Llama Diary Arc From War 11 - Abridged
Copyright 2001
By Bonnie Rutledge
with Bonnie Pardoe, Libby Singleton, Patt Elmore, Shele McCaa, Merc Mildred,
Christy Stillman, and Tracy Sue Morris

This is an abridged version of the stories involved with the llama arc from War 11.
I've whittled it down to the bare bones, including mostly just the posts I wrote or co-wrote.
That being the case, the vast number of posts concernng the War plot and the many FK characters
switching bodies, the attacks, barfights and parties, etc., are not included here, even though many 
related to this storyline. 

***************************************************************
WAR: NA: Uncompromising Positions 
By Bonnie Rutledge, Patt Elmore and Christy Stillman

Bonnie stood on a dais, arms outstretched in supplication as if to
plead, 'Fanfic Fairies, why hast thou forsaken me?!' She was draped in a
white, gauzy fabric embroidered with white rosebuds. Supaige crouched to the
right of her, a nest of stickpins clasped between her teeth as she studiously
adjusted Bonnie's hem. Shele stood to Bonnie's left. She preferred jabbing
pins every which way with one hand while she scribbled in a copy of 'Mad Libs
Horoscopes' with the other.

Shele and Supaige were fitting Bonnie for a very special gown. It was
the Coronation Gown for the future Nunkies Anonymous High Priestess.
Theoretically, this was a solemn occasion, filled with decorum and respect.

"Give me an adjective," Shele ordered, poking Bonnie between the ribs.

Supaige rotated the redhead slightly so she had access to a new expanse
of unpinned fabric. Bonnie whimpered in self-pity. "Unfair."

Scribble. Scribble. "Give me another adjective," Shele instructed.

Bonnie crossed her arms. "Not-gonna-do-it."

Shele became very careless with one of the stickpins.

Bonnie jumped. "Ow!" She scowled as she rubbed her sore arm. "Bad candy,
Shele!"

"Yuh-huh." Shele lifted her Sacred Quill Pen. "I didn't like your
suggestion. Try again. An adjective?"

"Despicable," Bonnie mumbled.

"Now a noun."

Bonnie sighed dramatically. "Tragedy."

"Mmm-hmm." Shele consulted her list. "A verb ending with '-ing'."

Supaige shifted on her heels. Her spine made creaky noises. She winced.
"Torturing. As in, 'all this work on a dress Bonnie doesn't appreciate is
torturing my back.'"

"Ooooh. 'Torturing.'" Shele was pleased. "Good word. One more. A
person's name?"

Supaige suddenly straightened, swiped the pins from her mouth, and shook
one finger sternly at the Scribe. "Bonnie!"

Shele nodded and entered that into her 'Mad Libs Horoscope.'

"Bonnie!" Supaige repeated. "Are you bleeding on the Coronation Gown?
Shameful!"

"But Shele stabbed me!"

"Excuses, excuses," Supaige said dismissively. "Do you realize how hard
it is to get stains out of a white dress?!?!"

Bonnie zoned out Supaige's complaint. Pouting at Shele, who taunted her
with another stickpin, took precedence.

Supaige looked up just in time to catch Bonnie sticking out her tongue
to blow a raspberry. "Oh, honestly! As much as I'd say LaCroix knows best, if
he thinks you're 'mature' enough to become the new High Priestess, he can't
be in his right mind!"

"As much as I blame LaCroix - and it *is* LaCroix's fault," Bonnie
declared. "Jules deserves censure, too. She put the idea into his head..."

~~~~~~Fuzzy Flashback to War 10~~~~~~~

"Bonnie!" Jules said, jumping up and brushing past LaCroix. "I'm glad
you arrived before I left. Do you have any questions about the job?"

"One question, Jules," Bons said, looking at Jules like a tiny, helpless
animal.

"Yes?"

"How in the *expletive-deleted* could you do this to me???!!!"

"Perhaps she can explain to both of us," LaCroix said, turning to Jules.
"For starters, I don't recall granting you permission to leave."

"You don't?" Jules asked. She set down her briefcase, opened it, and
produced a document that had the words 'High Priestess Contract' spelled
across the top in big, bold letters. "Let's turn to Section 3, paragraph 2,
entitled, 'Jules' Oh-So-Important Provisos.'" She added with bravado, "I
haven't worked around lawyers for 13 years for nothing!" She then quoted:
"'Whenever she wants, Jules can run off and appoint someone to assume her
CERK and Shrine duties.' How's that for legal mumbo jumbo?"

"Not enough jumbo, I'd say," Bons volunteered.

LaCroix, in response, deposited a large file in Bonnie's hands.

"Huh. What's this?" asked the Scribe.

"Payroll," replied the ancient. "Even the immortal can't escape
paperwork. Be sure to have that completed by the time you come to work
tomorrow evening."

"Tomorrow evening?"

"I'll expect you before midnight, Bonnie. With the *completed* product,"
LaCroix warned her then turned on his heel. "I almost forgot..." The vampire
paused in the doorway briefly. "We need pencils. Recycled. Don't come back
empty-handed."

"No, sir," Bons replied dutifully, even as she imagined making Jules eat
her rotten provisos with a nice coating of Marmite slathered on top.
Normally, Bons wouldn't be caught dead doing accounting. Considering
LaCroix's attitude toward insubordination, if she didn't do accounting, she'd
be caught dead.

~~~~~~End of Fuzzy Flashback~~~~~~~

"Now I'm trapped! Doomed to light incense, balance ledgers and sort
letters from dead people for the rest of my existence!" Bons wailed.

"Now, don't be speciesest. Vampires need mail, too," Supaige warned. She
began to tap one foot impatiently. "You know, for a future High Priestess,
you're mighty ungrateful. Some people would kill to be in your shoes!"

"I know," Bonnie nodded. "And Christy knows I know. I had new locks put
on my Non-Sensible Shoe Closet to foil her heel-happy greed."

"Where's your grace? Your dignity? Your poise? Jules had poise. You?
You're too perky for poise!" Supaige shuddered. "You kiss *Spaniards,* for
Nunkies' sake!"

"Hey!" Bonnie objected. "I didn't write that! I'm not taking
responsibility for any slacker snogging! Besides, Vachon was mortal. I was
barefoot. Obviously things got a little weird; people weren't
themselves...Besides, what are the odds of that ever happening again?
Impossible! Really, I'd have to be dead, or worse - kidnapped! - to ever go
sans my non-sensibles again. Huh! And nothing freaky-cosmic could conceivably
happen that would render Vachon less of a vamp a second time! So let's just
pretend no lip-smacking happened between me and the Spaniard. Like, it's been 
almost two years! I've forgotten about it completely! Yes! A mental eclipse!
Nothing between my ears! Wait a minute...err...oh, you know what I meant!"

Shele and Supaige both nodded their heads in understanding, making it
perfectly clear that each knew Bonnie was a self-delusional wacko. "Uh-huh."

Supaige added another accusatory brainstorm. "Did you spare a second
appreciating how much work the Addicts have put into preparing for this
induction??? Hmm?"

"I didn't ask for it! I don't wanna be High Priestess! It's an actual
*job*! Waahh!!"

"Enough of Bonnie's whining and protestations of lust," Shele announced.
"Listen to this 'Mad Libs Horoscope': 'Addicts snorkel as party confusion
transforms into unfair despicable tragedy torturing Bonnie.' Hear that,
Supaige? I get to snorkel again, this time without the body cast! That's good
candy!"

"Yo! What about the 'unfair despicable tragedy' torturing ME???" Bonnie
demanded. "Bad, BAD candy!"

"Don't worry, Fiber Girl," Shele said, patting Bons on the shoulder. "No
matter how you may be embarrassed or abused in the future, I'll always be
there to laugh at your misfortune and mock your pain. Consider it my gift to
you."

Bonnie stomped her heel. Stomp. She suspected no one listened, so she
stomped some more for emphasis. Stomp. Stomp. "Nothing doing! I don't care
how LaCroix tortures me. So what if the wardrobe's great? I'm not going to be
Nunkies' glorified secretary! If the job's so wonderful, why did Jules
leave?!? She's got a brain! She said, 'No! I quit!' Well, so do I!!!" After
shaking a triumphant fist in the air, Bonnie struggled out of the Coronation
Gown, tossing it high overhead before she stalked toward the Lab/Kitchen.

Supaige leapt to catch the honorary garment before it touched the floor,
taking care to not perforate her fingers on the pins booby-trapping the
fabric. "That was interesting."

"Yes," Shele agreed. "Now we know Bonnie wears 'Powerpuff Girls'
underwear. Personally, I could have done without that information."

"Precisely." Supaige considered the Coronation Gown thoughtfully. "So I
guess she's telling the other leaders she's not going to become High
Priestess about now."

"Yep."

"Think it'll matter?"

"Not a chance."

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

Bonnie looked around the addict-less anteroom, tapping her foot
impatiently. Disregard her denial to serve, would they? Huh! She'd show
them!

The Scribe-Refusing-To-Be-High-Priestess scanned the room's
contents, her eyes alighting on the sarcophagus. "Hmm..." Bonnie shuffled
through the ruins, finding the fallen, blush-colored shipping label Patt
& Co. had overlooked during the earlier excitement marked 'URGENT:
Forward To CERK.' She clutched the paper in a clenched fist, sneaky
thoughts tangoing in her head. "A High Priestess can't be inaugurated if
she's not here..."

Bonnie moved to search through her pockets for her bottle of
Pink-Out<tm>. Huh. Bonnie noticed she was stomping around the Shrine in
her underwear. Oops. (Bad for fanfic rating, but justifiable through
third-season-cable-network-peep-and-pant tactics.) Still, feeling the
burden of the tasteful 'Forever Knight' consumer and a growing chill up
her 'Buttercup' briefs, she grabbed one of the comfy looking Egyptian
terry cloth robes and slipped out into the alley.

Her path took her through the Sacred Stables and barn, where she
paused briefly to pet Tracy Camel's nose. The Scribe warily walked
through the open area of the Sacred Barn and Hayloft, careful not to
arouse the interest of the pigeons perched on the rafters above. Bons
turned the alley corner, hugging close to the wall and entered by way of
the Lab/Kitchen. She tiptoed past Chris' Scientific Bakery and into the
Sacred Laundry Room.

Tossing clothes left and right from the precisely folded 'Clean'
basket (thereby re-dirtying them in mad fit of domestic sabotage), Bonnie
hunted through her fellow addicts' garments in search of her own.
"Beverley's jeans...Nope." Toss! "Anne's peach stretch camisole...hmm,
Victoria's Secret...no, I shouldn't steal. Lying will be sufficient
morally ambiguous activity for today...hmm..." Fling! "KC's red
jumpsuit...Some things *are* sacred." Lob and volley! "Speedo...Ah! My
Speedo! Love it! Love it! And a beach towel! Mine, mine, mine!"

And so, behind a conveniently-placed mound of tablecloths waiting for
Louis Cabon's ironing skills, Bonnie traded her 'Powerpuff Girls' undies
for her swimwear. Infinitely more practical for gadding about. She tiptoed back through the
Lab/Kitchen, again around Chris' scientific bakery - the scent of barley
teased her nostrils (mmm) - slipped her hand into the utility drawer,
silently fished out three small items and returned via the alley to the
sarcophagus with waiting shipping label.

Using Item-Fetched-From-The-Lab/Kitchen-#1, a bottle of
Pink-Out<tm>(Rather like White-Out, but on another wavelength. Fumes
known to make Evil Cousin Tiff dance naughty jig at parties. A handy
tool.), Bonnie crossed out the letters 'CERK' from the intended
sarcophagus destination. Using Item-Fetched-From-The-Lab/Kitchen-#2, a
black permanent marker (The only thing in the Shrine remotely as
permanent as LaCroix. Actually clocked more hours on the premises, at
that. Hmm. Maybe the faction should rededicate itself as Sharpies
Anonymous. Distinct concept, but what to wear as organization uniform?
Ink-soaked felt? Hmm...), Bonnie replaced the name of the radio station
with 'The Spa Experience.'

Humming 'I Wanna Be A Lifeguard' under her breath, Bonnie placed the
shipping label prominently by the casket. Next, she picked up the crowbar
the addicts had left on the floor. Prying at the lid of the sarcophagus,
the seal gave way with a moan-like rush of air. Stone scraping against
stone, Bonnie pushed the lid aside. As the opening widened, a spectre of
dust rushed free, darting from wall to wall of the anteroom in a rush of
grit and ashes in a tiny, contained cyclone. As it flew with seeming
deliberation toward Bonnie's head, the Scribe waved her hands in the air
in front of her face and sneezed. The cloud dispersed in a whoosh.

Bonnie coughed slightly as she continued to wave her hands in front
of her face. "Dopey antiquities with their grit bombs..." she muttered.
"But what does LaCroix care?!" she complained aloud. "He doesn't have
allergies. Everyone else can wheeze and suffer and do his silly payroll
reports. Doesn't matter, as long as *he* isn't inconvenienced. Now,
wouldn't that be lovely? LaCroix trapped in an unpleasant predicament
where he can't just arch his eyebrows and have his way...? I wish. Yes,
yes. Boo-hiss on LaCroix."

So grumbled, Bonnie produced Item-Fetched-From-The-Lab/Kitchen-#3,
her swim goggles, and fitted them on her head to protect from further
dusty bits that might fling into her eyes.

Bonnie's vision narrowed through the blue-tinted lenses as another
eerie moan echoed through the anteroom. She swiftly glanced around to see
if anyone had entered while her back was turned, but she remained alone,
discounting Sparky, the vampiric newt. (Noise no doubt merely Ratpackers
using Shrine plumbing as jungle gym. Nothing intrinsically ominous in
that unless ratters harvesting the copper joints for swap meet profits.
Discount that suspicion on basis of hypothetical theory of concise plot
advancement. Apologize to readers belatedly for continued wordiness of
explanatory prose.)

Attention on the sarcophagus once more, Bonnie heaved the lid fully
aside (Weight training benefit of bench-pressing luggage in and out of a
Suburban during travelicious Arizonan foray with Road Sister Posse.
Ahoy!) Leaning over the rim to peer inside, Bonnie found it already
contained a distinctly ripe occupant.

"Ick! Old dead thing! What would LaCroix want with that?!" (Old dead
thing - rather a description of the Nunkster, himself, if one was feeling
uncharitable.) Clapping her hands together in a business-like manner,
Bonnie announced, "Alrighty then, Mr. Mummy! Naptime's over! Rise and
shine! Chop! Chop!"

Lifting the sarcophagus' guest, Bonnie cringed at the feel of
desiccated flesh and dusty linen under her hands. "Right," she mumbled to
herself. "Fellow just needs a bit of lotion and some mouthwash. You've
dated worse. Nothing to squirm about." She lifted and pulled the ancient
corpse from his resting place and padded slowly backwards toward the
nearest Ratpacker closet (Most addicts with strongly developed senses of
preservation avoided Ratpacker closets like plague or tax forms. This 
gives some insight to Bonnie's character, yes?), dragging the
wrapped remains with her. With applied yoga techniques and a few
well-placed shoves, Mr. Mummy was soon stocked behind a shiny aluminum
door between a nest of chewing gum wrappers and a stack of duct tape doughnuts.

Skipping back to the now-empty sarcophagus, Bonnie began to hum the
melody to 'I Wanna Be A Lifeguard' anew, this time substituting 'I Wanna
Be A Mummy' for the original lyrics. She climbed over the rim (Clinging
skills developed on suspiciously narrow rim trails of the Grand Canyon
during aforementioned Arizona foray with Road Sister Posse. Ahoy!). As
she fell into the sarcophagus, one of her non-sensible denim mules (left
foot) slipped off and skittered to the floor, several feet below.
Slightly perturbed, but not willing to attempt to crawl back out of the
casket to fetch the fallen footwear, Bons sighed deeply and dragged the
vault's lid back into place, settling inside the musty interior with her
beach towel wrapped around her legs, breathing exercises on her mind.

Minutes after Bonnie sequestered herself within the sarcophagus, a
knock came at the door, swiftly followed by the reappearance of the
deliveryman, Mike, with two assistants. "I made a mistake with the
invoice," he called, gesturing to a small crate that fit under his arm.
"This was the package meant for -" Mike broke off as he realized the
once-bustling anteroom was now empty. "Hello?" he called again. "Anybody
around?"

When there was no answer, the deliveryman shrugged, then looked to
his peers. "Go ahead and pack the sarcophagus back into its crate. This
one's urgent. I'll leave a note explaining the mistake."

The pink shipping label on the floor caught Mike's eye. Swiping it
up in one hand, he noted the delivery address and stacked the smallish
replacement crate among the other cartons with a quickly scribbled
account of the switch.

After a few more seconds of bustle, the deliverymen left, taking
the re-boxed sarcophagus with them, leaving behind only a single
non-sensible shoe littering the floor in its place.

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

WAR: NA/VAQS: Tiff and the Amazing, Transcendental Motorbike (1/1)
By Bonnie Rutledge
Place: Ratpacker Tunnels
Time: Plot Hole Filling Temporal Diversion between 'Addicts A Go-Go' and 'Ray Of Light'

Starring: Tiff, Tracy Sue, Jan, Beverley, Teri, and Sizzlin's hindquarters

"I CANNOT believe we're stuck in the Ratpacker Tunnels!" Jan exclaimed as she
brushed the high-speed chase dirt off of her Not-So-Vestal-Virgin uniform.

"Come on, Sizzlin'!" Teri coaxed her horse's rump. "Try wiggling yourself free!
You can do it!"

"It could be worse," Beverley said, eyeing Sizzlin's rear philosophically.
"We could have gotten stuck in here behind a Battle Yak."

"Whadda I care?" Tiff said, her cheek (facial) pressed lovingly to chrome
chassis. "I have gotten away with it! I have stolen Vachon's Triumph and made it
mine!" She emitted a happy sigh and fondled one handgrip. "I'm officially
*stylin.'* Now, if only I had a pet Elvis or two to help me polish it..."

"A-hem," Jan said in a businesslike tone. "Have you forgotten the whole *purpose* of
snatching said 'stylin' motorcycle?"

Tiff coughed and sneezed. "Huh?! *Cough!* Wha'? *Purpose?*"

"Yeah," Beverley joined in, tapping one foot disapprovingly. "Did you forget
your Evil Plan? Steal motorbike, use as leverage in ransom trade for Bons, whom the
Vaqs *obviously* kidnapped, otherwise they wouldn't have said that they hadn't
kidnapped her." She tapped one temple knowingly. "Vaqs are sneaky that way."

"Soo..." Jan concluded. "Don't get too chummy with the Triumph, 'cause you're
not keeping it!"

"I'll say!" Teri interrupted, her disgust for Addictive Logic apparent. "Hello?!
Vaquera and her horse blocking your path! You're already caught! Vachon's Triumph is
not yours! Oh, and another thing - WE DIDN'T KIDNAP THE RUTLEDGE!!!!!"

"See?!" Beverly said smugly to her faction mates. "I told you they kidnapped her!"

"Arrgghh!!!" Teri groaned. "Hey, Bev! Come a little closer to the horse! Feel free
to kick some sense into her, Sizzlin!"

"No! No!" Tiff declared feverishly. "I refuse to believe it! Never give up!
Never give up! NEVER GIVE UP!!! Besides....I LUUUUV the motorbike! It would break
my heart into widdle-iddle pieces to part with it!" Tiff sniffed and wiped away a glistening 
tear that tumbled down one cheek.

Teri wasn't impressed. "You Addicts are so weird."

Suddenly, Vachon's Triumph was infused with a blue, glistening glow. All four
women gasped as it began to levitate off the tunnel floor, emitting a humming sound.
Slowly, the motorcycle danced amidst a kaleidoscope of sparkly lights, spinning in
a slow circle.

*Fizzle* *Poof!*

"Oh, MY GAWD!!!!" Tiff cried in horror. "VACHON'S TRIUMPH HAS BEEN ABDUCTED 
BY ALIENS!!!!"

Teri stared, openmouthed and dumbfounded at the dark tunnel ceiling, where just
seconds before, her fave character's prized vehicle had been floating in a dazzling
pool of light. "Okay, that's really weird."

"Right," Jan agreed humorlessly. "And we're still here, trapped behind your
horse's hind end."

