Thanks goes to Rosalie, Patt, Christina, Rae, Shele, Sherry, Molly,
Sallie and Jules for their graceful willingness to participate in this
NA romp. A Belated Happy Birthday to KC, and a timely Happy Birthday to
Glennis. All real persons are abused by permission.

Special Guest Star:       You Know Who
                               as
                             Herself

All Lyrics by Neil Diamond.

Disclaimer: Forever Knight and its characters were created by James
Parriott, et al., and are owned by Sony/TriStar.

*********************************************************************
Halloween: You Know Who's Fault (01/16)
Copyright 1998
by The Fanfic Fairies

Part One: It's Glennis' Fault...


     There were few lights shining in the Shrine, only a handful of
black and red candles that flickered from the altar, draping the large
room in a mysterious glow. The walls and floor of the Shrine were marble
and mosaic, and the stones seemed colder on this night, perhaps because
the hub of the Nunkies Anonymous headquarters was bare and quiet, rather
than filled with the boisterous laughter and pranks that typically
signified addicts were in residence.

    This emptiness was all Glennis' fault, namely because she'd been
caught saying a naughty word around the High Priestess. The mere mention
of a 'bonfire' by a NA member was enough to have Jules shaking in her
high heeled pumps. "No, no, no! There will be no Shrine flambe! *No one*
has insurance to cover that! Uh-uh! Positively negative. Out, out, out!"

     Thus the would-be pyromaniacs turned their attention toward a more
natural setting for their festivities. They recruited a fire fighter
named Bubba to maintain the standards (or what you will) of safety that
Nunkies Anonymous constantly strained to uphold. No innocent trees or
shrubbery would endure combustible molestation during their sylvan romp.
Atlas with a flame-thrower: that was the image NA was after.

     Naturally, the resident dragon with a pocket blowtorch was involved
in planning the festivities. Sallie surveyed the forest opening that
Glennis had scouted for the occasion, clicking her talons together
critically as she paced across the lawn of grass.

     "It has potential...but we'll need to clear the grass out around
the future site of the fire," Sallie pronounced.

     "It's already being taken care of," Glennis assured her. "As we
speak, Jesse and Rae are luring Ratpackers this way with shiney, pretty
shovels."

     "Oooo!" Sallie tittered. "Halloween hard labor and a requirement
for our Ratpacker Oppresshun badges in one fell swoop!"

     "I know." Glennis beamed. "I'm so proud of myself."

     "Next issue to be addressed: have invitations been sent to your All
Hallows' happening?"

     "To the usual addicted suspects, yes, but I'm having a conundrum
about our fictional favorites," Glennis said mournfully. "Halloween is
my birthday, and I want my party to be special."

     "Of course," Dragon Sallie said sagely. "That's why you're handling
the preparations personally. Who knows what sort of antics would ensue
if you let Patt or Bonnie handle such a gathering?"

     "Exactly," Glennis nodded. "But, still, I'm torn. See?" She pointed
to a ragged opening above the knee of her jeans. Sallie tsked
sympathetically. "I want LaCroix to be there. Even Vachon, Screed and
Nick would be acceptable, but somehow inviting vampires to any event
that involves open flames strikes me as tacky."

     "Bah! You can't do FK fanfic without FK characters. It's one of
those rule thingees," Sallie said, her nose wrinkling at the word
'rule.' Sallie was a card-carrying Anarchist Against Continuity (AAC).
She had twenty-one cards that said so in a rainbow of pretty colors, all
with different interesting logos. This was because the anarchists could
never actually come up with an 'official' card, so the standing policy
remained that any ol' thing was okay and spelling didn't count. "Invite
them all! Except Nick. Burning things seem to affect his judgment. Just
look at Dark Knight and Human Factor."

     "Sounds like a plan. Oh, I hope Nunkies comes!"

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

     But he wouldn't come, not in the sense that Glennis expects. In
fact, LaCroix would never even see the lovely blood-red invitation
embossed in silver and black that the Canadian Postal Service lovingly
delivered to CERK.

     LaCroix would already be out of the country, visiting one of his
few remaining plantations in a part of the world where people were too
busy working for their survival to bother with campy costumes and
whimsical attempts at being scary.  All that candy consumption raised
blood sugar levels high enough to make a vampire diabetic, and he wanted
no part of it. As for stage blood, LaCroix didn't do stage blood.

     So off the master vampire went, destined for a sultrier part of the
world where there was far more terror and far less merchandising come
the end of October.

     So how, you may ask, does LaCroix still put in an appearance at
Glennis' Birthday Bonfire?

      That's a very good question.

      Shall we see if The Fanfic Fairies will answer?

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

     "Okay, next issue to be addressed: we need things to burn."
Sallie's eyes sparkled gleefully. "Highly flammable things. Things that
sparkle and shimmer in beautiful shades of light when exposed to
unreasonable temperatures. Whaddya say? Whaddya say?"

     "Wood burns," Firefighter Bubba said, offering his first piece of
advice during the outing.

      "You don't say?" Sallie wasn't impressed. She whispered in an
aside to Glennis, "For a man who works with fire, your boy is remarkably
the amateur."

      "Be gentle with him," Glennis whispered back. "He has excellent
muscle definition." Clearing her throat, she turned a bright smile in
the firefighter's direction and sought more input. "Bubba, we're going
for something a little more imaginative for our fuel source. Something
more personal than wood, but not as polluting as burning, say, oil or
rubber. In your professional opinion, what would be a good kindling
substitute?"

     "Paper burns. Fahrenheit 451," Bubba offered, not-so brilliantly.
"That's 219 degrees Celsius."

      "Why, thank you, Bubba." More whispers reached Sallie's ear. "Plan
B. We invest in some extinguishers and a Really Big Vat O' Water <tm>.
Firefighter stands around and looks nice while we burn whatever sounds
kewl."

     "Sounds like a plan. What's not to like?"

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

     KC had an opinion about this plan. She did not like it. She made
this disapproval quite clear to the fanfic fairies, which is why it is
being included in this story. Very feisty is our Miss Nix, witty, urbane
and quirky. If the fanfic fairies didn't know better, you'd think she
would end up the heroine in this little tale.

     But, if you think that, you've obviously forgotten one of the
cardinal rules of Nunkies Anonymous: we like the wicked. Naughtiness
becomes us, and KC, being admirable in so many ways, was destined to
become our poster child.

     In other words, she is our anti-heroine.

     Now, now. Still your cries of protest. Quit wondering where Nick
and Natalie are. And Vachon. Yes, you. Quit thinking about the Spaniard.
Screed, too, and the goofy way the words look when the fanfic fairies
try to approximate his speech. They will all appear in due time, as will
LaCroix, though not perhaps in the manner you would expect.

     Read on and try to remain calm.

     The Fanfic Fairies know what's best.

     Alright! Who's laughing? Cut that out!

**********************************************************************
End of the Part that is Glennis' Fault

Part Two: It's LaCroix's Fault...


     In the night sky over Toronto this Halloween, there are many stars,
a few planets, and one spaceship. This spaceship, in an effort to remain
innocuous and the subject of fable, has taken on the appearance of an
ordinary television satellite. It rebounds HBO and Showtime signals, as
well as the occasional Univision soap opera, monitors weather patterns
over the eastern seaboard, and is quite unremarkable as spaceships go.
That is,  unless you count the bright orange spray-painted message (and
you've got to admit space could use a little color)  that reads 'The
Satellite of Passing Infatuation' on one side of the ship.

     The inside of 'The Satellite of Passing Infatuation' was quite
alien to anyone with a conservative decorating style. Large polka-dotted
prints upholstered the chairs and com panels. The walls were covered
with a substance that resembled the hides of warm fuzzies. The floor was
white tile, littered with those rubber daisies that insure good foot
traction in the shower. The lighting was early, middle and late
psychedelic, and there was a groovy soundtrack playing over the
spaceship's
technologically-advanced-but-hidden-in-the-guise-of-a-dinky-8-track-with-
shiny-b
 uttons
sound system.

     The rubber daisies formed a spasmodic trail that led to a blue
plastic kiddie pool. Rather than water, this kiddie pool contained
primordial goo. Crouched beside this kiddie pool of primordial goo,
rubbing her hands together in such maniacal anticipation that only
anti-heroines are capable of, sat KC (though presently she preferred the
moniker of 'Rhubarbarella, Great Goddess of Pez and Rollerskates').

     KC (or 'Rhubarbarella, Great Goddess of Pez and Rollerskates') wore
a red jumpsuit with go-go boots. Her cohorts stood to either side of
her, both wearing similar red jumpsuits. They forwent the go-go boots,
preferring to leave their six-toed, purple feet bare. They also had very
tall white hair, a good meter that rose from their crowns, perfectly
straight from end to end. This was an alien symbol of virility, and both
Scrotor and Nesbit considered themselves out of this world.

     Scrotor held out a tea tray filled with very nice Royal Doulton
china. "Great Goddess of Pez and Rowerskates, have you come up wif a
pwan oo vake over fe Pwanet Earf yet?"

      (Fanfic Fairies' note: it is a little known fact that aliens have
a speech impediment because their tongues are shorter than that of the
average homo sapiens. For those politically correct readers in the
audience, here's a rephrasing: Beings of a non-Earthly origin speak in
an original way. Having a short tongue means many sounds Earthlings make
are quite tricky for an alien to reproduce. Sounds that involve contact
between the tip of the tongue and the teeth are impossible. Some /r/ and
all /l/ related phonemes end up sounding like a /w/, /th/  hits the ear
as /f/, and most /t/ sounds resemble /v/. And you thought Screedspeak
was tricky.)

     KC grabbed one teacup and dipped it into the pool of primordial
goo, sniffing, "I'm working on it. You don't just pick up evil plots at
McDonald's, you know. These things take time."

     "If I may make a suggestion," Nesbit said. "Perhaps ve pwot would
come more quickwe if you didn' obsess wif fat Canadian city so much."

     "Well, I didn't ask for your opinion, so just buckle yer lips,
buster!"

     (Fanfic Fairies' note: Another rarely known fact about aliens is
that they *do* have buckles on their lips. They have nice buckles on
their pants, too, that often resemble cheese products such as brick
cheddar.)

     KC stuck her nose in the air and propped her free hand huffily of
one hip, while her hand holding the teacup filled with primordial goo
tilted precariously. "Just who is the Goddess around here, anyway?"

     Nesbit fell to his knees in abject subservience. "You, Great
Rhubarbarewa!" Shameless obsequious flattery out of the way, the alien
buckled his lips and practiced looking silently repentant.

     The spirit of her minion crushed, KC licked her index finger, then
popped it into the teacup of primordial goo. Stirring slowly, she tilted
the cup underneath the psychedelic lighting so it shimmered with pretty
rainbow colors as she chanted.

     "Vorpal, Vorpal, in the goo,
      Show me what those Addicts do."

     Gradually, the shimmering lights in the primordial goo began to
focus into a movie-like picture show, complete with Dolby stereo. Since
this was a movie in a teacup, however, KC pulled a pair of trusty
glasses with coke-bottle lenses out of one of the pockets of her red
jumpsuit. Now the action was magnified to resemble a movie in a bowl of
soup.

     KC watched and listened as the small figures of Glennis, Dragon
Sallie and Bubba the Firefighter excitedly discussed plans for the
Birthday Bonfire. Her fists clenched as Ratpackers were bullied into
digging trenches with shiney, pretty shovels. Her eyes glazed, and smoke
began to drift from her ears as images of Molly, Sherry, Rosalie, and a
dozen other members of Nunkies Anonymous gleefully received their
invitations to the Halloween happening and began organizing costumes for
the celebration.

     "Why, those stinkers!" KC fumed.

     Scrotor wiggled his three nostrils over the teacup. "I don' sme-wa
anyfing, Great Goddess."

     "You don't?!" KC shouted, stomping mightily as she pretended she
was squashing each rubber daisy on the floor. "You can't catch a whiff
of those stinking NA traitors?!"

     "Wmmf. Mff mfnf mff fn mffn wmmf!" Nesbit mffed.

     "What'd he say?" KC demanded.

     "Wai-ors! We don' need no stinkin' wai-ors!" Scrotor repeated.

     "Waiters? Of course we need waiters!" KC insisted. "Who else would
cut my peas into bite-sized pieces?!?!" She seized Nesbit's shoulder
with her free hand and shook him. "Snap out of it! You're talkin' crazy,
man!"

     "No! No!" Scrotor shook his head, pointing desperately at the
teacup of primordial goo. "Fose NA wai-ors! Poo! Poo!"

     KC frowned, still confused. "Are you talking about Monsieur Cabon?"
Finally, her eyes brightened. "Oh! *Traitors!* You were agreeing with
me! Why, aren't you smart! Yep!" She nodded in satisfaction. "You hit
the nail on the head! We don't need no stinkin' traitors! Just look at
them! They're so cheerful and eager to celebrate Glennis' birthday!
Nobody threw a bonfire on *my* birthday! And I was 21, too! The least
they could have done was ship me a Roman Candle, but noooooooo! Nada!
Niente!"

     "You were on anofer pwanet, Rhubarbarewa," Scrotor pointed out
meekly.

     "Details! Details!" KC shrieked. "Don't bother me with details!"
She skipped over to one of the leopard-print com chairs and began to
spin around in circles. "I want revenge, so there! Nyah!"

     Nesbit and Scrotor shook their heads. "Fose Addicts are very bad,"
Scrotor said.

     "No, it's not their fault!" KC protested, stopping her chair's
merry-go-round. "It's all that Buzz-Cutted Love Monkey's fault!" She
swirled her index finger in the primordial goo, and the image in the cup
shifted to reveal LaCroix, packing his trunk for his plantation holiday.
"The NunkMan! If he wasn't so darn distracting, all the Nunkies-addicted
types would remember things like balancing their checkbooks, not really
living in Toronto, and celebrating my birthday! My birthday's the
equivalent of Christmas in July, you know."

     Scrotor put one long, purple, well-manicured fingernail
thoughtfully against his temple. "Hmm."

     Nesbit unbuckled his lips and said, "I fought some of fose Addicts
didn' *do* Christmas or birfdays."

     "Details! Details! Don't bother me with details!" KC released an
evil cackle as she watched LaCroix catch a plane in her teacup of
primordial ooze. "Muahahaha! I see that Nunkies won't be available for
Glennis' Birthday Bonfire, and she doesn't know it! Muahahaha! How can I
take advantage of this opportunity in my quest to conquer the world?
Hmm?" KC snapped her fingers. "I know!"  She skipped across the room,
stopping at an aquamarine plastic structure installed in the corner. It
looked like a giant version of the Barbie<tm> sauna set. "I knew this
Disguise-o-Matic<tm> from Snixco<tm> would come in handy! Scrotor!
Nesbit! You will be aliens in LaCroix's clothing! Lure the members of NA
to secluded locations, then I will beam them up to the mother ship!
Muahahaha! We can bag all of those Forever Knight characters, too, while
we're at it. They will be my slaves! First Toronto, next...the world!
Muahahahahaha!!!"

