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]