As Tiff erupted in heartbroken tears, hugging the exhaust-scented hem of her shirt
to her cheek (facial), Beverley called for help. "Come back, Mother Ship! Come back!"

Because anything, even alien probing, is better than being stuck in the Ratpacker
Tunnels with Evil Cousin Tiff during a Moment Of Drama.

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

Now you may be wondering what exactly happened to Vachon's Triumph. Was it
*really* being examined for signs of intelligence by life forms from another planet?
Could the aliens be discussing the Philosophies of Eastern Thought with it even now?

Well, actually, no. Motorbikes, no matter how special, don't talk. They do,
however, with enough polishing and oil changes, over the span of years, form deep,
loyal affection for their owners. Consider them chrome Labrador Retrievers,
if you will.

Vachon's motorcycle is no exception.

Finding itself far, far away from its favorite vampire Spaniard (and against
its will - free will is very important to Amazing, Transcendental Motorbikes,
make a note of that), Vachon's Triumph had no choice but to bend the laws of
space and time and return to the safe proximity of its rightful owner.
(Yes, Amazing, Transcendental Motorbikes are rather a pisser to steal.
That may not stop Tiff from trying, though. Repeatedly.)

**********************************************************
End for now

War: RATS/NA: A Tale Of Two Bonnies (1/1)
AUTHOR: The Bonnies (Rutledge and Pardoe)
Follows: "NA:War's My Mummy!?" and "RATS: What's A Bonnie To Do?"

DATE/TIME: July 6 - evening
PLACE: Alan's Apartment, The Spa Experience, TO
Rae used with her permission

Bonnie Pardoe had been waiting by both the phone and her computer for Libby to contact her.
Though she didn't show it, meeting up with LaCroix in Screed form had unnerved her!
She felt fairly safe around the FKFIC-L interpretation of Screed -- he really did
prefer rats to people and was far less intimidating than Tracy before her morning
cup of coffee! But LaCroix, well, he was another story all together. The man, er,
master vampire, was, to put it mildly, a pompous old fart who needed knocking off
his high horse! But, unfortunately, there wasn't anyone old enough or powerful
enough to do it -- Bonnie didn't come close! Not even with seven notches in her
belt from War 8!

Then again, the man had been kind to her in War 9. He'd sheltered her, clothed her,
fed her, given her money, and even a name when she had none of her own. Why, she'd
never found out. Ulterior motive, no doubt, but still, she did owe him a debt.
And so far she'd repaid him with irreverence and sarcasm and an idle threat to
his life (which had gone completely over the old geezer's, erm, the gentleman's
pre-occupied head) and at a time when he obviously wasn't at his best. Oh, good
one, Bonns -- kick the guy when he's down. Tsk. Tsk. Poor ol' LaCroix. Still,
she could angst over her ill treatment of LaCroix later. There were more immediate
things to worry about.

Bonnie had gotten a phone message from Libby the day before but her directions
to Ratpack HQ were, not unsurprisingly, indecipherable. Bonns wasn't one to get
lost, especially not in Toronto, but she'd pretty much lost before she'd even
begun with what Johnsie and Libby had given her. She was almost beginning to
suspect that they didn't trust her with the knowledge of where their little HQ
was located. As if she couldn't keep a secret. Who was she gonna tell anyway?

But, finally, just as she stepped out the door to throw away the trash -- how
ironic! -- Libby had called, leaving another message:

"Oy, Bonns! Don' know whys ya cou' no find h'us yes-sir-no-sir-day, seems
simple 'nuff ta me h'an' Oiy kin't find me way h'outta h'a paper sack!
Let's jus' reconn-goiter h'at the Starbuck's downtown this very h'afternoon
h'an' Oiy'll takes ya back ta h'our h'ach-kew. That'll be h'a roight twist,
won' it? Me bein' the one wot leads ya 'round fer h'once! HA! Iffn Oiy
misses ya, do no worry. Oiy'll catch up wif ya h'at H'alan's
shhhhh-'secret' laboraforium! Mahahahah!"

Bonnie had just stood there staring at the answering machine. "Huh?" was all her
confused mind could manage. How in the bloody heck did Vachon do it? No wonder
everyone accused the guy of blinking -- it's his mind trying to fathom why people
in general don't speak like Eliza Doolittle on acid. Yup, that was it.
Four-hundred-odd years was far too much time to spend with the likes of Screed
and his Ratpack. Note to self: if decision to live forever affirmative,
find new friends for the duration!!

Well, the one thing she had understood was the word Starbuck's. Now, there
was practically one on every corner of downtown these days, but she was certain
that Libby could mean only one. The one on the corner of Yonge and Carlton --
just down from Maple Leaf Gardens, just down from Allen Gardens, just down from
the church on Jarvis which looked a lot like Vachon's but unfortunately wasn't.
That had to be the one she meant!

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

Bonnie approached the attendant manning the front desk at 'The Spa Experience.'
"Excuse me, but I can't fit my sarcophagus into my locker. Will you watch it for me?"

Bonnie hadn't thought it an issue. Once safely delivered and unpacked at the
health club from 'If Looks Could Kill,' she'd swum a relaxing kilometer, then spent
the night dozing on a massage table. The next morning meant another kilometer in
the lap pool, then a trip to the sauna followed by a seaweed body wrap. On her way
back from this kelpy refreshment, she'd noticed the sarcophagus had drifted into the
weight room and was now being used in repetitions by a behemoth wearing lycra
shorts and a T-shirt that read, "Bench This!"

"No, no, no, no!" She slapped his hands, making for a few precarious seconds.
"A sarcophagus is not a toy! LaCroix had that shipped to the Nunkies Anonymous
Shrine, you know - that's a secret, by the by. Forget you heard it!"

"Help!" the weightlifter said, experiencing a rush of endorphins as he lost
his grip on the hulking mass of carved stone, and it threatened the integrity of
his ribcage. "Spot me! Spot me!"

Bonnie shrugged, pulled out her Pink-Out<tm>, and began to paint the
weightlifter's forehead with little dots. Blithely continuing with the part she
considered important to the conversation, she said, "'Help' is right. That
sarcophagus has gotta be cursed. LaCroix wouldn't have shipped it to NunkAnon first
unless it was cursed." Bonnie paused in her spotting duties. "Hmm...maybe it
wasn't such a good idea to disturb the old, dead guy inside?...Oh well, I'm
short, freckled and perky - how much more cursed can anybody get?"

Bonnie stepped back as four personal trainers leapt forward to remove the
sarcophagus from the weightlifter's chest and administer oxygen. "Move it over
here, folks," she directed. The trainers started to lift the weightlifter. "No,
no! Not him! The sarcophagus!"

Leaving Bonnie at the front desk, where we found her at the beginning of this segment, 
asking the attendant for further security measures for her cursed Egyptian antiquity.

"Well...I guess we could put it in Doctor Jurgen's office...By the way,
she's offering an Immortality Injection special this week."

"No, I think I'll just wrinkle and grey at my normal rate of entropy,
thank you. I'd appreciate it if you kept the casket in her office, though."
Bonnie patted her stomach as it made an angry rumble. It'd been a good 8 hours
since her last meal. "Do you have anything to eat here?"

The attendant nodded. "We have a nice infusion of wheatgrass you can try!"

Bonnie looked askance. "No, not enough fiber...I think I have a hankering for
a Navajo taco. Do you know where I can find a Navajo taco in Toronto?"

The attendant shrugged, looking clueless.

Bonnie sighed, then stepped tentatively out into 'The Spa Experience'
parking lot. After all, successfully hiding out from your faction-mates depends
greatly on not wandering around where you could have a coincidental,
plot-advancing meeting.

A papaya milkshake at the Thai Burger Palace across the street held no charm.
Walking to the corner, Bonnie elected to visit the Mecca for the best source of energy
in times of stress: Starbucks.

"Cafe au Lait, Grande, plus one of those Mango-Raspberry scones."

Bonnie moved to grab some extra napkins and found a somewhat lost-looking
Bonnie blowing absently on her cup of non-fat hot chocolate, with whip, no syrup,
as she tried to keep it from sloshing over the sides while she put on its lid.

"Bonnie!" she said.

The other woman's head lifted and her eyes widened. "Hi, Bonnie!"

Bonnie looked momentarily confused. Was that a correction, or a greeting? "Bonnie?"

"Hi!" Bonnie repeated, pointing a finger (though politely) at her new company.
"No, not me! You!"

"Oh...well, hi, Bonnie!"

Both Bonnies nodded enthusiastically for a moment, then the conversation waned.
One blew on her hot chocolate some more, while the other picked at her scone.

After a Mango-Raspberry nibble, Bonnie asked, "So what'cha doing here?"

Bonnie calculated her answer. Should she say she was following terrible directions
to the highly secret Ratpacker headquarters? Should she ask if Bonnie had seen
Libby? Nah. "Just meeting someone."

"Oh?"

"Looks like they're late."

"Oh."

"What are you doing here?"

Bonnie concealed her musing behind a sip of cafe au lait. Should she mention
she was in (whispered) Super Secret Hiding From Nunkies Anonymous? No, not yet.
"Mm, just hanging around...doing stuff."

"Oh...Right."

"BONNIE!!!!!!!"

One Bonnie dove for the floor, ostensibly holding her coffee cup and scone
over her head as a form of invisible shielding. The other Bonnie began to twirl
in a slow circle, searching in the napkin dispenser and tip mug for a Ratpacker
Tunnel entrance, as she called, "Libby? Where are you, Libby? I can't see you, Libby!"

"Hi, Bonnie!"

The Bonnie crouched close to the floor peered around her scone and saw a
familiar black boot implanted with a small metal figurine of General Lucius. "Rae? Is that you?"

Rae stretched out an arm to shake hands. "Can't talk long - have to catch a
flight outta town! Big shame what with the crazy stuff happening all over."
Regret flashed over Javiette's features. "But when you've gotta go, you've
gotta go. Am I right?"

"Right." Bonnie straightened and moved to shake Rae's hand, but found her
scone in the way.

At a loss, she handed it to the other Bonnie, interrupting her curious search for Libby in 
the trash receptacle.

"So," Bonnie said as she finally took Rae's hand in a crumby grip, "you say
there's crazy stuff happening all over town, huh?" (Mental flash to messing with
old, dead guy and spooky sarcophagus.) "Anything Egyptian curse-like I should know about?"

"The usual! Nothing you can't handle!" Rae gave her a friendly thunk on the
arm. "Just don't get any of your usual war-time-web-page-prank ideas and change
ScreedWasHere.com into the Shrine To Nunkies!"

Bonnie fiddled with the lid on her cafe au lait, a little confused, "Would
I do that? Never!"

"And *you!*" Rae turned to face the other Bonnie, who'd given up on finding
Libby in the full-fledged rubbish and was now calling the Ratpacker's name into the shiny mound 
of Frappaccino bottles collected in the aluminum recycling bin. She whirled around fast enough to 
make her sneakers squeak.

"You," Rae repeated.

"Me?" Bonnie asked.

"Yeah, you."

Bonnie moved to shake Rae's hand, but found the scone in the way. At a loss,
she handed it back to its Bonnie-owner, who took a bite, frowned, and began to pick
out the Mango-ey bits. Taking Rae's hand in a crumby grip, she repeated, "Me?"

"You." Rae nodded toward Bonnie's feet. "I see your non-sensible shoes are missing."

Bonnie looked down at her sneakers. "They are?"

"Getting punished again, huh?" Rae laughed. "And one more thing before I go,
you! You've got to promise me you'll never sing ABBA karaoke again!"

A befuddled Bonnie glanced around Rae's shoulder to the Bonnie munching on her
Now-Raspberry-Only scone. That Bonnie shook her head, drawing her cup of cafe au lait
under her chin like she was using it to cut her throat.

The other Bonnie smiled at Rae and said happily, "Sure. I'll *never* sing ABBA again."

There was the sound of choking on scones in the background.

Rae waved her hand and headed for the door. "Gotta catch my flight! Nice
catching up with you guys!"

As Javiette left the building, the two Bonnies looked at each other.

"Do you know who you are?" one said.

"Uh-huh. Do you know who you are?" the other said.

"Uh-huh."

A loudspeaker from behind the counter made an announcement: "Order for Bonnie,
your pickup is ready!"

Both Bonnies looked left, right, up, down, and at their watches. "Wasn't me,"
they said simultaneously.

"Hey," Bonnie said as she swallowed the last bite of her scone, "do you want to
get out of here? We could go for a walk or something."

Bonnie scanned the Starbucks one more time for any lingering signs of Libby
peeking out from under a table. "Sure. As if it's possible, Libby must have meant
some *other* Starbucks!"

"Great! Only..." Bonnie paused, a (whispered) Super Secretive expression
forming on her face. "...I need to keep a low profile. You know, so no one recognizes us."

Bonnie tilted her head questioningly. "No one recognizes us anyway."

"Trust me. You don't want *them* recognizing you as me."

"Who's *them*? What's me as you to *them*?"

"Never mind. Let's just slip next door before we hit the streets of Toronto, 'kay?"

Next door just happened to be 'Shifty's Store' with a small sign tacked on
underneath the marquee reading, 'Providing the Best in Shady Disguises Since the Cuban Missile Crisis!' 
Both Bonnies stepped out ten minutes later wearing trenchcoats, wide-brimmed hats, and dark shades.

************************************************************************
To be continued in "I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream For Ice Cream"

TITLE: "I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream for Ice Cream!"
-or- "The Geometry of Quantum Physics"
AUTHORS: Bonnie Pardoe, Bonnie Rutledge
Follows: "A Tale Of Two Bonnies"

DATE/TIME: July 6 - late evening, after the party at the Raven
PLACE: somewhere on the U of T campus, not the physics building!

Long after the sun had set on the shores of her homeland, Bonnie led Bonnie
from one tree to another, dipping behind their mighty oaken trunks before
peering around them, scanning the orangely-lit paths of the university
campus. Each had her own motive, her own reason for lurking: Bonnie was
avoiding certain someones while Bonnie was avoiding certain other someones.

"Are you sure no one's spotted us?" Bonnie asked.

"I don't think so," Bonnie replied. "Then again, I know who I'm keeping an
eye out for but I'm not sure who you are keeping an eye out for."

"Well, obviously, I'm keeping an eye out for the people you are NOT keeping
an eye out for. Between the two of us, I think we've got it covered."

"Bonnie," Bonnie said in a harsh whisper, not speaking to herself, of
course. "Over here! This way. It's right behind this ancient cycad -"

"Cy-what?"

"Cycad," the botanist of the pair explained to the non-botanist of the pair.
"Like in the Jurassic Park movies!"

"I thought those were ferns."

"Well, some were, but others weren't. You know, I'd have loved to have been
the one synthesizing the DNA for those prehistoric plants on that island!
That would have been totally cool!"

"It's just a movie, Bonns," Bons reminded her.

"I know, but I can dream, can't I? Think they'll have a botanist in the
third sequel this summer? That would be sweet!!"

"I hope so for your sake. Ooh, is this it here?" Bonnie asked, pointing to
the non-descript door behind the botany building somewhere on the University
of Toronto campus.

"Yeah."

"If Alan's a physicist, why's his lab in the basement of the Botany
building?" Bonnie asked her friend.

"Well, see, back in War 9, there was this explosion when Alan's time machine
collided with the WarMistress's decree that there would be no time travel
during the war. Big fire. Pretty much gutted the basement of the physics
building. I think it's now a wave tank for thermonuclear experiments. Like
those are any safer. Sheesh."

As the Bonnies made their way through the door, down the hallway, and down
two flights of stairs into the sub-basement of the Botany building, Bonnie
asked, "So, what's Alan working on now anyway?"

"That's a good questions. I'm a bit rusty on my quantum theory" -- (despite
a marathon session on Wednesday prepping for just this question!) -- "but
basically, Alan is trying to alter space without altering time. He can
explain it better than I can...." As they entered Alan's lab, which neither
the physics department nor the Botany department were yet aware of, hence
the moniker SECRET, Bonnie -- yes, that one -- realized that Alan wasn't
even there. "Alan!" she called, knowing they were far enough down that her
screams, er, her salutations would not be overheard by prying ears.

"He's not here?"

"Reckon not. Guess I'll give the explanation a go. Hmm, what's the best
way to explain this.... Every event has its own set of possible
ramifications, things which naturally follow -- like Libby getting an ice
cream cone and then dropping the ice cream on the ground and Johnsie making
a grab for the wayward chilled confection and a wrestling match following
suit. That's one possible ramification -- there are many. If you plot the
ramifications on a four-dimensional graph, they'd form a three-dimensional
cone---"

"Like the ice cream cone?"

"Yeah, like that. So, say Libby has one ice cream cone and Johnsie has
another. They bought them at separate stores, without knowing that the
other had made a similar purchase. The purchase is the very tip of the
cone. Now, ten minutes later, the two bump into each other, literally.
'Hey, you got chocolate ice cream on my peanut butter ice cream,' one would
shout rather more incoherently than I'm capable of imitating at this hour.
'Hey, you got peanut butter ice cream on my chocolate ice cream,' the other
would counter, though no one but themselves would be able to decipher the
speech.

"At that moment, the two events intersect, they collide both literally and
figuratively," Bonnie continued, despite the glazed look in Bonnie's eyes.
At that moment, Libby and Johnsie both know they bought ice cream cones.
So, what Alan wants to do is to bend space so that he can know the exact
moment when Libby and Johnsie bought their ice cream cones, without then
affecting any of the possible ramifications of those purchases."

"But," Bonnie asked, "Why would Alan care if Libby and Johnsie bought ice
cream cones?"

"He doesn't and that's the whole point. By not caring he keeps himself
outside the ramifications of the events. As soon as he cares, he creates
his own cone, his own set of ramifications, which might then affect
Johnsie's and Libby's cones of ramifications."

"I thought they were cones of ice cream."

"Well, yes, they are, in the example. But in reality, they are
ramifications. Make sense?"

"No."

Bonnie just nodded. "Okay, well, um, I'm sure Alan will be back in a second
and he will be able to answer your questions. He teaches this stuff, so he
oughta be pretty good at it. Would you mind if I just popped out for a
second to use the facilities? Just introduce yourself when he gets back."

Bonnie nodded as Bonnie began to leave the lab. As soon as Bonnie was out
of sight, Bonnie reached out to run her hand over the smooth glass and metal
reaction chamber which looked like something out of the SciFi movie "The
Fly" (the cool one with Geena Davis and Jeff Goldblum, not the old black and
white one with actors I don't remember). Bonnie then stuck her head back
into the lab, "Oh, and please don't touch anything! You never know when you
might start some sort of chain reaction." (Not that it seemed to hurt Keanu
Reeves' career, but one can't be too careful.)

Bonnie then just stood there, rocking back and forth from heel to toe,
willing herself not to touch anything and failing miserably. She reached
out her hand again, she just couldn't help herself, and all of a sudden a
blinding blue light filled the room! Bonnie instantly snatched her hand
back, stowing it nonchalantly behind her back where it had always been.
Really, it had!

When the blue light faded back to the dim white of the scant fluorescent
bulbs, a handsome man stepped out from behind a booth at the far end of the
lab. His eyes were blue and his hair an auburn red. He looked ... well,
frankly, he looked dern familiar! Like, hmm. Like that sidekick from that
show about former Miss Americas who sleep with then-eventually-to-be US
Presidents -- umm, I mean, that show about immortal swordsmen. Yeah, that's
what I mean. Except, it couldn't be him. No cross-overs in war time, the
Bonnie narrator reminded the Bonnie standing there staring at the man. It
must then be Alan. Alan Anders, professor of physics and all around
inventor of things only possible during war time.

"Alan?"

"Yes? Can I help you?"

"I'm Bonnie."

"Bonnie? Bonnie! You can't be Bonnie -- you look nothing like her! Oh my
gawd!! What have I done?!" he shouted, running his long, pale fingers
through his thick, red hair. "Damn this infernal machine!! I'll fix it, I
promise," he assured her. "I don't know what could have gone wrong. A
spatial leak perhaps? Yes, that must be it. I'll, um, I'll just reverse my
calculations, run the program again. That should set things right which
once went wrong!" he said, inadvertently quoting the intro to a long
canceled television program about a way cool physicist. "Gads, I haven't
had this much trouble since last week when I inadvertently caused that
lichen to cling to that stone! Hang in there, buttercup!" he said as he
rushed back into the little room at the far end of the lab.

