The last thing anyone could recall, they were in an airport frantically searching for Tasha.  And somehow, they got on a plane. Then the drink cart was passed and Hamish stole a handful of tiny whiskey bottles, which he refused to share with Craig. Then Mollie puked in an airsick bag…

            Then something ELSE happened.

            They never did get their peanuts.

            Mollie groaned and rolled over, vaguely aware that there was sand under her bum and very aware that the sun was blistering her face. One eye opened and shut just as quickly.

            “Och and MacDuff and BLOODY HELL,” came a groan a few feet away. Mollie didn’t have to look to identify a very distressed Hamish.

            “Like TOTALLY rave use of an old Gilligan’s Island set!” Sparki chirruped brightly, bouncing upright while removing her hi-tops to run bare toes in the surf.

            “My Gucci boots are not sand-compatible!” Wailed a suddenly alert Tasha.

            “Tasha!” Craig exclaimed. “Where’d ya coom from lass?”

            Tasha assumed her most familiar expression – that of vacant confusion. “Well, you see Craig, my mommy and daddy loved each other very much, so they spent three nights in a Motel 606 in Hackensack, New Jersey where they…”           

            “Censored! Censored!” Hollered Mollie, now fully awake.

            “Would anyone like some coconut cream pie or coconut latte?” Bruce offered the others a heaping plate of indigenous confections.

            “Who do you think you are – Mary Anne?” Mollie demanded.

            “Testy, testy…no pie for you!” Bruce jerked the tray away from Mollie’s outstretched fingers.

            “Sand up the wazoo makes me edgy,” Mollie complained to deaf ears.

            “Where in the bloody blazes are we this time?” Hamish challenged the powers that be, who shrugged helplessly.

            “Like a total snout count would be a most essential usage of our time at this perplexing momentium,” Sparki declared scooping seaweed out of the white foam and tossing it into her backpack (along with a sanddollar, a shell and an extremely cheesed off turtle).

            Mollie glanced around and was profoundly disgusted to see Snerdly, bottom up and face down on the beach.

            “All here,” Mollie declared sadly.

            “But where is here, that’s the question noo…” Hamish bellowed for emphasis.

            “Wherever you go, there you are…” Bruce simpered.

            “I believe I can answer that query,” came a low-pitched, lightly accented voice behind them. They turned as one to gaze upon the intruder.

Both Hamish and Craig were suddenly required to lift their jaws from up off the sand…Snerdly was suddenly aroused…er…awakened…Even Bruce was moved when he saw the simply GORGEOUS Armani suit worn by the perfectly coifed blonde standing before them.

            Mollie and Tasha were refrained from killing her by the happy coincidence of Sparki’s foot being shoved in front of them. Tasha spit sand out of her mouth and wailed. Mollie indignantly pushed Tasha off of her and glared.

            Sparki decided to take matters into her own hands. “Like totally hi. My name is…”

            “I know who you are,” the blonde said coolly. “Unlike the rest of you I am not an imbecile. So if you boys would kindly tone down the testosterone (Snerdly stopped panting at once), I’d be happy to tell you what you require for this mission.”

            “Mission?” Craig squeaked. He turned to Mollie. “I dinnae sign oop for a mission!”

            “Did she say `mission’ or `mitten’?” Tasha asked Bruce.

            “Too hot for mittens, lass,” Craig whispered.

            “And never with that outfit!” Bruce added.

            “We’re on a mitten from God!” Hamish guffawed.

            The ice blonde waited patiently during the insipid exchange. When there was silence, she began again. “Perhaps if you would all just be quiet for a moment, I could endeavor to identify myself.” She paused for comment. There were no takers and for once all appeared to be listening. “Now then, My name is Isabella Norah Tamara Elizabeth Lawrence. You may address me as Isabel if the rest is too difficult to remember.”

            “But who the bloody hell are ye, lass?” Hamish demanded.