     "Muahahahaha!!!" agreed Nesbit and Scrotor. "Muahahahaha!!!"

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

     Oh, dear. This looks like an Invasion of the Addict Snatchers.
These pod people might even go after Tracy! *Gasp!* Or the watercooler!
Is nothing sacred????

     And it was all made possible because LaCroix doesn't like
Halloween. Let this be a lesson to you master vampires out there. Stay
home and give out candy to the kiddies who ring your doorbell. Your fans
and the watercooler will thank you.

**********************************************************************
End of the Part That's LaCroix's Fault

Part Three: It's Vachon's Fault...

     Vachon stared at the heavy piece of blood-red parchment, blinked
once, then looked up at Screed. "Did you get one of these?"

     The carouche patted his chest proudly. "Me Ratpackers borrowed me
one all clear and quadrangle-like."

     "'Glennis' Birthday Bonfire," the Spaniard read aloud. "Am I the
only one who thinks it's tacky to invite vampires to a party where the
highlight involves open flame?"

     "Not a screamin' problem, mate," Screed said, dropping his satchel
to the floor with a heavy *thunk!* "Aye deeskaddled tew tha' swap meet
fer some anti-flammatory de-viceroys." Digging in his sack for a moment,
Screed held up either hand, brandishing a pair of fire extinguishers.

     Vachon took the smaller of the two from his friend's grasp and
studied its labeling. "'Last Inspected: July 19, 1977,'" he quoted. The
dark-haired vampire handed the canister back to the carouche. "That
should be effective."

     "Wot? They don't curdle, dew they?"

     Vachon nodded, silently.

     "Jus' great!" Screed scowled. "An' Aye traded me Bing Crosby X-mas
album fer tha' lot!"

     Vachon tossed his invitation aside and propped up his feet, leaning
back on the couch. "So are you still going?"

     "Aye'm the unlife of any pah-ty, thank yew nawt very much.  Wacko
nicely things 'appen around those toga chicks, an' Aye want a front row
seat. Wot about yew? Yew plannin' dewin' one of those story control
thingees? Stir up the pot an' all that jammy-jam?"

     Vachon shook his head. "Wasn't planning on it."

     "Well, innit me Auntie Social!" Screed drawled.

     "No, I just have a bad feeling...like this is a plot to give me a
roast. Think about it - the toga chicks always complain when we drop by.
Why invite us to their bonfire?"

     Screed began to hum and dance about the floor. "They've grown
accustomed tew yer face..." he warbled.

     "I think this calls for some scouting," Vachon announced, standing
up decisively.

     "Yew going tew earn one of them patchworks those Nunkies Scouts er
always prattlin' on about? Can't see yew in tha' uniform, mate. All that
heavy chiffon...the beanie..."

     There was a *whoosh!,* and Vachon was already out the door.

     "Then agin," Screed said, not actually needing company to have a
good conversation, "the patchworks er shiney-pretty. Sum of 'em 'ave
bright gold threadin'! Aye've gawt tha' kneeknobs tew pull off that
mini-toga. Mebbe Aye shuld dew sum scoutin' tew!"

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

     Glennis waved Sallie and Rosalie on as they backed the dump truck
out onto Queen Street. "I'll catch up with you at the bonfire!" she
called.

     Vachon sneaked up behind her, because he could. "Bonfire. My mind
reels at the implications."

     Glennis released a surprised squeak and whirled around. Recognizing
the vampire, she sighed with relief.

     "Were you not expecting someone else?" Vachon asked.

     "I thought you were an accountant," Glennis said. "Ever since the
Mercs got Revenue Canada to set up an office in our headquarters last
war, the place has been swarming with them. Every time you turn around,
they're hovering, noting expenditures, itemizing the Shrine furnishings,
scaring people with tax forms...it's unsettling! One of the chartered
accountants actually stuck a sticker on my forehead once and had the
nerve to tell me I had depreciated in value!"

     The vampire grinned. "What happened after that?"

     Glennis waved her hand nonchalantly. "Oh...he got written off." She
followed this statement with a naughty smile. "Funny how easily people
can just disappear around here."

     "That's what I was wondering about," Vachon said. "About this party
of yours..."

     "Oh! You are coming, aren't you?" Glennis said demandingly.

     "Well, I'm curious...why are you planning your own birthday party?
Where are the usual suspects? I haven't seen hide nor hair of Patt,
Bonnie, Annie, and barely a blink of Jules. If they were up to something
that I might find annoying or amusing to interfere with <thump-thump>,
you'd tell me, <thump-thump>, wouldn't you, Glennis?"

     "Err...yes?" The addict was dazed for a moment, but she tripped and
fell on her face. That snapped her out of it. (Fanfic Fairies' Note:
this is an ancient Chinese secret for getting out of a whammy that can
be found in Sun Tzu's less popular work, 'The Art of Garfunkel.')
Glennis' eyes cleared of their dreamy expression, and she appeared very
suspicious. "Are you reading this story?!" Glennis shook her finger at
the Spaniard as though he was a naughty puppy. "Bad, bad vampire! Bons
and Patt warned me about you! That's why they're keeping such a low
profile - they figure you can't get away with any of that wresting story
control business if they stay silent."

     "That what they think, huh?"

     Glennis nodded stubbornly. "You won't hear a peep out of them, so
don't even try any of that funny stuff!"

      "But it is funny stuff," Vachon argued reasonably. "Remember the
'Well O' Doom' bit and the whole nativity send up? I'm a regular fun
kind of guy. What's wrong with that?" He smiled in satisfaction as
Glennis' eyes wavered from left to right.

     "I don't know about that," she said slowly, aware she was being
cajoled, and it wasn't too bad of an experience.

     "Admit it," Vachon said, lowering his voice. "Honestly. You liked
the leather pants and all those little contract clauses."

     "Okay! Okay!" Glennis threw her hands up into the air. "So I did!"
She gave him a small frown. "So let me get this little plot thing
straight. You want me to help you to get Bons or Patt more vocal in this
story so that you can wrest story control. Is that it?"

     "Jules or Annie would probably work, too."

     "But Jules doesn't do birthdays, and Annie's in Arkansas setting up
a new business. Neither one of them are coming to my party. Patt and
Bons, however, have RSVP'ed positively." She propped open the back door
to the NA headquarters and ducked inside.

     "And they think they can stay quiet?" Vachon was incredulous as he
followed Glennis into the Shrine. "What are they coming as? Mimes?"

     "How'd you guess? Well, Patt said she was going to be 'A Mature
Mime.' Bonnie said she was going to be 'A Silent Majority.' That reminds
me...what is your costume going to be?"

     Vachon's answer was swift and serious. "Invisible."

      "Uh-uh. Not going to work. Everybody has to wear a costume. It's
on the invitation, so unless by 'invisible' you mean you're coming naked
as the Baby New Year, you'd better start thinking."

     "Okay. I'll be a dead rock star."

     Glennis rolled her eyes. "Too easy. You're already dead. You'll
just bring your guitar and complain about the food."

     A mischievous twinkle lit Vachon's eyes. "Hey, I can already guess
you aren't going to be serving my kind of nibbles."

     "Not true!" Glennis protested hotly. "There'll be Vaqueras there!
You know, Vachon, I never figured you for a party pooper. Am I going to
have to throw a tantrum about this?"

     Vachon pretended to be shocked. "A Forever Knight fan who throws a
tantrum? Never!" he said sarcastically.

     Glennis made an exasperated sound, grabbed one end of his leather
jacket, and pulled Vachon after her into the deeper recesses of NA
central. "Come on! To the Wardrobe Room!"

     "If costumes are so important," Vachon said, "what are you going
as?"

     "Halloween is my birthday. I will being going as a witch." She
frowned when the vampire didn't look impressed. "What did you expect?
Hillary Rodham Clinton?"

     "That would be scary."

     "Boo."

     Upstairs, over the river and through the woods, the pair finally
reached the vault of extravagance that is the Nunkies Anonymous Wardrobe
Room (only slightly larger than a TARDIS).

     Glennis began to sift through the apparel. "How about a pirate?
You'd make a good pirate."

     "I don't want to be a pirate. Been there, done that, don't like
Pittsburgh."

     Glennis pouted down at the black football uniform she'd pulled off
one rack, then tossed it aside. "There goes that idea. Hmm...how about
Liberace?" Glennis giggled at the vampire's expression. "Just kidding.
Oooh! A windchime! No, wait. We'd better not go there. A-ha!" Glennis
pulled a heavy blanket off one shelf and tossed it over Vachon's head.
"I know! You can be a conspiracy theory! See? You're all covered up!"

     Vachon's muffled voice rose from underneath the blanket. "Are you
sure I can't be a dead rock star?"

     "Positive."

     "How about something else with a little flair?" the vampire asked,
pulling the material off his head and appearing very tousled.

     Glennis' eyes brightened. "I've been struck by brilliance! Wait
here. I'll be right back!"

     When Glennis returned, she had a camel. "This is ----. You can be
Rudolf Valentino! Those susceptible will swoon! What do you think?"

      "I think brilliance needed to strike harder," Vachon answered. He
noticed a weird motion about his scalp then, as though something was
picking at his head. The vampire snapped his head back and found a
conservative dressed man with a comb in one hand and a calculator in the
other. "What's with him?" he demanded.

     "Oh, he's one of those accountants. He's itemizing each strand of
your hair for inventory purposes," Glennis said breezily.

     Vachon's eyes narrowed. "This isn't because of some assumption that
my hair might not *stay* in the inventory, is it?"

     "This is an NA story. Who knows? Que sera sera."

     Vachon pulled the blanket over his head once more, an adequate
shield against potential hair-snatchers. "I think it's a conspiracy
theory." Voice muffled once more, he continued, "Now...about that
bonfire..."

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

     Bons was hot. And bothered. And tied up, fastened to a spit and
turning high above crackling flames. Glennis' birthday party had just
gotten underway, and Bonnie was having a rotten time.

    "You know," the redhead shrieked, "when you said 'Come to my
Bonfire,' this is *not* what I had in mind!!!"

     As she turned another rotation, Bonnie shot furious eyes in the
direction of the Spaniard, who peeked out from underneath his blanket
like a refugee. A refugee who was laughing his ass off. Bonnie couldn't
point accusingly at him since her hands were bound with an array of rope
and duct tape (thereby earning several Nunkies Scouts their Bondage
badges), so she had to make do with crinkling her nose at him. "This is
all your fault! You slacker!"

     Vachon gave another satisfied chuckle. "So much for the *silent*
majority!" he called.

     Bons squealed furiously, while the vampire ruminated over how great
it was to have story control again.

**********************************************************************
End of the Part That's Vachon's Fault

Part Four: It's Sherry's Fault...

     Now, one may wonder why the members of Nunkies Anonymous would romp
and gambol merrily while one of their own was nearby, turning on a spit,
high above a bonfire. One may wonder why Nunkies Scouts would put a
higher importance upon earning their Bondage badges than helping a
fellow scout in need. One may wonder why all these gals supposedly
devoted to LaCroix are being so darn helpful to Vachon about wresting
story control out of the tiny hands of the qualified fanfic fairy union.

     That's because, when you stick Nunkies Addicts in a party
atmosphere, their acceptability standards shift. Not one of them would
say, "Oh, yeah! I think I'll use one of my co-workers as luau-bait
today!" under normal circumstances (that is, unless that co-worker
happened to be their boss, and they were feeling extremely abused and
had authority issues. In that situation, though, they would find
themselves hopelessly stymied when the office's sprinkler system kept
going off, so it's a moot example). Dress an Addict up, get her dancing
and munching on party treats, add an underlying
atmosphere of barely restrained chaos, and anything goes.

     As far as most of the party guests were concerned, Bonnie was
rotating high enough above the fire so as to be out of real danger, and
a little bit of torture could only give the perky redhead a measure of
much-needed humility. Maybe if she got toasty enough, Bonnie'd start
updating the webpage on a timely basis.

     Patt was the only attendee who wasn't all fired up to roast the
Scribe, but she was keeping her mouth shut. For one, she was supposed to
be a mime for Halloween, and the speaking-thing became a matter of
holiday pride. Secondly, she'd spotted the Spaniard, and she'd quickly
figured out that he was after story control again. This time, Patt
didn't intend on becoming involved. Oh, nonononono.

     Patt quickly downed her first beer and kept the bottle tightly
grasped in her hand, just in case anybody tried to force her
participation, while she nursed her second brew slowly. She quietly
observed the others, wondering how she could have missed the signs of
pyromania before.

     <They're burning whatever they can get their hands on,> Patt
thought, ducking as a kitchen sink flew through the air over her head.

     And the Addicts had gotten hold of a ton of stuff to burn. That's
why Rosalie and Sallie were seen driving a dump truck earlier in this
story. The invitations had included a note to BYOB (Bring Your Own
Briquettes), and each attendee had surpassed herself. There were reams
of tax forms pilfered from the Revenue Canada office and old items left
by ex-husbands that were very much no longer needed, thank you, ptoooi!
There were incriminating photographs, clothing purchased from ex-Spice
Girls at auction, hacker effigies and militia manifestos. Calculus
homework wasn't spared, nor were Jerry Springer videos, rotten
strawberries, or gummi worms. WonderBras<tm> were condemned to ashes by
the drawer-full, followed by barrels of panty hose that laddered after
one use and a heap of Birkenstocks<tm>. Corks,
billions and billions of bitten corks, a thousand orphaned socks, two
girdles, a spandex leotard, and a coupon for fifty cents off a
pint-sized carton of Rice-Dream<tm>, any flavor except chocolate.
Tie-dye T-shirts, turnips, Jovan Musk<tm>, carrot tops, two essays on
Ayn Rand's 'The Fountainhead,' a basket of printed-out junk e-mail, and
one plastic coconut all met with a flaming demise.

     The costumes were no less enthusiastic. Rosalie and Shele had both
opted to be vampires, Shele going so far as to pretending she had fallen
into the bonfire. She'd coated her face with goopy makeup, approximating
scorched flesh. Molly was a Pompejian victim. Wearing a toga and several
ounces of ash, she ran about the blaze with a horrified expression,
shouting, "The Volcano! The Volcano!"