"How'd he know about my PowderPuff Girls underwear?" Bonnie began to ponder,
unconsciously clutching the trench coat closer about herself, despite the
fact that the aforementioned article of clothing wasn't currently in her
possession. Feeling a bit exposed, Bons withdrew her headphones from her
pocket and slipped them onto her head, instantly feeling more secure.

Just as she pressed the play button on the tape player, everything went
black and Bons had to wonder what strange and bizarre things were going on
deep beneath the unsuspecting city of Toronto, in secret physics labs. She
hadn't understood what Bonnie had told her about Alan's experiment, but she,
somehow, knew that she wasn't going to be getting any ice cream out of the
experience.

A split-second later, the musty bag which had taken away all her light
closed tightly about her and, just as she was about to scream for -- no, not
ice cream -- for help, her feet were whisked right out from under her and
all her breath with them, effectively silencing her with one fell swoop.

A ventilation grill near the baseboard on the wall banged shut. The lab was
still, quiet, and empty for an instant before a blinding light flared from
inside the reaction chamber, swamping the laboratory in blue before fading
back to the normal, dim white.

"Bonnie?" Bonnie called when she returned from the restroom. "How curious.
Where ever could she have gone? Hmm. I know! I bet all that talk about
ice cream made her hungry and she's gone in search of a pint of Cherry
Garcia. Figures. Sheesh. Alan?" she tried another tact. Suddenly a
red-headed man in a white lab coat came rushing out of the booth at the far
end of the lab.

"Bonnie? Is that you? Is it really you?"

"Ah, yeah. Why?"

"Thank goodness!!! I was so worried that I'd never see you again!!!" Alan
exclaimed as he caught the curly-haired girl up in a huge hug.

"No need, I never did find Libby, so I'm all yours for a while longer.
Souvlaki tonight?"

"You bet, and this time, I'm buying!" he announced as he flicked the little
red OFF switch[tm] on the spatial distortion contraction thingee and then,
with *his* Bonnie at his side, left the secret physics lab.

But, unbeknownst to our intrepid pair, the little red OFF switch[tm] was not
functioning quite properly and a blue light slowly began to seep from the
reaction chamber, filling the bowels of the Botany building somewhere below
the campus of the University of Toronto.

THE END (contiguous with "Bonnie Boo Boo")

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

TITLE: "BONNIE BOO BOO"
AUTHOR: Libby Singleton with Ratpackery sort o' input
Follows: "I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream For Ice Cream"

DATE/TIME: July 6 - after the Ratpack leaves the Raven party
LOCATION: somewhere in the tunnels beneath TO

"Coo! 'Tis a Bonnie fer sure," Johnsie whispered, sticking his head out of
the secret entrance -- i.e., the wall vent.

"An' lewk h'at h'all the shiny pretties<tm> h'in this lab thingee!," Libs
said. "No wunner she h'ain't found us yet! She's mez-moral-ized!"

"Let's nap 'er secret loik h'az a syrupy-n-rice," Johnsie suggested.

"Wait 'ere, matie ... The LibRatsie 'az an h'ind-end."

While Johnsie crawled about the lab pocketing shiny pretties to add to his
stash of snatched-at-the-party nibblets, Libs scurried through the tunnels,
emerging in the sleeping quarters for those Nunkies droogs. It didn't take
long for her to find a body pillow, and remove the case. The pillow seemed
a bit musty without the case, so she swiveled it around a bit in the Sacred
Cold Pond before returning it to its rightful bed. "H'it'll dry
event-tion-ly," she told herself as the water seeped through the bed
covering and into the mattress.

When she returned to the lab, she popped her head out of the tunnel to find
herself staring straight at Johnsie's backside as he picked up a bit of
shiny copper wire. Grabbing his ankle, she yanked him into the tunnel. He
dropped the wire, which she secretly grabbed while he looked around for it.
"Ferget the pretty!" she said. "Lewk wot Oi got! A Bonnie-size case wot ta
put a lil' Bonnie h'in."

Because Bonnie had put on some headphones to a portable cassette player
while Libs was gone pillow case snatching, it was easy to sneak up behind
her, put her in the body size pillow case, tie it shut, then drag her
kicking and screaming into the tunnel. With glee, the Ratpackery pair
dragged her the full distance to Screed's place, Bonnie bouncing along the
entire way. As they traveled, a larger and larger trail of ratsies joined
in the parade. By the time they reached home base, there were hundreds, all
gleefully anticipating in their own lil' ratsie way
the unveiling of the Bonnie.

"What have you got there?" McLisa asked, standing over a skillet. Beside the
hot plate was a stack of grilled cheese sandwiches. In the corner stood a
giant moose. Libs and Johnsie looked at each other, impressed. Anyone
who'd nab a giant moose and lug it into Screed's place without being caught
was okay in their book.

"Hungry?" McLisa asked.

Libby grabbed one of her favorite foods and shoved it entirely in her mouth
before chewing. "Nwwoooommnnpppeeeee."

"Be-'old, Bonnie the Nunkies!" Johnsie said, having untied the pillow case.
He dumped her on the floor, the headphones still on her head.

"Ya idjet!" Libs cried. "Bonnie the Nunkies type o' Bonnie? Oi tha ya
meant the UDDER Bonnie... The Bonnie wit' the curly dark 'ead o' 'air
Bonnie! The V-man Bonnie! Oi've met both Bonnies h'in real loif an' this
H'AIN'T tha' Bonnie!"

"Huh? Ya ne'er h'asked me which Bonnie," Johnsie protested. "Oi jest said
'there's a Bonnie!' Gew back ta the foirst o' this post n' see!"

"Them Nunkies sorts, they're mean loik!"

"She don't lewk mean loik," Johnsie said.

Indeed, Bonnie Rutledge didn't look mean at all. In fact, she'd fallen silent and
a thin line of spit dribbled from her mouth.

"Ya dunna think we've committed h'a cliche, dew ya?" Johnsie asked. "The
McLisa h'already got wonked h'on the 'ead... Surely the Bonnie wuzna."

Libs leaned over, lifting the headphones off of the fallen NunkaBons. She
listened for a second, then fell backwards laughing.

"Wot?" Johnsie asked.

"The tape spinnin' round says 'TOFOG," Libby explained. "Oi fergotten Oi'd
replaced h'one o' 'er tapes wit' '24 Versions O' The Sun Will Come Out
Tomorrow' h'at h'a Russell Crowe consintration last 'ear."

Johnsie joined Libs in hysterics on the floor. "Coo! Tha'd dew h'it ta the
best o' them. Nuthin' loik h'it wot ta warp a mind, eh?"

Libby stopped, sitting straight up in panic. "We gotta disguise 'er though.
Ya know them Nunkies types. They h'alwayz ohppie-press the Ratpackers foirst
n' h'ask questions later."

"Got inny cotton balls?" Johnsie asked McLisa.

"I think a few in my suitcase, why?"

"Tha's h'an iddearly, me Johnsie!" Libs squealed, clapping. "Oi got sum
tew! An' shurely there's some fingernail pol-fish 'round 'ere we kin us fer
glue."

"An' 'ere's a length o' garden 'ose!" Johnsie cried, holding up his find.

The trio went to work, fingernail polish-gluing all the white cotton balls
all over The Rutledge. They tied the garden hose around her waist, then painted
it white using that white typo-correction fluid stuff. They even used some
of their prized duct tape to wrap her lil' fingers in while also duct taping
her non-sensible shoes to her feet.

"The tail's a bit short," McLisa said.

Libs shrugged. "H'it'll 'aveta dew."

"Be'old!" barked Johnsie.

"H'a whoit sort o' ratsie ta be sure," Libs cried.

All the lil' ratsies oo'ed and aw'ed.

McLisa grinned. "You're right! No one would ever recognize her!"

Bonnie blinked a few times, regaining consciousness. She looked down at her
cotton ball covered body, then at all the little ratsies, then at the
Ratpackers. "Am I... Am I a ... Am I a LLAMA?"

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

War: Rats/NA: Boo Boo Earache (1/1)
By Bonnie Rutledge and Libby Singleton
Time: After 'Bonnie Boo Boo' thru Sunday evening

Bonnie blinked a few times, coming to consciously. She looked down at her
cotton ball-covered body, then at all the little ratsies, then at the Ratpackers.
"Am I... Am I a ... Am I a LLAMA?"

"Come to think of it," McLisa said contemplatively, "there is a certain
llama-essence about you." She looked at the moose in the corner. He seemed to
agree with her.

"Cudden' ya be h'a whoit sort o' ratsie?" Johnsie asked hopefully. After all,
that had been the goal of their wooly makeover. "H'a big, plump h'un?"

Bonnie glowered like a tourist whose camera'd been snatched. She glared at
Libby for confirmation. "Did he *intend* to call me plump?"

"Ya makin' 'er mean loik!" Libs squeaked under her breath. "Ya 'ave tew soothe
the Nunkies types wit' flat-trees. Sees 'ow 'tis dun." She brushed her knuckles
against her chest, then said aloud for the NunkBons' benefit. "Ya nawt h'a
fatso-ratso, Bons. Ya h'ar h'a bee-yoo-tee-full llama!"

The Addict's anger deflated quickly. She looked up at the Ratpackers and asked
in a small voice, "I AM a llama??"

Deciding this is what she wanted to hear, Libby and Johnsie nodded
enthusiastically. McLisa returned to grilling cheese sandwiches. The moose
remained in the corner.

To the Ratpackers' dismay, NunkBons began to sputter and meep and make a
highly unattractive gakking sound. "WHY?! WHY?! Why me?!!! It's the curse!
It's the Curse Of The Old, Dead Guy!!! I disturbed his resting place, and now
I must walk the earth as a llama for all eternity!!!" *Sniffle* *Sniffle* <Pause.>
"Funny that," she added with a tilt of her fuzzy head. "Old, Dead Guy was in an
Egyptian sarcophagus. Huh. Wonder why he didn't turn me into a camel?"

Libs squinted into the air for a reason. "'E fergot?"

"Phooi!" Johnsie complained. "Shudda cursed 'er intew h'a summer-ine." Johnsie liked submarines.
"Cudda upped 'er perry-scope!"

Bons' eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

"Shaddup!" Libby squealed. "Ya makin' 'er mean-loike agin!"

The interrogation continued. "How did I wind up with the Ratpack? Did you
see me turn into a llama?"

McLisa began to whistle over the hot plate. The moose assumed a poker face.
Libs and Johnsie looked at each other, then back at Bonnie, then slowly shook
their heads 'no.'

"An' wuz no fibbin'," Johnsie justified later. "She didn' h'ask iffen we prettied
'er intew h'a whoit sort o' ratsie noice-loike, did she?"

"Nawp!" Libby agreed.

But Bonnie, believing herself transmogrified into a pack animal as well as
indebted to Ratpackers, did not recognize her fortune. She wept and moaned and
boo-hoo-ed profusely, creating a most disturbing racket.

"Dun't worree," Libs assured her fellow Ratsie-types. "She h'is h'only h'adjustin' tew tha' change.
She won' peep wot h'a mouse duz quick-loike!"

McLisa appeared dubious and fetched her blue relaxation mask from her luggage.

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

Hours and hours and hours and hours later....

Bonnie bobbled on all fours in front of the Ratpackery sink. Never mind her
disturbing proximity to the suspicious condition of the bathroom floor -
she'd just caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. "Aa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa!!!
Ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd!"

She calumphed through the Ratpacker headquarters shrieking an alarm at the top
of her lungs.

"Ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd!"

She raced past Libs and Johnsie sitting with pillows over their ears
and grilled cheese sandwiches in their mouths.

"Ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd!"

She galloped past McLisa and the moose in the corner. McLisa was contemplating
her single, leftover cotton ball, silently debating which eardrum she should jam it
into for the most effectiveness. The moose was now wearing the blue relaxation mask.

"Ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd!"

Bonnie circled around and retraced her path. This time she halted in front of
McLisa and exclaimed, "I HAVE FACIAL HAIR!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

One silent second.

Another silent second.

Bonnie was off again running. "Ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd,
ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd,
ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd!"

The last cotton ball slipped from McLisa's fingers. It flooped onto the hot
plate, which was, unfortunately, still hot. It shriveled into a crispy, ashy morsel
within a second.

McLisa emitted a sound of frustration at a pitch audible only by Ecuadorian bats
and Amazing, Transcendental Motorbikes. Regrouping, she picked up her skillet for
grilling cheese sandwiches, then located a body-size pillowcase within the pile of
unwound dental floss nested underneath the moose. She moved to stand in front of Johnsie 
and Libs, bonking each one lightly on their pillowed heads to get their attention.

The Ratpackers pulled the pillows away from their ears, only to hear the
continued strains of "Ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd!"
in the background.

At the sight of an authoritative McLisa, the grilled cheese sandwiches fell
out of their mouths. Johnsie picked his up off the floor, wiped the lint off, and
kept eating. Libby assumed the worst. "Wuzn't me! Johnsie diddit!"

McLisa held out the body-sized pillowcase in one hand and gestured toward the screaming
BonsLlama with the skillet. "She. Has. To. Go. Now."

"Wudda we dew wit' 'er?" Libby asked. "We can't send 'er back tew tha Nunkies
'cuz they wud ohppie-press h'us!"

Johnsie stopped munching on his sandwich. "Wot we kin h'use," he said, tapping
his noggin, "h'is summun 'oo kin unnerstan' tha llama-mama mental-tallyhoo! They
kin shadderup n' nobodyone will ohhppie-press h'us!"

"Wot?" Libs objected. "Ya 'greein' wit' the McLisa h'orderin' h'us 'round
loik a Happy Mean wit'h'out musty-fur? She makes da rulz h'on the listies, but
thiz h'is h'our teary-eyed-Tory."

"Yep, 'tis a bad thingee," Johnsie said. "But h'iffen we dump the LlamyBons,
we kin claims we did-na-dewy-mornin' the deed."


That evening...

Juan Valdez stepped out onto the front stoop of 'Valdez, Montoya, and
Montalban,' intending to head for the Church to see how things were faring with
his brother. Blocking his path was a large, full pillowcase, the opening sealed
with a copious amount of duct tape and dental floss. Pinned to the pillowcase
was a note in bright and shiny crayon:

FREE TEW GUD INKA CASA:
CURSED ORPHUN LLAMA
(DUN'T MENSHUN 'ER FACIAL 'AIR)

The Inka eyed the note thoughtfully for a moment, then shrugged and carried
the pillowcase inside.

******************************************************
Gud riddance!

War: NA/Vaqs: Llama Bons's Diary (1/2)
By Bonnie Rutledge
Time & Place: Sunday evening through Monday, Law Offices
of 'Valdez, Montoya & Montalban'

(V. bad song in poor Spanish accent mentioned in post
available for download at < http://bons.50megs.com/index.html > 
Ay yi yi! The bad ideas war gives us!)

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

July 8th

8:00pm

Am LLAMA. Does mental state require elaboration?

Am wordy, thus will elaborate anyway.

V. concerned, as have been said llama-type-person
for nearly 48 hours. Becoming clear that Curse of
Old, Dead Guy not surmountable through force of
will and voice box alone, even when playing Olympic
theme music. (Regrettable.)

Have been abandoned by Ratpackers to tender mercies
(huh!) of Inca. Am v. unhappy. Am so unpleasant and
disagreeable as llama-type-person that even rat
infested individuals and reanimated moose cannot
stand me?!! Have had pity party most of evening,
but am now firmly centered upon course of action:

Am resolved, as non-married bestial female newly
acquainted with THREE decades of human life
(probably 384 in llama years), must speed up
llama-aging-process as swiftly as possible in
order to shorten Peruvian packish existence.
Therefore, 'New Species Resolutions' include:

- Take up smoking
- Drink at least 8 alcoholic units per day
(Think Pat O' Brian's!)
- Consume no more than 2 cud units per day in quest to
depress digestive system
- Consume at least 12 caffeine units per day
(constitution highly tolerant)
- Shave legs (furry kneecaps most distracting to concentration)

If all goes well, shall become consumptive before end
of war. Think positively!!!!!

11:00pm

Quest For Doom commenced nicely. Juan Valdez ordered
me to sleep outside with other llamas. Allergies, damp
and tsetse flies reside outside! If not tsetse flies,
then dire Canadian substitute. Continue thinking
positively!!! Own demise progressing smoothly thanks
to the Inca! Hurrah!

July 9th

Cigarettes: 1 smoked, 4 chewed (not v.g.), Alcoholic
units: 0 (lamentable - but alcohol not always handy
in every vampire household), cud units: 1 (v.g.),
caffeine units: 2 (v.v. bad - am not feeling myself today)

4:00am

Am cold. Am wet. Suspect fleas. (Hopping Canadian
tsetse flies!) Ground uncomfortable + cannot sleep
standing up for am standing up! Have decided eagerness
at camping outside was grave misjudgment on my part,
on similar scale with disturbing sarcophagus of
Old, Dead Guy in cheap plot advancement ploy. Am
chagrined. Will knock on door and inform Inca am
not 'outdoorsy' llama.

4:10am

Inca is vile overlord. While intrigued at concept of 
talking llama weeping upon his doorstep, Inca woefully
unmoved by my issues with the environment. Have been
told llamas do not sleep on Sealy mattresses. Have been
told to lump it. Have had door shut in furry face. Am
feeling v. sorry for myself. Certainly Quest for Doom
important project, but no need for Inca to be so
helpful in speeding me along my way to llama heaven.
Could have at least given me squishy pillow to ease suffering 
in final moments. V. v. unfair. Will stay on stoop lamenting my fate,
scratching my fleabites. Will compose song reflecting
my speciesist struggle. Will sing song in poor Spanish
accent so that vile overlord can hear my torment.

5:45am

Juan relented as sunrise approached. Have been allowed
inside again upon provision of remaining quiet while
Inca sleeps, as opposed to continued singing of llama
lament in proximity of Incan bedroom window. V. fair.

10:00am

Have slept meager hours upon sofa obviously intended
for non-hooven consumers. Intended quiet morning of
caffeine uptake, but brewing coffee increasingly complex
task due to disappearance of opposable digits. Have
apparently generated racket with my carafe tossing
+ water splashing, as am now faced with sleepy +
cranky Inca demanding to know what I am doing.
Ensuing conversation progressed poorly, as Inca
remains unconvinced that cappuccino is morning beverage
of choice for llamas. Inca maintains llamas cannot
drink coffee. Huh. Inca proving v. undependable ally
in Quest for Doom. Apparently Inca supportive of
only disagreeable + unpleasant forms of speeding
my health to ruin. Perhaps time appropriate for
learning smoking habit. Will raid petty cash + sneak
from offices of 'Valdez, Montoya & Montalban' as soon
as Juan resumes slumber in search of inhalable death sticks.

12:30pm

Am v. insulted. Clerk at corner store refused to sell
me pack of unfiltered Camels upon grounds that only
Homo sapiens have right to purchase carcinogen-laden
products. Informed me that, as llama, should know
better. Obtained cigarettes + matches anyway by
creating distraction + shoplifting. "Look! A Dinosaur!"
Existence as pack animal has driven me to life of
crime! Pack very handy in stashing loot, however.
Have found new appreciation for Screed's storage
techniques. Will tell no one.

1:00pm

Have returned to offices of 'Valdez, Montoya &
Montalban.' Coast is clear. Will open Camels +
commence nicotine assimilation as soon as possible.

1:05pm

Cigarette pack remains unopened. Maneuver more
complicated that previously estimated due to
aforementioned disappearance of opposable thumbs.
Have succeeded in tenderizing pack of Camels
nicely with hooves, though.

1:10pm

Have chewed open pack of cigarettes. Hoping they
taste better when on fire.

1:15pm

&@#$\!* MATCHES!!!!!!

1:35pm

Am priding myself upon llama ingenuity. After abandoning
attempts to strike &@#$\!* matches, have ransacked
desks + constructed cigarette-lighting apparatus by
holding magnifying glass in teeth + focusing beam
of sunlight upon tip. Can smell progress! (Small
scorch on Juan's desk. Hmm. Will apologize later.)

1:37pm

Am consuming first cigarette.

1:38pm

V. smoky things, cigarettes.

1:39pm

*Cough*

2:05pm

Smoky cigarette triggered very proactive Incan
sprinkler system. Have caused small mess. Inca argues
have made big mess. Inca exaggerates. Well, maybe not,
but maintain protestations of innocence. Firemen have
arrived. Inca very put out, as have moistened his
briefs (legal). Have had pack of Camels taken away.
Have been told cannot smoke. Have been booted out
into corral again with other llamas.

