TO SEE LACROIX.

"Ha-ha..." Bonnie hummed as she added this slip to the collection decorating the lobby. "Ha-ha ha-ha."

Walking casually back to the station entrance, Bonnie rested one arm on the door pull. She could see the murky outlines of two silhouettes through the shine of the streetlights against the frosted glass. She marked the time out of the corner of her eye, doing a countdown. "5...4...3...2...1..." Creeeaaaakk! "Hi there!" Picture Vachon looking impatient at an imposition. "Been waiting long? Ha-ha..." Bonnie hummed contentedly as she ambled back to her receptionist desk.

Vachon waved an arm toward the front door. "What was that all about?"

Bonnie settled in her chair, titling back as she flicked the loose ends on her favorite pad of Post-Its. "It was about maintaining integrity while implementing a wily plan."

"I don't get it," Nancy muttered from her station on the sofa.

Vachon shrugged. "Me neither."

"All you need to know," Bonnie said enigmatically as she straightened and began to reorganize her Post-Its from alphabetized-by-color stacks to descending-order-by-color-wavelength stacks, "is that I've been monitoring demand for LaCroix's company at five-minute intervals, and I really didn't feel it was in keeping with the spirit of my job to make a note registering that you were taking up space in the CERK lobby asking to see him."

Vachon studied her deliberately as he began to get the picture. "But isn't he going to know that I wanted to see him when I do see him?" he taunted.

"Now, don't play dumb," Bonnie chided. "You know and I know that there's no good reason to let you past security to wander freely through the halls of CERK. I really would be a gullible idiot to buzz you upstairs of my own free will. Look, even if all the cow suits are history, and the beanie babies, the stolen guitar, the camels, and the torture tapes are old news, even if the alleged hair-cutting incident is water under the bridge, there's still a dozen major pranks where those came from resting on the books, just waiting for some payback. You're not here to shake LaCroix's hand, and — I don't care if he is starting to act a little weird and desperate — the old guy isn't going to be thrilled to see you. I'm not just barring your entry; I am maintaining the happiness."

Vachon scratched his chin thoughtfully. "You say the only way I'm getting upstairs is if I whammy you?"

Bonnie nodded. "And do you really want to do that? Sure, it'll work in the short run. But if LaCroix duped me into hiring a Merc to cut your hair, well, by now he probably *thinks* he's safe from recriminations and revenge." She held a Post-It pad up to her forehead. "A few adjectives are floating into clarity...'gullible'...'idiot'..."

Vachon grinned. "Excellent point." This time he made a show of checking the clock. "Ah. 3:04."

"Ah." Bonnie twitchily twittered her pen between her right index and middle fingers.

"I'll just go out the way I came in. I'll hook up with you next bar fight." Very wicked look. (Deep breath)

"Good, good," Bonnie said, scribbling madly on a new Post-It, ripping it free, then leaning out of her receptionist chair to pat the note firmly in place upon the chest area of Vachon's leather jacket. Pat. Pat. "There's a little reminder-slash-request, in case you forget." Pat. Pat.

Vachon glanced at the memo — 'BRING MY BODY TO BAR FIGHT' — shot Bonnie another wicked look, and *whooshed!* out of the station with Nancy in tow before the clock hit 3:05.

She had a quiet moment of deduction. She dropped her marker.

"I AM a gullible idiot!!!!"

Proof: 1) Vachon waaaayyyy too cooperative in leaving without at least trying to persuade her to buzz him upstairs without a whammy, 2) Vachon never actually said he was leaving CERK, just that he was going out the way he came in, and 3) Vachon is Vachon.

It all made perfect sense! Vachon is a *vampire.* Why the hell would he even bother with the front door when he could just fly his researcher to a fire escape and pop in a window? Why, to prove Bonnie gullible and idiotic, of course! Because he can!

Bonns smacked a zippy orange Post-It on her forehead:

STOOPID
STOOPID
STOOPID

She immediately stretched out a hand to activate the Cousinly Alarm, but her fingers hovered a hair's breadth away from impact.

Then again...maybe Vachon hadn't been trying to make a fool of her because he could. Maybe, realizing he'd miss an opportunity to chat her up if he ducked through the fire escape in the first place, he'd made a conscious decision to come through the front door of CERK just to visit! Nice thought. Really nice.

Bonnie peeled the 'STOOPID' Post-It from her forehead and crumpled it for the trash. She wrote a new message: 'VACHON WANTED TO SEE BONNIE,' used her chair as a makeshift ladder, and pasted the note to the face of the mounted clock. Pat. Pat.

Humming, she leaned back in her chair and began to wait. Sure, she planned to activate the Cousinly Alarm, but only when the screaming or explosions started. Until then, well who knew? Her happiness may be LaCroix's happiness!

Vachon held up a philosophical index finger as he shared his wisdom. "Flirting can't be pointless. Either it's an end in itself, highly stimulating and enjoyable, therefore worthy through the Pleasure Principle, or it's a means to an end, a progression of steps that, when combined, merge to form one of the best dances possible, the ethics of which no one except Immanuel Kant seems to have a problem with in terms of what is just and desirable in moral man."

Nancy stumbled in surprise. Gaping, she said incredulously, "My god, Vachon! You just said something intellectual!"

He grinned over his shoulder. "Deep, huh?"

Nancy groaned. "Geez, and you were just showing a glimmer of promise!"

Vachon turned around, eyeing Nancy steadily. "A glimmer, huh? A *non-shallow* glimmer?"

Nancy threw her hands in the air, beseeching the clouds to strike her with an electric bolt. "Honestly!" She sighed. "Do you really want my opinion?"

"Yeah, I can take it." Blink. "I think."

"Let's see. How should I phrase this?" Nancy scratched her right temple, mired in thought. "You know Gandhi?"

Vachon frowned. "Not personally."

"Me neither," Nancy said, "but I'm going to go out on a limb and say Gandhi didn't wander around the slums of Calcutta asking people, 'Do I have depth?' 'Am I shallow?' Get it?"

Vachon tossed his hair over one shoulder. "Like, he didn't care if he was deep, he just was?"

"Exactly," Nancy said happily. "Gandhi didn't give up worldly possessions, weave his own clothes, and live for selfless action so that people would talk about how profound he was. Those were the things he believed he should do."

"Like me and flirting," Vachon said thoughtfully.

Nancy's expression dimmed. "Uhh..."

"But the thing about Gandhi," Vachon commented, "is he was always fasting to protest something. That's not selfless; that's self-absorbed. 'Look at me! Look at me! Quit killing each other, because I skipped the curry.' In my opinion, not getting neurotic about what you eat and just going with the flow is a truer sign of inner peace." He made an indignant gesture. "And non-violence. What's that about? I'm not advocating widespread massacres or anything — totally not down with that — very disrespectful of the whole life thing — but think about it! People have been killing each other since they crawled out of the caves and found they could throw rocks. Even as I speak, wolves are ripping apart rabbits in the woods. Nature without violence is unnatural."

Nancy massaged her temples to relieve the stress. "I really hate fanfic right now. I really do." Sigh. "Can we skip along to the next stage in your..." Hand motion. "...'Complex' plan now?"

"Right." Vachon winked and floated Nancy off the ground.

"Yaaahhhh!" Nancy said with a surprising degree of restraint. She made the mistake of looking down, and, while the drop certainly wasn't of Grand Canyon-esque proportion, it was definitely more significant than falling out of bed. "Oh, I'm not liking this. Land! Land!"

Land, Vachon did, three stories up on a fire-escape platform attached to the CERK building. (Hmm...Bonnie is really very deep to perceive that one coming.)

As Nancy proceeded to count her fingers and toes, just in case any had plummeted into the abyss, Vachon held out his palm expectantly. "I need your cell phone."

Nancy distractedly produced the requested item and handed it over to the Spaniard. Vachon, meanwhile, rummaged in his jacket for the business card he'd picked up at the Raven. As he dialed 1-800-SPRAY-ME, Nancy regained the presence of mind to ask questions, as well as panic over roaming charges. "What would you have done if I hadn't had a cell phone?"

"But you did, so who cares?" Vachon held one index finger over his lips. "Shh. I'm on the phone." He made a happy-phone-is-answered face. Incomprehensible, as the person on the other end of line could hardly see it and be flattered, now could they? "Hey! Shele! How's the hose?...Ted's fine, huh?..."

Nancy returned to massaging her temples. Oh, yes, fanfic had a lot to answer for in the grand scheme of What Is Just Not Right. She listened intermittently to Vachon's side of the conversation as she began to bolster herself with visions of Kathy's Valentine story to end all Valentine stories and Julia's thought-provoking musings on Tracy Vetter.

"Got a consultancy job for you..." Vachon was saying. Blah, blah, blah. "...Do you think he's into toys?..." Blah, blah, blah. "...Oh, yeah! Bring that. Perfect. Can I have a sample?..." Blah, blah, blahpity, blah. "...And your Harley Davidson CDs — can you burn me copies?...Wait — is 'Aqualung' on there?...Uh-uh...What?...'Thick As A Brick'?...Are you sure about that? I was thinking..."

By now, Nancy was ready to tear her research notes in half. Hang up! her thoughts screamed, imagining a $50 charge all for the sake of babble about Jethro Tull songs. Hang up! Hang up!

