From flos_campi.

1. Stop talking about politics for a moment or two.
2. Post a reasonably-sized picture in your LJ, NOT under a cut tag, of something pleasant, such as an adorable kitten, or a fluffy white cloud, or a bottle of booze. Something that has NOTHING TO DO WITH POLITICS.
3. Include these instructions, and share the love.



ETA: I have just been informed that the photograph is of creatures called 'dourocouli', more commonly rendered as Owl Monkeys. A search at images.google.com confirmed this. Personally I think 'owl monkey' sounds like a monster from Hackmaster or 2nd Ed AD&D, but these guys are really cute, so who cares.

About The Incredibles.

Non-spoiler but I'll lj cut it anyway.

( Mendel? Wha? )

This is not going to happen,

and it's not going to happen for two reasons:

One, I have to finish Hellblazer: Hogwarts first.
Two, I am NOT gonna get into an entirely new fandom just for this. I already DID that for Hellblazer, dammit.

But this is what happens when my brain is allowed to run around loose while I drive. It rolls in stinky dead things and comes running home with stuff that's still wriggling jammed in its mouth, and I've got to make the most of it.

The scowl appeared on Constantine's face almost as soon as the cleaner handed him the plastic-shrouded garment. "Tranh, this isn't my coat."
"What?" asked Tranh, the cleaner, a Vietnamese man with salt-and-pepper hair.
John poked at the plastic; it crinkled. "Not mine. There's been a mixup."
"Nonsense," said Tranh. "I checked the ticket twice. This one's yours."
"No, see, it's not, and I can guarantee this is the case, 'cos I specifically remember that my coat was made of cloth when I brought it here." He reached down and pulled about half the plastic away, then poked at the coat again. "Does that look like cloth to you?"
Tranh bent over, squinting at the coat with a suddenly growing expression of dismay. "Looks like leather," he muttered.
"Right. I'm not gonna pay for clean-up on someone else's leathers unless we're very good friends." John folded his arms across his chest. "How'd this happen, and where the hell is my coat?"
The smaller man didn't answer; he was already hunched over the computer that served for a cash register, a weirdly high-tech touch in a business of clattering hangers and the stink of carbon tet. "Looks like... oh, looks like my boy mixed up the tickets in the machine..." He looked up. "Another coat came in the day you brought me yours."
"Lemme guess," said John wearily. "The other bloke's already been and left with mine?"
Tranh nodded.
"What's his name?"
Tranh peered at the screen, reached for the mouse. Several clicks later, he looked up again. "Frank Castle," he said.
"Right," said John, digging in his trouser pockets for a scrap of paper. Snatching up a pencil stub from the counter, he asked, "Got a number I can reach him at?"