It's Saint Patrick's Day, so the music and beer are flowing freely at The Client & Server. The crowd seems on edge tonight, so I murmur to the husband to pour up a round of Guinness on the house, and suggest that the musicians pick up the tempo a little.

Dancing will make it all better.

It's hard to find a good place to stay when you are a troll. People think you have designs on their babies and it just gets ugly. But on St. Pat's being green is an advantage.

I have never seen Bob the Vampire so close to losing his cool in public. "What's wrong?"

"If I hear one more rendition of 'It's Not Easy Being Green', I swear I'm going to find out what frog blood tastes like. I hate this holiday."

"Bob, you're Irish. It's supposed to be your national holiday."

"A, I wasn't Catholic. B, the Irish in Ireland wouldn't be caught dead drinking green beer or wearing pins that say 'Kiss Me I'm Irish' or plastic green bowler hats." He glances down at the hand I'm trying to hide behind my back. "Don't even think it."

Sighing, I put the headband with the sparkly green shamrocks on springs back on the merchant's table. "But you'd be cute wearing that."

Whatever he's muttering, it's a good thing I don't speak Gaelic. I think it was something about me getting tickled and not enjoying it.

erika, when my relatives have come to visit, I've had very good luck with both the Trolliday Inn Old Quarter and Kat Perez's hotel in Bresilico. Both have very high ceilings, large beds, and generally cater to, er..., larger beings. You know, trolls, giants, defensive linemen...

Thanks for the tip. I do need a place with headroom.I'll stop someplace and have a green beer first.

Deep breaths, Edward my girl. Take stock of the situation. You're lying in a gutter-- body following the mind, clearly-- your dress is ripped, your head aches (was ginger the only thing in the biscuit you accepted from a stranger? Unlikely), and you've no idea where you are. Well, Sang Sacre, but beyond that? No idea.

Perhaps a local citizen would be so kind as to inform me of my whereabouts? Or, here's a better plan, there's what looks like a police station over there. I'll just see if I can cross the street...

"I'm not going to wear that."

"Awww, Querida. It's so cute. Just try it on." Raul is giving me the fish eye, but I will prevail. I hold out the hat to him again. It's one of those tall, pointy sorcerer's caps, purple with white stars and swirls. Just like Mickey's in Fantasia. On the front is written in black script, "Ask me about demons stay free!"

"NO. Por nigun motivo. Ya te dije."

"But, guagua, this is our biggest promotion to date." I point to the sign near the door. "Demons under 100 years old accompanied by an elder demon stay free!" There's even a picture of Quetzalcoatl and a tiny serpent demon. "No es adorable?"

"The poster can stay, but there's no way I'm wearing the hat. You wear it."

"I can't wear it. I'm wearing the pin. Just put it on. Just for today." He's smiling, so I know I've broken him. "Good. Now I gotta find the cats."

I walk away swinging my tiny bow ties in my left hand. This is bound to drum up some new guests.

Home at last. "Ah, Dagfari! It’s good to see you again."

//And you, lady. There’s a parcel in the hall.//

I shut the front door behind me (no bang, just a slight squelch, but I don’t think I’ll investigate), and examine the large cardboard box. It is marked with sundry and various signs, the most notable of which include the Scared Chao, a small drawing of a safety pin, and the legend "A Trust from the Minister."

Suspicious, I pull my trusty number 23 throwing knife from its sheath in my petticoats, and slide the point into the cello tape in such a manner that it is cut. Well, that was the plan; as soon as the stainless silver (the elves call it mithriI, pretentious buggers) touches the cardboard, the flaps on top of the box fly open and a small dragon appears.

It’s a fairly average looking beast, for a dragon, except that it has long ears in the style favoured by lop-eared rabbits (all the way down to its wings—it’s a wonder the poor thing can move), and each scale has a tuff of grey fur protruding from it. It can’t be much over a year old—the teeth still have verdigris on them.

"Got a carrot, mister?" it squeaks, a rasping sound akin to that produced by taking a file down a metal coat hanger, and shifts its grip on the side of the box.

I kneel in front of it (noticing, with a quick grimace, that it’s last meal was probably pickled onions). "Look here, dragon…"

"Not a dragon. I’m a mutant plot enemy bunny."

"I thought it had been quiet around here for a while. Anyway, I don’t know why you’re here or what you’re doing, but a) I’m not a mister, I’m a miss, and b) I haven’t got any carrots."

"Alright, miss. Chocolate cookies?"

"That I can see about. What’s your name?"

"Jossica."

"What?!?"

"Jossica. My father was an evil overlordling, and my mother wanted to embrace the metaness of it."

"I see. Mine’s Am-Chau."

"Niece of the moon?" It giggles, another terrible, high-pitched noise with that coat hanger tone.

"I was about to get to the ‘so I shouldn’t laugh’ part, but I think I won’t bother now. Come on, the breakfast room’s this way. I don’t think I can handle asking why you’re here without something to sustain me."

I seem to have killed Sang Sacre.

Maybe I should just give in and start learning the Evil Overlord List by heart already.

Not to worry, Am. We get these stretches once in a while where nothing much happens in town. Peace and quiet. It's sort of like summer hiatus on Buffy.