     Screed had appeared, to much addict dismay and ratsie cheers, in
full Nunkies Scout regalia, from the blue beret on his head to the
knee-high sandals on his feet. There was a small uproar when the
carouche dropped his spear, and, upon bending over to retrieve the
weapon, it was discovered that Screed hadn't worn anything underneath
his heavy chiffon mini-toga. For their own sanity, the Addicts quickly
swiped a pair of giant underpants from the heap of items still destined
for the fire. Screed was forced to put them on, making huge knots at
either side so the lime green nylon wouldn't fall around his ankles.

     Monsieur Cabon came to the celebration as an enormous Belgian
waffle, a foam pad of butter sprouting from his forehead. Madame Kiki
was his escort (in the non-professional sense of the word), electing to
cover herself in gingham and call herself a prairie schoolmarm. Her Buff
Slave Boys pulled out their most festive orange loincloths for the
occasion.

     There were zombies, barbarians, native girls doing the hula with
mad scientists, medieval princesses, puppies, kittens, a pope, two
rabbis, a dancing Aztec, a vinyl record, three muses throwing their
voices, an astronaut and a glass of Tang <tm>.

     Oh, and two LaCroixs, hiding in the bushes, wishing the DJ would
play some Neil Diamond tunes.

     "Gir-wa...You'wa be a woman soon...soon, you'wa need a man,"
Scrotor warbled from the holly.

     "Hush!" Nesbit hissed. "Fey'wa hear you! Anyway, I wike 'Vurn On
Your Heartwight' better." Nesbit began to croon as well. "Make it a
happy pwace for everyone you know..."

     After the mini-concert, both aliens poked their
identical-to-LaCroix-looking heads through the shrubbery, peered right,
then left, then ducked behind their cover once more.

     "Which one of the Addict infidewas do you fink the Great Goddess
Rhubarbarewa wants us to beam up first?" Scrotor asked his partner.

     Nesbit replayed the different costumes in his head. "How about fe
reverend-person? She wooked fe most evi-wa."

    "Okay. We'wa snatch her first."

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

     Sherry, wearing her reverend garb, was ready to sample the snack
bar. Her mouth began to water within five paces of the tiramisu, and she
greedily grabbed a slice off the buffet table, along with a handful of
candy corn and three Junior Mints. No sooner than she'd taken one
delicious bite into her mouth, her culinary ecstasy was cut short by a
sound coming from the nearby bushes.

    "Pssst!"

    Sherry looked around curiously, wondering if one of the Addicts who
had come to the bonfire as a hot air balloon was nearby. It had been an
explosive addition to the costume contest.

     "Pssst! Over here!"

     Sherry turned around, and, immediately, all thoughts of food fled
her mind. Just beyond the shadows of the forest, far from the flames and
heated gazes of the other Addicts and party guests, stood LaCroix.

     LaCroix, devastating in his black Armani suit, sword pin neatly
angled at his lapel, his blue eyes staring intently, mesmerizingly,
right at the Reverend. She felt her knees liquefy, then she licked her
lips.

     LaCroix winked at her then. Sherry started in surprise and dropped
her tiramisu as a wave of lust wreaked havoc with her nervous system.
Her head jerked back in the direction of the bonfire a she hoped against
hope that no one else would notice Nunkies' presence. <Mine, all mine!>
Sherry thought greedily.

     She watched hypnotically as Lacroix raised one hand. Without saying
a word, he simply motioned for her to approach. Sherry didn't have a
problem with that in theory, but, in practice, her legs were wobbly. She
bobbed and weaved across the forest floor, resembling a stork drunk with
something besides power.

     Finally coming to stand before LaCroix, Sherry threw her arms
around his neck, doing a very fine imitation of a life jacket. She
squeezed him hard, joyous at the thought of having her hands on a big,
strong, not-so-nice-but-very-clever vampire after so many months of
fantasizing. <Mine! All mine!> she thought again, a wicked grin tilting
the corners of her mouth.

    Amidst her heavy breathing and sighs, a few peculiar things began to
seep into her consciousness about LaCroix. One, he wasn't saying
anything, and Sherry would have very much enjoyed the sound of his voice
whispering in her ear. Two, the skin of his neck where she held on
tightly didn't feel like she had imagined it would. She had expected the
coolness, but not the sensation of rubberiness, like overcooked
scrambled eggs. Third, Sherry gradually noticed an odd smell.

     Sniffing repeatedly, she managed to put a label on the odor.
Cheddar cheese. LaCroix smelled like cheddar cheese. Silent, cheesy eggs
may make a mighty spiffy omelet, but they were troubling when associated
with a master vampire. Sherry loosened her death grip on LaCroix's neck
and tilted her head back slightly, peering at him curiously.

     "Funny," she said lightly, "I always dreamed that you'd be more
talkative."

     "Hmmm," LaCroix said non-committally.

     "Whisper sweet nothings in my ear," Sherry urged.

     LaCroix seemed to consider the suggestion for a minute, then firmly
untangled her arms from around his neck, setting the Addict back on her
feet. He pulled her several steps deeper into the darkness of the trees
and undergrowth, Sherry following eagerly.

     Very little light from the bonfire reached into the forest here,
and Sherry had to squint to pick out LaCroix's features. She waited
expectantly, shivering in anticipation of his low voice tickling her
earlobe.

     Sherry made a small gasp of surprise when LaCroix fell to his knees
before her. He began to talk into her belly button, saying, "My sweet
wittle ionic fwux...you are fe sun, I am fe moon, you are fe words, I am
fe tune....pway me."

     Sherry, understandably, freaked out. "What the -?"

     Suddenly, Sherry was seized from behind, a hand stifling her
scream. LaCroix the Omelet rose from his knees and said, "What went
wrong?"

     A voice also resembling LaCroix's came from behind Sherry, saying
testily. "I towd you vo way off fe Nei-wa Diamond! Not everybody is a
fan!"

     "Infidewa!" LaCroix the Omelet hissed at Sherry. "How can anyone
not wove Nei-wa Diamond?"

     There was a rustling sound from the edge of the woods, and the
voice of LaCroix sighed from behind Sherry. "Oh, pook! We've been seen!
I'wa vake care of it!" Sherry was tossed forward onto LaCroix the
Omelet. Since he wasn't expecting an Addict-tossing competition, the
weight of Sherry's body bowled him over. Unfazed by the experience of
sitting on Lacroix's (albeit a LaCroix impostor's) head, Sherry
scrambled to her feet and prepared to run like the wind. Unfortunately,
the clearest path out of the woods was blocked
by another LaCroix, moving determinedly in the direction of a pale white
face peeking their way through two maple trees.

     Sherry made a sound similar to "Eeek!" with an added note of horror
tossed in to express her dismay. This pause for emotional expression
gave LaCroix the Omelet time to regroup, and he grabbed Sherry's feet,
pulling them out from under her as she prepared to run like a second
wind.

     "Oof!" Sherry grunted.

     Keeping his hold on the Reverend's ankles, LaCroix the Omelet
climbed to his feet, then began to drag Sherry even deeper into the
forest.

     Sherry mentally thrashed herself at this point, because she firmly
believed she should be screaming her lungs out. Instead, being yanked
through the forest, though not by her hair, was strongly reminding her
of Shele's Australopithecine Nunkies fantasy. <Undone by my own
addiction!> she berated herself.

     LaCroix the Omelet pulled a hair dryer out of his pocket and zapped
her.

     Sherry faded out of sight.

     LaCroix the Omelet replaced the hair dryer in his pocket. Digging
in his jacket for a moment, he withdrew a slightly linty piece of cheese
and had a snack. Finishing off his mini-repast, he wiped his hands off
with a black silk handkerchief. Then, humming 'Turn On Your Heartwight'
under his voice, he went to help his fellow LaCroix in accosting
Addicts.

*********************************************************************
End of the Part That's Sherry's Fault

Part Five: It's Patt's Fault...


     Patt greatly regretted getting the munchies.

     She had observed Sherry wander of in search of tiramisu, and this
vision had placed thoughts of snacking into her head. Shrugging aside
worries of ruining her mime makeup, Patt went on her own appetizing
pilgrimage.

     Like Sherry, Patt lost her appetite at the sight of Lacroix, but
for differing reasons. Preferring to admire from afar, Patt ducked under
the crudite table as she espied Sherry clenching LaCroix's neck in a
passionate death grip. Watching as LaCroix set the Reverend on her feet,
then pulled her into the woods, out of the Mature Addict's view, Patt
had a feeling of foreboding. Her mind scoured all the nefarious and
titillating possibilities of what LaCroix could do to Sherry alone in
the forest. Patt debated the effectiveness of running back to the party
and calling for backup. She was devoted to her vow of silence, yet had
little faith in the other Addicts' ability to unravel a pantomime call
for assistance. If she threw aside her
holiday spirit and related her concern for Sherry's safety vocally,
there was a very strong chance she would experience personal injury when
the party guests stampeded her in their hurry to fawn over the master
vampire.

     Therefore, for personal reasons of common sense, Patt decided to
keep an eye on Sherry and LaCroix on her own. That's why what happened
next is her fault. After all, she might have gotten a little trampled in
the process, but in all probability, a swarm of Addicts working together
would have been more than able to handle the machinations of Scrotor and
Nesbit in their LaCroix disguises, and this story would be over in four
easy parts.

     Instead, Patt went the solo route, and this is what happened:

     Patt was so dazzled by the scene of the first LaCroix singing into
Sherry's belly button, she didn't notice the second LaCroix until it was
too late. As the two LaCroixs argued about Neil Diamond, Patt began to
catch on that she had underestimated her need for reinforcements.

     She turned to jog back toward the bonfire, but something tugged at
the back of her shirt. Patt peered over her shoulder and spotted a
LaCroix there, looking unhappy with her. Patt proceeded to play possum,
an act which had met with variable success in the past when she had
irked LaCroix. This plan, however, did not take into account the fact
that she was not being accosted by LaCroix, but an alien in a LaCroix
disguise.

     The LaCroix squinted at her for several minutes, then took her by
her feet and dragged her farther away from any source of help. This
distressed Patt, who was accustomed to LaCroix either walking away with
disgust at her feeble attempt to deceive him or finding humor in her
antics, thereby relenting some on the fierceness front. She was
completely unprepared for the LaCroix making her a drag queen against
her will.

     Patt continued to pretend she was dead weight while she anxiously
plotted how to effectively use the beer bottle still clutched in her
hand. She heard someone singing a Neil Diamond tune in LaCroix's voice,
then the sound of someone with LaCroix's voice saying, "Stop singing
Nei-wa Diamond, Scrotor!"

     LaCroix's voice replied, "I've successfuwy captured an Addict
infidewa, Nesbit. I'm happy! You, on fe ofer hand, appear vo have kiwed
yours."

     Nesbit-LaCroix became contrite. "Aw I did was touch her! Do you
fink ve Great Goddess wiw be angry?"

     Scrotor-LaCroix began to do a victory dance. "I'm gonna be her
favo-wit! I'm gonna be her favo-wit!"

     Nesbit-LaCroix frowned. The thought of Scrotor being happy was like
a Polluxian slug beast sucking at his entrails. Nesbit-LaCroix began to
poke the prone Patt in the vicinity of her belly button, figuring that
no one alive could stand such torture to their eardrums for very long.

     His logic was sound to a small degree, in that Patt did not like
being poked in the stomach by a strange LaCroix. This physical assault
intensified Patt's desire to pop Nesbit-LaCroix in the head with her
beer bottle, which she did.

     Instead of the satisfying tinkle of breaking glass, Patt's battery
created a *Zorp!* noise. She released all pretence of marsupialism and
opened her eyes, witnessing with horror that instead of shattering, the
beer bottle had sunk *into* the substance that was the strange LaCroix's
head. His cranium seemed to resemble play-dough, only without the
festive coloring.

     This discovery, coupled with the realization that the
Scrotor-LaCroix was aiming a hair dryer in her direction with extreme
prejudice, caused Patt to forsake her vow of silence.

     "Oops!" she croaked, even as she faded from sight.

     Scrotor flew at the end of the hair dryer as though it was a
smoking gun. "I'm stiw Rhubarbarewa's favo-wit," he taunted.

     "Oh, bwah!" Nesbit pouted as he pulled the beer bottle out of his
Nunkies disguise. "You might as wew beam me up, voo! I have vo repwace
my face!" Nesbit continued to act bossy while Scrotor aimed the hair
dryer his way. "You can continue accosting fe Addict infidewas. I wiw
see about wuring some of fe fictionawa characvers Rhubarbarewa has
cursed."

     "Which one?"

     "Doctor Natawie Wambert!"

     So you see, whatever happens to Natalie in the next part is clearly
Patt's fault.

     Unless...

*********************************************************************
End of the Part That's Patt's Fault

Part Six: It's Nick's Fault...

     Natalie Lambert sat on the stainless steel examination table in the
morgue, absentmindedly picking at the laces of her
Pit-Of-Condemned-Bimbos corset.

     Grace walked out of the freezer with a box of sample slides and
gave the coroner a sympathetic smile. "He still hasn't shown?"

     "Nope." Nat peered hopefully at her assistant. "Are you sure no
one's died? There could be a crime scene that he's run to that I should
be working."

     "Sorry, honey. The criminals of Toronto haven't been so kind as to
kill each other so far this evening. Nick's just late."

     Natalie's expression became speculative. "It figures someone with
all the time in the world wouldn't spend some of it on punctuality."

     Grace frowned. "Huh?"

     Natalie waved the idea away. "Nothing. I'm just babbling to
myself."

     Grace set down her slides and began to cheerfully push Nat off the
table. "Which is exactly why you need to go to that party without him!
Your only social contact lately has involved dead people!"

     Nat's smile became mischievous. "Grace, truer words were never
spoken!"

     "So go! I'm stuck on duty Halloween night, but you're here by
choice. Why let all that cleavage go to waste?" she said, nodding toward
Natalie's costume. "I'll send Nick along with a flea in his ear when he
shows up."

     "Ugh," Nat groaned. "Going to a party alone? I can't think of a
worse way to spend Halloween. No thanks, Grace. Even playing
lady-in-waiting to corpses has more appeal than being slobbered on by
Canada's Least Wanted looking to get lucky." She twirled the loose ends
of her corset lacing around with a grin. "I'll just sit here and
practice my macrame while I wait for somebody dead to show up. Don't
worry about me. I'll be fine."

     Grace reluctantly departed for the lab with her slides, leaving
Natalie by herself in the morgue. She grabbed a handful of colorful
paperclips and practiced flicking them into the biohazard container from
across the room. Bored out of her mind, she began to hum an old Neil
Diamond tune.

     "I am, I said...to no one there...and no one heard at all, not even
the chair."

     Natalie peered around self-consciously, worried that she might get
caught singing. Doubly sure the morgue was empty, she began to relax a
little.

     "I am, I cried...I am, said I...and I am lost, and I can't even say
why...leaving me lonely still."

