As we open our scene it is the darkest part of the night, very early,
the time when things are still, and in their beds.

Ping and Puma were in their beds. Tonight, they were bedded down in a
basket of clean folded laundry underneath the dining room table. Ping's
head rested upon a soft, clean, white sweatsock as a pillow. But
something woke him up. Mumbling. Low chanting. Hoomin babble, coming
from the living room. He burrowed up through the pile of folded panties
and T-shirts to the top of the laundry pile where he found Puma,
sitting up and watching something with rapt attention.

Ping said sleepily "Dude! What are you doing up?"

"SShhhh!", hissed Puma. "I'm watching her. Look"

Ping turned to face the sound of the hoomin babble, and much to his
surprise there was the she hoomin, kneeling on the living room floor,
surrounded by a crudely drawn circle chalked onto the glossy wood.
There were some objects in the circle with her, hard to make out in the
darkness. The only light came from the woodstove, whose metal door was
cracked open a few inches. Flames flickered their shadows onto the
living room ceiling like living things. The she hoomin lit one candle,
then another, then another inside the chalk circle with her. Ping's
eyes adjusted to the new light, and soon he was able to make out one
of the things that had been indistinct inside the circle before the
infusion of new light. A chicken. A moist, plucked, raw chicken on a
small plate on the floor near the she hoomin's knee.

Ping enthused with a whisper "DUDE! I love roast chicken! You think
she's gonna cook it in the woodstove, not the oven?"

Puma sighed deeply, and closed her eyes. She dug deep. And whispered
tightly "Don't call me DUDE!"

That is when Ping realized that France was in the laundry basket, too,
because she bit him in the ear.

"SQUEEEAK!" he got out before Puma slapped a soft paw over his mouth.
He sat there breathing hard, staring daggers at France, whose location
had been concealed by the folded leg of a pair of sweatpants.

"Dee Hoomin isss doin' magic", whispered France.

"With a freshly killed chicken, some candles, and incense, and magic 
spells" said Puma, very softly. "So be quiet. I've never seen hoomins do 
magic before."

"An dat oooold compuuuter, don' forget dat", whispered France.

Ping looked around in the darkness, and sure enough, the old computer
monitor was there next to the woodstove. It had been hidden behind the
kneeling hoomin just a moment before. He shook off Puma's paw and
whispered intently "She killed a *chicken*?"

"Noo", said France softly. "She don' haff dee teef for dat. Iss Predue
Ovvven Stuffer. Her unwrappin' iit was straaaange. She don' cook at
niight. I know. I'mm nocturnal. So I go wake up de other stinkin'
ferret thief. Youuu all thieffs."

Puma gave France a hard look, but said nothing. Ping brought his furry
brow down hard in a frown.

At that moment the she hoomin rolled up a previously unseen pile of
papers lying on the floor into a rough cylinder shape. She started
whispering something, then touched the cylinder of paper to the flame
of the woodstove. The three brothers and sisters in fur listened very
hard, and after a while the nonsense syllables became clear. The she
hoomin was intoning "FML....FML...FML....FML....." as the firebrand
burned brightly.

"Wow.." said Ping, very quietly. Ping, like all animals, was very,
very afraid of fire.

The she hoomin then scrabbled around on her knees and placed the plate
with the chicken atop the old computer monitor. She bracketed it with
two tall lit candles, and stuck the sharp stick end of a burning twig
of incense into one broad chicken breast, where it remained upright.
She began another chant.

"Whass she sayin?" whispered France.

"Be QUIET!!" snarled Puma.

"She can't eat that whole chicken by herself," mused Ping...

The hoomins words rose in volume, as she bowed down before this unholy
altar she had built on top of the old computer monitor. "BIG will kill
the thread...BIG will kill the thread....BIG will kill the thread...
BIG will KILLLLL the thread...."

Alexandra in MA

[Moderator's note: The room quickly fills with an acrid blue-grey
smoke, reminiscent of burning electronics.  Slowly it lifts, as music
begins to play softly. A whispering voice can be heard far away...
"The thread has ended, the thread has ended." Words of hate are
magically transformed on the screen to those of caring while the
sweet smells of flowers replace the acrid flames.  BIG]

[Posted in FML 5545]