4:30pm

V. warm for am wearing fur coat. V. hungry, but wary
of second-hand chews. Blame all on Inca. Am not
responsible for consequences of his pyrophobia. Am
convinced his brother would display far more sympathy
to the plight of a llama with Quest for Doom because
of rat-petting scene in 'Black Buddha.'
Vachon = Non-speciesist

4:40pm

Oh. Have remembered Urs in 'Hearts of Darkness.' Vachon mucker
of Quests for Doom as well. Must run in family.

5:00pm

Have noticed other llamas rolling in grass. Looks
like v. silly behavior, legs flopping all about.

Will join them immediately.

6:30pm

Fur fiber no longer white, but coppery brown from
excessive rolling in dirt. Have turned self into
souvenir T-shirt from Sedona fit for Road Sister Posse.
(Ahoy!) Need shower v. much, but in fun kind of way.
Will tackle bathing issue with much gusto later,
as goal of leg-shaving still urgent.

7:15pm

Have realized llamas are v. cute.

8:10pm

Growing dark. Have begun to suspect today's sprinkler
mishap translates into permanent extradition outdoors
as per Incan snap judgement. Will use newfound powers of
cuteness to cajole my way back under roof + make
reparations between our cultures.

8:20pm

Success! Have lured Incan with my gooey-eyed looks into
allowing me back indoors. Threat of further singing
may have helped as well. Am curled up on blanket
having my hair brushed. Juan not so bad after all,
but v. speedy to question how llama can write in
diary without aforementioned opposable thumbs. Have
shown him copy of 'Diaries for Llama Dummies' Juan v.
quick to accept I am target market. Huh.

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

July 10th

Cigarettes: 0 (Needed: 26), Alcoholic units: 14
(am llush), cud units: 4 (not good), caffeine units:
0 (tragic), bathroom stops: 3 (see alcoholic units)

5:30am

Is all over. Am never speaking to Inca again. After
comfy night's sleep, popped into bathroom for morning
shower with intent of accomplishing sorely needed
knee de-furring and wool de-staining. No sooner than
had stepped under water spray, Inca interrupted +
declared shower off-limits to llamas. Told Juan he
was v. bold as he did not know me well enough to
interrupt my beauty regimen. Must say, v. big assumption
on his part after one night's hair brushing. Was rudely
scooted outside again by smack on rump. (V. familiar
as well!) Made mistake of then asking which bathroom
I was supposed to use for my toilette. Was then
presented with odorous llama lifestyle zoning
practice known as communal dung pile. Hyperventilated.
(v. bad instinct when proximal to communal dung pile)
Will not forgive Inca for assuming am party pooper.
Will not.

New plan in Quest for Doom is rolling in dirt
until kidneys fail. Then Inca will be sorry.

4:30pm

Lovely day save for imminent nephritic collapse.
Witnessed 3 run-by spittings. Appreciate extroverted
species embracing hocking loogies as accepted form
of social expression.

5pm

VAQMADRE JUST RODE UP ON MOTORBIKE!!!! (Non-Amazing
and Non-Transcendental) Forgot Tracy Sue helps
Juan Valdez in office. V. v. bad. Tracy Sue cannot
find out have been turned into llama. One, she
would laugh. Two, she would tell other Vaqueras,
making them laugh. Three, other Vaqueras would
tell Vachon, which would cause my immediate death
by embarrassment. Have decided prefer kidney
failure. Must lay low. Must maintain vow of
silence. Have not forgiven Inca so s/b easy.

5:15pm

Have been leashed by Vaquera. Am being taken for
walk. Am certain no good can come of this. Cannot
write more about panic, for Tracy Sue is coming
back. More later.

11:30pm

Walk success in that Tracy Sue does not suspect
I am me. Thinks I am llama. Hurrah! Walk also success 
in that pulled Tracy Sue into bar, pretending to be wayward
and forlorn. Vaquera could not resist lure of rowdy drinks 
among crowd. Used opportunity to sneak tequila shots 
and destroy liver when Vaqmadre not looking. Succumbed 
to lure of indoor plumbing many times (Am weak-willed llama!
Do not deserve success in Quest for Doom!)
Eventually became v. sick. Was unfortunate because
Tracy Sue sobered up quickly in presence of
sick llama. Was suspicious of my booze breath,
but squelched her notions of anthropomorphism
by munching on her Wiffle Bat O' Doom.

Walk failure in that sick llama has temperature
taken. Apparently llamas not trusted with thermomenter in mouth.
Completely mortifying.

Must find way to freedom tomorrow, or else!

****************************************************
TBC...

War: NA/Knighties/Vaqs: Can I See Your Llicense? (1/1)
By Bonnie Rutledge
Nick, the Caddy and Sandra used with permission
Time: In between Nick/Schanke and Nick/LC switches
Thanks to the Knighties for your help!

"I'm going for a drive," Nick announced. When three
Knighties looked ready to grab their bags, he added firmly,
"Alone."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Sandra asked anxiously as
she followed him to the lift. "The last switches happened while
you were driving. Do you want to tempt fate?"

"I've been a Natbody. I've been a Schankebody. At this
point, I'm prepared for anything." A swift image of a
Screed-LaCroix from the Raven Party Friday night flashed through
his thoughts. "Well, almost anything." He shuddered. "I have to
get out for a while, to think about what's happened over the past
week. Everything will be fine. I think."

"Nick -" she began to urge caution again.

"Really, Sandra, you cling to this notion that I'm in danger
like lichen to a -" Nick caught his breath.

"To what?" Sandra prompted.

Nick shook his head. "Never mind. It's bad enough I've
become other people. I don't want to become a cliche on top of
it." With a brief, familiar grin that could distract the most
stouthearted of the Knighties, he separated the distance between
them with the lift door and disappeared from sight.

Nick pulled the Caddy out into the night, driving aimlessly,
hoping to clear his head. Out of habit, his hand reached to turn
on the radio. At the last moment, his fingers paused over the
dial and a stern look came over his features. There would be no
listening to CERK tonight. No polka, either. He adjusted the
radio until classical music soared out from the speakers,
something peaceful to soothe his troubled memory.

He didn't notice how much time passed. He was only aware
that the longer he drove, the longer he had the Caddy under the
control of *his* hands, he relaxed just a little bit more from
the confusion and stress of the past seven days. The traffic
followed a pattern. It had a flow. Cars remained within the
lines. If he drove long enough, maybe everything wouldn't seem so
fractured. Maybe he could forget that a war was happening. Maybe
he could block out that two Hawaiian shirts now hung in his
closet. Maybe he could put the fact that he'd worn lipstick out
of his mind.

Green lights turned red.

Predictable.

Normal.

Welcome.

Until a 1980 DeVille ran through the intersection at top
speed against the signal, swerved between a nun, a Passat and a
bicycle, then kept right on going. In the process, a wave of dust
rose up from the street, settling a fine layer of grime over his
own, previously clean, Caddie's paint job. After the run-in with
the light post, this was the straw that broke the camel's back.

Nick reached across his dashboard again, this time flicking
on his car's siren.

There was another bit of order he enjoyed on the streets of
Toronto.

Enforcing the law.

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

Wednesday dawned for Bonnie Rutledge in much a similar fashion as
Tuesday had, with the Inca booting her little llama behind out
into the paddock to commune with the rest of nature. As opposed
to the previous morning, however, Bonnie had grown more resigned
and appreciative of her lifestyle change. Even her Quest for Doom
had lost its significance. "Hello, Nature," she chirped happily.
"Like your style," she added as she skipped through the yard with bouncy hooves
to join the other llamas for a spit-n-roll session.

The reasons for Bonnie's joy at being a llama were
plentiful. After all, llamas never had dry cleaning, they never
balanced checkbooks, and they never had to pay taxes (except when
buying alcoholic units). Discounting the whole 'communal dung
pile' negativity, being a llama was a pretty good gig, far better
than being the High Priestess of the Shrine to Nunkies. No filing
involved. Ever.

The only thing that would make life as a llama sweeter would
be living as a *free* llama. Free to do as she pleased, without
Bossy Bessie Incas bothering after her all the time.

Bonnie had experienced an Epiphany. Well, maybe not an
Epiphany, but at least a Cheesy Rationalization of sorts. Vachon
was the 'Because I can' guy. Valdez was his 'No, you can't'
counterpart. What should Llama Bons do to escape Incan house rules,
then? Easy. Split. Leave the house. Do a Spaniard! Make a run for it!

Bonnie nudged one of her ruminant brethren with her rump and
whispered, "Word on the grass, Pacha." She bonked the llama to
her other side with her hip. "Isabella...Some of us packies are
bustin' out of here...tonight!"

Isabella yawned in her face. Pacha spit at her. "Oooh. Tough
crowd." Bonnie moved along.

By dusk, Bonnie had found that none of the other llamas were
willing to leave, despite promises of rebellion and high-speed
chases. Their loss. Bonnie would have all the fun, once she
figured out how to get the Inca's car keys into the ignition with
her teeth.

Once she reasoned out that tricky bit, of course, there were
the equally mystical puzzles of changing gears with her nose and
gnawing off the parking brake with which to contend. When the Inca's 
car was finally ready to burn rubber, Llama Bons made an additional discovery: 
her front hooves turned the efficient operation of a steering wheel into a
dubious adventure.

Bonnie stomped down the accelerator, perhaps too eagerly.
Great speed was achieved. Very few traffic laws were obeyed.
Madness ensued. Bonnie felt very bad when she flustered the flock
of chickens with her driving skills. She also had some remorse
when she busted through the very, very large pane of glass that
two glaziers just happened to be carrying across two lanes of a
major road (At night, you say? I know! What are the odds?!).
Most, most regrettable, however, was sideswiping the Inca's
DeVille into that large outcropping of newly mown hay on Spadina.
(Where is the karma, I ask you, where is the karma?!). That was
unfortunate, you see, because the DeVille came to a stand-still,
and the next thing Bonnie saw was Nick glowering on the other
side of her car. (Not v. g. Not v. g. at all!)

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

"License and registration," Nick clipped.

"Err...ahh...hummm...uh-oh...damn!" the wayward driver
replied, shuffling awkwardly in the glove compartment.

Nick frowned. If he didn't know better, he'd say this
twenty-car-pileup-waiting-to-happen behind the wheel was a llama.
Impossible. He closed his eyes, shook his head, then looked
again. No, there was a llama behind the wheel, now meekly
presenting him with two cards, one of them laminated, both
clapped between hooves.

Nick counted to five and took a deep breath. He looked at
the license. It belonged to the Inca. He looked again at the
driver. Very definitely a llama.

He'd called in his pursuit to dispatch during the chase, and now two
squad cars roared onto the scene to offer backup.

"Take this one in," Nick informed the first uniform to
arrive. He handed the officer the copy of license and
registration. "And call this one and tell him we have his llama
in lockup."

The officer looked at him quizzically, but Nick simply
shrugged and walked back to his own vehicle, the sounds of the
cursing pack-animal perp echoing behind him.

<Maybe Sandra's right,> Nick revised as he watched the squad
car haul off the talking, delinquent llama. <Maybe it is better
that I go back to the loft. There's too much going on for me to
be dealing with high speed chases involving llamas.>

So he jumped back into the Caddie and returned to his
faction.

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

Meanwhile, in Metro lockup...

July 12th

Cigarettes: 0 (have forsaken in Epiphany), Alcoholic units: 0 (am
treating body as temple in Epiphany), cud units: 6 (am Llama, to
be expected), moving violations: 21 (apparently), bathroom stops:
3 (facilities in jail cell = too tempting)

12:05am

Have been in prison many hours now. Am disenfranchised. Wonder
why Inca has not bailed me out? Perhaps he is having
transportation issues. After all, stole his car.

1:30am

Is v.v. bad of Inca to leave me rotting in jail. Suspect am being
taught a lesson. Will not work.

2:30am

Am hardened criminal now.

3:45am

Have acquired tattoo (v. tough) + prison nickname of 'Wools'
Valdez.

4:20am

Thankgawd! Thankgawd! Inca is here! Could not have borne life of
crime one more minute! All is forgiven! Will be good llama from
now on! Promise!

4:32am

Thinking. Not very fair, llamas being disenfranchised, is it? If
had political + economic power, stolen vehicles would be
designed much more llama-user friendly, therefore would not be
caught. Humble reunions with Inca would be sidestepped. Reserved
parking would be available. Will work on anti-speciesist
manifesto later. First, must identify means of revenue +
bargaining power to fund future ideological activities.

5:10am

Have generated idea! Involves Vachon & ruler & Mercenaries. V. v
clever. Must get cute llama sleep now in order to prepare for plan.

****************************************************
TBC....

War: NA/Vaqs: The Measure of a Man
By Bonnie Rutledge
Helpful Evil Supplied by: Tracy Sue Morris
Thanks much to Vaqueras for continued toleration!
Time: Thursday
Place: Law offices of 'Valdez, Montoya & Montalban' and Church

July 12th

Cigarettes: 1 (seemed approp. after visit to Church - see part 2),
Alcoholic units: 0 (sneakiness w/b compromised by llush activity), cud
units: 4 (must keep girlish llama figure), naughty thoughts: 42 - no 57 -
no! very big number (lost count)

1:00pm

Am awake. Am chipper. Am v. cute. Gathered instruments in order to enact
means of revenue + bargaining power that will fund future ideological
activities: tape measure, level, protractor, calipers, light gauge and
teaspoon. Have proactively practiced wielding said instruments in wily and
furtive manner as befitting llama of intrigue. Have stored items in pack as
am pack animal. Am waiting for Inca to get up so can go out.

4:00pm

Inca still not up. Will knock on bedroom door and ask Inca if awake yet.

4:05pm

Apparently Inca up now. Is v. grouchy first thing in afternoon.

5:00pm

Inca unreasonable. Not letting me out b/c of criminal record. Does not
trust my unsupervised activities + sun not down yet. Does not realize am
llama with v. v. important schedule. Am entrepreneurial llama. Will pout on
sofa until sun sets.

7:25pm

Someone is here! V. v. good as pouty lip becoming weary.

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

Tracy Sue scuffed her boots as she as she entered the law offices of
'Valdez, Montoya & Montalban' Thursday evening. "What's up?"

The Inca made one of those unintelligible male noises, the kind that
could mean anything between 'Nothing' and 'I'm peeved because my llama
stole the DeVille, and I had to bail her out of jail.'

"What's up with you? Have you found that missing Bonnie person yet?" he asked.

Tracy Sue scowled. "*No.* And the Mercs were a waste of time. No one
looks even remotely suspicious!"

At the sound of Tracy Sue's voice, a furry head poked over the back of
the leather sofa. Fuzzy ears perked. Lips unpouted. A copper-haired (i.e.
mud stained) cottony llama bounced into view and bobbled toward the
Vaqmadre with expectant enthusiasm.

Juan glanced at the llama's excited expression, then turned to Tracy
Sue, appearing perplexed. "She likes you. That's odd."

"What!" Tracy Sue appeared insulted.

"She tends to be an antagonistic llama," the Inca explained. "A very
high maintenance llama. A very vocal llama."

Tracy Sue ran her hand along her partially chewed Wiffle Bat O' Doom.
"Likes *me,* huh?" The llama responded with a humming sound, then gently
clasped Tracy Sue's non-Wiffle-Batted hand in her jaw and tugged her in the
direction of the front door.

"Don't tell me, " Juan groaned, confusing Tracy Sue because it seemed
he was talking to the llama, not to any actual human in the room. "You're
still worked up about going for a walk."

Tracy Sue raised her Wiffle Bat O' Doom and waved it for attention.
"Hello? Just got here. Disinclined to get worked up about anything
involving effort unless leather or carousing is involved."

"You're very spoiled," the Inca continued. "I should ground you for a
month after what happened to my DeVille!"

Tracy Sue looked around for signs of someone else in the room. "What
are you talking about? Who are you talking to?"

"The llama."

"Uh-huh." Tracy Sue stood still for a silent, solemn pause. "And do
you think the llama is going to answer?"

"Sometimes she does," Juan said absently, scratching the llama under
the chin.

"Uh-huh," Tracy Sue said again, this time with strong undertones of
'You've gone insane, haven't you?' "And what does the llama voice say to
you, Juan? 'Take me to your leader?!'"

"No." The Inca gave Tracy Sue a very stern look, not appreciating her
sarcasm. "She usually talks about her hair and her beauty regimens, and how
I don't understand her because I'm a speciesist man, but we've also had
some insightful debates about corruption in Peruvian government and the
economic impact of the European Union. And she does this thing when she's
mad..." Juan raised one arm, holding his palm flat toward Tracy Sue as if
to signal 'stop,' then mimicked in a perky, girly voice, "Honey, you're
just talking to the hoof, now!" He reverted to his regular speaking voice.
"It's very cute."

"Ooooo-kaaaay." Tracy Sue swiftly located the leash. The Inca had
obviously been spending way too much time around his new llama friend. A
break away would give him a good chance to remember that animals only had
conversations in movies and on 'Mr. Ed.' "I'll just take her to the Church, so
all the Vaqueras can meet the..." Tracy Sue wiggled her fingers to simulate
quotation marks. "...talking llama."

"Don't keep her out too late!" Juan called after them. "Her curfew's
at 11!" Pause. "...And don't let her drive!"

"Whatever," Tracy Sue muttered as she walked down the sidewalk. Beside
her the llama did a happy dance of joy.

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

7:30pm

Tracy Sue does not want llama riding her motorcycle. Huh. V.
non-progressive. Will take subway to Church instead.

7:35pm

Public transport system in Toronto v. speciesist. Would not allow llama on
train, even when Tracy Sue claimed was professional guide llama. Will hike
to Church instead.

8:00pm

Am walking v. far. For once am happy to have sensible hooves.

8:10pm

Where is Church?!

8:15pm

Miss Fanfic Fairies, who would have conveniently poofed tired self into
next scene without exhaustive transportative effort. Unusual spate of
continuous activity has taken toll on Tracy Sue's slacker constitution. Is
delirious. Is mumbling about Bonnies in coffee cans and dowsing redheads.
Am suspicious am being hunted by more than own faction. Will mind 'p's and
'q's and maintain highest standard of llama excellence. Must not be
discovered!

8:20pm

WHERE IS @#*$%*! CHURCH!?!?!

8:24pm

Ah! See Church on Horizon. V. good as sun is setting and should not be
wandering around TO with babbling Vaquera after dark.

8:26pm

Church has 'Love Me Tender' outbreak, as is infested with Elvis clones. V. cool in
jumpsuity way. Wonder if hefty Kings will sneak me fried
peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich?

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

Tracy Sue hung her arms over the fence and released a relieved sigh.
"Finally!"

Vachon was outside polishing his Triumph (thereby making it sparkle
with even greater Amazing and Transcendental Motorbike affection). He heard
the Vaqmadre arrive and noticed her weary complaint, so he stopped what he
was doing and went over to investigate. For some inexplicable reason
(especially considering that this is an inexplicable war post), he was
surprised to find Tracy Sue slumped over the Vaq Corral taking a nap.
Nearby, a very cute llama dragged its lead along the ground as it wandered
from Elvis to Elvis, nudging their pockets as though it was looking for a
special treat.

Vachon told a pair of Elvi to carry the sleeping Vaqmadre inside then
turned his attention back to the llama. It had gone very still and was
staring at him suspiciously through soulful eyes, as though instinct told
it he was a predator, and that running away might be a good, new plan. He
slowly moved closer, saying, "Quit panicking. I don't *do* llamas."

The llama emitted a humming snort and its expression became almost
pouty. With instincts of his own, Vachon decided this was a female llama.
She started fluttering her eyelashes and began clopping about the yard,
dashing one direction, then the next. She was playing hard to get.

Definitely female.

Vachon put his hands on his hips and cocked his head at an angle. "I'm
not chasing you." Hello? She should be chasing him.

The llama bobbed her head, looking pleased that he was talking to her.
As if she'd just scored a point. She did a bit more of her llama dance and
turned to see if any vampires were sneaking up on her.

Vachon remained where he was. "You think you're pretty cute, don't you?" He said
it as though he absolutely, totally did not agree.