     Growing even more confident, Natalie began to dance around the
autopsy table, adding a bit of melodrama to the act, posing as she used
a chest clamp as her microphone.

     "Did you ever hear the story about a frog who dreamed of being a
king," Her hips swiveled beneath her full skirt, "then became one?" Next
came Natalie's 'Saturday Night Fever' impersonation: one hand on her
hip, the other pointing diagonally into the air. "Well, except for the
names and a few other changes, if ya talk about me, my story's the same
one." Now Natalie stood in place, holding up her hair and jiggling like
a Madonna video. "And I've got an emptiness deep inside, and I've tried,
but it wooooon't let me go-o-o...I'm not a man who likes to swear, but I
never cared for the sound of being alone!"

     Natalie threw her hands up into the air and turned, then danced
right into the imposing chest of LaCroix. "Ahhh!"

     "You're not a man, period," LaCroix said, eyeing her
Pit-Of-Condemned-Bimbos costume.

     "Who am I to manipulate Neil Diamond's lyrics?" Natalie countered,
her bosom heaving from a combination of exertion and embarrassment.

     LaCroix arched an eyebrow. "Indeed. I would sooner paraphrase
Shakespeare than abuse Mr. Diamond's poetry."

     Natalie didn't know what to make of that. Was he agreeing with her
or being facetious? <Evil! He's evil!> she thought. "You know, Nick is
due to arrive here any second, so why don't you just turn around and
go?"

     One of LaCroix's eyebrows perked with interest. "Detective Knight
is coming here? Hmmm...Good. Perhaps I can kiw two birds wif one stone."

    "Kiw?" Natalie repeated. "You're going to 'kiw' somebody?" A
familiar odor tickled Natalie's nostrils, and she stepped back in alarm.
"*sniff* *sniff* You smell like cheese!What's going on here? You're not
LaCroix, are you?"

     "Oh, damn!" Nesbit said, cursing the perceptiveness of these
earthlings. "No, I'm not WaCwoix," (Fanfic Fairies' note: the alien's
pronunciation of LaCroix's name greatly resembles a duck quacking.) "I
am just a simp-wa Nei-wa Diamond fan fwom outer space, a pawn in the
evi-wa pwan of Rhubarbarewa, Great Goddess of Pez and Rowerskates."

     "And her plan is to - what? - take over the world through cavities
and scraped knees?"

     "No, she is using a Disguise-o-Matic<tm> fwom Snixco<tm>, fough
Scwotor and I fink fat smacks of impersonawity. We've been cawing it
Sampo, kind of a pet name for our pod pewson pwoducer."

     "Pod people?" Natalie questioned.

     Nesbit-LaCroix nodded. "Pod people WaCwoix. Evi-wa, huh?"

     "Unspeakably," Natalie agreed.

     Nesbit-LaCroix pulled a hair dryer out of his pocket and appeared
apologetic. "I'm sowy, but I have vo beam you up to the mofer ship so fe
Great Goddess can vorture you now."

     "Huh?" Natalie sputtered, not completely adjusted to the alien's
speech peculiarities.

     There was a *zapping!* sound, a flash of pretty lights and warm
wind in her hair, then Natalie found herself sharing a cage with a
reverend sobbing, "But he looked like Nunkies!" and a mime cursing up a
blue streak.

     Natalie sat down roughly on one of the flattened bean bag chairs
provided for the prisoner's discomfort, sighed, and leaned her head
mournfully against the cage bars. She quietly muttered a prayer cursing
men everywhere who were late picking up their dates.

    "Nick," the coroner growled. "This is all your fault!"

*********************************************************************
End of the Part That's Nick's Fault

Part Seven: It's Screed's Fault...

     Meanwhile, back at the Bonfire, Molly took a time-out from running
around the pyre screaming, "The volcano! The volcano!" to nudge Vachon
on the arm. "Hey! I haven't seen Patt or Sherry in a while. Do you know
something about that?"

     Vachon looked at her blankly for a long moment, then said. "I don't
think so."

     "Hmm." Molly crossed her arms over her chest, making the vampire
wince, then eyed him speculatively. "Is that an 'I don't know,' as in,
you really don't know, or is it 'I don't know,' as in, I probably
should, but I've been too busy partying to pay attention to the plot?"

     "Probably more of the latter than the former," the Spaniard
admitted.

     "I thought so!" Molly said disapprovingly.

     Vachon shrugged. "It's not as if they're being kidnapped by pod
people from outer space, okay? Patt and Sherry are probably ducking
something much scarier...like Screed asking them to dance."

     Both Molly and Vachon turned their heads to study the fleet-o'-foot
carouche, who was inflicting lessons in swing dancing  on any Addict he
could catch. All jitterbugging aside, when Screed swung his partner, he
really *swung* his partner. So far, both Rae and Christina had been
flung high up into trees, leaving them anxious to sneak out of sight
once they climbed down from the uppermost branches, lest the carouche
jumped and jived them some more. Shele had gone so far as to pull a
parachute out of the 'To Burn' bin and strapped it on her back. It
wasn't a long stretch at all for Molly to accept that Patt and Sherry
had fled for similar reasons.

     Though Screed was innocent of all culpability in the case of Patt
and Sherry's disappearance, he was, in fact, the instigator of the
tribulations for many an unsuspecting Addict who wanted to get out of a
do-see-do.

     Here is one such example:

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

     Christina spit out a mouthful of maple leaves and said a long list
of un-ladylike things. "I'm *not* going back down there! You can't make
me!"

     Rae held up her hands in acquiescence until she realized she needed
to hold *onto* the tree to stay in it. "I'm not going to argue with
that. I'm not even sure how we *can* get down, much less if we want to!"

     Christina heard an unsettling creaking noise come from the branch
she was sitting upon, and she swiftly had second thoughts about her
initial statement. "Revision! I want down! Down! Down! Only I don't want
to experience the full power of gravity, and I'm *not* dancing with
Screed again!"

     Rae began to notice that bark chafes, so she did some revising in
her own plans. "You make a good point. This isn't the Swiss Family
Robinson, and we aren't cut out for living in trees any more than we're
cut out to milk donkeys."

     "You can't milk a donkey, Rae."

     "That's why the metaphor is so timely." Rae squinted down at the
ground, looking for someone who could discreetly assist them. She found
salvation in suspenders and a shiny red hat. "Oh, yoohoo! Fireman
Bubba!"

      Christina and Rae watched as Fireman Bubba searched left and
right, low and lower, before finally peering up into the branches where
they were perched. "Hey! What are you two doing way up there?" He
scratched his head, then held up his index finger. "I know! You're
picking apples!"

     "Maple trees don't grow apples," Christina quickly called back,
then she glanced at Rae for guidance. "Is there a metaphor here I'm
missing?"

     Rae shook her head. "Not unless the theme is 'Why Can't Bubba
Think?'"

     "And we want him to get us out of this tree?"

     "It's a matter of physical space, not mental," Rae reasoned. "Just
go with the flow."

     "Okay," Christina nodded. "As long as I don't go *splat!*"

     "Bubba?" Rae called. "In all your super important fire-fighting
supplies down there, you wouldn't happen to have a really tall ladder,
would you?"

     "Sure!" Bubba answered. "Why? Do you want to get down?"

     "Yeah!" Christina yelled. "Just pretend we're kittens!"

     So, after much squealing and scratching, Bubba finally saw both
females safely on the ground. Both Christina and Rae hugged the dirt and
purred, intensely thankful to sit on something solid.

     There was a sound.

     Christina sat up in alarm. "What's that? Is it Screed, looking for
another rumba!? I won't dance!" she shouted. "Don't ask me!"

     "I won't dance!" Rae yelled in solidarity. "You can't make me!" She
tugged on one of Bubba's rubber boots. "You! Go check out the suspicious
noise!"

     <He's not going to do that!> Christina mouthed. <Is he that
stupid?>

     <Just watch!> Rae mouthed back.

     "Okay," Bubba said. "You gals stay here. I'll be right back."

     Rae and Christina watched nervously as Bubba disappeared into the
shadows. There was a long period of silence, so long that Christina
yawned and Rae began to inspect her nails. Then, something happened.

     *Zap!*

     "What was that?" Christina shrieked.

     "It kind of sounded like a hair dryer," Rae said thoughtfully.

     "Ohmigawsh!" Christina pointed toward an opening in the trees.
"Look!"

     LaCroix stepped forward arms outstretched, a hair dryer in one
hand. "Wae...Chwistina...come to me."

     Rae leapt to her feet and ran to him in relief, hugging LaCroix
tightly. "Oh, Nunkies! There was a suspicious sound, and we sent Bubba
to check it out, because he's stupid, and there was another suspicious
sound..."

      "Wait a second," Christina said, still on the ground, slowly
pulling herself farther away from the pair. "He called me 'Chwistina'!"

     "...a sound kind of like a hairdryer," Rae babbled, then her voice
tapered off, her eyes widening in horror as she did a double-take at the
small appliance in LaCroix's hand. "Aaaah!"

     "You're cwever," Scrotor-LaCroix said, grinning wickedly, "but not
cwever enough."

     He aimed the hair dryer at Rae.

     *Zap!*

     "RAE!!!!!!!" Christina screamed as her fellow Addict vanished from
sight. Thinking faster than the average Bubba, she seized the fire
ladder and thwacked the LaCroix-impostor upside the head. Christina got
a good gaze of the play-doughy construction of his cranium before she
ran like hell in the opposite direction.

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

     "I have a question," Vachon announced.

     "Shoot," Molly said.

     "The invitations said to 'Bring Your Own Briquettes,' so why aren't
there any Knighties at this party?"

     "Ooof!" Molly shuddered. Giving Vachon a
that-was-not-a-nice-thing-to-say-yet-very-smart-ha!-ha! Frown, she
replied in a lecturing tone, "Maybe they all came as ninjas. Even now,
they are at one with the shadows, waiting silently for such a time when
they can leap out and shave you bald for that last comment."

     "Naah. Not the Knighties," Vachon said confidently. "The Dark
Knighties, maybe. They could handle the shadows. The Knighties would
need a Knightlight." The Spaniard grinned. "Do you get it? A *Knight*
light?"

     "Ow." Molly patted him on the shoulder consolingly. "Do us a favor
and hold the quirky turn-of-phrases until Patt's in charge, will ya?
Just because you have story control does not mean you have her power of
pun."

     Glennis and Rosalie rushed past them, then ducked behind Molly and
Vachon's backs, obviously hiding from something or someone.

     "Is Screed coming?" Rosalie asked worriedly.

     Vachon scanned the perimeter. "Don't see him."

     "Whew!" Glennis sighed. "That was a close one!"

     "I think Sallie's holding him at bay with her pocket blowtorch,"
Rosalie said, relaxing from her hiding place. "You have story control."
She shook her finger disapprovingly at Vachon. "Why don't you do
something to control the carouche? He's ruining Glennis' party!"

     "By dancing?" Vachon said dubiously. "Hardly."

     "Then explain," Glennis countered as she gestured forlornly at the
sparse fireside, "why most of the guests have vanished! The only person
still hanging around the blaze is Bons, and it's not as if she has a
choice in the matter. Either Screed's dancing is a menace to fan
fictional frivolity, or something unspeakable is going on!" Tears of
despair welled up in the boo-baby's eyes. "Like I might not throw good
parties!!!!"

     Molly and Rosalie both gasped in horror. "Never!"

     "It was a wonderful party until Screed started dancing," Rosalie
assured Glennis. "This must be Screed's fault."

     "Or something unspeakable, but unrelated to Glennis' hostess
skills, is going on," Molly reasoned.

     "There's no need to get paranoid. It's not as if they're being
kidnapped by pod people from outer space, okay?" Vachon repeated. "Look,
I'll have a word with Screed."

     "You better," Glennis said threateningly, her hands on her hips,
"or we're untying Bonnie."

     Just then, Christina came running into the clearing, screaming at
the top of her lungs, "RAE AND THE FIREMAN HAVE BEEN KIDNAPPED BY A POD
PERSON FROM OUTER SPACE!!!!"

     Vachon noticed everyone else was glaring at him. "Don't look at me!
Blame the alien!"

**********************************************************************
End Of The Part That's Screed's Fault

Part Eight: It's Scrotor's Fault...


     "Save me! Save me! Save me!" Christina yelled.

     "I KNEW I didn't give bad parties!" Glennis exclaimed happily.

     Christina ran in a circle around the fire. "Save me! Save me!"

     Vachon caught hold of her as she jogged past. "Hey - could you
elaborate on this pod person idea? I haven't been paying attention to
the story."

     "Grrrrrrr," Rosalie, Molly, and Glennis growled in unison, giving
Vachon looks that would fight gingivitis.

     "Okay," Christina panted. "Okay, okay. It was LaCroix..."

     "LaCroix's here?" Glennis preened. "He's here at my Birthday
Bonfire???"

     "No, no, no," Christina said, shaking her head emphatically. "It's
not LaCroix."

     Molly frowned. "Wait a minute. You just said - "

     "Give her a chance to catch her breath," Rosalie interrupted. "I
feel an important piece of dialogue coming up."

     "It wasn't LaCroix," Christina said slowly, "but an alien in a
LaCroix disguise! His face is made out of this squooshy stuff, and he
smells like cheese. When he talks, he kind of slurs...like he called me
'Chwistina!' And...and...he has this hair dryer..."

     This caused Vachon to frown. "A hair dryer?"

     "Yeah!" Christina nodded emphatically. "Only it wasn't a hair
dryer! It's a zap gun! He shot Rae with it, and she fizzled out of
sight!"

     "No!" Glennis gasped. "The Pod Person Nunkies disintegrated Rae?!?"

     "I don't know," Christina tried to explain. "It was like the Star
Trek Experience, only it was real, and I was running away. When people
get disintegrated, they go *sizzle-poof!* This was definitely a
*fizzlefizzlefizzle.* I think she got beamed up."

     Everyone looked up at the starry night sky.

     Molly winced. "Guess the party's over then."

     "*Uh-huh,*" Christina said, dazzled by the understatement. "We've
got to get away before he zaps us, too. I flattened his head with a fire
ladder, but that won't slow him down long."

     "Not wong at aw!" Scrotor-LaCroix announced from behind them,
brandishing his trusty hair dryer. "Pwepare vo meet fe Great Goddess!
Muahahaha!!"

     "He's a pagan alien!" Molly concluded. "This zapping might not be
so bad after all!"

     Just then, Shele ran between Scrotor-LaCroix and his victims, an
open parachute trailing after her. "Aaaahhh! Keep him away from me!" She
kept running.

     Sallie followed, wielding her pocket blowtorch with fiery intent.
"Back off, Rat Man! take up tap, already!"