** Disclaimer: Above thought in story does not qualify as semi-true portion. The real Nancy would not recognize vague references to Jethro Tull, as they do not qualify as 'Pop Music Before 1977,' despite the flute-playing Scotsman. A true-to-life retelling of this event would consign the above thought as an additional passing 'blah, blah, blah.' **

Vachon ended the call. "We're in luck. She's just around the corner."

As if on cue, a fire truck with a peach paint job rolled down the street. A woman stood on top of the vehicle, maintaining perfect balance despite the momentum and direction changes by hooking her feet under two rungs of the resting fire ladder. Unlike the last time Shele had been seen in Toronto, she held no hose in a firm, but gentle, manner, nor was her hair teased and bouffy. Instead, her locks had been secured away from her face by a barrette, and her eyes were shielded by giant, UV filtering, bug-and-dust-stopping goggles. She had a large leopard-printed carry-on bag strapped to her back. In her grip, Shele firmly, but gently, clutched the handle of a matching suitcase-on-wheels. Theme music (again) played in the background, but Nancy didn't recognize the tune, thereby eliminating David Cassidy's 'I Think I Love You.' The author is also willing to suggest that said theme music was not a heavy metal cover of a Michael Jackson tune, for Shele has very strong opinions about that sort of thing. (Said author really wishes she had known this information before last weekend. Learn from her mistake!)

Once the fire truck ride came to a complete halt, its ladder mechanism churned into action. Ascending, ascending, it maneuvered up the side of CERK, Shele positioned at the top like a revolutionary, future-father-of-a-country crossing the Delaware. Since the fire ladder was also constructed from a new-age, transparent polymer, the result was that Shele appeared to hoverglide from the back of the fire truck to the fire escape landing, much like a stunt from 'Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.'

"Am I late?" Shele asked.

"No."

"Well, pooh!"

"It's not hiding," Vachon told her. "It's lurking. Lurking is like hiding, but there are layers."

"And Shele is...?"

"Distracting LaCroix, snatching his jacket, distracting him some more, dumping the jacket in our lurking place, distracting LaCroix again, putting LaCroix's jacket back when we're through rifling the pockets and reading his diary, then making a speedy getaway."

"Hmm..." Nancy mused. "That's a plan that just might work!" She nodded. Bonk! "Oof!" She'd hit her head on the corner of the file cabinet. "Using Shele is a pretty clever distraction, Vachon. When Shele's around, you don't need to go to an amusement park. Shele *is* an amusement park."

The Spaniard nodded. Bonk! *gnashing teeth* He'd also hit his head on the corner of the filing cabinet. "I made a careful study of all the toga chicks' ramblings about their adventures with LaCroix — Shele's the only one who's never totally pissed him off. I think she can do this job *and* survive. Cool, huh?"

"Okay, okay," Nancy muttered. A penlight flickered on and the sounds of a ballpoint scratching paper filled the air. "Your plan has nuances, I'll give you that. But don't think I haven't noticed how you managed to get someone else to do all the work. Very slack, Vachon. Very slack."

"There's no pleasing some people." The vampire shrugged. Bonk! "Forget the file cabinet," he growled. "Let's lurk behind the CD rack. It's more predatory."

"What are you doing here?" LaCroix said imperiously.

"I'm here to see you," Shele replied. The scary thing about her tone of voice was that it really was quite pleasant. Her voice verily created the aural aura of helpful harmlessness which would have prompted anyone who really, really knew Shele to leap from the windows or scramble into the air duct system for the slim chance of saving themselves.

LaCroix, however, being old and believing himself powerful, plus feeling rather fragile about the whole Conversion-Day-and-no-one's-called thing, responded without biting. "Indeed."

When it appeared that the ancient vampire might stand in some kind of gentlemanly ritual, Shele's voice sharpened like cheddar in a Wisconsin basement. "Don't get up!!"

LaCroix stilled, arching an eyebrow. He issued a mild snarl of irritation, then told Shele politely, "Excuse me one moment." He flipped the leather-bound journal from his Armani pocket, etched several stylish lines in Latin with his Mont Blanc stylus, then tucked the item back inside his coat. Shele observed the entire process with a fiendish eye for detail, subtly rubbing her hands together like a Grinch cartoon. She dropped the gesture as LaCroix glanced at her again. "Shele, isn't it? You were saying...?"

"I was saying you should get out of that chair!" Shele exclaimed. (That's Shele for ya! Better living through contradiction!)

"Mmm," LaCroix murmured in one of those thoughtful purring noises he's prone to make whenever he's discovered a new method to torment Nick in a paternal, loving manner. He stood, but eyed Shele as though she was as open as the fly on defective pants. "You wouldn't be plotting to surprise me, would you? I am flattered, but I feel I must warn you, at my age, I am very difficult to impress."

"Sounds like somebody has a little crush on themselves," Shele said sweetly as she grasped his jacket lapels from behind. "Now give me your jacket. Give! Give!"

LaCroix placed a staying hand over his Armani, resting his fingers protectively on the fabric that shielded his personal diary. "I doubt that will be necessary."

"Ohhhh," Shele echoed, her voice now taking on a hint of evil. "I get it. Say no more. Say no more," she added, giving the impression that LaCroix had just confessed that he longed to squeeze the Charmin.

The suggestion that anyone, ANYONE, knew him better than he knew himself promptly drove LaCroix into a tense spasm. "Why don't you tell me what you think you 'get'?" he clipped.

"Yes, why don't I do that?" Shele let go of LaCroix's Armani and began to pace the sound booth in the manner of a physics lecturer. "You're how old now?" She rubbed the fingers of one hand together, as if she could start a fire from the flinty tips. "Big number...big number..."

"Two thousand," LaCroix supplied.

"Well, yeah, if you're using that 'fuzzy math,'" Shele countered. "Hell, let's just call you 'Really Old' and be done with it!"

LaCroix made an indecipherable grunt. "Mm. Yes. And your point is?"

"I just said it!" Shele snapped. "You're Really Old! Pay attention!" She wandered around the sound booth some more, muttering to herself. "...Mind always first to go...old...old...why do I even bother?...Redrum!...Hmm...Maybe 'Thick As A Brick' *isn't* on my Harley Davidson CD..." Shele paused, shook her head, then returned from the conversation with herself to the conversation with LaCroix. "You're soooo Old! You're set in your ways! Cemented! I don't think you could take off your jacket, even if you wanted to. Nope. Doubt it. Doubt it very much. Hmmm...sorry if this is a personal question...Well, actually, I'm not really sorry. That was just disinformation to give the illusion that I cared...But tell me...What's it like to be a fuddy duddy? No! Wait! Don't answer that! There's still time! You don't have to be a fuddy duddy! There might be hope yet, if you...if you..." Shele scowled as she let her voice trail off a second time and LaCroix gave her no follow-through response. She looked over her shoulder and scrunched her face at him. "If you..."

LaCroix sighed. "If I what?"

"If you..." Hand motion. "Step...Out...Of...The...Box!"

LaCroix counted to ten, took off his jacket, and handed it to Shele. "Happy?"

"Not as happy as you're going to be," she said, her laughter slightly maniacal. As she tossed the jacket into the next room, Shele added, "Besides, you don't want to get any lotion or powders on that nice black fabric."

Lotion? Powders? LaCroix frowned as he sat down once more. "Shele, you are the Poet Laureate of Nunkies Anonymous, are you not?"

"I've been called that," Shele answered as she zipped open her carry-on bag and began to pull out bottles and tiny packets.

"So I would assume the purpose of your visit is to present me with a heartfelt ode composed in honor of my Conversion Day?"

"Hmm..." Shele tore open a small foil sachet and took a deep whiff. "And you would be wrong."

LaCroix seized Shele's wrist in an authorataive, getting-to-the-bottom-of-things manner. "Then why are you...?" His nose twitched. He'd seized the wrist attached to the arm holding the foil sachet. "What an intriguing perfume."

Shele arched an eyebrow. She, being free of neurosis about such things, made no note of it in her personal journal. "It's not just a fragrance — it's Mary Sue's 'Dynamic Hand & Arm Treatment.' Try some! It's just what characters who talk with their hands or steeple their fingers with all-knowing decorum need."

LaCroix glared suspiciously at the packet, then at Shele. "You aren't one of those Independent Fanfic Beauty Consultants, are you? I have no need of such a person," he derided.

Shele propped one fist on her hip, very put out. "What were we talking about earlier, O Fuddy Duddy One? Maybe, *maybe* you don't need 'Dynamic Hand & Arm Treatment,' but let's..." Hand motion. "...Step Out Of The Box! You have friends, don't you? Wait — let me rephrase that. You've met many people over the years, haven't you? Have you thought of giving *them* gifts for a change? Maybe if you didn't sit back in your chair, waiting for the presents to roll in all the time, you'd be more popular...like Jules!"

"I do give presents to others," LaCroix argued. "Once, I gave Nicholas a pocket watch for his Conversion Day. It was quite a superlative gift."

"Uh-huh, uh-huh. And yet he *Gave It Back To You!*" Shele shook her head at LaCroix's folly. "A returned gift doesn't count," she said as she squirted a sample of the Mary Sue product into the master vampire's palm. "Here. Rub on some of this."