The llama dropped to the ground, rolled around showing her belly wool
for a minute, then gazed at him with a silly, winsome expression. <C'mere,
bad boy!>

Vachon rolled his eyes and started digging in his pockets for a comb.
While Tracy had occupied his body, she'd tucked them everywhere. "What the
hell," he said aloud and proceeded to chase her down, thereby proving
Bonnie's theory that a Spaniard who would pets rats would be easy prey for
a flirtatious llama with political objectives in need of finance.

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

9:10pm

Am being petted by Vachon. Feel niggles (of conscience) that am behaving v.
badly. Know Patt + Christy would lecture. Should not allow grooming by
Senior Senor of rival faction. Am threatening integrity of Geneva
Convention, or Syndicon Convention, or some other v. v. important
Conventional-Rule-Thingy, am certain of it.

Situation also v. convenient for checking length of Vachon's hair (4 inches
from nape) + sleeve size (33). Though information is v. v. crucial to
implement means of revenue + bargaining power that will fund future
ideological activities, am torn llama. Will contemplate moral ambiguity of
situation while Spaniard teases ears.

9:17pm

Vachon's waist (32)

Have decided that no amount of head scratching is worth besmirching
sanctity of Conventional-Rule-Thingy. Am ashamed of myself. Will stop now.
Will tell Vachon to go away. Will confess all + beg to be spared
well-deserved factional retaliation.

Will do so RIGHT AWAY!!

9:18pm

Just one more minute.

9:20pm

Have concluded all concerns over Conventional-Rule-Thingy v. silly. Worry
over deception of rival group is so much factionwittage. Am SUPPOSED to be
sneaky around Vaqueras. Am SUPPOSED to lie to Vachon. Am doing MY JOB!!!
(llama counterintelligence) Will never find out. (Gawd, hope not) Will
never tell. Will have back rubbed + measure Vachon's inside leg instead
(34).

9:20 1/2pm

Wondering if Vaqs needing permanent pet llama...?

9:25pm

Tracy Sue coming back! FACTIONWITTAGE ATTACK!!!!!!

Will use ruler *1* more time.

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

Tracy Sue wiped the sleep out of her eyes as she approached, then
pulled out the beer bottle that had been tucked under her arm to take a
gulp. She needed it. "I see you've met the Inca's new llama." This was an
understatement. The llama nudged Vachon repeatedly, her tongue hanging out
goofily as he scratched the wool along her spine.

"Juan's, huh?" Suddenly, the llama caught him by surprise as she
leaned against him with all her weight. "She's a friendly thing." The llama
bumped him some more, and he glanced ruefully at Tracy Sue. "In fact, if I
didn't know better, I'd say she was molesting me on purpose." He pushed the
llama away with a warning tone in his voice. "Cut it out. Be a lady llama."
The animal appeared chagrined about her behavior for a split-second then began
humming.

Tracy Sue frowned. "You're talking to her. To a llama." First the
Inca, now this!

He shrugged as he teased the llama's nose. "I talk to the cat. I talk
to the Elvi. I talk to you. I talk to Screed. So?" (Reminder: Vachon =
non-speciesist)

"But does the llama talk back?" Tracy Sue asked suspiciously.

"Last I heard, llamas don't talk."

"Funny, your brother doesn't seem to think so. According to him, she's
a regular chatterbox."

"He needs to get out more," Vachon said matter-of-factly.

"Tracy Sue! Tracy Sue!" Marilyn came running from the Church screaming
the Vaqmadre's name. "I doused the map again! I know where Bonnie is!!!!!"

Tracy Sue stopped slouching. "Really?"

Triumph (emotional) beamed from Marilyn's eyes. "She's *here*!!!!!!"

"Here?"

Marilyn nodded.

"At the Church?"

Marilyn nodded again.

"*This* Church?!?!"

A cornucopia of nodding erupted from Marilyn.

Tracy Sue asked the $60,000 question. "Where 'here' is she?"

Marilyn's nodding hit a speed bump. "Well, see...that's the thing. When
you actually look for Bonnie..." Her posture deflated. "...She's not here."

"I'm so sick of this!" Tracy Sue scowled. "I don't want to find Bonnie
anymore! She can stay missing!"

"But I had another idea," Marilyn offered helpfully. "Maybe Bonnie's
become invisible and -"

"Sorry," Vachon interrupted, "but why are you even looking for a
Bonnie? And which one are you looking for - the Rutledge or the Pardoe?
They're different, you know."

"I'm looking for the Rutledge," Tracy Sue growled. "Just like you
*told* me to."

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did!"

"Okay," Vachon said evenly, "when did I supposedly tell you to track
down Bonnie Rutledge?"

"Saturday morning!" the Vaqmadre announced triumphantly.

"By Saturday morning, I'd already switched bodies with LaCroix,
remember? He's the one who gave you your marching orders. Why didn't you
just ignore him?"

"Huh?" Tracy Sue was stumped. "You switched bodies with LaCroix?"

Vachon gave her a look. A very long look. One of those looks he gave
when he was thinking, 'What hole have you been living in?' "Yes," he said
slowly. "I've been switching bodies all war. First with Trace, then with
LaCroix. That seems to be this war's plot. Do you understand?"

Tracy Sue remembered the Jaguar. She remembered the sword pin. She
recalled the strange LaCroixian vibe coming from Vachon. "Ohhhhhh!" The
ramifications hit home. "Damn! I've wasted five days of the war working for
another faction!!!! That's not right!" She took a swig from her beer bottle
then swung her Wiffle Bat O' Doom through the air. "Yeah, and I'll get
even...my way. Revenge is a dish best served like Baked Alaska," Tracy Sue
said cryptically. "Cold and from a distance."

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

10:05pm

Am back at Inca's with minimal walking thanks to forward-thinking Vaqmadre
calling of taxi to escort me home. Will have cab make stop at market.
Require baking supplies in order to complete implementation of means of
revenue + bargaining power that will fund future ideological activities.
Hope Inca will allow me near stove. Will purchase Easy Bake Oven<tm>, just
in case!

*************************************************************
TBC...

War: NA/Vaq/Merc: A Piece of Cake 
By Bonnie Rutledge
Time: All day Friday
Settings: myriad

July 13th

Cigarettes: 0 (have forsaken for forbidden love), Alcoholic units: 13
(needed mellowing - see below + morose over forbidden love), cud units: 1
(have given up cud for hair combings + forbidden love), naughty thoughts:
136 (forbidden love, hair combings as well as deceitful nature), scary
units: 7 (v. bad)

8:00am

Piece of cake. Piece of cake. Piece of cake. Need (3)

Have enacted means of revenue and bargaining power that will fund future
ideological activities. Am not roll-about llama. Am not doormat llama. Am
llama with pride and strong leadership potential! Am architect of future!

Am also llama not allowed by Inca to use stove. Inca does not understand am
domesticated animal therefore capable of domestic appliance usage. V. g.
thought of Easy Bake Oven ahead of time or means of revenue and bargaining
power would remain so much soggy batter sitting in springform molds.

8:40am

Inca asleep. Will be v. quiet. Cannot be caught using phone.

8:43am

Little buttons on telephone v. speciesist!

8:45am

Used pen in mouth to dial number for Merc Central. Asked for Mildred.
Avoided Poobah like plague. Grand High Factionwittage would roast packie
fanny over open flame if knew of transformational epiphany from pesky
Scribble into cute, loveable llama. Am not into that.

Have coordinated clandestine rendezvous under cycads at U of T. (Must send
Pardoe thank-you note for foreshadowing prime woodsy location suitable for
meeting of subterfuge.) Mildred vowed to come alone (like would believe
her). Vowed to come alone also (like would believe me).

OH!! PHONE RINGING NOW!! CANNOT WAKE INCA! CANNOT EVADE INCA IF INCA
INVADING SAME SPACE!!!!!

8:55am

Lingered brainlessly over diary confessions thereby allowing ringing
contraption to repeat highly counter-Inca-sleeping sound. Stupidly answered
phone in breathy voice. Was Vachon asking for brotherly-type-person.

V. bad of Spaniard. Is vampire. Huh. S/b tucked under snazzy red covers w/
visions of slackers dancing in luxuriously long-haired head, not reaching
out and touching said brotherly-type-person and mucking up plans of llama
counterintelligence. Assumed Unavailable Ice Llama voice. Told Spaniard was
v. disagreeable timing for Incan chit-chat activities.

Vachon said voice sounded familiar. Requested identification.
(Factionwittage!!!!!)

Ohthankgawd! Juan on phone all along. Ringing contraption sufficiently
noisy to spare forced conception of The Quick, Smooth, Lie Under Penalty Of
Disaster. (v.g. for not feeling fertile) Told by Inca to hang up.
Llollygagged for eavesdropping purposes (irresistible).

Spaniard assumed worst. (naturally) V. happy Inca getting out more. Inca
unappreciative of brotherly-type-person's happiness for is only getting out
to visit Church and solve Spaniard's chaos. V. cute male bonding moment
that did not involve specific mention of llama answering phone. (relief!)

Spaniard told Inca Vaqs discussed llama. (Mega-factionwittage!!!)

Discussion re: name for new cute llama. (???) Inca made joke. Said new name
s/b 'Divia.' (v. g. he can laugh) Vachon not impressed w/ humor at his or
llama's expense (non-speciesist). Said Vaqs like name 'Llani' as is
llama-esque-female-type-form-of-address. Inca argued sounded like
Greek-New-Age-male-musician-type-form-of-address or
sleepy-dwarf-type-form-of-address. Vachon not impressed w/ humor at his or
his Vaqs' expense (factionwittage). Told Juan to forget it. Juan said
would. As have nurtured newfound skill in brotherly-type-person-language
interpretation, exchange means w/b called 'Llani' by nightfall as apology
for appalling lack of Incan comic sense.

Hung up phone. Will sneak out while Inca still diverted.

9:25am

Am walking streets of TO. Have time to kill.

9:45am

Is time killing speciesist????

10:10am

Have met HIM.

Arrived early at cycads. Lingered in shade in non-shady-llama-manner. Felt
wind whisper in ears. Heard chorus from sky. (Really sound of Cher singing
'The Way Of Love') Wool raised along spine. Looked under shade of next
cycad to right.

Saw Battle Yak.

Gazed into Battle Yak's eyes. Felt lure.

Am complete.

LOVE, LOVE, LOVE, LOVE, LOVE, LOVE, LOVE!!!!!!!!!!!! :D

Of course Battle Yak is of other species, therefore love forbidden, but am
working toward society where yaks and llamas may lure each other w/o fear
or prejudice.

Meeting w/ Merc should handle that nicely.

10:30am

Mildred arrived alone. (Is honest Merc? <----!!!!!!!!)
Merc suspicious of Battle Yak. Asked if Yak had name. Said 'yes.' Said
'Battle.'
Merc dropped subject.

10:35am

Explained to Merc demands of job. Require organization of kaleidoscopic
event t/b held Saturday at Metro TO Zoo. Represents new organization
(Battle Yak and I - IN LOVE!) called Animals Stopping Speciesism (ASS, for
short). ASS Rally w/b ultimate non-speciesist party. Will offend no one.
Will invite everyone. Will cover all walks (paddles, bobs, swims, swings,
swooshes, clomps, clatters, floats, slinks, slithers, hops, as well as
pseudopodias) of life and unlife, except perhaps pigeons. Is OK if pigeons
remain oppressed.

Will provide reserved parking for all species, even for non-handicapped
singletons without children. Will be multi-cultural. Will serve only
artificial food (i.e. snow cones w/ simulated flavorings), not byproducts
of species labor or sacrifice. Everyone will get along. Will have puppet
show. Will give out commemorative rocks. Will be fantastic party expressing
new world where love between cute llama and Battle Yak can dare speak its
name.

10:40am

Mildred demanded payment. Said must be v.g. to cover expenses and swallow
naturally species-oppressive inclinations (thwaps Ratpackers w/ newspapers)

10:41am

Presented Merc with means of revenue and bargaining power (ta-da!). New
prototypes of line to add w/ Nunkies pops, Nicksicles, Janette Jellies, and
Tracy Tarts: VACHON SNACKYCAKES!!!

Mildred interested. Asks if anatomically correct. Told Mildred am
business-llama with degrees-and-stuff. Am not amateur.

Mildred asked if cream-filled. Spit at Mildred, as is v. intimate question.
Vaq-association obviously taking toll, for am defending Spanish honor.

Mildred tried samples. Shook hooves on deal.

10:45am

Psst! Are cream-filled. (Am naughty llama!)

10:50am

Looked into eyes of Battle Yak.
Yak bid me to go back to Inca. Promised rendezvous tomorrow at ASS Rally.
Did not want to part with newly found forbidden love, but could not resist
lure of Battle Yak.

Am forlorn. Life is piece of cake taken away before first bite.

10:55am

Left Battle Yak w/ Mildred under cycads. Miss him already.

11:00am

Still miss him.

11:05am

*sob*

11:20am

Have returned to Prison Away From Battle Yak (law offices of 'Valdez,
Montoya, & Montalban). Inca is v. upset. Spoke of 'parole' and 'bad
influences.' Was lectured. Began crying, for am 30-year-old (384 in pack
animal years) female llama who will die single b/c am in forbidden love w/
yak. Am not Forever Cute like some people. Feel attractiveness dissipating
at increasing velocity. Am becoming llama crone. Soon will only inspire
desire to comb in trolls that live under bridges. Am tragic fairy tale
deleted from children's books b/c gives nightmares and dyspepsia. Will
continue rapid decay into repulsiveness immediately.

11:25am

Am being brushed by Inca. Is pity brushing, know it!

7:00pm

Wool lovely and detangled. Perhaps am not total crone yet.

Still miss Battle Yak.

Juan says Vaqs coming by and are all taking me to party. S/b minor
distraction from torment of separation from forbidden love.

7:30pm

PARTY IS HIGH PRIESTESS CORONATION AT NUNKIES ANONYMOUS
SHRINE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

FULL CIRCLE FACTIONWITTAGE!!!!!!!!!

Suspect have been set up. Suspect clever and sneaky Vaqs w/ Inca and
Spaniard accomplices have played me for chump. Suspect will be served up on
platter as first Nunkai Llama ever. Do not know what to do!!!!!

Will do nothing. (Vaq influence.)

7:31pm

New plan:
Will play dumb. (s/b easy - am counterintelligence llama)

8:10pm

Have not been forsaken by Vaqs yet. Am being toyed with like tiny mouse in
clutches of puma. Is nervewracking. Is v. v. bad. Am worrying so much am
becoming Knightie-type-llama. (Unacceptable)

Will stop caring. Will accept horrible position serving glory of own
faction and abandon beloved Vaquera enemies for nothing matters anymore. Am
w/o Battle Yak. Have no one to deceive. Am with too many Addicts to
maintain facade of innocence.

Will Surrender. Will spit and give everyone grout duty (except Vaqueras,
for counterintelligence llama deserves betrayal as part of climactic
factionwittage fate, and no amount of personal humiliation truly worthy of
them)

8:15pm

Tracy Sue smiled at me. Playing mind games w/ gullible, trusting llama
patsy. (diabolical!)

8:30pm

Jig still not up. Wonder what is wrong with Vaqs? Am fish on hook! Should
be reeled in! Should be scaled and deboned!

Will find open bar for am driven to writing in speciesist metaphor by
mounting stress of imminent downfall.

8:45pm

Began entertainment. Is water juggling. Am Cosmopolitan juggling.
Entertaining.

8:50pm

Am now v. paranoid. (Always room for paranoia - is like Jello) Am
surrounded by strangeness. Shele is now Chicken Woman. Supaige is bouncy
assimilation device. Patt and Christy have disappeared. Nick is v. scary
looking. LaCroix is angsting. Still not forsaken by Vaqs. Understand
nothing.

9:45pm

AM SAVED!!!!!!! Vaqueras like me, they really do!!! (Or at least Vs have
not noticed intense aversion to me as of yet) Am not doomed. Am not leaky
barge in canal. Am not Knightie puppy piling LaCroix. Am still reasonably
non-decrepit and comb-able.

Source of unexpected deliverance comes in form of Bonnie. No, not me. (Am
saved) Other Bonnie. The Pardoe is doomed in my stead. (V. v. nice of her)

9:55pm

JULES IS HERE!!!! (Is veiled, but has manicure of authority)

Must pause and pass out from shock.

9:58pm

Have recovered, only to find Tracy Sue baiting veiled Ex-HP with her
Vaquera powers of sarcasm. Must stop TS before attention of Jules is drawn
to cute llama sitting next to Vaqmadre. Will munch on leathers. (V. chewy)

9:59pm

Have been thwapped with Wiffle Bat O' Doom for munching leathers.

Nose sore.

10:00pm

Is Jules! Am justified in paranoia. Has unveiled Bonnie (not me, the
Pardoe) as impostor. Is on rampage. Is on roll. (Am sure to be next!) No
one is safe, not even ... Nick?! Huh.

Will lick Inca's hand for comfort. (TS still annoyed re: leather-chewing)
Will hide furry face in process.

10:07pm

Terrifying. Plagues. Volcano.

LaCroix landed at hooves. Babbled about dolls.
V. odd. (Perhaps not getting enough Vitamin U?)

At some point since saw last, Old, Dead Guy (not LC) became not-so Dead and
Old (still Guy). Suspect am responsible. Should not have tinkered w/
sarcophagus but kept mischievous hands to silly self. Would not be llama
now. (Actually not so bad) Would not be in proximity of Vaqueras. (Not so
bad either). Huh. Curse not so inopportune save for approaching abject +
miserable end portion of experience.

Life is piece of cake - all layered and gooey and booby trapped with nuts.
Have cornered everyone v. important to me (Except Battle Yak) in lemony
filling containing Dark Mummy w/ Sour Reanimated Disposition. V. bad candy.
No, BAD CAKE. (Bad metaphor, but as am preparing to die at hands of Not-So
Old, Dead Still Guy, journalistic failures of complete inconsequence.)

12:00am

Survived. (???)

Indescribable. (Involved pigeons)

Will have piece of cake.

*************************************************************
TBC ...

War: NA/Merc: Rally-Ho! (1/1)
By Bonnie Rutledge, Mildred and Shele
Time: Saturday 14th 6pm onward
Place: Metro Toronto Zoo

Now, Mildred was in her fourth war. Her first had actually been War IV,
when the Mercenaries were proving their worth to the Forever Knight fan
community. Then she had to take a long break, due to life, and came back
to the intrigues of Toronto in time for War IX, where she went from self
proclaimed Computer Genius to Mommy General Pro Tem. She had persecuted
Libby at her trial, then stammered in amazement at Libby's surprise
witness. Last war, she had set into motion her own profit schemes. This
war, she had seen a Cousin in MercCentral, a resurrected mummy throwing the
weight of magic of the Egyptians, but somehow, this took the cake.

A talking llama and a telepathic battle yak.

Mildred didn't know what was more insane. That, or the fact she took a job
from them.

Although as far as jobs went, it was a simple one. All Mildred had to do
was make some phone calls, get some equipment, print some posters, and
deliver them to the various faction headquarters. She even grabbed F. Hugh
to help speed up the process of delivery.

At the zoo, she and the reluctant fanfic fairy put up posters, directed the
various snow cone vendors, prepared signs for those capable of holding
them, and gathered a lot of rocks. The podium was set up, the sound
equipment checked.

All that waited was for the rally to start.

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

The sun had begun to set, and the Animals Stopping Speciesism Rally (ASS
Rally, for short) had been underway for hours at the Metro Toronto Zoo. The
lizards, felines and puppies had dominated the early crowd (as well as the
expected early birds and worms) so that they could find the best spots for
baking on rocks and in sunbeams while there was still light. Once there was
far less bright implosion-causing rays in the sky and far more flattering
lighting, out came the owls and the vampire pussycats.

Dogs and moose caught Frisbees. Humans caught colds (for which the viruses
were sternly lectured by the ASS committee for violating the event rules -
no species oppression allowed!!!)

Elvi shook hips. Chickens shook tail feathers. Palm trees shook fronds.
Monkeys shook branches of conveniently placed cycads as they hopped about
performing monkey business. (Who asked cycads' leave first, so all monkey
business non-oppressive.)