     "Aw, tha's nawt noice! Aye's jes' want me jiggity-jams n' partner
tew twirl!" The carouche's eyes brightened as he noticed LaCroix
standing to one side. "Well, it's about time yew showed up! Loike ol'
Screed says, it ain't over 'til tha' CreeperCrawlery tangos!" He held up
both arms. "Yew wan' tew lead, ur shall Aye?"

     "Screed," Vachon said calmly, "we're in the middle of a situation
here. Could you just back away from the man with the shiney, pretty hair
dryer?"

      Naturally, all of Screed's attention immediately focused upon the
one gleaming object he was supposed to be wary of.
"Oooohh....precioussssss...."

     Which, obviously, threatened Scrotor-LaCroix, so he fired at the
carouche.

     *Zap!*

     The sudden disappearance of Screed, understandably, alarmed and
confused Sallie, who had not been privy to the scene with Christina's
crucial explanation of What Was Going On. She turned on Scrotor-LaCroix,
fiercely waving her blowtorch.

    No one, unfortunately, likes the sensation of fire dancing just
below their nose hairs. Scrotor-LaCroix shot Sallie, too.

     *Zap!*

     During these events, Rosalie, Glennis, Christina, Molly and Vachon
kept themselves occupied with some aside action.

     "You did that on purpose!" Glennis said accusingly. "You knew
Screed would be tantalized by the shiny appliance!"

     "I had to do it," Vachon shrugged. "The chase scene is coming up,
and we have way too many people."

     "The chase scene?" Rosalie perked with interest. "I've never done a
chase scene before."

     "Everybody grab a handful of tax forms from the 'To Burn' bin. When
I give the word," Vachon instructed, "throw."

     As Sallie finished *fizzlefizzlefizzling* out of sight, Vachon gave
the word.

     "Word!"

     A cloud of tax forms fluttered in the air, creating an ample cloud
of financial chaff.

     "Everybody!" Vachon shouted. "After Shele! Follow that parachute!"

     They ran.

      Once the papers settled to the ground, Scrotor-LaCroix ran after
them.

      Once the Bonfire was deserted, a small, inquisitive voice rose
from above the flames.

      "Hey!" Bons called. "Is anybody going to get me down from here?!
You can zap me to the mother ship, just let me have a potty break first,
okay??"

     Fortunately, or unfortunately, for Bonnie, no one answered.

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

     Shele was running through the forest.

     "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"

     (Fanfic Fairies' Note: We're not going to say this in any way
resembles a Sam Raimi flick, because it doesn't. Shele is wearing a
parachute. It's completely different. Yeah, yeah, Shele may be acting
like a scary monster is chasing after her, fumbling around trees and
over leafy embankments, but she's got both hands, no chainsaws, and a
parachute. It's completely different. Really.)

     Shele paused to take a breath. *pant* *pant*
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"

     Scrambling over another rise, Shele suddenly suspected she was
running in place. "Huh?" She glanced down at her feet, and, sure enough,
they were moving, but the terrain wasn't. "Oh, no you don't!" Shele
yelled. "I'm not dancin'!" She swung around, fists raised. "You want
some of this?! Well, come and get it!" Shele darted a few sample
punches, bruising the air in front of her horribly.

     Swinging her fist yet again, this time Vachon intercepted it. Next,
he dumped a pile of silk into her arms. "Dump the parachute, Shele.
You're getting tangled in the shrubbery."

     Shele looked about in bewilderment as a pack of Addicts began to
race past her. "I know what's chasing me," she said, thumping her chest
with a thumb, "but what's chasing them?"

     "An alien!" Molly called as she scooted around the pair.

     "Or as the alien would probably say," Christina followed, "'an
awien!'"

     "An awien?" Shele wrinkled her nose. "I think I like being chased
by the damned better."

     Rosalie zipped by next, waving a hand. "Come on, Shele! We're going
to have a high speed chase!"

     Shele immediately dropped her chute harness. "Well, that's a
completely different banana!" She started to run along with the pack.
"So what kind of high speed chase are we having? Sportscars? Big
Wheels<tm>? Ooooh....Vachon's around...it's going to be motorcycles,
isn't it?"

     Glennis was the first to make it over the next rise and stop dead.
"Somehow, I don't think we're going to manage motorcycles."

     The Addicts gazed with dismay at the large expanse of water that
blocked their path. Dotting the shore line was a chain of small docks, a
rickety sign proclaiming this to be the 'Last Chance Marina - Serving
Lake Ontario since 1904.'

     "Lake Ontario?" Molly said incredulously. "We ran from a patch of
woods north of Toronto to Lake Ontario in *five minutes*?"

     Vachon shrugged. "I finally did something about the story control
thing."

     "Great," Rosalie said, looking dubiously at the bedraggled dock.
"What are we going to escape on? All I see is that outboard motor, and
there's no way it'll hold all six of us."

     Vachon pointed in the distance. "Look over there."

     Bobbing happily in the water off the last wooden post were three
jetskis, two-seaters.

     "Like motorcycles," Vachon grinned, "only wet."

     All of the Addicts rushed the dock, and there was a moment of
dissension when everyone wanted to drive. "I'll make this simple,"
Vachon announced. "I drive, because I'm the one with fangs. Glennis
drives because it's her birthday. Rosalie drives because it's her first
high speed chase. The rest of you, hold on."

     "Aw, nuts!" Molly said, though she thought something much more
descriptive.

     "'Tis the season for my birthday, too, you know," Christina pointed
out testily. "I should get to drive one of the jetskis!"

     "Too bad. Age before beauty," Vachon murmured in her ear.

     "I heard that!" Shele called. "Did anybody else hear that?"

     Everyone except Christina thwapped the Spaniard mightily, so much
so that he would have been pushed into Lake Ontario if he hadn't had
that flying thing down pat. Instead, Vachon hovered over the lightly
lapping surface of the water, shaking his head. "Play nice."

     "Oh, look who's telling us to play nice," Molly said in disgust as
she settled behind Rosalie on a gleaming, black jetski. "Mr. 'Where are
the Briquettes?' Hmmpf!"

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

     Scrotor-LaCroix reached the 'Last Chance Marina' in time to watch
the posse of jetskis v-room! away from the dock. "Waggle-snaggle,
fargle-bargle," he cursed, moving intently toward the small outboard.

     "You don't want that boat, sonny," a grizzled voice croaked behind
the alien.

     "Of course I want fat boat!" Scrotor-LaCroix said impatiently,
glaring at the old man who had stepped out of the marina's shack. "And
I'm taking it!"

     "Don't be stupid, boy! This is a chase scene, innit it? That piece
of junk won't even get you over twenty. You'd best listen to Cap'n
Slappy," the old man cackled as he pointed toward himself. "You don't
want that boat."

     "But it's fe onwe boat!"

     "Heh - look *behind* my shack, boy!"

     Scrotor-LaCroix did, finding a spiffy, high-powered speedboat.
"Oooh!"

     Cap'n Slappy tossed him the keys. "You may talk funny and have a
squishy head, but you looks like good people. Catch up with those pesky
kids who stole my jetskis and show them the plank, eh?"

     Scrotor-LaCroix gave him a snappy salute. "You sha-wa have fe Great
Goddess Rhubarbarewa's gratitude, Cap'n Swappy! Fank you!"

    The engine of the speedboat cranked to life with a ferocious roar,
as though it was some bloodthirsty beast shaken rudely from slumber. Its
prow cut ruthlessly through the water, leaving a tropical depression of
flying foam in its wake.

     That will be trouble, and it's Cap'n Slappy's fault.

**********************************************************************
End of the Part That's Scrotor's Fault

Part Nine: It's Cap'n Slappy's Fault...


     "I'm learning from this experience," Christina announced. She was
holding on tightly to Vachon's waist as they bounced roughly over the
water. "Leather may work with motorcycles, but not on a jetski. You're
starting to smell like a damp cow."

     "I'm learning from this experience, too," Rosalie yelled. "Like my
jetski doesn't have headlights! Where am I going?!?"

     "I'm just following the vamp," Glennis explained. "He doesn't need
headlights."

     "Err...have any of you noticed," Shele called from behind Glennis'
back. "That there's this really loud sound, kind of resembling The
Garbage Disposal Of Doom <tm>, and it seems to be getting closer?"

     "This is the chase scene," Molly said. "That would be the chaser."

     "I have a bad feeling about this," Shele replied, peering over her
shoulder in trepidation as the sleek gunmetal gray speed boat shot into
her line of sight. "Funny how the chaser isn't driving that dinky
outboard we saw back at the dock. He's driving a *monster.*"

     (Fanfic Fairies' Note: Shele wasn't exaggerating here. The
speedboat Scrotor-LaCroix had borrowed from Cap'n Slappy was actually
labeled in lovely silver letters with blood edging, 'Loch Ontario
Monster.')

     Vachon directed his jetski slightly to the right so he could catch
a look of the craft. "I don't remember that boat. If I'd seen that boat,
I'd have taken it."

     "Did you notice it has fins?" Molly called.

     "Oh, is that why it looks so predatory?" Christina yelled back.

     "It's time for some evasive maneuvers," Vachon decided.

     "You mean, like not giving direct answers when the boat monster
asks us questions?" Shele guessed.

     "Not exactly."

     "But that's what you do," Shele protested.

     "Then we'll do tactical maneuvers instead," Vachon said. "Spread
out!" Christina let out a panicked whoop as their jetski made a sharp
right turn.

     "Where am I going? Where am I going?" Rosalie cried worriedly.

     "Just keep going straight! Straight is good!" Molly encouraged her.

     "Any suggestions?" Glennis called to Shele.

     "Too late, birthday girl. I'm closing my eyes and pretending we're
not on a collision course with doom."

     "Hmm..." Glennis said, closing her eyes as she swerved their jetski
sharply to the left. "Positive thinking...let the force be with you...I
think I can...I think I can..."

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

     "Christina!" Vachon yelled. "Look behind you and see which ski our
pod guy is following!"

     "Oh, like actually seeing myself being chased into a watery grave
will make me feel better," Christina said facetiously.

     "No, like, if he's not following us, we can circle around, flank
him, and give a shot at taking over the boat, the zappy whatchamacallit,
or both."

     "But what if he is following us?"

     "Then we steer him away from the other, bail on the jetski, and fly
off."

     "Oh, okay." Christina glanced over her shoulder, then released a
pleased squeal. "Excellent! Pod Guy LaCroix is chasing Rosalie and
Molly."

     "Well, don't you sound happy at their predicament?" Vachon teased,
then began to circle around.

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

     "Uh-oh," Molly said, tapping Rosalie on the shoulder.

     "What? What?!" Rosalie screamed. "Do you see an iceberg?!"

     "No. It looks like Pod Guy decided to chase us. Everybody else has
gotten away."

     "But you told me to go straight! You said straight was good!"

     "It *is* good," Molly said stubbornly. "Pod Guy likes straight,
doesn't he?"

     "Okay, okay. So now what do we do?"

    "Hmm..." Molly pondered the possibilities for a minute. "I think
something highly unwise and unnecessarily dangerous is in order."

     Rosalie cringed. "You do?"

     "Yep. Stop the ski."

     "What?! Pod Guy will catch us!"

     "He's going much faster than us," Molly reasoned. "Pod Guy will
catch us anyhow. That's why we should do something unexpected."

     "All right." Rosalie loosened her grip on the throttle. "Now what?"

     "We jump and swim for cover."

     "Uhm, we're in the middle of Lake Ontario," Rosalie said worriedly.
"Is there cover in the middle of Lake Ontario?"

    "When you see the boat's headlight, duck below the surface."

     "I was afraid you'd say that."
  **********************************************************************

     "Aaaaaaah!" Shele yelped.

     "What? What?!" Glennis screamed. "Do you see an iceberg?!"

     "No! Rosalie and Molly just dropped out of sight! They fell off
their jetski!"

     "How do you fall off a jetski while going straight?"

     "Maybe *they* hit an iceberg."

     "Well, that's that," Glennis said, making a neat U-turn. "We've got
to go back for them. Nobody drowns on my birthday, aliens or no aliens."

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

     Scrotor-LaCroix was confused. He had been doing so well, careening
over the water, forming an image in his mind that he was an apocalyptic
specter of horsepower and froth. He dreamed of the humans cringing in
terror before him, pleading for mercy and a small ration of candy, just
like Nesbit and he prostrated themselves before the Great Rhubarbarella.

     It was a happy image, a victorious image, an image where Wisconsin
became his empire, and he got as much cheddar as he had toothpicks to
stab it with. As his predatory speedboat gained on the tiny craft ahead,
Scrotor-LaCroix felt this dream was within his grasp.

     Only the little jetski caught him by surprise. It stopped - damn
the clever vehicle! - then it had the audacity to bump under the hull of
his boat as so much aqueous roadkill, while the earthlings, who should
be trembling and bowing before him for mercy, had completely disappeared
from sight.

     To add insult to injury, one of the other jetskis had arrived on
the horizon. As it grew closer, Scrotor-LaCroix began to suspect that
both of the women were making funny faces at him, as though they weren't
terrified of him at all!

     Sure enough, Shele was making a silly monkey face. She then stuck
out her tongue and gave him The Zerbert of Disrespect. "You!" she
yelled.

     Scrotor-LaCroix pointed self-consciously to his chest. <Who me?>

     "Yeah, you," Shele drawled. "Pod Guy!" She shook one fist and did a
fair impersonation of someone who was over six-feet tall and ate
impostor-Nunkies for breakfast. A bowlful, like Wheaties<tm>. "You're a
sorry excuse for an alien, you know that?"

     "I am?" Scrotor-LaCroix was taken aback, and he had to fight back a
sniffle.

     "Yeah! Don't you know all the really scary aliens are bald and have
fangs down to their belly-buttons? Sigourney Weaver wouldn't waste a
tissue wiping up your baby tears!"

     This really hurt Scrotor-LaCroix's feelings, and he slowed down the
'Loch Ontario Monster' because of his bleary eyes. "Fat *does* sound
wike a scary awien."

     "Scary is as scary does," Shele said as Glennis drove in
figure-eights before the bobbing speedboat, "and *really* scary aliens
lay eggs in the chest of their victims. Then the little alien babies
grow up, and they explode! - Boom! - Splat! - out of the chests of their
victims! *Then* the scary aliens use any leftover body parts for dental
floss!"

     "Gwoss!" Scrotor-LaCroix cringed, then ducked, so that he was
peeping over his boat's controls at Shele. "Fose scary awiens don' hang
around here, do fey?"

     "Oh, there's one right behind you," Shele said innocently.

     Scrotor-LaCroix gasped and whirled around, finding Vachon hovering
over him.

     "Boo," Vachon said.

     Scrotor-LaCroix's eyelashes fluttered, then he fainted away.