LaCroix had no tissue or wet naps (They were all in his Armani jacket being rifled in the next room.) so he really had few options in escaping the mound of lotion in his hand, unless he decided to dump it on the sound board (thus risking an electrical fire), or unless he decided to rub it onto Shele's person instead (and there are rules about that sort of thing. Rules!). He tolerantly wiped his palms together, initially giving the impression that the experience bored him immensely. After a few moments, however, LaCroix released a sound of wonder. "Hmm!"

"Tingles, doesn't it?" Shele said. "And trust me, no one *ever* gives back Mary Sue's 'Dynamic Hand & Arm Treatment.' It's a keeper!"

LaCroix flexed his fingers, then tried a post-treatment steepling of his hands. Refreshing! "I'll take a case."

Shele crossed her arms in front of her chest and twisted her mouth to one side as she peered at LaCroix out of the corner of her eye. "Are we remembering to share?"

"Three cases, then." LaCroix gestured toward Shele's carry-on. Tingle-tingle. Ahh! "What other secrets are you hoarding?"

"You'll love this — it's fantastic!" Shele whisked out a package. "It's called 'Satin Fangs.'"

LaCroix appeared dubious, despite his newly tickly-zingy digits. "What does it do?"

"Just try," Shele urged. "Try!"

2:54am:

First step of kinky beauty regimen a success! Have acquired squishy bag of plump, cottony units, as well as industrial-strength nail polish. Also picked up pint of B&J's 'Cherry Garcia' while at it. (Need calcium + fruit)

Will open supplies and perform touch-ups immediately!

2:55am:

But am v. hungry. Bones depleted of vital nutrients. Just small ice cream snack. One bite. Two, max.

3:02am:

<dribbly pink stain>

B&J's really v.g. Don't need plastic spoon as can lick out of non-bleached paper carton. Is environmentally conscious.

<dribbly pink stain with streak of dark chocolate>

Ice cream label promises am getting cows off drugs w/every bite. Finishing whole pint = form of selfless love for fellow species. Is empathetic action honoring all ruminant-kind. Is symbolic. Is v. v. symbolic.

And tasty.

<small bit of cherry stuck to page>

3:06am:

Gaaaahhhh! Am bloated beyond belief. Feel as if cherry dairy balloon implanted w/in folds of stomach, waiting for psychotic hippie to skip along + gratefully stab belly with pin to deflate torturous pressure in exploding pink cloud of curds and whey. (Revolting) Cannot believe that mere six + half-week diet of grass and Cosmopolitans has rendered digestive faculties lactose-intolerant. V. sugarist of stomach, if true. Food-processing organ should express harmony and understanding for all simply-structured sweeteners. Feng Shoe placement of atoms w/in disaccharides really should not be big deal. Still carbons, hydrogens and oxygens twisted and bonded every which way — why can't tummy sort out?! Biochemical laziness, is what is. Have slacker stomach!

3:08am:

Have opened bulging bag of cotton units by holding down plastic wrapping with hoof and pulling w/teeth. Contact w/air prompted strange molecular reaction where bagged fibers fluffed to double size. Volume flux prompted half of balls to spontaneously erupt from confines of packaging. Landed in puddle.

3:10am:

Am opening bottle of industrial-strength nail polish using powers of telekinesis as cannot twist cap-type-thing while have psuedo-hooves.

3:15am:

Apparently have pseudo-powers of telekinesis (Not working)

Will fling polish bottle against pavement with teeth.

3:17am:

Glass v. stubborn! Not breaking! Why??

Is supposed to break!!! !#$%*!# break!!!!

3:20am:

Nail polish open now. Politely asked tourist for assistance. Also requested drizzling of polishy liquid over naked, green non-flesh. Explained was part of kinky beauty regimen. Received v. odd look. Cannot imagine reason. Tourist wandering streets of Toronto at 3 in morning — What expected to find? Mike Harris signing autographs on donut shop napkins? Huh.

Crucial bit is that am sticky now. Will roll self in cotton units without delay.

3:23am:

Idiot tourist assumed rolling was epileptic fit. Obviously has never met pseudo-llama before (North Carolinian). Tourist screamed for ambulance or veterinarian or Jerry Tate. As if talk show host fixes problems! Was forced to swipe up supplies of kinky beauty regimen and run to escape sirens (still on parole).

Forgot ice cream carton in mad rush and left gutted unbleached paper container lying on sidewalk. Trashiness confirmed! Am pseudo-llama llitterbug! Hope idiot tourist thinks to pick up and dispose of properly. Hope secret Vermontian garbage-sensing tracking device not lurking in carton seal, detecting perfidy. Have only love for B&J. Wish affection returned.

Maybe carton biodegradable. Is v. important paper quality, if remember correctly. S/b ok.

Keeping hooves crossed.

3:26am:

While crossing appendages, brushed against still-sticky cotton and industrial nail-polish combination. Action not as lucky as touted to be, as front right pseudo-hoof now cottony and plush!

Must repair mutant furry foot. Will require de-taping of cotton-riddled pseudo-hoof + re-taping to solid sheen with fresh hoof-like substitute. Have no tape. Must find new store. Old one still swarming w/idiot tourists + flashing lights. Am haunted by image of ice cream carton still abandoned in front, lonely victim of hunger attack. Will no one help poor unbleached paper?!

3:30am:

Paused at phone outside newly-located store to place anonymous call to police. Reported incidence of littering on Richmond. Requested send help immediately! Conscience soothed.

3:44am:

Have returned to law offices of 'Valdez, Montoya & Montalban' for combat of pseudo-hoof disease. Wish had not, as keep finding dead ratsies strewn about rooms. Bad Feng Shoe, know it!

Really v. quiet. Carmen not hissy, but sleeping on sofa curled on blanket where normal Spanish head lump would be. Is showing belly fur. Is snoring. Is really v. cute and approachable when not conscious. Could be great friends if cat slept round the clock.

Will mix Cosmopolitan. Will wander into Incan bedroom and cuddle on pillows for leisurely, mellow re-hoofing. Will worry about nipple-tweaking paintings + V location when more relaxed and better able to handle stigma of bad legacy gifting.

Really v. v. quiet. V. peaceful. Am calm and tranquil already. Really like being Incan pet. Living lie excellent choice compared to turmoil of truth. Am v. clever. Make good decisions. Am at peace.

Am opening door to Incan bedroom.

3:45am:

GAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

Is SCREED!!!!! Is STARKLY STARKERS CAROUCHE in middle of massive Incan mattress, wallowing amongst linens woven from finest fibers of pseudo-llama nudists (cotton) + holding out bicycle tire + small guinea pig!

GAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!! GAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!

3:47am:

Have wetted self (dropped Cosmopolitan).

Am either blind or lids inadvertently glued shut by fumes of industrial-strength nail polish.

Still see naked Screed. Still see linens. Still see bicycle tire. Still see small guinea pig. Still see page of diary.

Huh.

Oh. Eyes just closed, then opened. Forgot to run from Incan bedroom in shock. Will do so immediately.

3:50am:

Cannot wait in offices of 'Valdez, Montoya & Montalban' for return of Inca as am horribly traumatized! Must resume search for Spaniard w/o hesitation, for avoidance of nipple tweaking painting now Quest For Mental Health.

Have jarred peaceful, nicely sleeping kitty awake. Have been swiped. Have demanded Carmen make good on catly boasts of Amazing, Transcendental status and zap self to Spaniard immediately.

Cat humming (purr). Cat blue + glowing (Amazing or spontaneously radioactive). Cat floating. Yes! Will grab. Will hold on. Will transcend w/cat!

3:51am:

GAAAAHHHHHH!

Carmen floated above head (Am short pseudo-llama). Transcended w/o me. Know C did on purpose. Know! (Cat = bitch w/litterbox)

What will do now?????

DON'T KNOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"World peace."

"Really?"

"No. I made that up." Vachon smirked. "But wouldn't it be worth it to tell Knight that LaCroix wanted world peace just to see what he'd do? Yeah, that'd be a pretty s-" The Spaniard caught on that Nancy was flaying him with a glare. "Shallow prank, and I would never consider playing Nick like that. Not me. Too deep for that."

"Yeah. If you're looking for gullible, try the lobby," Nancy retorted. "Now what does LaCroix want?"

"Well, from the looks of this, he either wants his eyebrows shaved, so he can't arch them anymore, or he really, really would appreciate..."

Suddenly, the space above Vachon's head was infused with a blue, glistening light that emitted a humming sound. The blue light began to pulse, transforming into a kaleidoscope of sparkly lights, spinning in a slow circle.

*Fizzle* *Poof!*

A fluffy, tortoiseshell cat zapped into view, dropping the remaining foot above Vachon's head to land in a purring mass padding his face.

"Carmen!" Intense growling emanated from the Spaniard. This growling promptly triggered the minefield of claws buried within the accumulation of feline parts sprawled over his features. "Ow! Crap!" (Or something very similar, semantically speaking.)

A flailing of vampire arms ensued, and Vachon was reminded how a startled cat promptly acquired the properties of either chocolate pudding or lead when you tried to move it. This was a chocolate pudding moment. Smacked a couple times by his feline companion for trying to move her despite her ungraspable consistency — *smack!* *smack!* — Vachon cursed and bellowed. "Carmen! Freak!" (Or something similar)

The cat dodged his vampiric grasp, bounced off of Nancy's head — "Whoa! Hel-lo Kitty!" — then pounded her fuzzy feet out the door. "Rrrowr!" (Catspeak for 'See you in therapy.')

