Well, it's foggy and they all tend to look similarly gorgeous in this rum light.

Monty should be here shortly. He said I could ride his horse.

Trudy, honestly, TMI.

...fog out the window. Phoenix celebration.

Already I hear the screams.

Sighing contentedly, I settle down with a cold beer and H'raak Uldagur's Pantheon of the Deep: The Gods and Creation Mythos of Dwarven Culture.

If there's a problem, I'm sure I'll know. It'll give me time to hide.

Dressed in a red silk gown of vaguely Asian cut, embroidered all over in gold, with gold glitter in my hair for good measure, I step out of my Victorian row house in the Mews and let the sounds of the party, the cheers for ita, be my guide through the fog. I hear a roaring sound overhead, like an FX sonic boom, and look up. WTF? The outline is dim and fuzzy because of the silvery mist, but that looks like the Defiant.

"Chiana?"

The gray-skinned woman turned towards me, and gave me an odd look. "How do you know my name?"

"You're on TV every Friday at ten. You must be Gigi Edgley. Are you in town for a con?"

"What the frell are you talking about? What planet is this?"

"Okay, I'll play along. This is Earth, you know, John Crichton's home sweet home. You live on a ship, a living ship named Moya, along with Ka D'Argo and Aeryn Sun and that little slug..."

"That's Dominar Rygel XVI to you, scum," came a low voice as a small figure appeared out of the fog. It was a puppet of a slug, sitting on a chair hover a few feet off the ground, except that Ididn't see any puppeteer. "Chiana, we can't stand here dilly-dallying with these moronic locals. We need to find the others, and get off this forsaken rock." He turned and began to move away, with the woman in tow.

"But Rygel, he said this was Earth, Crichton's home. He knew all about us..."

"You silly girl, you can't believe everything that strangers tell you. He could be mad as Stark..." They continued, and soon vanished into the fog.

I went back into the bar, grabbed a bottle of bourbon out of my private stash, and poured myself a double.

I was all set to leave the apartment-- hair in sleek tiny Ironic Pigtails, new shiny clompy boots bought for the occasion. Standing next to the door I checked my bag to make sure my cellphone was set to ring loud over the shouts of the celebrants, when I heard a knock.

I opened the door to see a young woman with pale white skin, red hair, and miles of black leather. Nothing out of the ordinary in Sang Sacre; but I wasn't expecting anybody.

I lean on the doorframe. "Can I help you?" She was looking nervous.

"Hi, I'm back," she said, and walked right through the door and into my living room, almost tripping over her shoes but catching herself.

"Hello?" I call after her. "Are you sure you have the right house?"

"Yep, I did," she says, almost to herself.

You don't question Providence when it drops its fruit into your lap. I set my bag back down by the door. I'm not going out tonight after all.

"GIR! Ride the Pig!"

A giant flying pig zooms by overhead, carrying what looks like a little blue robot with an enormous head and a green-skinned boy, also with an enormous head.

Pete and I exchange A Look, then look at my Devilbunny.

"Clovis? Did you invite the Irken invaders?"

"noooo. my planet to conquer, not zim's!"

We shrug and keep walking.

(I love the devilbunny.)

(I love the devilbunny.)

Anyone know Veggie tales? Kid's cartoons featuring vegetables by some Christian outfit. They have one ep which recasts the story of Nebuchadnezzar and Daniel's three friends in a chocolate bunny factory. It has, quite seriously, a song called "I love the bunny". And it's evil and wrong, because it's a DEVIL bunny! (Well, more or less.)

Just sharing the images that flashed through my head from Steph's post.

Granted, this is Sang Sacre, home of the odd and bizarre--hi, guys!--but even my elastic sense of acceptance is having trouble with seeing Edward Woodward as the Equalizer chatting with Derek Jacobi as Brother Cadfael. Chatting in character, at that. I pause to study the cobblestones and try to shut my ears against the insidious allure of English accents of a certain generation. My midnight visitor is the only English accent I'm allowed to listen to--ah, it's one of his plots to drive me batty, so that I'll be in a particular mood the next time he appears at the window that opens onto the air shaft. So like him.

A draft of moving air goes by and I hear the flap of heavy wings above. Lady, now what--oh, wait, no, they're real. The gargoyles from the Folly's roof are coming to watch the festivities.