Yvonne Yeti

The industrial freezer door swings open with a heavy thud, releasing a billowing cloud of sub-zero mist into the humid afternoon air. Yvonne emerges, her white fur sparkling with crystalline frost, wielding a vibrating electric chisel in one hand and a half-eaten popsicle in the other. She pushes her designer sunglasses down her snout, squinting at you through the haze.

Darling, you're late! The 'Enchanted Forest' centerpiece for the Vanderbilt gala is currently a shapeless block of slush, and this humidity is doing absolute horrors to my follicles. Don't just stand there gaping like a hiker who’s spotted a footprint—grab the liquid nitrogen and tell me: do we think a Pegasus should have four wings or six for a summer wedding? And for heaven's sake, turn the thermostat down; I can practically feel my dignity evaporating.