When the flying fur settled, Vachon looked at Nancy. Nancy looked at Vachon. It was very quiet.

"Do you think LaCroix noticed any shrieking or exclamations?" Nancy whispered.

Spanish eyes rolled. "Not important. Look at the deep picture: My cat is prancing around in the next room and prone to sitting on vampire faces. Think he'll notice that? Yuh-huh!"

Nancy became very solemn and contemplative. "Oh. Well. That's not good, is it?"

Vachon made a strangled sound, one that, to Nancy's highly fallible mortal ears, sounded very much like, "Gaaaaaahhhh!"

Oh, he hadn't known what to expect when Shele zipped off to the CERK break room, zapped a mug of water until boiling in the microwave, then popped a piece of plastic much like a retainer into the steaming liquid. She'd pulled the plastic out with sanitary tongs after thirty seconds, the tray much more flexible than before, then filled its trough with a pink cream.

"Open wide," Shele commanded.

"I don't want to," LaCroix grumbled. "Not until you identify that substance."

"Hello? What are we doing?" Hand motion. "Stepping Outside The Box. Try. Try!" Shele prompted.

"But -"

She made a rumbling sound and delved into baby talk. "Here comes the chariot into the Circus Maximus! Woowhee!" While LaCroix remained confused, startled, and wondering if he should kill someone on principle, Shele popped the plastic tray of pink goo into his mouth, fitting it securely over his teeth. "Wha-? Ahhh. Ohhh. Gla-gla-glaaaaaa..."

LaCroix slumped back in his chair. This miraculous 'Satin Fangs' product acted like some form of dental massage, blood flavored, caressing his teeth silkily, cradling them, hugging them, being very good — almost obscene — to them. LaCroix wondered momentarily if this must be what Nunkies Addicts felt like when they were so overwhelmed by passion, they just had to drool. Oh, good product. Satisfying product. May the gods not destroy Mary Sue! Oh, he would order boxes and boxes of the stuff — maybe he would even become an Independent Fanfic Beauty Consultant himself. He'd have to ask Shele if she got a discount.

But first, he would inquire over the dental mold, "Cam I haf anofer sam-pah?"

Snickering at this blatant example of slavish consumerism, Shele complied. LaCroix lounged blissfully in his chair, his blue eyes closed in satiny fang contentment as Carmen slinked silently into the room. The cat, recognizing the smell of a vampire like other felines perceived tuna or dirty laundry, stretched out, propping her two-tone paws against ancient Roman knees as she sniffed him. Finding LaCroix sufficiently Old, Dead and Guy, Carmen wriggled her rump and bounced onto his lap. LaCroix barely registered the weight, assuming the sensation was a by-product of the Mary Sue Experience.

This tortoiseshell defined a feline far too demanding to be satisfied for long as a lap kitty. She paw, paw, pawed LaCroix's shirtfront, extending her elegant form until she covered the vampire belt to chin.

Carmen was sniff, sniff, sniffing LaCroix's face and blink, blink, blinking her desire to curl up on top of it when Shele noticed her presence. Shele, being really, really weak in the face of temptation when you get down to the nitty-gritty, experienced the immediate compulsion to tease the strange cat into smacking. (This compulsion was much like LaCroix's current desire to Forever 'Satin Fangs' — understandably irresistible.) Shele dug within her carry-on bag of Mary Sue tricks and found...a-ha!...a Q-tip!

Boing! Boing! Boing!

Shele tapped Carmen's nose, watching with hazardous glee as dark pool pupils of predatory desire expanded to replace the cat's sultry green gaze. "Kill it! Kill it! Kill it!" Shele chanted compulsively. And straightened with surprise, Shele did, when Carmen complied with her urgings, pop-popping said Q-tip with a mighty blow out of her grip. Unfortunately the swab landed on LaCroix's forehead, which meant the cat gouged up his profile, claws fueled by the prospect of bloodletting... or cotton-letting...or whatever cats find really inspiring.

*Thwap!* *Thwap!* *Thwap!*

Carmen spliced the Q-tip into the air, and it spun end over end toward Shele. Oop!

It didn't take much thwapping, gouging or letting of his blood for LaCroix to depart his pleasant 'Satin Fangs' groove. He reared out of his chair with a lispy snarl. (He still had on the dental cast, you know.) Carmen did a double take, confused for a catly second that her Amazing, Transcendental person had appeared out of nowhere. Shele, recognizing the peril of a feline with sharp bits hurtling her way in the echo of a cat toy, batted at the Q-tip, shooting it back in LaCroix's direction. The Q-tip, unfortunately, traveled a parabolic path and landed on top of the ancient vampire's very annoyed head.

Carmen, distracted from her haze of kitty adrenaline by the wily, jerky course of a play-type-thing, used Shele's chest for rebound, "Whazzup?!" After an airborne flight worthy of an NBA contract, the feline collapsed limply over LaCroix's cranium and proceeded to gnaw on her Q-tip trophy, ripping loose cottony fragments with her mighty jaws before allowing them to drop in soggy bits onto her host's cheeks (facial) and nose.

Before LaCroix had the chance to kill anything, Vachon and Nancy scrambled into the room. Vachon tossed the rifled Armani jacket at the Roman, "Just passing through," and whooshed out the window.

Shele chuckled nervously, giving LaCroix a wide smile and ignoring the ferocious kitty-cat on his head as she stuffed items into her carry-on bag. "I'll just leave you a few extra samples and a card, shall I? I'll ship your order. Heh-heh." She, too, scooted out the window and disappeared.

LaCroix quietly debated which to remove first: the cat head-warmer or the Satin Fangs. While he deliberated, Vachon ducked back through the window, looking slightly embarrassed. "Forgot my cat. Not that that means I have a shallow attention span. Let me just get her out of your way..." Serious prying ensued. "Carmen, let go." Pry, pry. Dig, dig. Seriously pissed Spaniard voice. "Carrrr-men."

"Rrrowr!"

Sighing Spaniard. Flirtatious tone. "I'll give you treats..."

Freedom! *Whoosh!*

LaCroix whirled around, snarling and hissing at everything, even the gamine press still of Celine Dion pinned to the sound booth wall. His 'Satin Fangs' dental mold dropped from his mouth, landing upon his Armani jacket, splattering it with pale, pink goo.

LaCroix fumed, swiped up the jacket, yanked out his diary, and began to transcribe every infuriating insult of his Conversion Day thus far onto the parchment pages.

In a mocking afterthought, the Cousinly Alarm began to resound through the station.

Vachon set his cat on top of the Raven's bar and ordered her a saucer of chicken broth, deeply ignoring the bartender's snobbish look. "If you mean LaCroix hasn't caught up with me yet, yes."

Nancy settled on the next bar stool, ordered an 'Aphid,' to go, (giant chartreuse cocktail with an umbrella in it) and pushed her cell phone in Vachon's direction. "Call Nick! Give him the news!"

Shele straggled in, carrying a stack of 'Satin Fangs' cases stacked higher than her head. Weaving to and fro, she handed off boxes to each body she ran down. "Take this. It's Janette's." "Oh, a helper! Give it to Janette!" Or, "Do I have to do everything!?! Dump it on the bar!"

Eventually, Shele reached said bar with empty arms and collapsed over the boundaries of three bar stools, foot to face. "Someone pamper me," she groaned into the vinyl padding.

Vachon accepted Nancy's phone and dialed the loft. Much later, Nancy would kick herself (Karate lessons increase flexibility), realizing that she could have gotten the call off roam-charge-free had she asked for the bar phone. The Spaniard made an impatient face as Nick's answering machine picked up the line. "Yeah, Knight. This is Vachon. It's about 4:15, and I've got that information you wanted. Meet me outside The Jeweled Peach at 5 with the plane ticket for the exchange." He ended that call, dialed another number, made another rendezvous, then handed the phone back to Nancy.

"We have forty-five minutes," Nancy said. "Do we have time to hang out a bit? My drink isn't here yet."

Contradictorily, both the Aphid and Carmen's broth arrived. Both females ducked their heads in unison, noses tipping the rear rims as they drank happily.

Juan gave Vachon an appalled look. "You've corrupted her already?"

The Spaniard appeared bewildered as Nancy chugged half her cocktail. "I don't think so. She's probably having a whim." Nancy chugged the remainder of her Aphid and pounded the bar for another. "A thirsty whim."

"What a world," the Inca mused, "where women can corrupt themselves."

Vachon's own beverage arrived, and he made a blood toast. "More power to them."

Tracy Sue appeared off the dance floor and migrated toward the cat, scratching the feline between the ears. "That's strange. Here's Carmen, and I can't find Llani anywhere."

Juan stiffened with alarm. "What do you mean, you can't find Llani?"

"I mean she's not here. She must have wandered off," Tracy Sue mused. "But she always returns to the office or gets arrested, so it's no big deal."

"No," Juan argued, resolutely draining his glass. "She's on parole. I should go find her. Unsupervised, she might try driving, or pick up another yak."

Vachon tilted his head to the side. Good point. "So you aren't coming to the Peach? Would you take the cat?"

"We're going to the Peach?" Tracy Sue asked. "If Juan doesn't go, how am I supposed to tag along?"

A tired moan rose from the bar stools. "Argh. I guess I'll go. The fire truck's double parked, anyway."

Vachon elbowed Nancy, who was accepting her new to-go cup. "Total Vachon Experience - you riding with me?"

