I have a friend who actually has a posse, these three teenaged girls who follow him around with adoring eyes. Its hecka funny.

Chapter Six: The Real Posse

"Carl!"

The little friar jumped awake and grumbled at the Writer for referring to him as "the little friar" again. "What, Van Helsing!"

"You've fallen off your horse!"

Carl opened his eyes and looked upwards. Sure enough, he was being dragged along the ground, one foot caught by the stirrups. A faint and ghost-like arrow appeared to be sticking out of his chest as his head bumped on the rocks. A zillion fangirls all over the world stood up and shouted, "Gimme an F! Gimme an A! Gimme an R! Gimme an A!"

"What are they spelling?"

"F-A-R-A—" said Carl thoughtfully.

"Fawcett?"

"I don't think so..."

"Gimme an R! Gimme an M ! Gimme an A!"

"F-A-R-A-R-M-A?"

"Wait," said one of the fangirls in confusion, "how do you spell "Faramir" anyway?"

"Gimme a T!" shouted another, but the rest of the Posse quickly shushed her.

Carl began to struggle to his feet, nearly spraining his ankle in the process. He stared at the fangirl's who were now blocking the road ahead of them. "Bloody he— er, heck, um, how do we get them to move?"

Van Helsing shrugged. "Why are you asking me? You're the tactical guy. I'm just the brawn."

Carl glared up at him, and levered himself upright, using the horse to steady himself. "Sorry to change the subject, but how long was I asleep like that?"

"You mean asleep and dragging on the ground?"

"Yes, that."

"Er— um—" Van Helsing squinted upwards in unaccustomed thought. "Two hours? Three?"

"Aha. That would explain why the back of my head is all bloody. Van Helsing—" Carl went on, gaping at the blood on his hands, "I feel a little—"

He fainted.

"Hmm," said Van Helsing thoughtfully. "That's not good."

The fangirls stopped conferring over how to spell "Ithilien" and rushed over and stood in a circle around the little friar, who revived briefly to mumble threats at the Writer for calling him that again, and then fell back into unconsciousness.

"Is he dead?" asked a fangirl.

"I don't know. Is he breathing?"

"Yes."

"Are you supposed to be breathing when you're dead?"

"I don't know."

"Does the Book say anything about this?" They all pulled out their worn copies of Lord of the Rings and flipped through them for a minute. "Yes!" said one triumphantly. "Farry fainted after coming back from battle, and that Awful Ugly Evil Denethor tried to burn him." She looked up at her sisters and her eyes glowed with an unholy light. "Quick, girls! Get some oil!"

The Posse scrambled around, conjuring firewood, torches, and lots and lots and lots of oil out of nothing. Van Helsing looked on interestedly as they hauled the friar's inert body on top of the wood and doused him with the oil.

Olive oil, it looked like. But it was hard to tell from this distance.

The girls clustered around Carl on the pyre and started some sort of chant that sounded an awful lot like daisywithhisshirtoff... daisywithhisshirtoff... daisywithhisshirtoff...( Which is of course the traditional mantra of Dwenham fangirls, but sounded pretty creepy anyway.)

The torches were brought closer, closer...

Now, thought Van Helsing to himself, should he rescue Carl or leave him to his death? Quickly he wondered why he was thinking about himself in third person, and if he should see a psychiatrist. He decided not to, as psychiatrists hadn't been invented yet.

Rescue Carl or not rescue Carl?

Hmm.

The age-old dilemma.

After all, Van Helsing argued with himself, the little friar had turned him into a rutabaga.

As soon as he thought that, Carl jumped awake, yelling at the top of his lungs, "Will you stop referring to me as the little friar!"

"Sorry," said the Writer mildly, "I only did it this time to save you."

"Couldn't you think of a less cliched way of doing so?"

"What, like having a hobbit rush up and land on you and roll you out of the flames?"

Pippin rushed up and jumped on the pyre, but unfortunately for the little hobbit, Carl had already escaped and there was no-one for him to save. Pippin immediately caught on fire. Luckily for him, about half of the Daisy Posse were also Pippin fangirls, and they saved him. They carted him off with them to go and drink some ale in a nearby inn.

There you go, a happy ending.

Unless you count Carl getting really angry and punching Van Helsing on the nose.