So far, Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis are headed to the FanStory convention in Atlantic City when the car they are traveling in breaks down in the heart of Amish country. When they finally get back on the road, they experience another detour when saddled with an abrasive guest, Jane Babies.

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The fun of the fashion show is abruptly halted upon the opening of the small elevator doors. How that buffoon of pornographic poetry found out we were having our little get together is a mystery. I glance at Rachelle, then my eyes dart back to Jane. Somewhere from the room I hear a voice whisper, "She's wearing the same dress." Instinctively, I grab onto Rachelle's arm. Every muscle is taut. It's like holding onto an animal ready to lunge.

"She's not worth it. Don't let her get to you," I whisper to my angry friend. Then I turn to Jane and smile. "I'm sorry Jane, but we could only accommodate a few people up here." I try not to glance at the spacious room that could easily house fifty people.

Rachelle's face is as close to the color of her hair as humanly possible. "My dress," she says, looking down at her own beautiful outfit.

What can I say? I want to march over to Jane and rip the dress off of her, but she might enjoy that. "Too bad they didn't have that dress in your size, Jane."

She waltzes in and rushes towards the men first. Big surprise there.

I glance at my watch. "Time to go." I announce, grab the closest glass of champagne and pound it down. This is going to be a long night. I can feel it in my bones.

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Rachelle says little, but then she doesn't have to. It is written all over her face. I nudge her when Roy Owen addresses the gathering with an opening prayer.

"Thank you dear Lord, that we are able to meet in a country that is free to do so, and I pray that you will pour out your blessings on the folks here that have journeyed far and wide to be here, and not forgetting those that have traveled not so far. I pray that new friendships will develop, and old ones renewed and expanded. Please bless the speakers, the food and this wonderful convention. Amen." He puts his hat back on and nods at the man next to him.

"Welcome," the man says. "Everyone feel free to get up and grab a plate and then after dinner we will start the award ceremony. And, thank you all for coming."

I turn to Rachelle. "Who is that?"

She shrugs. I can tell she's still down in the dumps.

"Okay, she wore the same dress. But she wore it badly. You look fabulous and she looks like an idiot. She did it to get your goat."

"She's a bout to get the horns of the goat," Rachelle mutters. She lifts a plate and starts taking small portions of items from the buffet. "I'm not even hungry."

"I'm starving. I'm a stress eater." I glance at the offerings and realize I don't even know what half of it is. But, in times of stress, I'm a risk taker. As I'm reaching for the, what looks like banana pudding, I hear the voice that sets the rest of the evening into action.

In the Civil War of the Untied States, they say the first shot fired at Fort Sumter was the shot heard round the world. This one statement was the equivalent of that shot.

"Twinsies!!" Jane exclaims, wrapping her arm around Rachelle's shoulder at the buffet.

Shots fired.

Rachelle wrenches away, eyes blazing. I swear I see steam coming from just above her diamond earrings. I start piling food hastily on to the plate. You wouldn't know it to look at her, but Rachelle can move very quickly. Within seconds of Jane opening her mouth, she is face down in the potato salad.

I scurry to the other side of the table and watch as Jane grabs a handful of red sauced pasta and hurls it at Rachelle. Next, I see a handful of baby carrots go flying through the air. Dolly grins and next to her, Gypsy is reaching for the grated cheese. They both aim at Jane.

Chaos ensues. I'm hungry and this isn't my dress so while all attention is on the food fighters, I duck down and crawl under the table. The din is growing. There are screams and hollers. I can hear the clinks and the sound of dishes breaking.

I call my husband. "Chuck, hey, you aren't going to believe this."

"What's going on? Aren't you supposed to be at the convention?" he asks.

"That wackjob, Jane, bought the same dress as Rachelle,"

"Okay," he says. "What does that mean?"

Knowing my husband will only understand if I explain it in BMX terms, I start. "Suppose a guy steals the trick you've been working on and does it in a contest right before you get to ride. He knew you were working on this trick. He did it to piss you off. Understand?"

"What did Rachelle do?"

"She shoved Jane's face into the potato salad."

"Good for her."

"Good for her!?! There is a freaking food fight in full swing right now."

"Where are you?"

"Under the buffet table. I'm getting dinner whether they like it or not. Besides, I borrowed the dress from Nikki and I don't want to have to dry clean it."

The white table cloth lifts and someone ducks under. Its the man who followed Roy's prayer.

"Chuck, I gotta go." I disconnect and look at the surprised man. "Welcome."

"You're missing the show."

"Apparently."

"I'm Tom." He extends his hand.

"Do you want me to kiss your ring or something?" I say testily. I'm hungry and anxious right now, and this guy has found my hiding spot.

"No, just introducing myself."

"See if you can reach up there and grab that bottle of wine."

Tom reaches up and after a few failed attempts finally retrieves the bottle. Luckily, it was open. He hands it to me. I take a swig and offer it to him.

"Have you called the police," he asks, motioning to my phone. Tom jumps as a plate crashes to the floor beside us.

"No. Let them get it out."

"I'm ruined," he says pitifully. "There is no coming back from this."

"Here, have a dumpling, you'll feel better."

He sighs and exhales deeply. "I can't believe this is happening. I thought writers were supposed to be classy. This was supposed to be a nice thing."

"We're just people, Tom. Wait, are you The Tom?"

He nods.

"Oh my gosh, I have a huge favor to ask."

He levels me with a gaze. "What?"

"Can we get more than six six stars per week. Its only fair."

Tom grimaces and starts to crawl out from under the table. "Lady, there may not even be a FanStory on Monday," he grumbles.

As the table cloth flutters back down on his exit, I hear the bull horn. "Everyone stop where you are and drop whatever is in your hands."

I didn't call the cops but someone did. Now it's time to pay the piper.