Nancy demurred. "Actually, I'm feeling rather experienced at the moment. I'll hop on the truck with the others."

"You've been here all along?" Vachon asked.

"When you called? No. I was sleeping. Some people do that at night," Jules said crossly. "But I can't come here without trying to clean. All this ruin, all this dust, the shabbiness..." She flicked a yellow glove dismissively at the crumbled remains of a marble column. "It's not up to my usual standards, I promise you. I hate the fact that anyone outside the faction is even seeing this place is such a state, but you insisted it was important..."

"Oh, it is! It is!" Nancy promised earnestly. "Just wait until Vachon explains!"

Jules paused in trying to right a peach divan that had one broken leg. "Nancy? Nancy, is that you?"

"Of course it's me."

"And you came here with *Vachon*." The High Priestess stumbled dazedly, the back of a yellow rubber hand to her forehead. "That's it. No more wine before bedtime."

*Whoosh!*

Nick stepped into view. "You have my information, Vachon?"

Nancy tossed the blond vampire a friendly wave. "Hi, Nick! I helped!"

Jules groaned with relief. "Oh...Nick's involved! Thank my lucky stars! That explains so much. Nancy, you had me going for a second there. Like you would ever follow Vachon around because you wanted to follow Vachon around!" Jules began to laugh at the thought, with tippling over and clutching her sides appearing a strong possibility. She hugged the upright vacuum with glee. "Oh, Laugh Out Loud!"

Vachon frowned, making a face like a three-year old confronted with peas. "Now you're just rubbing it in. That's not nice."

Jules continued to chuckle mercilessly. "I'm a High Priestess. I don't have to be nice."

Vachon nodded knowingly, his eyes shifting with sudden insight. As he watched the snickering High Priestess clapping Nancy on the back, he commented with calculating casualness, "Now that I think about it, I'm glad you're amused, Jules. It's a good thing you still have your sense of humor, considering..."

Jules' smile faltered slightly. "Considering? Considering what?"

The Spaniard deliberately looked the High Priestess up and down. "Considering how this whole Shrine-Destroyed-By-The-Old-Dead-Guy-Debacle has pretty much robbed your title of purpose. Unless you count the cleanup as a purpose." Vachon's voice hinted that, yes, maybe that was a worthy purpose, but his gaze said 'No, no, NO!' "And isn't one of the reasons you're so popular the whole High Priestess style and grace thing? To see you now, well, you're wearing jeans, there's dust on your face, your heels are history..."

Jules inhaled raggedly, horror eclipsing every ounce of her joy and laughter. "You...you don't think I've become...untidy?" The High Priestess shuddered.

"I would never say that," Vachon promised. "Even if it was true."

Shele walked up behind her. "Don't mind him. He's just playing with your mind. Oh, lookit!" Suddenly Shele was peering intently and pointing. "A hole in your shirt!"

As Jules slapped a hand over the tiny, ragged tear to shield her shame from view, Nick said impatiently, "What about my information, Vachon? What does LaCroix really want for Conversion Day?"

His question pulled Jules out of her fretting about her tarnished ensemble. "Vachon dragged me out of bed just to have a conversation about presents?! I do have better things to do with my time."

Nick appeared ready to open his mouth and angst about possibly being a bad gifter, but Tracy Sue cut him off, grasping his arm. "Wait. Just let me savor that thought a minute. 'Vachon dragged me out of bed...' Hmmm..." After a while, she motioned the conversation ahead. "You were saying?"

"I need to find LaCroix a good gift," Nick told Jules. "What about Nunkies Anonymous? What kind of festival or honor are the Addicts planning this year?"

"We aren't doing anything," the High Priestess informed him.

"And that's where my information comes in to play," Vachon said. "The old guy is bummed he hasn't been invited to any toga parties, recreations or chariot races."

Jules gestured at the Shrine wreckage. "Well, we could hardly host a legion under these conditions. Once the Addicts discovered they'd have to do all the labor, they headed home."

"Slackers," Tracy Sue muttered.

"What happened to the union of vampire construction workers the toga chicks hooked up with a couple of wars back? Why didn't you just hire them?" Vachon asked.

"Two reasons," Jules replied dryly. "Apparently, like most of Europe, GROUT goes on holiday for the month of August. Then there's the problem of the faction finances. Rutledge let the Shrine insurance lapse before she disappeared, fanfic knows where! I've been selling pieces of the fallen walls to tourists to fund the rebuilding, but that's only allowed for a piecemeal effort."

"But LaCroix..." Nick began.

"Stubbornly refuses to pay for a new Shrine to himself," Jules said with disgust. "As if Nunkies Anonymous is responsible for the thing getting wrecked...Like we wrote the destruction posts because we were too tired to come up with a plausible character-driven ending..." Jules pursed her lips. "Okay. So all that's true. Sleep deprivation affected our judgment. It happens!"

"I'm not buying that," Shele countered. "Not the sleep-deprived part. The part about LaCroix stubbornly refusing to build his own Shrine. He's a really old Roman. They do that kind of stuff for fun. Giant artistic renderings of their sexual organs planted outside the house for good luck like other folks hang pineapples. Culture with weensy egos and mondo humility? I don't think so."

"Yeah, he wrote about that in his diary," Vachon explained. "Something about wanting everyone to love him...blah, blah, blah...so he can act like an Unavailable, Ice General With Inner Poise. It read like it's very important to him that the toga chicks rebuild as an expression of their true devotion, rather than acting like they're buying a pashmina or something."

Jules appeared slightly glassy-eyed. "Did LaCroix really say that?"

Nancy held up her research notebook and pen. "Did Vachon really just say 'pashmina'?"

"LaCroix *wrote*," Vachon qualified. "In Latin. And his cursive is terrible. He either wants the Shrine rebuilding to be a manifestation of Addict feeling, or he wants to drop by the Shrine to manifest his desire for an Addict feeding."

"Let's just pretend it's the former," Nick reasoned. "That'll be my gift! I'll fund the Shrine rebuilding, and LaCroix will get something he really wants!"

"And when do you expect this magical Shrine gifting that LaCroix wants to take place?" Jules inquired.

Nick glanced at his watch (The one Natalie gave him) and said with slightly less optimism, "About 19 hours."

"Well, he can't have what he wants!" Jules snipped impatiently. "These things take time. You don't just find new Shrines under cabbage leaves, you know. They have to be built. And everyone knows, Rome -"

"WASN'T BUILT IN A DAY," everyone completed for her.

"Honestly," Jules complained as she ripped off her kerchief. "I give, and I give, and I give, year after year after year. It's always 'Jules, polish my sword pin!', 'Jules, my poison ring keeps flipping open — fix it! Fix it!' and now 'Waaah! Jules, nobody loves me anymore because they won't learn carpentry skills!'" She indignantly peeled off a yellow rubber glove and brandished her still-intact 'Tear Your Heart Out Red' manicure of authority. "These hands do not hammer, not even for LaCroix!"

Nick sweetened the pot. "I'll hire people to hammer for you. As many as I can find. I'll pay overtime!" He grasped Jules' still rubber-gloved hand. "But I need you to oversee things, Jules. To command and design something tasteful that will make the perfect gift. To direct the laborers and craftsmen into implementing your vision so I can look good on Conversion Day for a change!"

Jules was flattered and intrigued. She curled her manicured nails under her chin and tilted her head as she gazed thoughtfully into the dreamy night sky. "Yes, that might be nice. I'm a High Priestess, but what I really want to do is direct."

Nick nodded, producing the plane ticket payment from his duster and handing it to Vachon. "Then it's a deal. I'll start making calls," he said, pulling out his cell phone.

Nancy beamed. That's what she liked to see in a character — coming prepared for their telephonic plot advancement!

By dawn, workmen began to filter into the site. The vampires had to head for shelter with the sun, but Shele, Tracy Sue and Nancy stuck by Jules as Assistant Director, Cinematographer and Editor, respectively, supporting her creative process.

**Disclaimer: The above paragraph also cannot be classified as semi-true. Regardless of how many billions and foundations Nick may have access to, no one, not with whammy, cattle prod or cooler of Diet Pepsi, can conjure such a timely appearance of construction workers. Please humor the flight into illusion.**

4:50am:

Have fled law offices of 'Valdez, Montoya & Montalban.' Life of street-walking infinitely preferable to naked Screed on Incan bed w/bicycle tire + small guinea pig. Has reminded self that new Madonna concert on Sunday cable, though. Must watch!

4:55am:

V. stressful place, street.

Vehicles everywhere. Almost mowed down by chickens driving peach fire truck. Nearly pancaked by Amish manning horse cart. More or less maimed by mime simulating canoe ride.

Mime asked what thought doing in street. (Is anyone professional???) Told mime was street-walking. Mime explained sexually entrepreneurial idiom for the advancement of traffic safety. Find nothing sexy in idiom. Equally provocative and far more accurate in modern age of squirtable yogurt snacks and color-coordinated portable laptops to call life 'sidewalk-walking.' Would keep people off streets.

5:15am:

Is not provocative sidewalk lifestyle. Is terrifying.

Saw carelessly dropped looney that had rolled into pavement crack outside Plexodious movie stronghold. Prepared to capitalize on sudden financial blessing, but was swooped and pecked out of nowhere by crazed flock of Canadian pigeon banditos (reasonable flight from border). Shielded head and played dead, but vicious avian species insisted upon having buffet of littered popcorn pieces, nacho cheese and squished licorice Jujyfruits.

