Cousins: Where Iguanance Is Bliss 1/1 By McLisa Just before the party for Janette at the Hive. I don't know what the post is called. "No," whimpered McLisa, closing her eyes and cowering against a rack of true ghost stories in the World's Biggest Bookstore. "It's not fair! I haven't touched anything stronger than a Pepsi One in months. I _can't_ be having a d.t." If she had to start seeing things, why must it be an iguana with a bow around its neck, an elaborate, Pepto-Bismol ,tm> pink abomination with gold sprinkles and long, trailing ends, one of which had gotten wrapped around the creature's tail? Pink was McLisa's least favorite color and she was not fond of being glared at by anything that reminded her so much of an annoyed LaCroix. A rustle at her feet forced McLisa to open her eyes. Was the WBB security staff setting traps for her again? The fake collection of Knightcrawler monologues with the Photoshopped Lucius in Repose (we won't describe the changes because this is a PG-13 post) last week had almost worked. The bedizened iguana was still glaring, this time from atop a pile of The Encyclopedia of Asian Bovines which formed a boundary marker for the exotic animals section. Only now she (McLisa had noted a pungent odor of some expensive but god-awful smelling perfume emanating from the animal, confirming her suspicions as to the gender) was looking down. McLisa followed the direction of the gaze. A battle yak adorned the Encyclopedia dust cover. A familiar battle yak. One might almost say -- except that McLisa _was_ sober -- a Fabio of battle yaks. No wonder the iguana's glare had softened. She was Cousine Moses, although how she had managed to get out of CERK McLisa had no klew. No doubt the reptilian Cousine was looking for the Battle Yak from the last war. Certainly she was dressed to party -- Party? McLisa glanced at her watch. The UF party at the Hive was scheduled to begin in five minutes. She would have no problem getting there -- it was amazing how fast the average Toronto taxi driver could go and how skilled they all were at evading the traffic cops, when offered sufficient foldable incentives -- but she wasn't really dressed for a party. Her tattered gray slacks had needed one hem repaired for so long that they were in danger of acquiring their own historical marker, and her t-shirt had entered her wardrobe after a really stiff Zombie beachcomber at a long-ago con. The thing was puce, to start with, and bore on the front a technicolor picture of LaCroix in a light blue leisure suit, cha-chaing with Janettte, clad in a peach and white polyester print pantsuit. Come to think of it, she hadn't bought it. McLisa had been given the shirt just before the vendor fled the hall one jump ahead of the Enforcers. She was only wearing it now because she'd dressed while reading and hadn't looked to see what was on the nearest hanger before she donned it. Still, she had accepted the party invitation and even if McLisa's mother had failed in her attempt to raise a Southern Lady, some of the training had stuck. Southern ladies, even after transplantation to the Midwest, always carry through with social obligations. McLisa left the World's Biggest Bookstore via the secret entrance which she had remembered from her concussion-induced stint as a Ratpacker and descended upon the Hive. McLisa mclisa@mindspring.com