Please imagine our scene in the theater of your mind, dear Reader.  It is
night.  We are in the darkened kitchen, with its shiny linoleum floor and
abundant counterspace.  Beneath one of those counters, there is a gleam
of metal, and the liquid movement of light over a glass surface.
 
It is Hurricane Lily, who has wrapped herself in (she hopes)
flame-resistant aluminum foil, and is wearing an empty glass salt shaker
with the metal cap removed on her head as a face mask.  Beneath the
watery, greeninsh glass, her dark eyes flick back and forth nervously.
 
Crouching beneath the table nearby, is Switch the Kit, who has been
tormenting Lily for hours, now.
 
Switch: "Liiiiily, the Crandallllls coming...she's cooooming for
youuuuu....can you hear her leathery wattles dragging on the floor?
She's been eating beeeeeannss...lots of beans....she's going to poof
highly flammable methane everywhere, then those wattles are going to
draaaag over the carpet, and make a spark.  And when THAT happens,
well..."
 
(At that moment Switch pounces on an inflated two-handled plastic
Wal-Mart bag, cunningly concealed behind her, and put aside just for
this insidious purpose.)
 
****BOOM!****
 
Lily: "HEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!" And with that terrified shriek (sort of muffled
behind the glass), air pressure builds up inside of the salt shaker, and
it blows off of her head with a noise like a popping champagne cork.  It
sails a good two feet through the air, and comes to rest on the floor.
The noise has so terrified Lily that she JUMPS straight up, which isn't
too good, since she's underneath the counter.  She hits the underside of
the cabnetry with a dull thud, and an "Ooof!"
 
Switch: (Rolling on the floor laughing helplessly, kicking all four feet)
"You!  (Gasp, giggle!) You look like a take-out hot dog!  (Bwa-ha-ha!) in
that stupid getup!"
 
Lily says nothing, merely rolls about until she regains her feet inside
of her aluminum cocoon, and narrows her eyes dangerously...
 
Alexandra in Massachusetts
[Posted in FML issue 4128]