Katina Choovanski

So one minute there'd been an attempt at actually, finally sucking it up, saying 'the hell with it,' and kissing Francine until she couldn't breathe as a prelude to other things that . . . would have a definite impact on breathing.

And then she'd been small, and fuzzy, with floppy ears, and NOT ADORABLE, DAMMIT.

Katchoo had been keeping up quite the mental rant about this in her head ever since it had happened, but being a bunny she couldn't exactly express it in her usual oh-so-charming way. Chewing on things, maybe, vented some of the frustration but she had a lot more of that built up than this tiny lapine form should have room to hold.

. . . that rant was still going, no matter how comfortable she was at the particular moment.

[OOC: For that girl. NOT YOU, RAVEN. ETA: This post might be kinda NWS now. WHAT?]

Katchoo had been all but abducted from the radio station by, of all things, aggressively attacking holiday baked goods. Well, not attacking exactly, but the small army of fruitcakes had been in no way about to leave her alone, and now she got to add "frogmarched through the streets away from the radio station by a horde of that Christmas gift nobody wants" to her list of bizarre life experiences.

She got away from the fruitcakes eventually, but now she was holed up in what you could generously call a small cramped cave, fending them off with a long stick, hoping they'd just go the hell away soon. Emphasis on hoping; little bastards were persistent, and she was freezing.

By the time they finally did give up, or just disappear (frikkin' Fandom), she was so horribly cramped it took a long time to extricate herself from her hiding place, a long time to work out the cramps so she could actually walk, and a lot of creative swearing all through the process. And she had to work in -- according to the time on her watch when she checked it in the flickering firelight of her Zippo -- six hours.

Fan-frikkin'-tastic.

[OOC: Establishy. Mwahahaha.]