     Molly and Rosalie's heads broke the surface of the lake, and they
began to tread water. Christina climbed aboard the 'Loch Ontario
Monster,' took the captain's chair, and began to study the controls.
"Oh, goody! A new vehicle, and I haven't had a turn to drive yet!"

     "You women," Vachon pointed at each one of the five Addicts,
lingering on Shele, who was looking pretty pleased with herself, "are
all rotten. I couldn't have picked on the alien better myself."

     The Addicts let out a rousing cheer. Shele and Glennis climbed on
board the speedboat, and Christina slowly maneuvered it closer to where
Molly and Rosalie were swimming.

     "So we've got the boat *and* the zappy whatchamacallit," Christina
said. "What do we do with the Pod Guy? Torture him for information?"

     "Nah." Vachon leaned over the side and dragged a soggy Addict on
deck with each hand. "We can afford to take a break in the action long
enough for me to catch up on the plot. Let's make him walk the plank."

     The Addicts let out another rousing cheer.

     Rosalie sneezed. "Can you write in some towels?"

**********************************************************************
End of the Part That's Cap'n Slappy's Fault

Part Ten: It's Nesbit's Fault...

     Nesbit waited at the morgue for Detective Knight to show up. He
whiled away the time by folding post-its so that they resembled
silicon-based lifeforms, which pretty much meant the paper remained in
little squares.

     After about an hour, Nesbit decided to switch on a tiny radio that
he found in Doctor Lambert's desk. It was tuned to an AM station. Nesbit
listened intently as a woman's voice came on air and said, "You're
listening to 'The Best of Nightwatch With The Nightcrawler' on
CERK...further proof that old stuff keeps getting better."

     The woman's voice was replaced by that of a man, a man's voice that
made Nesbit's eyes boggle. "Fat's me!" he exclaimed. "Or, at weast, fe
human I am impersonating!"

     Nesbit began to cackle, overjoyed at how easy his job had become.
He could go to this CERK station and pretend he was the Nightcrawler
prepared to do a Halloween broadcast. Nesbit would invite all of
LaCroix's fans to the station, then beam them up to the mother ship as
they came through the door. It was completely diabolical.

     "Muahahahaha! I am fe favo-wit!"

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

     Much later, Nick popped his head into the lab. He appeared a
combination of concerned and embarrassed. "Hi, Grace. Do you know where
Nat is?"

     Grace glanced up from her samples, looked pointedly at her watch,
then gave the detective her attention. "She was in the morgue, waiting
for you."

     Nick frowned. "She's not there now."

     "Maybe she got tired of waiting and went to the party alone. We
talked about her doing that." Grace grinned suddenly and gestured with
one hand for Nick to stop hiding behind the door frame. "Come here. Let
me see what you're wearing." Nick sheepishly stepped forward, revealing
his medieval outfit. "What are you?" Grace guessed. "A crusader?"

     "Kind of."

     "Shouldn't there be a cross on your tunic?"

     "That's the 'kind of' part," Nick answered.

     "Ah. Well, if I were you, I'd look for Nat at the Halloween party,"
Grace said. "I'd also bring flowers, if I had any hope of being treated,
not tricked."

     "I'll do that," Nick said, then, giving a small wave, left Grace to
her work.

     Nick stopped by the morgue for one more look before leaving. Little
folded squares of yellow paper littered the autopsy table, a sign that
Natalie had obviously been extremely bored before giving up on him.
<Better make that flowers *and* candy,> Nick thought.

     Driving north, Nick practiced giving Natalie a good excuse for his
tardiness. Somehow, he had a feeling that 'I got lost in a flashback'
was not going to go over well, even if it was the truth. He began to hum
absently, mulling over the possibilities.

     "I've had it to here, bein' where love's a small word," Nick sang
along with the radio, "part time thing, paper ring."

     He didn't pause to think that this might be an odd musical
selection to be featured on 'Nightwatch with the Nightcrawler.' He was
too wrapped up in alternate explanations that might placate The Wrath of
Natalie. <Hmm...> he thought, <I could say I had tons of
trick-or-treaters...tons of trick-or-treaters in the warehouse
district...yeah, right...*sigh*>

     "I know it's been done, havin' one girl who'll love me," he kept
singing, even as he dismissed the possibility of telling Nat he'd been
called into the precinct on business. That would be too easy for Nat to
check out. "Right or wrong. Weak or strong."

     <Hmm...what if I told her the truth? Only I could follow this up
with telling Nat how my whole flashback experience reinforced how
important she is to me here and now in the present, then give her a sad
puppy look. That'll work!> Nick reasoned triumphantly.

     His singing took on a chipper note. "Don't know that I will, but
until I can find me a girl who'll stay and won't play games behind me,
I'll stay what I am: a solitary man. A solitary man."

     Nick continued to hum the melody after he'd parked the caddy and
hiked through the field of cars (and a dumptruck) littering this
particular grove of nature's landscape. Strangely, when he pushed
through the brush into the next clearing, he didn't find a crowd of
people. Nick passed a stereo speaker hitched to one of the many maple
trees that only produced a soft, very un-festive, hissing static. He
noted the distant snack table, vacant of mortal nibblers.

    Looking down, Nick worriedly observed that the ground was littered
with tax forms. Looking up, Nick saw Bonnie lashed to a spit, rotating
high above a bonfire that had almost burnt itself out.

     Nick figured out that something had gone wrong with the party. As
usual, it had to be an Addict's fault. With less than good humor, he
made a passing run at the fire, ripping the overhead spit away from its
crank, waking Bons in the process. She'd been napping, proving that you
*can* get bored doing just about anything.

     Nick stood the bar on one end, far away from the last embers of the
flames, and looked critically at the redheaded Scribe. He wasted no time
in expressing his opinion of the situation. "This is your fault, isn't
it?"

     Bonnie made a face, partially out of annoyance, partially because
she *still* needed a virtual powder room. "Oh, please. If it was my
fault, I wouldn't be tied up, now would I?"

    Nick frowned, slipping into a mini-flashback montage. Things had
happened many-a-time that were his fault. Had he ever gotten tied up?
His thoughts slipped over that mad scientist who had lured him with
promises of a cure for vampirism. <A-ha!>

     "It's possible," Nick retorted smugly.

     "Blah!" Bons began to wiggle her toes. "Could you untie me? Call me
kooky, but I have a feeling that I'll explain things much better when
I'm not chafing with hemp burns."

     "You're kooky," Nick said, not cracking a smile as he began to rip
the ropes binding the redhead in two.

     The knots supporting her weight removed, Bonnie thumped to the
ground. "Ow! Ow! Kidney strain!"

     Nick eyed her dispassionately. "If this isn't your fault, whose is
it?"

     Bonnie stood, knees squeezed together. "Hey! The slacker got my
story control! Ask him!" This statement was followed by a frown. "Wait a
second...I *do* remember writing that you weren't invited to this
shindig! You gate-crasher! Downright barbaric, I say!" The Scribe's eyes
glinted. "I like it!"

     "I didn't crash the party," Nick said. "You invited Nat, and I'm
supposed to be her date."

     "Ohhhhh! Way to go!" Bonnie said. *wink-wink* *nudge-nudge* "Dead
guy with a social life! Woohoo!"

     Nick did not bask in her approval. "So where *is* Nat?"

     Bons stopped her interpretative dance in homage to romance and
NNPackerdom. "Uh...Act-tually, I don't remember seeing her, but, then,
it's hard to note coming and goings when you're roasting over an open
fire. Chestnuts don't do narrative. Wait a second," Bonnie said stopping
short (easily done, since she *was* short), "if she's your date, how
come Natalie isn't with you?"

     Nick stopped looking annoyed and started to blush. "I was...late
picking her up."

     Bonnie's eyes widened. "Ohhhhh!" She giggled unsympathetically for
several moments and began a new interpretive dance in homage to Cousinly
Nick-picking. "You are *so* in trouble! Nyah!" she began to sing.

     Nick put a firm hand on top of her head, freezing the impromptu.
"That may be, but I still want to know where Natalie is. You may not
have seen everything while turning on that spit, but I know you had to
have seen *something.* What happened to the party guests?"

     "Well, I'm not 100 percent certain about this, but there's a very
good chance that they were abducted by aliens disguised as LaCroix."

     "Right. Aliens who look like LaCroix. Why didn't I think of that?"

     "You're not unspeakably evil?" Bons guessed.

     "Who would be that unspeakably evil?" Nick wondered.

     "Beats me. Last I saw, a pod person Nunkies zapped Screed and
DragonSallie with this thing that looked like a hair dryer. They
disappeared, then Vachon and the last of the Addicts distracted the
alien by throwing tax forms at him. They went running off into the
woods, and I haven't heard from them in over an hour. That's why I
suspect none of them are the unspeakable evil party."

     Nick frowned at this information. "Zapped with a hair dryer?
Hmm...who was left beside Vachon?"

    "Christina, Molly, Shele, Rosalie, and Glennis. Glennis seemed
pretty perturbed that her birthday party ended before the cake and water
balloon fight."

     "Can you remember anything else?"

     "The alien referred to the 'Great Goddess.'"

     Nick's brows furrowed. "The aliens are pagan?"

     "Or they know someone named Great Goddess. Maybe an unspeakably
evil Great Goddess."

     Nick glanced at his watch. "Okay, enough of this plot recap. It's
November already. To the Caddy!"

     Back on the road, Bonnie immediately began to squint at the radio.
Strains of 'Crunchy Granola Suite' boomed over the speakers. "I don't
mind the Neil Diamond, but isn't the Nightcrawler broadcast on right
now?"

    "This is the Nightcrawler broadcast," Nick answered, then he began
to squint at the radio as well.

     "Hmm. So...if LC was the type of undead Roman to play Neil 'Live at
The Greek,' you'd have a klew, wouldn't you?" Bonnie asked hopefully.

     "Yeah," Nick replied, taking the next turn. "Looks like we're
making a pit stop at CERK."

     "Good," Bonnie echoed. "I've been needing a pit stop the past four
parts of this story."

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

     Jules was, understandably, surprised when LaCroix swept into the
certain facts:

1)  LaCroix was always cranky around Holidays, even Flag Day.
LaCroix's crankiness spawned urges in Jules to throw things,
especially at his head, and that was not a safe activity. She'd
already turned down two offers from the BlueJays to join the
pitching coaches, and that was quite enough, thankyouverymuch.

2)  Jules was running the radio show in LaCroix's absence, and she had
swiftly realized the sense of power ruling the airways gave a
person. Since she was long overdue a power trip (that didn't     involve
assigning grout duty), Jules was just a tad annoyed that     LaCroix was
raining on her parade.

3)  She knew LaCroix had caught his earlier flight out of Canada;
she'd seen him do it the night before (How else could she keep the
keys to the Jag if she didn't drive him to the airport?). He'd     been
to another country, and he hadn't brought her any souvenir.     Not even
his airplane peanuts. That was A Big Black Mark Against     Him.

4)  LaCroix had entered the sound booth, looked right through her, as
if he didn't even *know* her, then just dismissed her, saying,     "I'm
taking over." Practically shoving her out of his chair, he     then had
the nerve to order her to "Find me some cheese skoogie -     now!" Jules
was appalled. Since when did LaCroix even *say* things     like 'cheese
skoogie,' much less associate with processed dairy     foods? It was
sick and wrong!


     If this was the way LaCroix was going to be, Jules would have
preferred he stay absent. That was the bottom line. Muttering to
herself, listing her grievances over and again, Jules worked herself
into a good can-pitching fury. By the time she'd marched out of the CERK
building, paid an outrageous amount at a small grocery for some Spray
Cheese of dubious age, then made her way back to the broadcast room,
Jules was more than ready to skoogie LaCroix upside his head. She
imagined the sound of painted aluminum hitting ancient skull, and it was
good.

     She entered the booth.

     She reared back her throwing arm.

     She dropped the can of cheese on her foot.

     LaCroix was dancing, yes, *dancing.* It was a silly dance,
something akin to bouncing up and down while playing patty-cake, and
LaCroix was doing this silly dance while singing along with a Neil
Diamond tune at the top of his lungs.

     "I fank fe Word for fe night-time, vo forget fe day. A day of
up-uptight time, baby, chase it away. I get rewaxation, it's a time vo
gwoove. I fank fe Word for fe night-time, I fank fe Word for you!"

     Jules thought many things during this musical interlude, and tried
to remain rational about the situation. She thought:

1)  <Oh, no! He's drunk a Roman Candle again!>

2)  <Evidently supernatural powers do not include a super sense of
rhythm.>

3)  <This isn't LaCroix! This is like a pod person in LaCroix's body!>

     It was the last chorus of the song, and Jules watched in horror as
LaCroix began to speak to all the listeners, who were no doubt as agog
as she. "Hewo, my chiwdwen...fis is fe Nightcwawer...and I wuv you
aw..."

    Jules picked up the fallen can of Spray-Cheese, then ceased trying
to think rationally. "Noooooooooooooooooo!" she screamed, smiting
LaCroix mightily on the brain-pan.

     As Jules watched the Thing That Could Not Be LaCroix tumble
unconsciously to the floor, she saw something resembling a hair dryer
slip out of his coat. She picked it up and examined the instrument's
settings, which read 'Lo / Hi / Anti-Gravity / Zap to Bridge of
Mothership / Zap to Rhubarbarella's Theatre / Zap to Nasty Prison with
Uncomfortable Chairs,' she made a smug sound.

     <A-ha! Reason #3!> Triumph was Jules'.

     Both Nick and Bonnie rushed into the sound booth at that point,
finding Jules twirling a light blue metallic hair dryer on one finger
and a motionless LaCroix slumped on the carpet. Both Nick and Bonnie
were disappointed.

     "Late again!" Nick groaned.

     "*Sigh* Plot recap *again*!" Bonnie whined. "Whoever is responsible
for this plot is REALLY EVIL!!!!!"

     Jules frowned and pointed to the unconscious not-LaCroix. "You mean
it's not his fault?"

     "No. He's just a pawn in someone else's web of naughtiness."

     Jules peered at the not-a-hair-dryer in her hand again. "Would that
person be named 'Rhubarbarella'? This thing says it zaps to her
'theatre.'"

     "Where on Earth would you get a name like 'Rhubarbarella'?" Nick
demanded.

     "Ding dong!" Bonnie called. "We're dealing with *aliens.* They
probably have names like 'Scrotor' and 'Nesbit,' too!" The redhead let
out a small giggle. "'Rhubarbarella.' That reminds me of something." She
snapped her fingers several times. "Jules, remember that dream KC had?
You know, the one where she was Queen of the Rhubarbs, and a tribe of
gophers worshipped her as a goddess?"