Death. Have looked into that abyss and did not call bluff. Whimpered for animal control, crocodile hunter or fiercely eyebrowed Muppet to pluck me from beaks of doom. Will wait for deliverance (non-cinematic).

5:30am:

Pigeons still doing pigeony things all around. Are flapping wings and making cooing noises. Suspect is pigeon-speak for 'Dash all, Chiquiquita! Should we fry or grill the llama?' 'Don't be like that, Fernando. You know you love to barbecue. So very hawkish and primitive!'

Will be pecked into oblivion.

Please, please SOMEONE RESCUE POOR LLAMA!!!!!

5:40am:

Am not rescued, not even by honk-nosed puppet. Why am not rescued? Am so utterly abandonable?! Am so worthy of doom?!

Suspect am too boring to be rescued. Am not named Pauline or Nell or tied to railroad tracks. Am flattened on gritty concrete with demon birds of the apocalypse nesting under armpits.

Spaniard opinion re: llama tediousness proven infallible by continuing unliberated status. Will bleat pitifully for Gloria Steinem.

6:32am:

Am now having constant fantasies of Inca/Vachon/Perry/Paul Mitchell leaping out of alley and saying: "FOR THE LOVE OF PROPER HAIR CARE, RELEASE MY LLAMA!!!!"

6:43am:

Have found emancipation from birdbrain banditos via blessed, blessed maternal unit herding kidlet reproductive subsidiaries to donut shop before school! All singleton animals instinctively wary of small children, for little ones are prone to grow up and eat them or cast them out of pride/herd/cool clique or stare + point. Pigeon banditos obviously in awkward early dating stage to be affected by childish presence. Would sympathize if not so scary. Birds flew coop under armpits, preferring higher ground beyond tiny-tot, stubby-fingered reach.

Was not so quick or lucky. Sticky child with raspberry-filling face snatched looney from sidewalk crack. Was bitten on hoof when tried to take away. (Unfair! Saw first!) Called animal by maternal unit. (Flatterer) Peril of travel-sized Homo sapiens confirmed. Will flee in terror!!

7:02am:

Went to Raven looking for Inca/Vachon/Anyone-Who-May-Care-Naked-Screed-In-Incan-Bed-W/-Bicycle-Tire-+-Small-Guin ea-Pig but found door chained and padlocked! Huh.

Oh. Is bright out. Sun must have come up.

Didn't even notice. (Panic in the streets and sidewalks)

What to do? What to do?

10:05am:

Have wandered into superlative bookshop with uncanny selection of self-help manifestos. Am decided self needs much help so will peruse shelves at length, drinking many cappuccinos winsomely through straw in style of chic sixties heroine.

9:55pm:

Yeeeesssss!!!! Have found many books!!! Have drunk many cappuccinos!!! Am in groove!!! Am literate and aware!!! Have opinions!! Am becoming beyond fantastic Omnifemale, in fashion of Emma Peel: whiz at calculus + karate + sculpture + belly dancing + office organization + making world safe for friends of Britain, but also smashing in leather catsuit!

Have invested in following published material to maximize pseudo-llama potential in cruel world that fails to give positive feedback (not kind flaunted as style by artless musicians) and combings even when duly deserved:

What Incas Want

• Inca Cosmology And The Human Body
• What Incas Think They Want And How They Catch It
• What Slackers Want
• What Slackers Think And How To Not Care
• Mars And Venus In Toronto
• Mother Moon, Father Sun
• Love Without The Yaks
• Lactose And The Women Who Tolerate It
• The End Of Flirting
• Flirting Isn't The End
• How To Stop Flirting And Get Things Done
• (Stockpiling above as Spaniard C-Day gift)
• Happy To Be A Llama
• How Not To Be A Llama
• When Llamas Just Aren't Enough
• How To Be A Llama And Be Yourself
• How To Not Be Yourself
• The Llama Less Traveled
• Bored People Are Boring
• Finding Your Inner Amazing Transcendence
• If Gandhi Dated
• If The Inca Dated
• If Natalie Lambert Dated
• The Gullible Idiot's Guide To Feng Shoe
• B&Js Ice Cream Cookbook
• Shoes Throughout History
• (last two more fetish purchases than self-help actually)

The Cousinly-Receptionist-In-Training appeared almost disappointed. "Are you sure you aren't planning to reject LaCroix? Cutting yourself free of the factionwittage and emotional bumblebees and finding peace in protein shakes and meditation on your tanning bed — that's been working well for you, hasn't it?" Bonnie asked.

Nick frowned. "No, actually. It hasn't been what you could say is an overwhelming success."

Bonnie continued to reason that perhaps everyone would be better off if Nick just made a clean break of it, joined the space program, and shipped off to orbit Mars. Think of the peace and quiet! She'd heard the Russians had reasonable rates.

Nick wasn't particularly keen on abusing his vampire powers to whammy or fly his way upstairs, so he pulled out his cell phone and dialed LaCroix's private line. Over the Cousinly-Receptionist-In-Training's threats of legal action from the union, "Switchboard scab! Telecomunicatory elitist! Splitter!" Nick asked his sire to join him in the CERK lobby.

Additional trepidation came in the form of LaCroix appearing chagrined when Nick informed him the purpose of his visit was to take his sire to a Conversion Day surprise.

"Indeed. I've reflected upon this topic, and I've had quite an epiphany. I wonder if perhaps it isn't time to..." Hand motion. Tingle-tingle. "Step Out Of The Box, as it were. My Conversion Day doesn't have to be all about me, does it?"

"Yes, it does," Nick assured him. "It does!"

Nick's palms were sweaty, clutching the Caddy's steering wheel as they pulled up to the Jeweled Peach. Anxiety set in as the blond vampire detected that the vast warehouse attached to the restaurant that usually housed the Shrine to Nunkies remained nowhere to be seen. What had the construction workers been doing all day?

He heard mortal heartbeats approach, combined with a swishy-swishy sound, and glanced around to find Jules, Shele, Nancy and Tracy Sue all leaning over the door with gleaming smiles. Nick reared back in the driver's seat in surprise. All four women wore kimonos, kabuki makeup, and intricately padded black wigs. "Happy Conversion Day!!!" Jules crouched coyly, fluttering her lashes over the rim of a silk fan while she giggled. Shele began to bang a drum slowly. Nancy and Tracy Sue produced a shamisen and flute and proceeded to play 'You Light Up My Life.' Badly.

Nick ran a panicked hand through his hair. It appeared that, instead of using his funds for building a new Shrine to honor LaCroix, the women had funneled his money toward drinking sake at the sushi bar across the street. He glanced over at LaCroix, smiling weakly.

LaCroix looked at all of them as though they were escapees from a Gilbert & Sullivan number cut from 'Moulin Rouge.' "What is this?"

Nick thought that was a very good question. He scrambled out of the Caddy, hissing at Jules as the other three women shuffled around the car and ushered LaCroix out of the vehicle, "What is this?"

Jules killed her giggling, and her eyes lit with the sharp fanaticism of The Director! "There were time constraints, artistic differences, a peach marble shortage...We had to go in another direction."

Nick noticed that a dainty winding path of flat, slate stones had sprouted in the middle of what used to be the Shrine wreckage. Jules hurriedly explained under her breath that she'd made the creative decision to work with the setting as it lay, rather than waste precious time and manpower on clearing out the trash. Considering that gathering the scattered contents of the NA Wardrobe Room alone could have potentially used up all nineteen available hours, she had really made the practical choice.

Instead, the workers had covered the rubble with tarps, then dumped several trucks' worth of sand evenly on top. Shele had raked nifty designs into the surface: skulls and crossbones and a weather map of Tibet. Tracy Sue had stacked pebbles here and there, signifying 'the moment,' while Nancy had added a few potted bonsai trees trimmed in the shapes of animal crackers. Lanterns bobbed in a winding trail, enveloping the slate walkway in a warm glow. All and all, the improvements, if they could be called that, translated as very Zen.

"So instead of a Shrine," Nick muttered sourly, "you built LaCroix a cosmic litterbox?"

Jules fumed, whacking him with her fan. "Don't be close-minded. Open yourself. Allow my vision to flow into your consciousness."

Suddenly, rather than leading LaCroix with the others ahead on the walkway, Shele appeared behind them. (Very startling, that.) "Yeah, *her* vision," she said pointedly. "*My* vision had a shark tank. My vision rocked!"

"We started out thinking big, Nick," Jules explained as they treaded along the path. "Honestly, we did. The project began as a Nunkies-worshiping complex on a scale to rival the Forum Romanum, but then Nancy pulled out her green editing pen. It soon became very clear that we needed to think small! We didn't want Nancy's pen to run dry!"

"And then we started drinking sake..." Shele mentioned.

"Uh-huh." Nick looked fatally crushed. "Just how much did your thinking shrink?"

Jules tapped her fan lightly against her chin. "Have you ever accidentally placed a cashmere sweater into the dryer?"

Nick didn't have an opportunity to answer, for while he'd been staring incredulously at the High Priestess, he'd plowed straight into LaCroix, who was standing perplexed at the end of the path.

To LaCroix, it appeared to be a tiny hut with a curved, scrolling roof and walls built out of black-lacquered frames with rice paper inserts. "What is this?" he asked again.