The Zoo's parking lot had been re-zoned. It now designated parking for
every species in twos in a bid for unilateral respect. (Almost biblical,
except for the lack of guests named Noah and the dry heat)

There were free balloons. There were Limbo contests (broken into divisions
by Genus because the trouble-making viruses always won). There were games
of Charades. (Amoebas very good competitors.)

Each attendee received the rock of their choice at the front gates to
commemorate the occasion. (Rocks have no species, only classifications, so
they form the last bastion of harvesting.) There were peach rocks, obsidian
rocks, yellow rocks, evil pink rocks, gray rocks, jade rocks, brown rocks,
turquoise rocks, purple rocks, clear rocks, red rocks, cow-speckled rocks,
reptilian-patterned rocks, spotty rocks, stripy rocks, hard rocks, soft
rocks, alternative rocks, punk rocks, heavy rocks, light rocks, dark rocks,
and rocks that were simply unclassifiable (Die-Hard rocks).

The refreshment choices lacked variety in that the guests could choose to
have snow cones, or they could choose to not have snow cones. Once the
concept of snow cones was accepted, however, the guests could choose
between almost every artificial flavoring imaginable. The llama had a
cud-flavored snow cone. Sidney, Carmen, Grace and Cousin Gwen had
crunchy-food-beast-flavored snow cones. The fleas, mosquitoes and vampires
had blood-flavored snow cones. The Ratpackers and little ratsies all had
cheese-flavored snow cones. There were coffee-flavored snow cones for perky
people, and chocolate-flavored snow cones for bouncy people. For the really
disturbed guests, snow cones were served in strawberry-flavor.

Love filled the ASS Rally. Lions got along with lambs. Vegetarian piranha
from Ecuador embraced carrots. Nick-and-Natpackers played poker with
aliens. Llamas expressed non-forbidden love for yaks. Every species adored
Cousin Tser and asked to go home with her. Cousine Moses fought off the
pushy fan club with a glare. (It was a loving glare for the Cousine)

*****

Mildred looked through the zoo gate as she munched on her fudge snow cone.
All things considered, she'd made quite a good deal on the specs for Vachon
Snackycakes in return for setting up this little shindig for the talking
llama and her telepathic beau yak. The headaches involved had been
practically nil, except for a few trouble makers (Speciesist or not, nobody
really liked the viruses). Like the point in the evening when...

Murmuring began in the back of the crowd and moved toward the stage in
waves. The ground-bound grew nervous, but not as nervous as the attendees
seated in trees(by permission), who could see the murmuring preceded
something...large. Soon the murmurs evolved into whispers as the
something-large grew nearer. Some said it was Big Blue, while others
scoffed, stating that, while white-shirted engineers were odd, they were by
no means their own species. Others took naps, since it was taking the
something-large quite a long time to reach the stage. Still others spread
warnings of punk banana slugs, attending the rally for the sole purpose of
causing mayhem -- what else could move so slowly, yet cause so much panic?
After several minutes, the answer to that question was quite clear.

"Attention those who would join this cause! Abandon this futile attempt at
peace! War is at hand!"

To those watching, the spokesparrot's beak seemed out of sync with the
voice broadcast by the Mr. Microphone. Most eyes, however, were focused on
the giant (and I mean hugely giant) tortoise to his right. While the
spokesparrot continued its speech, the tortoise moved its head from side to
side, making eye contact with the crowd and raising its foot now and then
to emphasize a point.

"While you meet here in the open, humans plot to capture and cage you! Even
now, vehicles approach with intent to oppress us!" A reedy siren could be
heard underscoring the spokesparrot's words.

"Now is our time to rise up!" Moles in the audiences cheered the
spokesparrot's words and soon the lemmings in attendance joined them.
"Together we can gain the power that is rightfully ours!"

A bright yellow finch watched the proceedings with a suspicious eye. (The
other eye was suspicious, too, but it was lazy and didn't feel like
watching anything right then.) There was something not quite right about
that extremely giant tortoise. She dispatched an undercover officer to
investigate further.

"Forget making 'friends' with the humans, they'll never be our equals!" The
spokesparrot continued as a nondescript finch flew to the top of the shell
and, in normal symbiotic relationship fashion, started cleaning the
tortoise's neck. "Let's make *them* sit up and beg for a change!"

Finding a string as he cleaned, the finch pulled and pulled, validating the
captain's suspicions. For as the string was pulled, it kept getting longer
until it became apparent that it was not a string but a thread. In order to
reveal the true nature of this rabble rouser, the finch was forced to take
to the wing, still pulling thread as he went.

The ASS Rally gasped as the truth was exposed. The tortoise's back, though
well made in the popcorn quilt style, had only been basted to its pleathery
legs, and as the thread followed the finch skyward, the pleather dropped
away exposing millions of earthworms.

"Bawk!" The spokesparrot freaked, dropped the microphone and took to the
sky. "I told you it wouldn't work!"

"'I told you it wouldn't work!'" Repeated the mockingbird, ceasing the
siren noises it had been making, and flying after his partner.

A squad flamingos followed the duo, pink feathers symbolizing their
Creatures Against Criminality And Obscurantism(CACAO) oath. The crowd,
initially angry at the birds' escape, cheered when they recognized Stephen
Etienne Stepka Winthropington-Smith, III, was leading the squad, for he was
(say it with me) the crème de CACAO!

The earthworms who had fallen clear of the tortoise costume took to the
ground. Others, trapped in the foot wells and belly of the tortoise waited
to be picked for detention by the finches. Their cover blown the moles
tried to escape but found they were surrounded by turtles on loan from the
62nd Precinct. The lemmings were quickly questioned, found to have no part
in planning the disturbance, and were subsequently released on their own
recognizance.

Once the perpetrators had been lead away, and the embarrassed lemmings had
been hugged, reassured, and kept from committing suicide, the ASS Rally
crowd settled back into their fun and games.

All and all, Mildred thought, it was just your average Merc job.

*****

Once the sun went down and the vampire-and-moth-approved tiki torches were
lit, the attention of the festive throng was drawn to a makeshift stage
atop the camel hut. The Battle Yak stood at the pinnacle of the roof,
staring with majestic pride into the gathering of organisms. Slightly to
his side was a microphone.

Cousin Tser finished climbing up the roof ladder and tapped the microphone
to see if it was still on. The audience hissed in unison at the feedback.
"Sorry, sorry for oppressing your eardrums, those of you who have
eardrums," she apologized after a few audio adjustments.

Cousine Moses slithered onto the camel hut roof to sit imposingly between
Tser and the Battle Yak as her human associate continued to speak. "The
Battle Yak has a few words he'd like to say to everyone, and I've been
asked to act as his interpreter."

The Battle Yak stared ahead for a poignant minute. Tser nodded from time to
time, to show that she understood. Everyone waited in silence until she
cleared her throat. "We have gathered here today, both furry and fowl, both
mitotic and meiotic, both scaled and spined, both deciduous and coniferous,
both parasitic and symbiotic, to celebrate the dawn of a new age of
'Everybody Getting Along!!' Welcome to the First Annual Animals Stopping
Speciesism Rally!"

Tser glanced over at the Battle Yak, who was still staring. "Oh, and the
Battle Yak says that he means no offense to the Plantae, Morifera, Protista
or others for calling the organization '*Animals* Against Speciesism'!"

The audience cheered and clapped.

The Battle Yak continued to stare. After a moment, Tser interrupted and
said, "Sorry, I didn't catch that last bit - could you repeat that?"

The Battle Yak stared.

Tser laughed, clapping one hand against her temple. "Silly me! I should
have gotten that! It's just this War has scrambled my brains!" Lizards in
the audience became excited. "The Battle Yak says," Tser finished, "'This
rally is officially underway! Everybody try the snow cones!'"

The crowd clapped some more, and then they got down to the real fun.

************************************************************
TBC ... 

Feng Shoe and the Single Llama (1/1)
By Bonnie Rutledge
Time: Early Sunday through Hive Party

July 15th

Alcoholic units: 5 (party, to be expected), cud units: 8 (comfort eating),
naughty thoughts: 7 (too despondent to lust or scheme until party), scary
units: 1 (much better)

6:00am

Was woken from puppy-dog ice cream cone dreams by pebble tossing against
window. Either advent of clandestine meeting or hail storm. Will
investigate.

6:02am

Peeped out window. Is true love! Cannot resist lure of Battle Yak. Will
meet him outside for love beneath the cycads.

6:24am

Have been dumped!! Have been thrown over by cad Battle Yak for
cold-blooded, glaring iguanan goddess. (Cousine Moses!!!)

Battle Yak says am too needy. Battle Yak says am too high maintenance. Says
llama girlfriend requires too much brushing. Says am too wordy. Says llama
girlfriend cannot compete with new yak love.

New yak love is detached. (Is Cousine) New yak love requires no brushing at
all. (Is iguana) New yak love speaks feelings with eyes not vocal chords.
(Is glarer.)

Hate her. Hate her. HATE HER. Velociraptan slut! Scaly temptress! Trampy
stealer of yak boyfriends! Skin-shedding Salome! Flicky-tongued hussy! Hate
her. Hate her. Hate her!

As for Battle Yak, was never so satisfactory in the wool-brushing
department, anyway. (Hooven) Can throw pebbles at CERK windows forever for
all I care. Can wander streets interminably searching for unobtainable
lizard who will give him cold shoulder.

Am unhappy. Wasted ENTIRE DAY of fleeting llama cuteness on Battle Yak. Am
furious have squandered means of revenue and bargaining power on funding
yak-friendly ideological activities.

Hate him. Hate him. Hate him. Yak bastard!

Don't care if is speciesist. Hate everyone!!!!

6:45am

WAAAHHHHH!!!

NOBODY LOVES ME!!!!!!!!!

6:55am

NO ONE WILL EVER LOVE ME AGAIN!!!!!

7:05am

STILL UNLOVED!!!!!!

7:20am

Incan sleeping ritual interrupted by mourning over continued unlovable
nature. Inca sighed. Asked to know what was wrong now. Will tell him.

8:45am

Just finished explanation of romantic abuse at hooves of cad battle yak and
shameless flirtatious starings of iguanan goddess. Am distraught. Have
realized horrific degree of own wordiness. Cad Battle Yak accusations of
overactive vocabulary and complex phrasings confirmed!!! No wonder have
been dumped by cad Battle Yak and remain continually unlovable!

Am faulted! Am flawed! Have failed One-Minute Rule! Have Compulsive
Utterance Disorder (CUD)!!! Will ask Inca for drive to vet to have verbiage
examined. Perhaps miracle drug or microchip implant exists to transform
repugnant walkie-talkie llama into serene non-communicative llama.

8:47am

Inca will not take horribly afflicted llama to vet. (Is sunny)
Hate him. Hate him. Hate him.

8:48am

(Don't really hate Inca. Am merely v. put out.)

9:00am

Inca is playing on weaknesses, distracting reasonable alarm concerning
continued wordiness with thorough combing. Will not work! Will remain
appalled at compulsive chattiness! Am loquacious llama! Am babbling brook!
Am squeaky wheel! Am whistling teapot!

9:15am

*huummm*

Wool brushing v.g.

9:30am

Am still wordy. Am still broken-hearted and indignant at callow usage at
hooves of Battle Yak. Situation, however, has been explained by Juan.

As per Incan logic, was destined for disaster for fell in love with yak.
What did expect? Yaks renowned as cads in affairs of the heart. Informed
Inca could have told me earlier. Inca argued did, but wordy llama was too
busy moaning about forbidden love to listen attentively. Huh. Inca also
informed me common ground most solid basis for success between entities in
any relationship. Sticking to own species most helpful in that area. (Easy
for him to say - all good llamas taken!) Argued that Incan speciesist
romantic philosophies all fine and dandy, but maintained that old-fashioned
hormonal attraction and bonking like bunnies accomplishes superior headway
in established sharing. Inca replied, yes, if female. Suspect Juan really
yak in Incan disguise.

Am assured, despite speciesist, yak-channeling Incan source, am v. loveable
for llama-type person, so should suck it up and allow said
Incan-type-person to get some sleep. Muttered would be first time in War.

Assumed above was compliment. Spirits buoyed. Contemplated relaxation as
well as obliteration of heartbreak via consumption of good book. (Reading)

9:45am

No good books to be found. Will read 'Feng Shoe For Dummies' instead.

10:07am

Romantic disaster makes perfect sense now! Have examined living area using
ancient materialistic principles of 'Feng Shoe For Dummies' and have
discovered life-altering arrangement of environment!

1) No longer have shoes. As hoofed-type-person, was doomed from start.
2) Have dictionary and law library in my 'Communication Zone' No wonder am
so wordy!
And most grievous tragedy of all...
3) Have communal dung pile in my 'Relationship Paddock'!!!!! (!!!!!!!)

Is v. bad as other llamas are unresponsive to my distribution of Feng Shoe
ideology. Refuse to act, but prefer to chew on it! (Book has teeth marks)
Will dig in hooves and insist on capitulation for sake of personal
relationship future.

10:26am

Hooves stuck in hole. Require tipping.

12:30pm

Tipped.

Personal relationship future forecast remains smelly.

12:31pm

Factionwittage! Feng Shoe examination of 'Social Area' led to kitchen,
which featured invitation to Hive party tonight!! Did RSVP affirmative for
party during perky and human phase of existence. Too late to report cannot
attend as have been cursed by Old, Dead Guy into llamadom. (Have already
used said excuse to avoid UF honey-tasting previous Spring) Must attend in
some capacity. Must forage gifts, for party is in honor of
birthday-type-persons.

3:30pm

Have returned from quick stop to Wally World, as has everything to fulfill
last-minute birthday-type-present demands at extra-low prices, as well as
frequent performance art in aisles. Is cultural Mecca. Is happy-face haven.
Is cheapest source (other than Fanfic Fairies) for Valium salt licks. (For
Julia-birthday-type-person) Is also inexpensive supplier of linens woven
from the wool of the finest llamas in South America. (Nudists) Will double
gift Julia-birthday-type-person so as to throw off scent from true
previously human identity.

Scent is reminder that am long overdue for bath. Must scrub-a-dub in tub
before party for social llama purposes.

Made stop in Netting Department, as Lora-birthday-type-person is beekeeper.
Seemed catchy idea. Became tangled.

3:35pm

Am untangled now.

4:15pm

Have returned with present-y bits to law offices of 'Valdez, Montoya &
Montalban' only to realize require wrappings! Will worry about that later.

7:45pm

Am running slightly late!

Snuck into bath for good long soak. Became pruney. Used apricot shampoo.
Completely lost track of time. Did not realize wool so v. absorbent! Am now
dripping over floors, carpets, leather furniture, papers, and present-y
bits. Perhaps should not move so much.
Will blow dry wool, powder nose, and wrap gifts with cool efficiency. Will
arrive only fashionably late.

8:55pm

AM RUNNING V. V. LATE!!!!!

Inca lacks wrapping paper. Tape usage difficult as have no opposable
thumbs. Blow dryer made wool poof out like giant cotton-ball poodle.
Suspect Natpacker-influenced manufacture of hair-drying appliance. Appear
v. frivolous. Am bouffant.

Juan amused by poodley-hair style. Applied ribbon to top of head rather
than present-y lumps. Huh. Took advantage of fit of laughter at my expense
to sneak out to party.

10:05pm

Have met HIM.

Saw golden canine god across vaguely crowded room. Introduced myself.
Inspired panty smile. Feel like llama temptress.

His name is Perry. V. smooth retriever. Said likes poodle hair.
(Flatterer!)

10:50pm

Am llama floosy! Rolled on rug with doggie stranger in middle of party!
Have been de-bowed! Influenced by Merlot pilfered from
Julia-birthday-type-person, am certain. (Am llush)

Perry v. cute, but not relationship material. Informed him am flattered but
am only interested in one-night carpeted fling as am on rebound from
romance with cad Battle Yak. Perry revealed barking tendencies. Snuck out
of party to avoid embarrassing scene.

Will remove rug fibers from wool before Inca and Vaqs notice. Do not want
to become known as llama with lloose reputation.

10:55pm

Lloose llama llifestyle might be v. fun though.

***************************************************
TBC ...

Age Before Reason (1/1)
By Bonnie Rutledge
Time: Early Hive Party

The doorbell rang, signaling an early arrival. Nancy moved to answer it
with a broad smile. The door swung open to reveal a very cute llama (though
perhaps not as cute as the llama could have been, Its eyes were reddened as
though it had been crying.) standing in front of a stack of crudely wrapped
packages. Rather than return Nancy's smile, the llama kicked her packages
over the threshold and kept on walking. Nancy could have sworn she heard
the llama muttering, "Speciesist doorknobs..." but that would have been
very silly, so she picked up the weathered packages and turned them over.

One was wrapped in the pages of a law journal and marked in pink writing
with Lora's name. The other two were covered in suspiciously cuddy-smelling
newspaper and were labeled 'Julia.' Presents, Nancy quickly deducted, and
made certain they were delivered to the proper birthday ... er ... women.

******

The llama clumped up to the bar, propping her head over the edge. Julia was
trying out her freshly-unwrapped present-y Valium salt lick while she
poured yet another glass of Merlot. After some scrambling of hooves, the
llama hefted herself into the next bar stool.

"Ah, you're enjoying the gift," the llama said as she poked about the bar
supplies for a straw. She rolled it toward the edge of the counter, then
jostled about on her stool as she ducked to catch the implement in her
teeth. There was a 'Whoop!', a *thump!*, and a *boom**boom**boom.*

Julia dropped her chin, looking to where the llama sat on its rump on the
floor with a soda straw hanging out of her mouth. The llama rolled over to
her hooves again and proceeded to utter curses about, "Speciesist
barstool..." as she resumed her seat. Ah, Julia thought, a talking llama.
She took another lick off the Valium salt lick followed by another swig of
Merlot. "Working up to specifications," Julia replied, for if she was going
to have a nice hallucination of a talking llama, she might as well get a
decent party conversation out of it, as well.

"Huh," the llama replied, thereby crushing Julia's earnest dream for witty
repartee in a War post. "What about the other present?" she said
accusingly. "I don't see you licking those!"

Julia smiled. Disappointment and accusations: now that was what made a
birthday feel like home. "Are you talking about the set of bedding?"

"Yes!" the llama declared. "Are you a sheetist or something?"

Sheetist? Julia felt an unwelcome flashback coming on, one that involved a
Random Verbiage Generator. She had some more Merlot (for medicinal
purposes). "I am casting my sheets to the wind," she announced, "and woe be
it to the mammal that tries to stop me."

"I'm very insulted," Julia's birthday vision replied. "I'll have you know
they were hand-woven from the finest llamas available."

Julia paused in mid-Valium salt lick, quirking her head to one side. "They
were cotton."

"Of course," the llama replied and promptly began to emit a
humming-slurping sound.

Julia glanced over to find the llama had planted her straw in the neck of
her Merlot bottle and was siphoning her vintage at an alarming rate. "Hey!
Hooves off!" she shouted as she clutched the bottle to her chest.

The llama appeared on the verge of tears, the soda straw dangling from her
mouth like a cigarette as she spoke. "But it's a party! And I deserve to
get knackered more than you do!"

"Oh, really? Why is that?"

"I must drown my sorrows for I have been thrown over by my cad Battle Yak
boyfriend for a cold-blooded, glaring, iguanan goddess!"

"Like that doesn't happen every day," Julia sneered.

"And what's so special about your lushy demands that you get to horde all
the alcoholic units?" the llama demanded.

"Well, I suppose you might label this as an ageist remark, but ... I'm
turning fifty."

The straw dropped from the llama's mouth. "Oh. Well, obviously you win,
then. Drink up. Happy licking!" Gingerly, she lowered her llama form from
the bar stool and slowly backed away. (It always pays to be cautious around
birthday-type-persons.)

******
TBC.....

The Truth (And Other Fine Things) Exposed! (1/2)
By Christy, Bonnie (that one) & Bonnie (the other one)
Thanks to Tser and Katrinka
Time: Some ephemeral time between Hive party and wee hours Monday morning
Associated with 'Can You Hear The Rumble?'
Setting: One of those fighty bars

"I just don't feel as if I've repaid my debt to LaCroix yet," Bonnie
(Ratpacker-by-association Bonnie, not llama Bonnie) explained to Christy
while they were sitting at the bar. Behind them, Jayne struggled
desperately with a rabid strawberry while two N&NPers cheered the crazed
fruit on to victory. "Things didn't quite go as planned on Friday night."