     "You know me, Bons," Jules replied. "My memory's like Swiss cheese.
The last thing I remember was KC being abducted by aliens in the fanfic
war..."

     Jules' voice trailed away, and the two Addicts gaped at each other.

     "Well," Nick announced, "this can only mean one thing."

**********************************************************************
End of the Part That's Nesbit's Fault

Part Eleven: It's KC's Fault...

     You may have wondered what KC (a.k.a. Rhubarbarella, Great Goddess
of Pez and Rollerskates) has been up to since we left her cackling at
the end of the part that was LaCroix's fault. You remember KC, don't
you? She's the anti-heroine, the poster child of not-so-nice things in a
red jumpsuit and go-go boots, the one with a teacup of primordial goo
swirling in her hand, pinky finger titled down (because she's EVIL!).

     Why, she's been torturing her prisoners, of course! Naughty,
naughty KC! First thing, the Addict abductees, Natalie and Screed were
all dumped into a large jail cell filled with nothing but flattened bean
bag chairs and old sofa beds where the bar crosses right down the middle
and *kills* your back. There was one bathroom (and once there were over
seventy women in this nasty prison, the line to the facilities gave one
or two people horrible flashbacks to Yanni concerts past), and the only
available food consisted of stale hotel mints and meat jerky. Yes,
*meat* jerky. The contents of the shriveled brown sticks were
classifiable as animal by-products, but no one was capable of venturing
a more specific guess, that is, until Screed showed up.

    The carouche was willing to eat the meat jerky, mumbling words like
'lemming' and 'otter' between bites. Everyone else decided to make do
with the stale mints.

     After a while, once the accommodations became truly tenement-style,
KC opened a tiny window in the ceiling, then tossed *one* very fine
Godiva raspberry truffle into the hungry throng. There was a mad rush,
questions of parentage were raised, hissing and brawling ensued, the end
result being one piece of chocolate, squished under their shuffling
feet. Can you see the evil here?

     Changing her tactics, KC next zapped her victims into a different
room, one where each person found their body encased in a giant mold of
orange jello, buried in whipped cream, wrapped within an enormous
burrito, or some equal food monstrosity.

     "She's using our Nunkies fantasies against us!" Sherry wailed.

     "How evil!" Rae cried.

     "I *never* had a fantasy like this," Natalie growled indignantly as
she rolled across the floor in the shape of a popcorn ball.

     Patt peeped mournfully between giant stalks of shredded lettuce and
a layer of refried beans. "Yo no quiero Taco Bell."

     Then, KC put one of her *truly* diabolical plans into motion.

      "I shall make the worst film in existence! The Addict infidels
shall be my cast! Production values? I don't need no stinkin' production
values! Yes, one day, sleepy-eyed men and robots shaped like bubble gum
dispensers will look at my work and say, 'That sucks out loud!' Hooray!"

     And so the prisoners were rinsed of their food coatings and placed
before bright lights and big cameras. One might describe their acting as
stiff, but this might have something to do with the collars KC had each
cast member fit with, something similar to those invisible fencing
systems for dogs. Whenever one of the actors did or said something KC
didn't like, she merely *bzzzt!* them with 20,000 volts. It was a
director's dream come true.

     Thus, 'Amoeba Man From Outer Space' was born!

     The hero, Amoeba Man, was a misunderstood one-celled hero deriving
from the planet Protista. Dragon Sallie won the honors of playing this
role (okay, she lost the straw pull), which basically involved crawling
about the tile floors of the 'Satellite of Passing Infatuation' under a
quilt of indefinite color, pretending that she had pseudopodia. Dragon
Sallie soon lost this coveted covered role, by accident or by design,
because she repeatedly set her costume on fire with her pocket
blowtorch. Nobody likes a fire hazard in space, so Sallie managed to get
sent back to the Prison With Uncomfortable Chairs, and only appears in
the opening credits of this film monstrosity.

(Fanfic Fairies' Note: the opening sequence of this film monstrosity
features Amoeba Man running desperately toward the camera. Try to
picture an amoeba running. Just try. )

     Rae lost the next straw pull, and the consensus was that she
managed a darker, more sensitive portrayal of the Amoeba Man character.

     Amoeba Man's nemesis was named 'Evil Invader.' Screed won (as
though it was a prize) the right to play this part, whose costume
involved a black leisure suit and a helmet fashioned from a pail turned
upside-down with two eye holes bored out. The general opinion of those
filmgoers who dared to admit they'd seen 'Amoeba Man From Outer Space'
was that Screed's portrayal was complex, unlike anything they'd seen
before, and, in a word, unintelligible.

     *Bzzt!* *Bzzt!* *Bzzt!*

     "Alrighty, then!" KC yelled through her Megaphone of Machievellian
Monologues. "Your five minutes are up! Now you're breathing on my time!
Beach Blanket Bunnies, take your places!"

     *Bzzt!* *Bzzt!* *Bzzt!*

     Natalie was the Head Beach Blanket Bunny, and had the cottony tail
to prove it. (This was a very literal production. Literal. Not
Literate.) "Can't I have something that covers my face, like Rae and
Screed?" Natalie complained.

     "Rabbits don't talk," KC retorted. "Ya got a problem with my
direction, flop your ears! Now stay in character!"

     *Bzzt!*

     The filming continued along, interrupted only by KC's shouted
directions:

     "Okay, Bunnies! Let's see some happy dancing!"

     "Okay, Amoeba Man! I want you to save the Bunnies by enveloping the
bomb in a food vacuole!"

    "A what?" Rae said.

    "Amoebas don't talk! They Feel!"

    *Bzzt!*

    "Okay, everybody! Line up for the musical number!"

    Patt and Sherry were made first chairs in the film orchestra, their
instruments being the kazoo and glasses of water with spoon,
respectively. KC composed the entire film score, a cross between Baroque
and Early Sesame Street in style. Between her musical talents, her
directorial skills and her mastery of All That Is Wanton and Unruly, KC
posed quite a triple threat.

    *Bzzt!* *Bzzt!* *Bzzt!*

     See?

     "Amoeba Man! Just because you don't have a back, that doesn't mean
you can't have good posture!"

     "Okay, people! Show me the evil!"

     "Shiney lights! I need shiney lights for the dream sequence!"

     "Screed! Put that shiney light back!"

     *Bzzt!*

     "Okay, Amoeba Man! Now you're going to save the world from the Evil
Invader's Nasty Ray O' Icky Things by enveloping the planet in a cyst!
Think like a cyst! Cyst for me, babe!"

     Well, there was only so much torture a body could take, and Patt
reached her limit soon after the dream sequence. The Mature Addict just
happened to pick up one of Sherry's glasses of water (The one that
played F sharp), then wandered, quite by chance, next to the camera when
KC was busy shouting commands to Natalie about how to be a Bunny in
peril, and not likely to catch her. Then, oops! - how clumsy of Patt! -
she upturned the glass of water over the movie equipment.

    *Spppzzz!* *Zingle!* *Sproing!*

    The camera swiftly ceased to function properly.

    For the first time in this story, Patt smiled. "Hehhehheh."

     Hearing her precious camera short-circuit, KC wailed with dismay as
she hugged the black metal. "Come back, my pretty-pretty! Rhubarbarella
needs you!"

     "Thank god that's over," Natalie muttered as she scratched at the
glue holding her whiskers in place.

     KC jumped furiously to her feet, shouting through her megaphone,
"IT'S NOT OVER! NOTHING'S OVER 'TIL...I...GET...VANQUISHED!!!!" Calming
down slightly, KC chuckled maniacally into the mouthpiece. "You thought
I was evil before, my little sweet potatoes...well, you haven't seen
anything yet! No more Ms. Nice Anti-Heroine! To the goo with you all!"

     "Goo?" Rae mumbled from underneath the folds of her Amoeba Man
costume. "That sounds messy. Nobody mentioned goo when I signed up for
this story. Can she do that?"

     In the next moment, all of the prisoners were zapped to the Bridge
of the 'Satellite of Passing Infatuation,' where they were standing on a
plank high above a blue plastic kiddie pool full of something that did,
indeed, look very messy.

     KC zapped onto the bridge as well, this time her costume
ameliorated with an eye patch, a stuffed parrot on one shoulder, and a
cutlass dangling at her side. She was far below the prisoners, standing
safely beside the plastic kiddie pool, the control to the electronic
collars around each Addict's throat, plus Screed and Natalie's,  in her
hand.

    "Haha! You'll walk the plank!" KC shouted. "Straight into my pool of
primordial goo! Muahahahaha!"

     *Bzzt!* *Bzzt!* *Bzzt!*

     And the Addicts, plus Screed and Natalie, began to hop ungainly, up
and down, on the narrow, crowded plank.

     They were all in quite a heap o' peril.

     And it *was* KC's fault.

     Could they be saved?

     If they couldn't be saved, who would be the first to suffer the
indignity of falling into a pool of primordial goo?

     Patt?

     Sherry?

     Rae?

     Screed?

     Natalie?

     A Special Surprise Guest?

     <Insert Suspense-Raising Question Of Your Choice Here>

********************************************************************
End of the Part That's KC's Fault

Part Twelve: It's Jules' Fault...

     "Hey!" Molly said, inspecting the alien hair dryer as she toweled
her hair off. "This thing is labeled. It might actually be a hair dryer
*and* a zappy whatchamacallit." She clicked the switch on the side of
the appliance and warm air began to stream out of the nozzle. "Vachon!
Write me in a brush!"

    "You know, I didn't steal story control so I could do wardrobe and
give everyone a bathroom break," Vachon said grimly as he handed over a
round brush. "I'm caught up with the story, now, so let's save someone
from a heap o' peril already."

    "There's no law that says I can't do that and blow, too," Molly
retorted. "At least in Canada there isn't." She began to fiddle with the
hair dryer settings again. "'Anti-Gravity.' That sounds interesting.
Let's see what it does." Molly clicked the controls, this time aiming
the dryer toward someone else.

     "Hey!" Christina shouted indignantly as she felt her hair stand on
end. "I'm driving a speedboat here!"

     "Ooh! Look at Chris! That zappy whatchamacallit gave her tall
hair," Rosalie observed. "No wonder it's called 'Anti-Gravity.'"

     "Kewl," Molly said, mischievously turning the dryer in Vachon's
direction.

     "I don't think so," the vampire said, holding out his hand for
Molly to turn over her new toy. Inspecting the controls for himself,
Vachon presented the Addicts with their choices. "We've got 'Zap to
Bridge of Mothership/ Zap to Rhubarbarella's Theatre/ Zap to Nasty
Prison with Uncomfortable Chairs.' Which one sounds the least likely to
end in disaster?"

     "I say we zap to the Bridge and blow everything up," Shele
suggested as she polished her knuckles. "Take no prisoners. There's been
enough of that already. Crush 'em like bugs, then get 'em a good
therapist. That's what I say!"

     "Nono," Glennis argued. "Two-thirds of us have remained relatively
dry and unsmudged, and I'd like to keep it that way. If we zap to the
Bridge, I have this feeling we'd end up in a messy confrontation."

     Vachon stared at her intently, blinking once. "You think?"

     Glennis nodded. "I thunked. I vote we check out the Prison. The
chairs may be uncomfortable, but at least we'll know how our friends are
doing. With the hair dryer, we should be able to just zap everybody
free."

     "Wait a second," Rosalie said, her features clouding with worry.
"Doesn't that whatchamacallit include a 'Zap to Toronto' choice? How are
we supposed to get back to Earth once we rescue everyone, huh?"

     "The aliens beamed down to Earth somehow," Vachon reasoned. "The
answer to that question must be on the ship. Maybe with Rhubarbarella.
We'll just have to ask her."

     "Well, I'm not asking nicely," Shele said stubbornly.

      "So everyone is in favor of beaming to the Prison?" Vachon
concluded.

      There were various noises of assent, some grumbled, some cheered.

     "Then let's do this in alphabetical order," Vachon said, grinning
as he leveled the hair dryer at Christina.

     "Huh?!" she yelped. "Don't we get a vote on th -?"

     *Zap!*

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

     Sallie was occupying herself in the Prison With Uncomfortable
Chairs by scorching a hole in the wall with her pocket blowtorch.
(Naughty people should really learn to confiscate these naughty toys,
don't you think?) She was sitting back in one of the flattened bean bag
chairs, snacking on stale mints and waiting for her handiwork to cool a
little before making her escape, when Christina, then Glennis, Molly,
Rosalie, Shele, and finally Vachon zapped into the room.

     Rosalie glanced around at the near-empty chamber. "Where is
everybody? Don't tell me they escaped without our help!"

     "Heehee," Sallie tittered, dragon-style. "They should be so
fortunate. No, KC is forcing them to star in the Snixco production of
'Amoeba Man From Outer Space.'"

     "Oh, yeah," Vachon said drily, "Shakespeare wrote that, right?"

     "How come you didn't get pegged for star quality, Sallie?" Shele
asked. "Did KC decide you weren't photogenic?"

     "Nah. I kept setting fire to my costume. She recast."

     "KC? What does KC have to do with anything?" Molly demanded.

     "She's Rhubarbarella," Vachon explained Noticing that several
Addicts were glaring at him impatiently, he added, "Didn't I mention
that?"

     "NO!"

     He shrugged "What's a minor plot point among friends?"

     "Minor?!" Molly protested. "She's the unspeakably evil perpetrator
of everything wicked that has come before!"

      "Well...maybe not *everything,*" Christina hedged. She was willing
to give the wicked the benefit of doubt.

     Sallie rose from her flattened bean bag chair and tested the
scorched wall with her talons. "Are you ready to sneak about the ship a
bit, looking for trouble?"

     They tiptoed through the hallways of the satellite, picking rubber
daisies up off the tile floor as they went to mark where they had tread.
Pretty soon, they sneaked their way onto the Bridge, espying with
interest the mass of Addicts and fictional characters suspended high
above a plastic kiddie pool filled with brownish gunk. They also
overheard KC's taunting:

     "Haha! You'll walk the plank!" KC shouted. "Straight into my pool
of primordial goo! Muahahahaha!"

*Bzzt!* *Bzzt!* *Bzzt!*

     "How can we stop her?" Rosalie whispered.

     "Maybe there's a way to short circuit that remote control KC is
using," Vachon said softly. "Everybody look for an instruction booklet."

     Within seconds, Shele made a sound of triumph. "Ta-da! 'Snixco's
Collar of Controlled Movement - Instructions For Use and Care.'" She
rapidly thumbed through the pages for some heroic insight. "Hey! Listen
to this: 'For proper performance of your Snixco Collar of Controlled
Movement, never use the remote in the presence of a juxtaposed
Plasmazonic Uninducer.' Anybody got one of them?"