            “I am your ship’s computer.” Isabel said calmly.

            “Och,” Craig breathed. “Nooooo….”

            “You ship has been commandeered by a group affiliated with the IVP. I was programmed with holographic isolinear chips. In the event of an emergency, I was instructed to activate my holo-matrix and transport all of you to a safe location. It has begun ladies and gentlemen. And Snerdly,” she added, watching him flounder on the beach, still in a state of semi-unconsciousness.

            “If we refuse to take the mittens, what will happen to us, Missy Computer Thang?” Bruce stabbed a finger in the air.

            “The series ends and you go into syndication.” Isabel replied.

            “My God!” Mollie moaned. “Decades spent on the Family Channel sandwiched between Three’s Company and the Olson Twins!”

            “We’ll take the mittens!” Bruce leapt forward, knocking Snerdly back to the ground. “What color are they? I must plan my wardrobe.”

            “Once and for all you twits, there are NO MITTENS!” Isabel brushed back a strand of hair that had dared stray from her perfect bun of steel.

            “Tease,” Bruce lisped.

            “I am here to guide you and help keep you from trouble.”

            “Trouble? Us? Pshaw…” Hamish attempted an innocent expression. Craig whapped him with the fiddle bow then became absorbed with examining a grain of sand in Tasha’s hair.

            “Eek! There’s sand in my hair!” Tasha jumped up squealing when she read that last line. “Get it out! Get it out!”
            “What do we have to do?” Mollie asked bravely, watching Tasha pirouette on the sand.

            “Easy enough really. One of you will have to survive long enough to win a million dollars and buy back your ship.” Isabel informed them.

            “Sounds most excellent!” Sparki grinned.

            “Umm…Miss…Umm…lass?” Hamish began delicately. “What ‘tis it we’re t’ be survivin’ noo?”

            “Enough – I am running out of energy. I must now be reduced in size and carried in a pocket to reserve my strength.”

            “Ooh, like a Strawberry Shortcake doll!” Tasha interjected, then demanded, “does your hair smell like fruit?”

            “Just remember – outwit, outplay, outlast.” Isabel said. With that, she shrunk before their eyes until in her place stood a Barbie Doll.

            “Wicked!” Sparki clapped with glee. “Can I totally pull her perfect hair out?”

            Isabel screeched and ran out of harm’s way. Mollie snatched her by her ridiculously impossible dimensioned leg and shoved her into her purse.

            “Well there’s that done and gone,” Hamish remarked sadly.

            “Okay, so like we have to absolutomundolly survive some heinous and I’m sure radical mission and win a most excellent million clams…” Sparki said cheerfully. “That means…”

            The others leaned forward, awaiting the most excellent answer.

            Just then, there was a bright flash of light and a sonic boom crunch.

            When the Neon Lites opened their eyes (one each), they were surprised to find themselves standing in a muddy bog surrounded by trees, broken-down (but cheerfully painted after a fire) buildings and the smell of beer.

            “Ye gads!” Sparki blasphemed, pulling her backpack out of a mud puddle.

            “Can it be lad?” Craig turned to Hamish in terror.

            “Aye…`tis…” Hamish nodded.

            “Welcome to the Bay Area Renaissance Festival.” Mollie read a conveniently placed sign. Craig sighed, positively aghast at the turn of events.

            “Oooh! Look over there! It’s the Galaxy-famous Harlequin Theatre Company!” Tasha gasped.

            “Aye…`tis…” Hamish groaned.

            Craig stood on tiptoes to whisper plaintively; “Don’t we owe them money?”

            Tasha jumped up and down and giggled. “They’re headed this way.”

            “And they don’t look at all happy…or properly groomed.” Bruce added.

            Craig squeaked and hid behind Hamish.

            As one, the Neon Lites turned on him. “Craig MacCraig what have you done?”

            Craig prepared his escape. He scrambled and skimbled and scuttled and scampered and scurried, but to no avail. It was too late.