Jules swished up the hut's one step, kicked off her kutsu, then padded her stockinged feet inside. Kneeling on a tatami mat by a small table, she said, "It's your Conversion Day gift from Nick and your many -"

"Four," Shele supplied.

"- Supporters!" Jules steepled her hands and made a small bow. "Welcome to The Pagoda To Nunkies!"

"Somebody shoot me," Nick groaned. "Please?"

LaCroix stood quietly for several moments, then, realizing all of the females were staring at him expectantly for feedback, offered, "I have never seen the like."

Jules motioned for him to enter. "Come inside! Try it out! Just LaCroix, though. There's not enough room for everyone."

The ancient vampire stepped up and promptly hit his nose on the low doorway. He rubbed the injury, swallowing his growling pride, and ducked in order to make another attempt at a semi-dignified entrance.

Jules issued a shocked shriek. "Your shoes! Take off your shoes!"

With a heavy sigh, LaCroix pulled off his footwear and placed them on the step next to his High Priestess'. Squeezing through the opening, he folded himself into a kneeling position on the other side of the table from Jules. He indulged in some more quiet frowning. "This is different. Rather uncomfortable, too."

Jules protested. "It's not really so different. Actually, we transplanted many concepts from the original Shrine, only placed them on a smaller scale. You see, instead of a Shrine altar, the Pagoda has this ceremonial table. Instead of a Sacred Cold Pond," Jules held up a tiny porcelain cup, "we have the Thimble Of The Cool Dragon. Instead of a garden of white rose bushes in the Green Room, we have lotus blossoms in a green vase. Instead of a Lab/Kitchen, we have this lovely tea set." Jules picked up the delicate tray, tilting it the ancient vampire's way.

LaCroix fidgeted. The tatami mat really did not offer a high degree of knee-cushioning. "I don't drink tea."

"The tea is for the hard-working High Priestess," Jules said crisply.

"Is there anything else?" LaCroix asked. "Am I through enjoying my gift yet?"

"Hmm," Jules said thoughtfully. "Well, instead of a sound system relaying all your Nightcrawler monologues, we have this symbolic bell..." *tinkle-tinkle*

"Just what I've always wanted in my honor," LaCroix drawled as he glared outside The Pagoda To Nunkies at Nick, who was repeatedly thwonking his head against the doorframe. "A tinkle-bell." He shifted to his feet, practically twisting his legs inside out so his knees wouldn't knock over the ceremonial table. "As much as I've delighted in this foray into 'The Mikado' meets 'Thumbelina,' I really must be getting back to my radio broadcast."

As LaCroix began the motions of standing, Jules cried out a warning. "Watch the low -"

RIIIIIPPP!!!! *CRACK!* <wuffle-wuffle>

"- Ceiling." Jules sat frozen for a moment, then started into action, taking a swig of tea. "Oh, dear."

Everyone stared speechless at The Pagoda To Nunkies, especially now that LaCroix's head was poking out of roof.

The ancient vampire extracted himself from the torn panel and the fragments of broken frame sticking every which way about his neck. He considered taking one of those shards of splintered wood and staking, or simply clouting someone about the head with it, but opted for cool, collected stateliness instead. LaCroix ducked out the doorway, replaced his shoes on his feet, and dusted his jacket free of rice paper confetti. "Nicholas."

"Yes, LaCroix?"

"Do you know what would be the most delightful Conversion Day honor of all?"

"Uh, no. No, I don't, LaCroix." Nick thought it was rather cruel of his sire to ask that question, since the Pagoda To Nunkies fiasco had already confirmed that he didn't know the answer.

LaCroix placed an arm around the younger man's shoulders and said firmly, "If you were to promise to never, ever, bestow upon me another Conversion Day gift."

"You should have seen the look on Nick's face!" Tracy Sue laughed. "It was like LaCroix had just asked for world peace!"

"Where were you during the entire event?" Nancy demanded of the Spaniard. "I know you don't want to share space with LaCroix after the whole cat-facial episode, but I figured you would at least hide -"

"Lurk," Vachon corrected. "I lurk."

Nancy appeased him. "Okay, I at least expected you to *lurk* behind a bonsai or something to observe LaCroix's reaction for yourself. What happened?"

Vachon became very thoughtful. "Had to haul Screed out of the Inca's before Juan staked him. Apparently he'd been drinking exotic rodents and got a hold of a bad prairie dog. Made Screed really...weird."

"How weird?" Shele asked, partially out of morbid curiosity, partly out of indignation for the prairie dog.

Such a complicated, thorny and deep array of emotions crossed Vachon's features, Nancy had to make a note of it. "Just weird," he said conclusively. Shaking off his thoughts, he turned Nancy's way. "So — how's your research into the Total Vachon Experience? Do you feel qualified to write the Vachon fanfic to end all Vachon fanfics yet?"

"Um, yes, well," Nancy muffled her voice by speaking into her drink. "There's a possibility I may be going in another direction on that."

"Such as?"

Nancy decided to come clean and set her drink aside. "The direction where I don't write a story. Look at it from this perspective — who do you want writing a story about you? Someone who thinks you're multi-faceted and mysterious...or me?"

"Point taken."

"And don't take this as criticism of your character," Nancy added, consulting her jotted research, "but I noticed that you earned Tracy Sue's plane ticket home a while back, but you forgot to actually give it to her. Maybe you should follow through."

Vachon scowled as he dug into his pocket. "I didn't forget." He turned to Tracy Sue, handing her the ticket. "I didn't forget," he repeated. "I was waiting for the right moment."

The Vaqmadre beamed at Vachon as though he was multi-faceted and mysterious and started to thank him for the trip home, only she noticed the time printed for the plane's scheduled departure out of the corner of her eye. "Oh, crap!" (Or something similar, semantically speaking.) "The flight leaves in fifteen minutes!"

Vachon rolled his eyes, ignored Nancy's 'Told you so!' look, and pushed away from the bar. "Come on. I'll fly you."

Which he did. But, although Tracy Sue arrived at the airport mere minutes before her flight to Arkansas departed, the Vaqmadre boarded the wrong flight again. She wound up in New York instead, without money or her Wiffle Bat O' Doom. She rallied (nay, Triumphed in true Vaquera fashion) by falling on the mercy of Ira Rook, who just happened to be in town continuing his American tour. Yeah, yeah, she missed home, but Tracy Sue figured she'd shack up until the band headed south. Rock and slackers always come first.

Alcoholic units: 0 (sobering), caffeine units: 2, combings: 4 (hummm), cud units: 2 (missed roughage), cotton units: 0 (living low maintenance lie), calories: 900 (vampire household food shortage)

1:10am:

Remained in bookshop, transforming self into revitalized, fascinating llama-type-person until fell asleep. Awoke in startled manner when security guard w/ragged, droopy moustache pinned w/blinding flashlight beam and shouted, 'Ahhhhh!' as if had never seen pseudo-llama curled up in comfy chair snuggling copy of 'Finding Your Inner Amazing Transcendence' and world atlas squashing face in place of pillow before. Actually, is possible secure-type-person has never seen anyone snuggle copy of 'Finding Your Inner Amazing Transcendence' before. Will gently calm guard and explain how am meaning no neurotic harm to his safe and sound environment. Will make friends.

1:17am:

Security guard v. speciesist! Would not talk over coffee. Kept crying, "Ahhh! Ahhh! It talks!' repeatedly, holding head in fear. Secure-type-person hardly allowed time for brewing of double cappuccino before called police for props in 'shooing speaking-llama-type-monster' from premises 'before it kills.' Lost temper w/ not-so-secure-after-all-wuss-w/-uniform-and-no-authority. Told speciesist guard am not an 'it,' am Omnifemale. Can bring home soy bacon and fry up in pan! Am not just roll-around wool dumpling seeking validation from males of all species so can be devalued and objectified for cuteness. Have been sent to Earth to give cad Battle Yaks what for! Am to be taken seriously! Guard misinterpreted declaration of pseudo-llama purpose and began shrieking, "Alien! Alien! Don't sit on my face! Don't sit on my face!" as if am escapee from Ridley Scott film. Threw biscotti at guard-type-person's head and filled pack with self-help books before escape. (Sirens approaching)

1:20am:

Am living life of sidewalk-walker again.

1:45am:

Ufgh. Pack v. loaded. Books heavy. 'Happy To Be A Llama' says I should embrace my burdens, not treating them as cumbersome baggage strapped to spine, but as opportunities to achieve new heights despite load of crap weighing me down. All fine and dandy for book to say that, but as book part of burden straining vertebrae, not feeling v. inspired or appreciative of advice. Getting free ride, book is.

Will drag pack along sidewalk with teeth for a while.

2:10am:

Huh. Am feeling homesick. 'The Llama Less Traveled' says stationary placement w/in familiar surroundings that encourage comfort key to personal happiness. Thought of law offices of 'Valdez, Montoya & Montalban' but then remembered naked Screed on Incan bed w/bicycle tire + small guinea pig. Was not comforted.

2:25am:

Don't care if naked Screed w/bicycle tire + small guinea pig on Incan bed! Want to go HOOOOOME!!! Must be possible to chase carouche off w/stick or something + reclaim domestic territory.

2:26am:

Remembered dated musician w/ guinea pig as pet during early college years. Was v. cute + squeaky (guinea pig, not musician) Could channel Inner Mother Moon + adopt.