     Molly stared at a nearby control panel. "Err. How about that?" She
pointed to a series of blinking red buttons labeled 'Plasmazonic
Uninducer.'

     "Quick! Juxtapose it!" Shele said.

     "I'll have to guess how," Molly warned.

     "Well, guess in a hurry!" Glennis urged. "Before someone falls into
the primordial goo!"

     Suddenly, there was a series of zapping sounds from above.

     Rosalie and Christine looked up. "Uh-oh."

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

     "I knew it!" Nick declared. "This is all KC's fault!"

     "You knew no such thing!" Bonnie countered. "You thought it was my
fault! *None* of this is my fault!" she said smugly.

     "Oh, really?" Jules arched an eyebrow as she stopped fiddling with
the alien's hair dryer, coincidentally leaving the setting on 'Zap to
Bridge of Mothership.' "Why do I find it hard to believe that none of
this is your fault?"

     *Zap!*

     As Bonnie *fizzlefizzlefizzled* out of sight, Jules blew coolly at
the nozzle of the hair dryer. Nick was outraged. "How could you just
fizzle your friend like that???"

     "Uh-uh," Jules said shortly, shaking a finger at the vampire.
"Never fuss at the person holding the zappy whatchamacallit."

     "Zap!*

     Jules smiled in satisfaction as Nick *fizzlefizzlefizzled* out of
sight, as well. She then pushed the unconscious alien's body well out of
her way, then settled down at the microphone to resume her *own*
broadcast.

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

     "AAAAAHH!" Bonnie yelled.

     She had reappeared in mid-air, almost, but not quite, over the
plank that held the rest of her Addicted brethren. Bonnie managed to
catch the wooden edge and dangled.

     Nick popped into view soon after, but instead of yelling, he said a
startled  "What?" then also clutched onto the plank to stop his fall.

     Bonnie kicked him. "Hey! Quit hogging my finger space! You can fly!
Off! Off!"

     Nick was sorely tempted to kick her back, but resisted, reminding
himself that he was repaying society for his sins, even if said society
was anti-social. "No, I can't. Apparently that only works on Earth,
because I feel very much ready to fall."

     "Oh. Sorry."

     "This is all Jules' fault," Nick grumbled.

**********************************************************************
End of the Part That's Jules' Fault

Part Thirteen: It's Molly's Fault...

     "Hurry! Hurry!" Glennis urged. "It looks like KC is making someone
bounce up and down on Nick's hands! He's dangling precariously over the
pool of primordial goo!"

     "I'm hurrying! I'm hurrying! Juxtaposing a Plasmazonic Uninducer
isn't a easy as it looks!" Molly growled, her arms tangled in wires and
microprocessors.

     Molly fiddled.

     Molly plugged.

     Molly slapped the console with a conveniently placed cat o' nine
tails.

     Molly cursed several dead presidents, pulled out a bottle of honey
and syruped several loose pieces into a semblance of order.

     Molly replaced the control panel to the Plasmazonic Uninducer.
"There," she said as she wiped her hands clean. "That should juxstapose
it!"

     With great flourish, Molly pushed the blinking red buttons.

     Nothing happened.

     "Damnit!"

*********************************************************************
End of the Part That's Molly's Fault

Part Fourteen: It's Rae's Fault...

     Rae swore that she couldn't help herself.

     <hop><bounce><stomp!>

     Her feet just seemed to keep landing on Nick's fingers.

     The plank was crowded, KC kept shocking her with electricity, and
there was the threat of a dunking in primordial goo. The situation got
to where Rae didn't care whose fingers, mortal or otherwise, she was
squishing underfoot.

     Too bad for Nick.

     <hop><bounce><stomp!> *squish!*

     "Aaaahhh!" Nick screamed as he hurtled down toward the pool of
primordial goo.

     *Splat!*

      KC cackled with glee as Nick flailed and flopped in the goo. His
face was coated. He'd gotten quite a mouthful.

     "Lemme guess," KC chortled. "It tastes like chicken!"

     *sputter-sputter*

     "Uhm, like Marmite<tm>, actually," Nick replied mournfully.

     There was a hearty chorus of "*Eeehhhhhyyyyuuuwwwww!!!!!!!!!!!*"

     Molly was rather p.o.ed. She smacked Vachon upside the leather,
saying, "Do something! My juxtaposing of the Plasmazonic Uninducer
should have worked if you hadn't been slacking!"

     "I thought dunking Nick in a big vat of Marmite<tm> was the done
thing in these stories."

     Sallie tittered. "He didn't get dunked in the Christmas story."

     Vachon frowned. "He didn't?"

     Molly, Sallie, Christina, Glennis, Shele and Rosalie all shook
their heads. "Uh-uh."

     The dark-haired vampire shrugged, then moved to stand next to the
Plasmazonic Uninducer. He held up his index finger and told Molly, "You
forgot to kick it. That part was your fault."

      Vachon kicked the side panel, then pressed all the blinking red
buttons. The Plasmazonic Uninducer sputtered, slowed, then began to whir
in reverse. "You see?" Vachon said. "Juxtaposed."

     KC squealed in fury as she realized her remote control was no
longer having an effect. The bodies hopping precariously above the pool
of primordial goo stopped moving around the narrow plank, reducing their
degree of peril. She shook an angry fist at Vachon. "You stinker!"

    Then Molly, Shele, Rosalie, Christina, Sallie, and Glennis tackled
her.

    "Now that *is* a story tradition," Vachon commented as he watched
the mauling throng. "Live, female wrestling."

     Meanwhile, Natalie had a problem.

     "You knocked Nick into the primordial goo!" she told Rae
accusingly.

     Rae fought back a snicker. "It was an accident...really.
I'm...*snicker*...very...*snicker*...sorry."

     Natalie looked about, noting that most of the other Addicts were
laughing, including Screed. "It's not funny!" she declared, then pushed
Rae over the side.

     "Aaaaaahhhhhh!" Rae yelped.

     *splat!*

     Natalie then proceeded to push everyone off the plank who appeared
to be having a good time, including Screed.

     *splat!*

     *splat!*

     *splat!*

     Pretty soon, the only one left on the plank was Natalie. The
coroner studied her surroundings: no ladder, no zappy whatchamacallit,
no way out of her predicament except to let gravity have its way.

     Natalie sighed heavily, then she jumped.

     *splat!*

    KC peered out from the swarm of bodies sitting on her head and
counted the number of people squishing about, coated in primordial goo
(a.k.a. Marmite<tm>). "Gee! Who knew those kiddie pools were so roomy!?"

    Natalie spit out a large wad of Marmite<tm>. "Nick, next time
someone approaches you, saying they have an idea for a gooey Nick and
Nat fanfic, just say 'no,' okay?"

     Vachon began to work on removing each 'Snixco's Collar of
Controlled Movement' fastened around the prisoners necks. "Molly,
juxtapose the juxtaposed Plasmazonic Uninducer, will ya?"

     Christina had snatched the remote control out of KC's fiendish grip
while Glennis, Rosalie, and Sallie held her down. Shele stood nearby,
saying, "Nyah! Nyah!"

     KC squawked in dismay as Vachon placed one of the collars around
her own neck. "Get your paws offa me, you Greasy Spaniard! I Shall
Overcome! I'm Queen Of The World!"

     *bzzt!*

     Vachon shocked KC a couple times, because he could. "Now what can
we do to punish her?" he said, rubbing his stubble thoughtfully. "I
know." He flipped the remote several times in his hand. "We can give
this to Tracy Sue!"

     "NO!" KC shrieked. "Mercy! I'm just a misunderstood villainess! You
like me, you really like me!"

     The next few minutes were spent with everyone congratulating
themselves on surviving yet another NA story, rinsing the goo from their
hair, and locating KC's 'Zap to Toronto' device.

     Then nothing happened.

     "Err...Isn't the story supposed to be over now?" Patt asked.
"Evil's been vanquished."

     Sherry agreed. "Yes, this whole wacky situation is KC's fault for
trying to take over the world. She's been stopped, so why hasn't the
story wrapped up, already?"

     Vachon frowned. "This is a problem."

     "You have story control," Bonnie pointed out. "Stop it. Put on the
fictional brakes."

    "Roight," Screed echoed. "Scrabble 'The End' so's we kin all go
'ome."

    "I tried, but I can't. We must not have dealt with the person whose
fault this really is yet," Vachon explained.

     Everyone stared at Bonnie, causing her to throw her hands up in the
air. "Nuh-uh! This is so not my fault! If I could end this puppy, I'd
have done it soon after someone decided to build a Bonfire!"

     "Then whose fault is it?" Rosalie demanded.

     Everyone stood thoughtfully for a good long while.

     Glennis brightened. "I have an idea whose fault this is! It's..."

**********************************************************************
End of the Part That's Rae's Fault

Part Fifteen: It's El Nino's Fault...

     The story continued.

     "Well, drat!" Glennis complained, snapping her fingers. "It sure
*seems* like everything is El Nino's fault."

     "No," Vachon shook his head, then pulled the alien's hair dryer out
of his leather jacket. "I think we need to go back to the very start of
this."

     "There were few lights shining in the Shrine,'" Bonnie quoted,
"'only a handful of black and red candles that flickered from the altar,
draping the large room in a mysterious glow.'" She shook her head. "I'm
sorry. I don't get it."

     "Go back farther," Vachon said, adjusting the setting on the zappy
whatchamacallit, "to 'You Know Who.'"

      "Ohhhhhhhh," the Addict's sighed. "Her!"

     "We haven't checked 'Rhubarbarella's Theatre' yet," Vachon grinned.
"Who wants to go first?"

     Hands were raised, all anxious for story closure.

    *Zap!*

**********************************************************************
End of the Part That's El Nino's Fault

Part Sixteen: It's You Know Who's Fault...

     The Theatre was dark, dominated by a huge, almost panoramic screen.
The only light came from the black and white images of two men talking,
one short and exotic in appearance, the other lean and knowing, that
flickered above.

     "Good morning." Humphrey Bogart's voice came over the digital
speakers.

     "Good morning." This time, the voice belonged to Peter Lorre.

     "Let's go someplace where we can talk."

     "No, no, no. Our private conversations have not been such that I am
anxious to continue them. Forgive my speaking so bluntly, but it is the
truth."

     "You mean last night? What else could I do? I had to throw in with
her. I don't know where the bird is. Neither do you. She does. How are
we going to get it if I don't play along with her?"

     "You always have a very smooth explanation ready, huh?"

     "What do you want me to do? Learn to stutter?"

     Erika set aside her bowl of popcorn as she smiled at the line of
dialogue. Picking up a pad of paper that occupied the seat next to her,
she made a swift notation about the movie. Locking her eyes back on
screen, she absently moved to drop the notepad back in the seat as she
groped around for her popcorn without looking.

     Problem was, her popcorn was gone, and someone was now sitting in
the chair.

     Erika started and glanced abruptly to her right.

     Vachon was seated beside her, a pleasant expression on his face.
Apparently, she'd been groping him.

     <Vachon, good,> Erika thought.

     Standing behind him, however, was a flock of huddled, sticky
members of Nunkies Anonymous, gazing soulfully at her as if they were
orphans. Natalie was there, too, munching on what used to be Erika's
bowl of popcorn. Nick was at her side, styling his hair with an
amazingly quiet hand-held dryer. His coiffure seemed to be reaching new
heights of fluffiness.

     Suddenly, Screed pushed Erika's feet into the air, then crawled
past. He seemed to be looking for pieces of meat jerky or change that
had fallen out of someone's pocket onto the floor.

     <Addicts, bad,> Erika second-thought.

     "Did I miss something?" she finally asked. "I've been kind of
distracted doing research for this Maltese fanfic."

     "You didn't miss much," Vachon shrugged. "Just a little NA story."

     "Where they tried to roast me!" Bonnie added indignantly.

     "And my birthday celebration was ruined!" Glennis followed.

     "And most of us were abducted by aliens," Patt said.

     Sherry jumped in. "That were disguised as LaCroix."

     "And they had a speech impediment," Christina said. "Fey tawked
wike fis."

     "There was a lot of Neil Diamond music," Nick noted. "I never
figured out the significance of that."

     Natalie frowned. "What? Don't you like Neil Diamond?"

     "I wrecked a jetski during the high speed chase!" Rosalie called.

     "It was a very good high speed chase, as high speed chases go,"
Vachon commented. "I'll take credit for that part."

     "And there were these zappy whatchamacallits that look like hair
dryers," Molly spoke up, pointing toward the appliance in Nick's hand.
"And a Plasmazonic Uninducer that needed juxtaposing."

     "And KC became a goddess, tried to take over the world and made all
of us act in a *really bad* film about a single-celled crime-fighting
organism." Rae winced at the memory.

     "Then we all ended up covered in this primordial goo," Patt
shuddered.

     "That's nice," Erika said slowly. "Why are you telling me about
it?"

     Everyone yelled in unison. "BECAUSE IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT!!!!!"

     "Huh?" Erika's expression became confused, then she glanced at
Vachon for some concise clarification.

     "You issued the Halloween Challenge," Vachon said simply.

     "Yes, I did. So? In case you didn't notice," Erika replied, "it's
November."

     "We've tried to end this story, but we can't. Apparently, because
you started this entire chain of NAne events in motion, you're the one
who has to finish them. Don't look at me," Vachon blinked. "I didn't
make the laws of fanfic physics."

     "All right," Erika relented. "So what do I have to do? Say 'god
bless us every one,' or 'and they lived happily ever after'?"

     "A simple 'The End' will do, then you can get back to the bird."

     Erika started to utter the magic words, but Bonnie interrupted to
make one last point.

     "I'd just like to emphasize the warm glow of satisfaction, the
sense of well-being,  that I, and no doubt, Shele, Sallie, Christina,
Natalie and Rosalie are enjoying in this very moment, that comes from
having this entire story being absolutely, positively, in no way, shape
or form, our fault. Completely blameless, that's us," the redhead said,
with just a tad too much smugness.

     *Zap!*

     Nick grinned down at the hair dryer in his hand. "You know," he
said to Natalie. "I think I'll keep this."

     Since Erika didn't want to miss the first scene with the Fat Man,
she spoke up quickly, so she could get back to her research.

     "The End!"

     And the Fanfic Fairies blessed them, every one.

**********************************************************************
End of the Part That's You Know Who's Fault


Bonnie Rutledge.............Caffeine Achiever, Insomniac, Barbarian, Evil
br1035@ix.netcom.com   Die-Hard, NAne, Cupidian, ODD, NFV#1   Spare Bambi!
Kickstart The Knight Now!! Visit: http://jessica.simplenet.com/ktk
Nunkies Anonymous Website: http://www.geocities.com/~br1035/nunkies.html
"Do you *see* a bow?" -D-> Cupid, ABC, Sat. 10pm EST