"I think that just earned you the title of Queen of Understatement."
Christy smiled. Meanwhile, Jayne found her second wind (motivational).
Flexing her arms like the Incredible Hulk in a personality flux, she
grabbed the psychotic berry and drop kicked it over the bar. It flew
between Bonnie and Christy's heads.

The two women made eye contact, and the redhead quickly turned away and
indicated a table in the corner to the curly, dark-haired Bonns. Bar
fights were all well and good, but they had plot advancement to worry about
before they could enjoy the drive-by fruitings. "Why don't we have a seat
and discuss this further..."

Once they were seated, away from the scene where Jayne had turned on the
cheering N&NPers in rage and had begun eating gummi aliens to taunt them,
Bonns inquired, "So, what do you think would make LaCroix happy?"

The Nunketeer thought for a moment. "Well, he'd probably really like it if
Nick were to accept his vampire nature. You know how he's always carrying
on about that..." At the Pardoe's look, she said, "Ohhhhh...something *you*
could do to make him happy." She thought some more. It was against the
rules for Bonns to make a *donation,* so that was out.

Then, she had a flash of brilliance so bright she was surprised it didn't
illuminate the entire room and cause the undead portion of the clientele to
implode. It *would* please LaCroix, in a roundabout way, and it might just
get her off the hook with Jules for attempting the Bonnie switch at the
coronation.

Christy's mind swiftly replayed a very-important phone call she'd
conveniently eavesdropped upon earlier in the day between High Priestess
Jules and a desperate Cousinly Co-Leader Tser:

"Jules, do you remember how the General likes things to be organized?" Tser
asked.

"How could I forget? And I agree with him. After all, there's nothing wrong
with chaos that a little order can't set to rights."

"Uh. Okay. So you remember the very important position of Cousinly
Receptionist?" Tser prompted.

"Of course. Without a Cousinly Receptionist on scene, how would we ever
learn anything about the degradation of the human psyche into madness? They
are absolutely imperative! You can't have a War without a Cousinly
Receptionist to drive wonky!" Jules declared as an inspirational march
played in the background. Pause. Silence. Calm. "Why do you ask?"

"I've just found out our current CR is dropping from the ranks next War,"
Tser muttered in a voice filled with dire implications.

Jules gasped.

"Well, throw her into the Dungeon and clarify the nature of her mistake! No
one walks away from the Cousins until they're a High Priestess, and then
it's only for an excuse to throw an apocalyptic party. Look at Tok! She's
suffered as a Head for five Wars, and she *still* doesn't get any slack!"

"Slack," Tser countered. "That's the problem, you see. Jess, that's the
name of the current Cousinly Receptionist, well, she plans to become a
Vaquera -"

Jules emitted a sound similar to six cats in a bathtub.

"- And I can't torture her into changing her mind," Tser continued,
"because she's my sister."

"Honestly!" Jules snapped impatiently. "What kind of Cousinly sister are
you?!"

"We need to find a replacement for the next War," Tser said firmly.
"*Before* the General returns to his body and discovers he's lost ground to
the Vaqueras again." She issued a sigh. "The problem is, all of the Cousins
here at CERK know Cousinly Receptionist is a job only a lemming would love.
I need someone either completely uninitiated to the Legion's ways to take
the job out of helpful ignorance, or I need someone so cold-blooded that
Qa'ra popping out of a volcano wouldn't make them blink."

"In that case, what about the glaring iguanan goddess?"

"Cousine Moses isn't here right now," Tser explained. "Which is
unfortunate, because the Battle Yak keeps staring love poems for her and
tossing pebbles at all the CERK windows. It's distracting."

"Well, I'll see what I can do at the Shrine," Jules promised, "but I warn
you, the crop of Addict newbies this War seems annoyingly self-preserving."

As Christy returned from this latest flashing (which *again* - dammit! -
did not feature a single attractive and exposed male), she eyed Bonnie
(Ratpacker-by-Association in midst of identity crisis) with an innocent (it
was a challenge) smile.

"There's a very, very, VERY important job opening up at CERK," Christy told
her. "You should take it. It's exactly the thing you're looking for."
Nod-nod. Wink-wink.

"And taking this job will make LaCroix happy?" Bonns asked.

"Let me put it this way," Christy said frankly. "If you don't take the job,
LaCroix will be *unhappy.* It all works out. Nunkies may never become
chipper enough to take me to Disneyland, but you can certainly do your part
toward turning his frowns upside-down by becoming the
Cousinly-Receptionist-In-Training!"

Bonns frowned, not quite convinced this was the best way to repay her debt
to LaCroix. "Cousinly-Receptionist-In-Training? What would I have to do in
this job that's so important?"

"Well..." Think. Think. Think. (Lies don't always just fall out of the sky
like pigeon poo, you know.) "Naturally you would recept. That's a very
important skill - recepting."

Bonns nodded. "I can do that. What else?"

"Ummm..." Ponder. Stretch. Grasp. "You would be the hub, the fragile locus
upon which all of LaCroix's inter- and intra-factional communication
depends! You'll be fiber-optic! Open platformed! (Non-shoe) You will become
the feedback mechanism of a legion!!!"

"Yeah, sure. What else?"

Christy appeared ashamed and remorseful for one brief, weakened second.
"You'll have to work with Post-Its," she mumbled.

"Really?!" Bonnie became very excited. "You wouldn't lie about something
like that, would you?"

"No," Christy said forlornly, seeing her opportunity at scoring points with
the returned High Priestess collapsing. "I cannot lie about that. This job
involves MANY Post-Its."

"What kind of Post-Its? Are they all yellow? Or does LaCroix use pink ones
and green ones and blue ones and marbled ones and ones with
picturesque-type watermarks on them...? I LOVE Post-Its!" Bonns exclaimed.

"You-you do?" Christy couldn't believe her luck.

"Why, I'd give up electricity before I gave up my Post-Its! They're very,
very convenient!"

"So you'll take the job?" Christy prompted.

"Absolutely! If it'll make LaCroix less unhappy, and I get to use
Post-Its..." Bonns nodded. "I mean, if I had to choose between my computer
and Post-Its, why, I'd pick -" Her words faltered, a bedeviled wave of
indecision floating over her features again. "Computer or
Post-its...Computer...Post-Its..." Dazed mystery danced in her voice.

Which Christy failed to notice. As soon as Bonnie uttered 'Absolutely,' she
popped out her cell phone to dial up Tser with the happy news.

"Computer or Post-Its," Bonnie repeated in a fog. "There's an answer there
somewhere. Was there a question?"

Christy snapped her phone closed. "You're all set! Just drop by CERK to
start your orientation any time before the end of the War!"

Snapping out of her funk, Bonnie glanced confusedly around the table.
"Report to CERK. Please LaCroix. Cool." She nodded again, reflexively.
"Thanks."

Christy shook her hand. "No problem." The Nunketeer glanced toward the bar
proper, where the Nick & Natpackers had recovered their equilibrium and
were now blowing kisses in Jayne's direction, thereby making the addict
weak and nauseous from the sappiness of it all. As Jayne fell to her knees,
clutching her stomach, Christy stood up from the table. "Looks like my cue
to enter the fray." She winked at Bonns, then lifted her fists in the
Mickey position (She's the Nunketeer - of course she knows Mouse Fu!)
before leaping into the conflict.

Bonnie (Is that who I am?) stood slowly, wondering where she should go
next. Alan's lab? The Ratpackers' HQ? (Like she could find it) Straight to
CERK? The Raven, for the bar fight finale?

She took a few uncertain steps toward the factional skirmish unfolding
before her. Christy had removed her mouse ears and had thrown them
chakram-style, causing them to ricochet off each of the Nick & Natpackers'
heads before zip-i-dee-doo-dah-ing back into her grip. Recovering, the Nick
& Natpackers turned a table on its side and rolled it toward the pair of
addicts. Christy and Jayne tumbled like bowling pins. Strike!

As she watched, lingering on the fringes, feeling the urge to fight, but
forgetting the reason, Bonnie felt a cold grip envelop her hand. She
jumped, not realizing that someone had been standing behind her. "What?"

Bonnie jerked free and whirled around. She found Nick Knight sitting in the
same chair that Christy had so recently vacated. Nick Knight, only Bonnie
felt a shiver travel down her spine at the sight of him. (Not a common
occurrence.) Nick Knight, dressed in tight black leather pants and a
duster.

Bonnie had never spent any of her precious spare time contemplating Nick
Knight. She had enough unintelligible mysteries to unravel on her mind
already. Under normal circumstances, she was hard-pressed to dig up
annoyance toward the vampire-turned-detective like so many non-Knightie
fans. Instead, she nursed a distinct ambivalence.

So why was she standing there with her mouth hanging open? Must be the
leather pants.

"Wanna talk?" It was Nick Knight's voice, but there was a tone to it that
she'd never heard from the character before. He spoke like he was issuing a
dare, like he was playing a game, like it was all fun, and she'd stumbled
along just in time to join in. His gaze carried something different, too: a
taunt. <I know something you don't know. Care to guess?>

Bonnie glanced over her shoulder, catching a glimpse of the Addicts and
N&NPers clashing barstools and pelting fancy olives.

Nick followed her eyes, commenting, "You don't really want to get involved
with that, do you? They look like they can handle themselves."

"But..." Bonnie frowned. "Some of those people follow you."

"Where?" Nick shot a glance back at the floor. His questioning stare
quickly cleared. "Oh. You mean the Nick & Natpackers. Maybe later. When one
side's the underdog. Then I'll get involved. Until then..." He pushed at
the chair opposite him with a sensible boot, pushing it away from the
table. "Let's hang out."

Bonnie cautiously settled in the seat, eyeing him warily. "You don't seem
like yourself."

Nick grinned. A wicked 'try it, you'll like it' grin. That's when Bonnie
noticed he had a drink umbrella spinning between a thumb and index finger.
She placed both palms flat on the table as though the room and her brain
twirled along with it.

"There's been a lot of that going around lately," Nick said. "It's a good
War to have an identity crisis, so why don't we talk about yours?"

*****************************************************
TBC in Part 2

War: The Truth (And Other Fine Things) Exposed! (2/2)
By Bonnie Rutledge (Hint: not the one in the post)
Time/Place: Some ephemeral bar fight between Hive party and wee hours Monday morning

"There's been a lot of that going around lately," Nick said. "It's a good War to have
an identity crisis, so why don't we talk about yours?"

"Mine?" Bonnie scowled. "Do you even know who I am?"

"Yes." He didn't offer proof, just the affirmation. Strangely, Bonnie believed him.

"Just checking. I never know anymore. This past week, people have started asking me
if I'm a llama."

The drink umbrella stopped twirling. Nick glanced up. Blink. "You don't say."

"What would suddenly give people the idea that I'm a llama?" Bonns shook her head. "I
don't know. Maybe they're right, and I'm wrong. Maybe I am some other Bonnie. I
started out so certain of who I was, and I knew everything I had done, and why I did
it. Now, I'm not always sure what my name is. Maybe I'm not even a Bonnie. Maybe I'm
someone else who's deluded herself into thinking she's a Bonnie."

"There are two ancient philosophies applicable to your situation," Nick said lazily.
"Know thyself." He raised one arm and gestured toward the bar. "Know thy bartender."

A man in an apron rushed to their table carrying a small platter with a beer, a green
bottle and glass, and a bowl of peanuts. Christy snatched the bowl of peanuts and
began throwing then at the Karin and Anja. The N&NPers caught them in their mouths,
then spit them back. (strong llama influence this war)

"When's the last time you knew who you were?" Nick asked conversationally as he
opened his bottle, notably with his hands, rather than his teeth. "If you figure out
where the confusion began, maybe you'll find the reason for it."

Bonnie tapped a fingernail against her beer bottle, debating the wisdom of this whole
'Knightly Confessions' scenario. Out of all the characters, Nick was probably the
last one she should be looking to for advice on finding herself. "I don't know..."
she said unenthusiastically.

"You don't know, or you just don't want to go there?" There was a challenge in his
eyes that had Bonnie sitting up straight. The secret danced there again, daring her
to talk. <I know who you are. From the sound of it, better than you do.>

"It's a very old story," Bonnie said brashly, peeling the label off her beer rather
than drinking. "Once upon a time, there lived an Ardent Vaquera named Bonnie, and,
one day, feeling like it would be a good idea, she hired a Merc to do some dirty work
for her -"

"Dirty work?" Nick interrupted.

"Dirty work. The kind of job normal mortals would never dare attempt without a huge
chocolate bribe. The deed is done, there's a whole lotta hair on the floor, the
screaming commences, and, suddenly, the Vaquera is a Vaquera is a Vaquera no more."

"Here's one suggestion," Nick said coolly. "Quit talking about your life in the third
person, and maybe you'll seem more real."

Bonnie's eyes narrowed. "Fine. *I* hired a Mercenary to cut Vachon's hair four Wars
ago. *I* had to leave the faction."

"Why?"

"Because they were pissed!"

"No, why did you hire the Merc?"

Bonnie's bravado faltered. She returned to tugging on the bottle label a moment, then
lifted her chin to guess, "Because I could?"

"Is that what you believe?" Nick smirked. Like he knew better.

"It doesn't matter. It's done. I'm an ex-Vaq. I'm an Independent. I'm an Unknown. I'm
a Ratpacker by Association." Bonnie paused, holding up a warning index finger. "I'm
not a llama."

Nick nodded. "No, you aren't."

"I," Bonnie concluded proudly, "am the new Cousinly-Receptionist-In-Training."

"You're brainwashed."

That statement required clarification. "What?"

It wasn't immediately forthcoming.

Out of nowhere (well, really, out of the barfight) Jayne's body came flying. "They
make the chandelier swinging look so easy in the old bar fights!"

Nick picked Jayne up by the back of her waistband, set her on her feet, then pushed
her back into the brouhaha. "Don't swing 'til you see the whites of their eyes!"

The bar had flooded with more bodies. Patt had arrived, along with the Grand High
Poohbah of the Merc Guild, who were both being chased by Nicole and Lee of the CotK
brandishing water noodles as if they were swords.

Nick pulled off his leather duster and began to roll up the sleeves of his poet's
shirt. "Can you believe this?" he asked no one in particular. "A bar fight scene with
no Vaqueras. What's the point of having a bar fight scene without Vaqueras?" He
grabbed Bonnie's hand and pulled her toward the huddle of Knightie sympathizers who
were rolling marbles across the floor in front of the Cousinly enthusiasts. "Come
on!"

"Wait a second!" Bonnie followed, but she brought along her full beer bottle, just in
case. "You're going to fight in the bar *now*?? We haven't finished talking yet! You
just said I was *brainwashed.* You can't just say things like that and end the
conversation!"

"I haven't ended the conversation," Nick said, calmly tying Nicole's and Lee's
shoelaces together while they weren't looking. "I just changed the direction of the
conversation." He watched in satisfaction as the CotK tried to back away from their
own marble booby trap and ended up landing on their rumps instead.

It was hard to believe, but Bonnie was more confused than ever. "You're attacking
your own people! Why did you do that?" Laurie MercBard ran up behind her, flailing an
aluminum garbage can lid. Bonnie ducked, then grabbed the GHP's ankles, causing the
Poohbah to leapfrog over the CotK's heads and land on Christy's back for a piggy-back
ride. That is, until they encountered the marbles. Then everyone was rolling around
the floor like a llama and a vampire dog at a Hive party.

"Why?" Nick replied. "Because I can, and like I said before, what's the point without
the Vaqs?" He shrugged. "I can fight anybody. I can help anybody."

Bonnie suddenly understood the answer to one identity crisis. "You aren't Nick."
Cha-ching! "You've switched." *Cha* "With Vachon." *Ching!*

Nick shook his head. "No, actually, I didn't switch with Vachon. I am Vachon. Nick
switched with me."

Bonnie wasn't impressed with the pedantic detail. "And you've been pumping me to talk
about myself like I'm some gullible idiot!" She was insulted.

"Well, you are the new Cousinly-Receptionist-In-Training..." Like that and gullible
idiocy strolled hand in hand.

Bonnie threw her beer at his face. *Splash!* Unfortunately, it wasn't holy beer (Sam
Adams), so it didn't burn or maim to match her temper. "I'm out of here!"

Vachon (in Nick's body) wiped the beer away from his eyes and ignored her words.
"Duck," he said.

"Duck you!"

Vachon rolled his eyes, cupped one hand over the top of Bonns' curly head, and pushed
her under the nearest table. In the next rumbling instant, the glass-front of the bar
shattered, sending shards of glass flying in all directions (luckily everyone was now
conveniently shielded under tables) as a large hooven animal made his entrance. It
was just like a Schlitz's Malt Liquor Yak commercial.

While the real insanity ensued, (Jayne riding a Battle Yak bareback around the bar as
everyone else pelted her with coasters) Vachon huddled under the table with Bonnie to
continue their conversation. "You can't leave the bar fight yet. You'll ruin the
tradition."

"What tradition?" Bonnie was scowling, not so much over the question of tradition,
but over the question of how much business she had remaining angry at him. He'd never
overtly pretended he was Nick, only allowed her to assume. Then he'd gone and
protected her from some glass in the back. It brought back those precarious questions
of repaying-debts-owed.

"The one where I kiss a Bonnie during the bar fight sequence."

"*A* Bonnie. Sounds rather casual to me," she sniffed, as though uninterested.
(Well, he was in Nick's body!)

"Rutledge didn't have a problem with it."

"Yeah, well, I'm not some perky twit from Nunkies Anonymous. I need a little more
logic in my motivation than, 'It's a barfight. I must kiss Vachon-in-Nick's body.'"
(She didn't add how, had it been Vachon-in-Vachon's body, no logic or reason would
have been required.)

"Remember how I said you're brainwashed?"

"Uh-huh."

"Last week I was in LaCroix. I've been in his suits. I've been in his underwear."

"Ick."

"Tell me about it. But, you don't walk around in a guy's shoes without learning some
of his secrets," Vachon said. "I've been in his penthouse. I've seen his Roseanne
tapes. I've read his classified diary."

"I don't remember the Cousins writing about that."

"They wouldn't. It's classified. Did you know he keeps track of how many times he
arches his eyebrows every day? He's trying to cut down."

"No, I did not know that."

"Well, there you go. What if I said I suspect LaCroix told you to hire a Merc to cut
my hair back in War 7?"

"Well, I don't remember any such thing," Bonnie protested.

"Doh." Vachon tapped her on the temple. "He whammied you. Are you paying attention?"

"Yes! Wait! Do you know for *sure* I was whammied?" Bonnie demanded. This whole
uncovering-the-truth-and-clearing-her-confusion was not all it was cracked up to be.
For instance, she still hadn't learned anything.

"Well..." Vachon appeared somewhat perplexed. "His diary was in Latin. He either
wrote that he slipped you a whammy, or he gave you shoes."

Bonnie clutched her head. "He gave me shoes once, so obviously I haven't been
whammied." She frowned. "Have I?"

"There's one way to be certain," Vachon said. "The Mississauga have an old ritual
they perform to clear the mind. Now, I ran with the tribe for a while, and Nick, you
know, communed with one of their healers, so maybe, just maybe, it would work under
these particular circumstances."

"You think?" Bonnie was suspicious. That was an awfully wordy set-up to be on the
level. "What would I have to do?"

"Close your eyes."

Her lids fluttered shut. A crash came from overhead, as though a Battle Yak had just
thrown someone on top of the table. "Wha-?"

She felt a finger rest against her lips. "Don't talk."

A small sound rebounded in the back of her throat. The finger against her lips turned
into a thumb teasing her lower lip. "Concentrate, " he whispered in her ear, low
enough that the voice could have belonged to anyone.

Bonnie's chin bobbed slightly in agreement. She felt her lips open; she touched his
mouth, tasted the beer that she'd thrown in his face clinging to his skin.

"Do you think it's working?" he whispered.

All whispers can be the same in the dark, Bonnie thought. She squeezed her eyes shut
more tightly. Kissing, though, came in a myriad of flavors. It took... "Give me a
minute," Bonnie whispered back. "I'm concentrating." The taste of beer and something
sweet, pressure and sensation, breathing...

The crowd fighting in the bar stopped what they were doing. After all, Nick and an
ex-Vaquera-Independent-Ratpacker-By-Association-Cousinly-Receptionist-In-Training
were kissing beneath one of the tables. Christy checked her Mickey Mouse watch.
Kissing for a long time, too.

