Our scene opens upon the still kitchen.  It is night.  The refrigerator
hums softly.  Nothing moves...except for a flash of silver beneath the
table.  There, amongst the legs of the four chairs, is Hurricane Lily.
 
Yes, Lily has again donned her environmental hazard suit.  She is tightly
wrapped in aluminum foil like a sausage, even her tail (which drags
behind her like an antenna) and on her head, she wears the transparent
base of a glass salt shaker.
 
Following behind her is Switch the Kit, who has had about ENOUGH of this
paranoid ca-ca from her companion.
 
"Give it a rest, Lily!  The pantry is NOT full of poisons!"
 
(Very muffled) "Hee-hee, he-he-heee!"
 
"Oh, all right, but then we're going back to bed, AREN'T we, oh one-pound
Toxic Crusader?"
 
"Heeeeee."
 
"O.K.  I'll stand here against the wall.  You climb up my back until you
can reach the lowest shelf, the one with the canned goods."
 
"He-he."
 
What follows is a lot of scratchy tin foil crinkly noise as Lily climbs
up Switch like a ladder.
 
"Get off of my HEAD, Dammit!  Grab the shelf, now!"
 
"Hee."
 
There is a long pause, during which we hear the sound of tin foil
creasing and flexing.  Occasionally the glass salt shaker base thwacks
into a tin can with a dull thud.
 
"HEE-HEE!  He-Heee!  Hee!"
 
"Yeah, it's a dented can.  What's your problem, you don't like cling
peaches anyway.  And no, it is NOT a hee-hee 'hothouse of contagion',
you ditz!"
 
"HEE-He!  Hee Hee-he-he!"
 
"They are ONIONS, braniac.  Onions.  Roly-poly papery onions.  Not
nuclear submarine reactors."
 
"Hee-HEEEE!"
 
"Yeah, they are high in sulfer.  So are Italian volcanos.  And there
aren't any of those in the kitchen.  BIG DEAL!!  Can we go back to
bed now?"
 
"HEEEE-HE-HE HEE!"
 
"Fava beans?  We're WEASLES, we don't eat fava beans.  We're not like,
Armenian or Syrian, or whoever those hoomins are who can't eat 'em."
 
"HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"
 
"Aw, give it a rest!  It's peanut butter.  Peanut Butter!  It's not even
made from nuts, they're LEGUMES, and we don't eat THOSE either!"
 
At this point there is a screech of tortured tinfoil as Lily slithers,
tumbles, and finally thumps onto the kitchen floor, where she skitters
madly on all four feet before she gets the traction necessary to run
full-tilt boogie beneath the cabinet and cower there, breathing hard,
fogging up her salt shaker base.
 
( Switch, standing, fists on hips.) "One word, maniac.  PROZAC!  You need
PROZAC, you neurotic fur sausage!  PROOOOOZAC!  FLUOXITINE HYDROCHLORIDE!
Crawling with ions and bad chemical *hit!  You need it NOW!"
 
The End.
Alexandra in Massachusetts
[Posted in FML issue 4271]