Reviewing the reviews: aw, Katter, that's so sweet. You're lying, obviously, but it's a nice lie. :)

AABuddy, here's the more you wanted!

Carnicirthial, I didn't realize how potentially lethal my stuff was. Maybe I should put up some sort of warning—

Nikoru, YES I love that quote! Nearly died laughing the first time I saw it! I love Steve Coogan to bits I don't care if he is a bit grotty sometimes!

RogueCajun, I thought about explaining the Wheedles at the beginning but thought I'd bore everyone out of their minds. However, since you asked for it— I made them up. Decided I didn't much care for the Dwergi, and Dracula needed minions, so I gave him some Wheedles. They're like a cross between the Wargs from LOTR and a homicidal ferret. Not very bright, not very likeable, and extremely dangerous. I may put them in some of my actual novels, they seem to fit in with some of the darker stuff—

Thanks all for the reviews!

Something that amazed me when I found it out, just as a by-the-way sort of thing— Daisy Wenham is only like an inch shorter than Hugh Jackman, and in the movie Carl's a lot shorter than Van Helsing. I assumed that it was camera tricks or something like that. Then I listened to the director's commentary track, and they said, "Look at that, look at David there— look how short he looks. How did he DO that?" Can you believe it? How DID he do that?

Yay Daisy. (Complacent smile) Best actor in the universe.

Funky teeth though.

Chapter Three: An Unfortunate Series of Rutabagas

Carl, who was small and petulant and extremely adorable, was exercising his marvelous brain and attempting a matter-transference beam. He couldn't get anyone to volunteer, and then he couldn't get anyone to sit still long enough for him to try it out on them, volunteer or no— so he'd finally decided to use something that couldn't get away from him, and had nipped down to pilfer something from the root cellar.

Van Helsing came and stood behind him. "Carl—"

Carl jumped. "Ah, Van Helsing. I didn't see you. Probably becaue you were standing behind me. How's tricks?"

"Carl— what are you doing with that poor innocent rutabaga?"

(A/N See "His Life an Open Book" for the rutabaga history.)

"What makes you think its an innocent rutabaga? I've never met an entirely innocent rutabaga in my life. Anyway, I'm only practicing my matter-transference beam exposition. You know, for when I present it to the Cardinal? At the end of the month?"

"Does it work?"

"Must you always answer my question with a question?"

"Must you?"

"Must I what?"

Van Helsing leant on the table, one hand on the MTB's controls. "Aren't you being just a little hypocritical, Carl?"

Carl opened his mouth to reply, but Van Helsing accidentally hit the start button and the machine began whirring.

"Van Helsing, are you stupid? Don't answer that. Didn't you notice the sign on the button?"

"What sign on what button?"

Carl pointed at the button. Sure enough, there was a sign on it that said Do Not Under Any Circumstances On Pain Of Death Depress This Button Unless Of Course You Are Carl.

"See that?"

"I wasn't depressing it, Carl. I just pressed it. How do you depress a button anyway?"

Carl stared at Van Helsing for a moment and then shook his head and muttered something.

"What did you say?"

"I said," said Carl, clearly, "D—"

The rutabaga disappeared in a flash of light and sparks.

Van Helsing said, wide-eyed, "Oooh— pretty."

Then the unfortunate rutabaga reappeared a foot away.

Inside out.

Twitching slightly.

"I think its going to need a little more work," said Van Helsing helpfully.

"Blast," said Carl.

"Carl, you're a monk, you're not supposed to swear," said Van Helsing, wincing slightly.

"But— blast isn't a swearword," pointed out Carl, puzzled.

"I know— I know!" said Van Helsing; he looked rather upset. He dragged a shaky hand across his brow. "I've talked to you about it before, Carl— I don't know why, I just— I have this— compulsion— to say that— I say it all the time— I just can't help myself—"

Carl clapped his dim-witted friend on the back. "Have you seen a psychiatrist?"

"No but I saw a necromancer."

"Well, that's— almost the same thing."

"Anyway—" Van Helsing breathed in deeply and shook himself. "Is this the only result you've gotten?"

"Pretty much. I was using potatoes last week. And remember what we had for dinner—"

Van Helsing thought for a minute. "Turkey. Carl, you turned a potato into a turkey? That's brilliant!"

"No, no, no," said Carl waspishly, waving his hands. "What did we have with the turkey?"

"Cranberry sauce. Carl, you turned a turkey into cranberry sauce?"

"No."

"Yams?"

"No."

"Pumpkin pie."

"No!"

"Hamburgers."

"No!"

"Squirrel souffle."

"NO!"

"Frappachino."

"Mashed potatoes!" bellowed Carl, his face turning purple. "We had mashed bloody potatoes!"

"Carl you're not supposed to swear—" said Van Helsing automatically, but Carl kicked him in the shin and the rest of the much-over-used quote was lost in a grunt of pain.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"What else are you working on?"

"A few other things—" said Carl vaguely.

From the stairs came a shout of alarm, and Carl and Van Helsing looked up in time to see a huge, dark shadow swoop down towards them.

The shadow resolved itself into a man. At the sight of his face about thirty fangirls in the audience collapsed.

You guessed it.

It's Dracula.