"Are they breathing?" Nicole asked. "I mean, I know he doesn't have to, but she
does."

"Hey!" Anja called for the Nick-body's benefit. "Save some of that for Nat!"

Patt tucked a finger under her collar and began to fan her face. "Is it hot in here?
I need a Bud."

As if on cue, a peach fire truck drove up in front of the decimated bar, and the
Chicken Woman (Shele) riding shotgun with a hose began spraying everyone down with
ice-cold spray.

The next thing Bonnie realized, she had a mouth full of water. Coughing, her eyes
snapped open. There was no Nick, no Vachon to be found. (Maybe the part where the
hose belonged to a sacred peach fire truck had something to do with that.) She was
alone and soaking wet.

Crawling out from underneath the table, Bonnie touched her tender lips with her
fingers as she watched the bar fighters run shrieking down the street, away from the
trajectory of water. She gave a faint smile to no one in particular. "Sweet
tradition."

*****************************************************
TBC...

WAR: NA: Bury Me In Toronto (1/1)
By Bonnie Rutledge
Time: After 'Stay Away From the Guacamole...a cautionary tale'
Setting: NA Shrine

An unholy shriek converged in the center of the Shrine. "Know the power of Egypt."

Patt flattened against one wall of the main vestibule. Those words sounded like the
foreshadowing of bad things to come. She flipped her gaze between the portico to the
Lab/Kitchen and the ancient vampire with glowing eyes hovering across the room. Could
she make it?

The floor began to shake and pulse, the marble floors beginning to mimic the waves on
an ocean. Patt struggled to maintain her balance. It was another one of the Old, Dead
Guy's earthquakes, this one a seven or so, specifically thrashing through the Shrine.
It put all thoughts of movement out of her head and pointed toward the immediate
issue of survival and protection.

"Know that the time has come for your destruction."

The shockwaves began to spread, burgeoning outside the Shrine. Qa'ra could sense
LaCroix's location, the heartbeats of all those surrounding him, and the vibrations
began to strengthen, expanding outward with the intention of moving toward the FoD
mansion for a fatal party crash.

Patt ducked her head. Pieces of plaster had begun to tumble from the ceiling, and the
water in the canal rose and fell, threatening to overflow its banks. To shield
herself, she yanked open the storage cabinet in the main altar, pushed aside the
fantasy manuals and incense sequestered there, and huddled inside.

Out of thin air, the Shrine erupted in a sandstorm. Dust flickered through every
shaking crevice, darting through the porticoes in an inhuman howl. The wind burst
through the roof, forming a swirling funnel up to the sky.

"Feed me your terror."

The walls of the Shrine began to buckle. The floor started to cave. Two weeks of
preliminary rumblings and shakings combined with the crumbling of the network of
Ratpacker Tunnels underneath had turned the faction headquarters into a safety
hazard. The building imploded from the force of the pressures being placed upon it.
The floor sank, portions, including the altar shielding Patt, collapsing into an air
pocket left within the ruined winding network below the city of Toronto. Debris
rained down, flicking of the back of Qa'ra, who raised his arms up to the midnight
sky, levitating above the ruin surrounding him, and released a cry of victory.

A timber cracked. Caught up in the torrent of wind, it swiveled in a circle, dancing
within the opening in the Shrine roof. At the edge of the cyclone, all at one the
wind no longer had a harness on the huge shard of wood. It succumbed to gravity,
arrowing to the earth at lightning speed.

It lanced straight through Qa'ra's heart.

Everything stopped.

The howling, the wind, the quaking: it ceased as abruptly as it began. All the
fragments and rubble that had been spinning in a helix up into the sky lost the
impetus to remain aloft. After a pause, the sudden silence shifted into a thumping
rain as rocks and wood, clothing, doors, plants, and appliances landed a top the
Shrine ruins, burying Qa'ra.

Burying Patt.

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

Christy was the first out of the Jaguar when they returned from the party at the FoD
Mansion. Jules had been driving, and she was shuffling with the keys and her purse.
Laura was in the backseat warding off assimilation by Supaige.

Christy started walking toward the back entrance of their headquarters, but her steps
faltered. "Jules?" she called, searching up and down the block.

"What is it?" the High Priestess called back as she slammed and locked the driver's
door.

"Do you remember where we parked the Shrine?" Christy scratched her mouse ears. "I
could have sworn this is where we left it."

Jules scowled and stepped gingerly over a piece of debris littering her path. "Don't
be silly. We're parked in front of the Peach. The Shrine is-" Jules froze mid-step as
she realized what she was bypassing. "Oh no." The High Priestess crouched close to
the ground (very tricky in the nice dress and heels) reaching out toward the object
with a shaking hand. A Nunkies Fantasy Manual, ripped in half. "Something's happened.
Something bad."

All four women moved forward cautiously, their eyes wide and their mouths slack with
shock. At first, Supaige continued her spree of bouncing, but as the impact of the
scene began to sink in, her jerky movement began to subside. Slowly, Supaige began to
walk as she had pre-Natpack. The glazed look left her eyes, and she said solemnly,
"It's ruined."

"Patt?" Laura began to call. "Patt!" When there was no answer, she began to grow
frantic. "PATT!!" She turned on the others. "Help me find her! Patt was the only one
here, and the place looks like someone set off a bomb!"

Laura wasn't exaggerating. It was as though every brick, every block of marble, every
piece of fabric and furniture, every shingle had been sucked into one spot in the
middle of the area the Shrine should be standing.

"Don't panic," Jules said firmly. "Whatever happened here, Patt is safe. There are
war rules that guarantee that."

"Hate to be the crack in your teacup, Jules," Christy said, "but remember what was
said at the FoD party? All rules and requirements set forth in the War applies to
everyone except Patt. She's special. What if something terrible *did* happen to her?"

"Nothing terrible happened," Jules said with nerves of steel. "I am the High
Priestess, and I insist that Patt is merely in absentia as a plot device! She will
reappear when it is appropriate to do so and not a moment before! It won't
necessarily be in this War, but I refuse to hear one more lurid speculation of doom!
Patt is too mature and powerful to be doomed. I have spoken!"

"Oh...well, in that case," Christy piped up, "everything's cool, 'cause we have
plenty of insurance! We'll just rebuild the Shrine, and everybody will live happily
ever after!!"

"But...but..." Laura rummaged through the outer fringes of the wreckage, picking up a
shredded remnant of one of the white rose bushes that had been in the Green Room.
"Everything is broken! All of our things! Crushed!"

"Ooooh!" Christy inhaled with greedy glee. "I'll say! The new locks on Bonnie's
Non-Sensible Shoe Closet were knocked clear off! Finders keepers!" She picked up a
lethal pair of strappy spikes and hugged them 'Hello.'

"But the Sacred Cold Pond! The tapestries!" Laura wailed.

"We can replace them, " Supaige said optimistically. "After all, we have plenty of
insurance!"

Jules cleared her throat. "I have a question about that - I'm the one who always paid
the insurance premiums on the Shrine..."

Three heads nodded.

"...Well, the last time I mailed off a bill was just before I turned in my
resignation during War 10. Once I left, Bonnie would have been responsible for
maintaining the policies and submitting the payments on time."

Silence.

"Well? Did she?"

More silence.

Then...

Screaming that split the night.

"BONNIE!!!!!!BOOOOOONNNNNNNIIIIIIIEEEEEEE!!!!" (Think Marlon Brando)

Later, as all four Addicts proceeded to get thoroughly blotto in The Jeweled Peach
(which remained disgustingly untouched thanks to Louis' concrete reinforcements
mentioned earlier in the war), they nibbled on chips and guacamole and cursed the
missing Scribe with words and unkind thoughts.

"Wait till I get my nails on her," Jules seethed. "Full body waxing!"

"I can't believe we've been uninsured since November 1999," Supaige mused. "What if
we'd had a disaster?"

The other three women glared at her.

Supaige coughed, blushing. "I mean, before now."

"What will we do?" Laura asked.

"We can sell the rubble to tourists to raise a construction fund!" Christy suggested.

"We'll think of something," Supaige said. "Maybe LaCroix will give us the money. Old,
Dead Guy's Old and Dead again - that's got to be worth a Sacred Patio, at least."

"Maybe, " Jules sighed, nodding. "Anyway, tomorrow's the end of the War. We might
just have to leave this plot hanging until the next, official, hysterical crisis."

******************************************************
End????
And, yes, Patt is OK. She's just hibernating. (Needs sleep)

WAR: NA/VAQ: The Unified Slacker Hypothesis 
By Bonnie Rutledge
Time: Monday - Thursday (End of War)

July 16th

Alcoholic units: 10 (bar fight), cud units: 0 (bar fight), naughty thoughts: 84 (am
lloose), scary units: 3 (Patt, Christy, Janette-LC)

10pm

Am at Vaquera karaoke extravaganza at Raven. V. strange. Ravenette pallor acquires
kabuki whiteness while playing Don McLean opus. Is further blanching sign of cheer or
dismay? Biochemical reactions of Goth units v. confusing.

10:20pm

AHHH!

Word of lloose llama behavior at Hive Party on the street! Down the river! Up the
flagpole! Out of ballpark! Am known as hooven harlot! Am seen as woolen wanton! Am
labeled spitting sexpot! Not v. surprising, as Feng Shoe reveals communal dung pile
remaining in 'Relationship Paddock.' Is to be expected am 'Dirty Deeds Done Dirt
Cheap' llama where romance concerned.

Am tramp! Have proven overachievement in hootchie camelid capacity. Must mind
naughtiness, for excessive efforts as llush lloose llama will alienate new Vaquera
friends. (Effort = non-slacker)

10:50pm

Factionwittage! Patt and other bodies indispensable to bar fight scenes have arrived
at Raven! Havoc looming! Will maintain Cool, Slack Llama demeanor in solidarity with
leathered cohorts. Will pretend non-affiliation with Nunkies Addicts. (Llama
counterintelligence) Will be rowdy. (Vaquera sympathizer) Will spurn Nunkwrangler
efforts to recognize me. (Is mature. Needs eyes checked)

11:15pm

Have spotted Nunkwrangler, Nunketeer and LaCroix-In-Janette-Type-Person slipping away
from brawling and mayhem for secret chatting up! V. bad, for Patt only chatted up by
said vamp when Nunkies v. irked! Will sneak after hush-hush trio and gather data on
cause of irkage. (Hope not me.) Will be furtive. Will become shadow llama. Will slink
under radar like invisible thing that cannot be seen. (Best kind of invisible thing)

11:17pm

!#@$!!!!!!!!

(Tip-toeing v. tricky in hooves)

11:20pm

HAVE BEEN CAUGHT EAVESDROPPING!!!!!!!!!!

V. close call. Nearly expanded range of communal dung pile. (V. scared)

11:25pm

Nunkies has confirmed deepest fears re: Old, Dead Guy (not him, but Q) in secret
conference with Nunkwrangler and Nunketeer.

Named names. (Mine). Blame assigned. (--- > me)

V. g. am not me, but newly trampy and loveable llama-type-person. Otherwise, w/b in
big trouble.

Will go hide under Inca now.

July 17th

Alcoholic units: 2 (v. g.), cud units: 3 (superb), Vitamin U units: 2 (everyone else
doing it at party), Altoid units: 6 (took Vitamin U), naughty thoughts: 13 (camels),
scary units: 1 (Grand High Poohbah)

10:00am

Have realized nebulous future.

Have been acting under threat/promise of embarrassment since beginning of Curse of
Old, Dead Guy (not LC). Have been motivated to hide old identity in new lloose llama
lifestyle. Have been speciesist toward own self.

Have emancipated old fear and given blushes heave-ho. Have shooed former terror of
Forever Llama life away with pint of not-caring. Have learned from Vaquera associates
and have given Glooming Hoofed Horizon shrug and finger origami. (The Bird) Now love
myself. (In non-DiVinyls way)

Have no need of old fear of humiliation. Have found new fear courtesy NA: dire
punishment. If identity ever discovered, will earn maximum grout duty. Will be forced
to scrub Sacred Toilets. Will be made to subsist on diet composed solely of bountiful
prune juice supplies. Will have to sleep in box w/tax form wallpaper.

Will not get wool brushed. (V. v. cruel)

Have vexed HP. Have vexed Nunkwrangler. Have vexed Nunketeer. Have vexed LC. Can
never go back unless find masochistic tendencies hidden under bushel. (Have no
bushel. Probability v. low)

Feel v. strange. (Guilty?)

11:00am

Am relieved! Am not guilty over instigating horrible doom for LC at reanimated hands
of Old, Dead Guy. Am merely yearning for fulfillment as career llama! Need
occupation!

Have burgeoning vocational opportunities, as have ASS organized, yet am too
emotionally fragile to continue sharing workspace with cad Battle Yak.
Have considered alternate possibilities:

- Owning up to responsibilities and continuing work as NA Scribe. (Delusional
factionwittage!)
- Becoming professional llama (Possible, as am tramp. Questionable, as do not know
where strangers' combs have been. Do not want Stylingly Transmitted Diseases (STDs))
- Joining rock band (Have good hair)
- Becoming weather llama on local news station (Am cute and cottony)
- Providing wool to homeless orphans. (Philanthropic nudist)

Will not consider rumors of opening Cousinly Receptionist position, as job only for
gullible idiots.

6:30pm

Inca is negative re: career llama goals. Says female ruminants should stay at home,
maintain fibers in attractive manner, reproduce many crias and concern self with cud
units. Huh. Informed Juan that continuing bachelor Incan status v. shocking.
(Sarcasm)

Told Inca am not meant for kept llama lifestyle.

6:45pm

Am not!

6:50pm

Inca scratching back of head.

7:30pm

Will consider career as independent-kept-llama.

9:30pm

Dragged to FoDs anniversary party for Schankes. Feel mocked by happiness of marital
unit while remaining llama non-worshipped at altar of love. Have no Valentine. Do not
even have Significant Otter. Have only Incan Comb Buddy. (Cannot be good sign)

9:40pm

Hid from GHP for L. can smell blackmail opportunities from across crowded mansion.

Have had chat with Merc Mildred (also hiding from Poohbah) re: possible expansion
into Incan Cola market. (carbonation bubbles don't explode). Will consider new
entrepreneurial llama venture.

11:30pm

Have future!!!

Involves lingering relationship with non-cad Battle Yak!!!

Inca took suggestion for solving war premise under advisement and compelled Tracy Sue
to shovel 'Relationship Paddock' free of communal dung pile! Suspect Juan only
followed WarMistress' suggestion because brotherly-type-person now hosting
angsty-type-personality. Inca v. fed up with the whining. Appreciate him anyway.
Appreciate TS's labor and shovel-wielding abilities. (Has opposable thumbs)

Now have demanding kitty-cat (Carmen) in 'Relationship Paddock.' Must be fortuitous
improvement compared to dung pile. Must!

11:32pm

Demanding kitty-cat wants Vachon fixed. (feline = Draconian)

Told Carmen that agreed continued angstiness of personality in Spaniard's body v.
annoying, but no reason for suggesting drastic action. Was told misinterpreted kitty
desire. Was told Carmen not the Vaquera-type-species to encourage cutting things off
Vachon. (non-Ardent) Feline suggested perhaps llama needed fixing more, as am trampy.
(Carmen v. v. catty!)

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

July 19th

Alcoholic units: 0 (am pure), cud units: 4 (am saint), Vitamin U units: 8 (am
healthy personality junkie!), Altoid units: 12 (candy), naughty thoughts: 1531
(Vachon back), sad units: 21 (surviving Nunkies Addicts + Spaniard + Inca)

10:30pm

Vachon called. Told Inca that Vaqs headed home. Inca asked brotherly-type-person what
he was supposed to do about it. Vachon said nothing. Put cat on phone. Carmen
persisted in maintaining appearance of cat-speak and meow-ed 'Hello' in winsome
manner (Feline counterintelligence)

Juan v. concerned. Suspects Vachon misses Vaq company already. Suggested Spaniard get
out more. Vachon agreed, told Inca was coming over.

10:45pm

Spaniard not here.

10:50pm

Spaniard still not here.

Vachon usually faster-type-person.

Suspect foul play.

10:51pm

Worse, suspect foul plot twist.

10:55pm

Suspect Vachon abducted by aliens.

Have been told by Inca am v. silly llama, only anxious because wanting Spaniard
brushing. (Only 99.99% true)

11:05pm

Vachon here. Brought cat and 2 motorbikes. (??) Can smell a Bonnie (not me) on his
personality. Suspect Spaniard has been kissing the Rat Ass (Pardoe). Am jealous, as
no one kisses llamas in PG-13 diary entries.

Wish Spaniard had been abducted by aliens as is sharing grim news. Would rather be
ignorant than informed. Am not llama, but ostrich burying wooly head in sand.

NA Shrine destroyed by Old, Dead Guy.

Old, Dead Guy destroyed by NA Shrine.

Patt missing.

Don't want to hear it. Don't want to hear it. Don't want to hear it.

11:30pm

Went to Shrine that is not a Shrine. Motorbikes followed.

Is disaster area. Is ground zero. Is XFL football broadcast. Is return of pin-stripe
stockings. Is pigeon farm.

Mourners (mostly NA) stand on bleachers. Having memorial service.

Can't look.

Can't write.

12:00am

Vachon poured bottle of beer over Shrine rubble. Wished Patt Buds wherever she may
be. Will not overly interpret Spaniard's meaning. Will accept gesture as v.
respectful and good considering troublemaker-for-toga-chicks-tendencies of source.

Spaniard wants to join others inside Peach. Said something about asking LaCroix about
progress with eyebrow units. (???) Suspect troublemaker tendencies may lead kind
Spaniard to ruin. Think Spaniard plans to send Patt out with final bar fight. Motives
appreciated (esp. as no Rat Ass Bonnie available for kissing tradition), but
stability of War universe too fragile to withstand second round of beatings and
inanity within 2-week period, even if for noble cause. Patt will understand.

Would have understood.

Can't do it. Can't join Addicts, even if llama counterintelligence. Can't look them
in the eyes. Can't stay. Can't be here.

12:02am

Ran away.

12:04am

Found by Vachon and Juan.
Apparently hooves audible from great distance. (Not llama ninja)
Juan took pity on pathetic-llama-wooly-face and insisted on taking animal home.
(Speciesist, but v. needed)

1:00am

Vachon staying at Inca's with cat and motorbikes. Brotherly-type-persons sharing many
bottled blood units and jokes about other Incas, esp. The Inka, as is dull stick.

Am taking advantage (naturally). Am receiving double combing. Silently wish Patt to
be reincarnated as mature llama and share in good fortune. Cry, for am selfish llama
with untangled hair. Cry, for fear no one combing Patt in afterlife. Cry, for worry
Patt will come back as angry Nunkwrangler with llama-punishing-properties.

5:00am

Vachon still here. Is Spanish lump on couch.

6:00am

Vachon running up eternal long-distance bill on Incan phone. Wants to be certain Vaqs
reach sus casas safely. Misses them. Is thinking about Patt, know it.

Am too.

6:05am

Looked at gleaming Triumphs. Looked at Spaniard. Looked at Inca.

Am thinking.

Wonder if 450+ years of Incan pursuit changed Vachon. Wonder if 5 Wars of Vaq
affection did same thing. (Is Amazing and Transcendental Slacker)

Doesn't want to be alone. Wants to know when faction coming back. Wants to hang out.

If said attention transformed Spaniard into Amazing-and-Transcendental-type-person,
couldn't sad and remorseful Addicts transform Patt into Amazing and Transcendental
Third Cousin??? Hope so. Do. Will cross hooves and hope for future fantastical return
of mature Nunkwrangler.

Until then, will console self with many combings. New goal: Becoming Amazing and
Transcendental Llama

Quest for Doom: Abandoned
Cigarettes: 2 smoked, 4 chewed
Alcoholic units: 44
Cud units: 31
Caffeine units: 2 (Explains so much!!)
Bathroom stops: 6
Moving violations: 21
Naughty thoughts: very big number
Cad Battle Yaks: 1
Scary units: 12
Incas: 4
Am Tramp: Yes
Vitamin U units: 10
Altoid units: 18
Sad units: 21
Combings and brushings: Ongoing

All-in-all for war: Not bad for a llama

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llamababe@carolina.rr.com <mailto:llamababe@carolina.rr.com>