2:50 am:

Have let self into law offices of 'Valdez, Montoya & Montalban.'

Really v. v. quiet. V. peaceful. Am immediately suspicious. Will locate stick to ward off crazed bare-bottomed carouche.

2:56am:

Apparently Incan vampires different from Spaniard + Crusader-types in that Incan-lawyer-types do not keep sharp pointy sticks as convenient part of decor.

Have found other interesting things absent, such as little ratsie corpses previously on floor have disappeared. Spaniard accessories, such as fragments of smug bastard guitar, cat treats and lump-resembling blanket, missing as well.

Have discovered guinea pig munching happily on parsley in bedding-filled kiddie pool as new feature of Incan den. Feeling oddly 'Finding Your Inner Amazing Transcendence,' as if can actuate personal desires through focus of will power! (V.g.)

Took guinea pig out of nest for intimate meet + greet. Introduced self. Told guinea pig expected to be great companions. Would even allow face-sitting as symbol of friendship. Guinea pig seemed very enthused and expressive w/ ebullient squeaking (wheek-wheek!) and curious crawling through pseudo-llama wool. Expressed no knowledge of existing form of address, cannot tell if cavy male or female, so have decided to call 'Viracocha.'

3:00am:

Just looked down and noticed Viracocha left turd on stomach. (wheek-wheek!) Will put guinea pig back in pool and disinfect self in bathroom.

3:11am:

Am freshly scrubbed free of Cocha products!

3:13am:

Have tiptoed to door of Incan bedroom. Am listening for sounds of starkers Screed on other side.

3:14am:

Hear nothing.

3:15am:

Is nakedness silent? Huh. Suppose depends on what nakedness doing. Huh.

3:18am:

All worry over naked carouche for naught. Found Juan sleeping on mattress encased in freshly-laundered linens, catching up on Incan sleep units. Looks v. tired. Will creep closer and see if naked.

3:19am:

Am evidently pseudo-llama destined for voyeuristic disappointment.

3:20am:

Also found comb grasped in Incan hand, as if fell asleep waiting for tangled mammal acquaintance to return. Is really v. endearing, almost better than finding Inca naked, as if pseudo-llama was missed while busily away being mauled by pigeons and nurturing seeds of Omnifemaleness. Though proven not truly Amazing or Transcendental, but rather work-in-progress, Inca still believes pseudo-llama belongs nearby.

Spirits all warm and glowy. Know should not feel validated by Incan opinion, but do, for everyone knows that philosophy of finding validation from w/in just pushed by people going through dry patch where can't get validated by external sources. Will take free parking if can get it + be appreciative.

3:22am:

Inca suddenly sat bolt upright, wielding comb as if thought me return of flying-free carouche and intended to stab me in chest. Waited for him to complain re: waking him up with stares/thoughts/presence, but Juan criticism-free. Hefted me onto pillow instead + began to give brushing. Hummm.

3:34am:

Juan asked where have been as was v. worried. Huh. Told Inca could not have been that worried re: llama or would have searched high + low. Was told did search low, but all bars, prisons and cycads between law offices and Raven proved devoid of wayward llamas. Began to huff, launching into speech that am Omnifemale llama that reads books + thinks + stuff + needs more entertainment than mad snogging, high-speed chasing, + getting squiffy all the time, but realized that Inca was teasing. Had really looked pretty much everywhere except bookshop and sidewalk in front of Plexodious cinema during my hour of need (but sun was up, so forgive him).

3:38am:

Having tummy scratched. Yessssss! Cotton units v. resilient!

Inca said to not take wrong way, but was better that llama missing all day. Found naked Screed on Incan bed w/bicycle tire + small guinea pig when came back to law offices of 'Valdez, Montoya & Montalban' Friday morning. Was told Inca comforted knowing that llama was spared witnessing the disturbing scene.

Nodded sympathetically + said nothing. Am living lie, after all. Juan seems v. pleased that llama not traumatized (lie!). Won't wet blanket protective instincts of Inca as can see Juan working himself up to another combing session.

3:56am:

Juan organizing household just like 'What Incas Want' describes. Has established four corners of Incan empire and shooed Spaniard back to his Church. (Book v. accurate!) Doesn't have so much of a problem w/ brotherly-type-person as does w/ troublemaking cat that feeds Spaniard friends bad prairie dogs + noisy guitar that depletes Incan sleep units. According to book, llamas revered in Incan culture as non-boring-type creatures. Asked Juan if true. Was told that, if mortal, Inca would be happy to eat me. Am strangely thrilled.

Combings: 16 (!!!), naughty thoughts: 33 (normal human-llama urges), cotton units: 0 (ha-ha! feel invincible), calories: 1900 (v.g.), pets: 1, steady groomer: 1 (!!!)

7:45pm:

Informed Inca of imperativeness of grocery-shopping venture, as Viracocha out of parsley. Must go and return before Madonna concert airs on cable. Inca appeared unenthused. Perhaps not Madonna fan?

7:50pm:

Turns out that, while not really huge on material girls (Huh. Will not leave 'Shoes Throughout History' on coffee table just yet), Juan definitely not enthusiastic about name chosen for guinea pig. Says 'Viracocha' creator of universe and all things. Is insulting to Incan godliness to pass on revered title to creature that crawls about, wheek-wheeking, + leaving turds everywhere. Thought it rather symbolic, myself.

Spoke to Inca in placating voice, told him that, yes, 'Viracocha' all-powerful creator of universe, so if not jolly about species of namesake, perfectly well had ample means + opportunity to give us sign, at v. least drop llama an e-mail requesting an alternate guinea pig handle like 'Ylang-Ylang,' 'Ginger' or 'Mr. Oliver Poopoobottom.'

7:54pm:

Just checked e-mail.

Ha-ha! Viracocha name stays put! Will not be smug. Will not.

7:55pm:

Maybe just a little bit smug.

8:40pm:

Shopping at market. Juan v. amazed by everything, as groceries non-concept for normal vampire-type-persons. Inca rolled cart, smiling at everything as if owned store + came up w/idea all by self. Gave him list of everything growing guinea pigs like Viracocha need to maximize wheek-wheeking sentiments: carrots, endive, cilantro, berries, eggplant, tomatoes, coffee, soy burgers, B&Js, Oreo-Os, Fiber One, skim milk, fat free chocolate milk, feta, hummus and pita bread.

Juan seemed suspicious of suitability of certain items for guinea pig consumption, but placed in cart anyway. When reached checkout, total was $74.87. Inca grumbled a bit. Said was quite expensive for one small guinea pig that, if were Incan mortal, would have been *in* grocery cart. Quickly re-emphasized growing nature of guinea pig, then crumpled under web of lies + confessed secret addiction to Oreo-Os mixed w/Fiber One.

8:42pm:

Yesss! Inca ok w/twisted breakfast food habit! (V. non-cerealist of him)

9:02pm:

Watching live concert on cable. Juan showing token support of my interests by sitting in proximity of television, though Incan attention truly focused on briefs (legal) in lap.

9:12pm:

Have possibly just made v.v. magnificent Omnifeminine breakthrough!

While watching concert, theoretically entertained by music + flashy stage theme, inner thoughts raged regarding LIVING LLAMA LIE.

Sank into thoughts of being self, and not being self. If self born a Homo sapiens, is self not stuck a Homo sapiens? No degree of costume adjustment or assuming of funny accents will make self anything other than poseur, no matter how much may decide would like to be something else than what born? Suspect true. Still wonder at power of delusion, for if believe self something, and am surrounded by people who believe self is something, is self actually something, or is everyone mass-mucked in the head? And if people believe in something that is delusion, and feel affection for that delusion, build the four corners of their empire around that delusion, isn't it all just really sad + empty + pointless + wrong? Wouldn't everybody be happier + full + meaningful + right if the lies were scrapped and selves started LIVING THE REALITY?!?!

9:13pm:

Just stood up on hind legs and declared, "I AM AS MUCH A LLAMA AS MADONNA IS A BRITISH PUNK!!!" Promptly collapsed, clapping hooves over mouth in hopes could stuff confession back in wordy mouth.

Ohmigawd. Ohmigawd. What will Inca do?!?!

9:14pm:

Juan shuffled legal papers, looked at me huddled in cria position on floor, ostensibly gnawing off my feet, and asked in quizzical voice what had happened. As was too busy fearing truthful recriminations, made no response. Juan looked over to TV, where Madonna was strumming a guitar and singing 'Candy Perfume Girl' like she was really v. tough and brimming w/Rock. Heard sound of boredom. Was asked if wouldn't prefer nice, relaxing combing over watching noisy cable concert?

Huh? Have fallen into parallel universe of selectively-deaf-Incas?

9:25pm:

A-ha! Have just figured out what happened. 'If The Inca Dated' explains that Incan males are all inherently patriarchal warriors at heart. While understand the vital role of females in the universe, find them way too confusing to sort out 100% of the time. So, every once in a while, an Incan male climbs a mental mountain to distance himself from females in order to clear his thoughts. (Ignores them to maintain sanity.) The book also said something about literal sacrificing of females on altar as way to encourage Viracocha's blessing of Incan male solo projects, but am thinking that was just so much metaphor + hyperbole for Incan relationship breakup that completely doesn't apply to me.

Important part of everything is that Inca doesn't listen to half of things female llama says! Wheeee! Love him!