Chapter Eight: Dracula's Revenge
Arm out, arm out
Palm up, palm up
Elbow, elbow
Head, head
Waist, waist
Butt, butt
Hip gyrate
"Aaaaiii, macarena!" shouted a hundred monks. "Sssshout!"
Dracula was thoroughly enjoying the discomfiture of all present.
"You need to go with me—"
"Whatever!"
"—to the year 2005—"
"Anything, anything!"
"—and find my brides—" continued Dracula, unperturbed by Van Helsing's anguished yells.
"FINE!"
"And persuade them to come back."
"OKAY!"
"Now who's speaking out of century," asked Dracula with satisfaction.
"I promise! I promise! Just make them stop!"
"It is already done," said Dracula, and indeed, the monks had stopped dancing and started looking embarrassed. In clumsy efforts to assuage the awkward moment, a few of them started complimenting each other on their rhythm. "Shut up," said most of the monks, and began to disperse, red-faced.
"Now, how do you expect to get to the year 2005 anyway?"
"That's vhere the monk comes in," said the Count, turning to Carl.
"Well," Carl admitted, "I was working on a time machine that could transport objects into the future—"
"Oh, really?" said Van Helsing interestedly, as though he'd entirely forgotten the conversation they'd just had. "That'll come in handy."
"Right," said Carl, dragging his gaze with difficulty from Van Helsing's stupidly ingenious expression. "But, um, it hasn't been tested on humans yet."
"Try it on him," advised Dracula, pointing at the monster hunter. "That vay, if things don't vork out, no loss."
"Tempting," admitted Carl. "But then who would do the monster-hunting for the Loyal Order of Corn? Who would teach Father Leopold to put his pants on correctly? Who would run the popcorn machine on movie night? Who would win the Vatican's Annual I'm-Too-Sexy-For-My-Vows Contest?" He paused. "Wait, that's me."
"That'd be my guess," said Dracula.
"No, I know what we'll do," said Carl decisively. "We'll send the Smallish Fattish Monk through. Nobody really likes him anyway."
The Smallish Fattish Monk squeaked indignantly. "But Cardinal Jinette says he loves each one of us unconditionally!"
"Yes," said Carl, "but even he has some limits."
The Smallish Fattish Monk was dragged unceremoniously over to Carl's time machine and dumped into it. Carl locked the door firmly, and said through the window, "Screaming and crying won't help, you know." Then he took another look through the window. "Nor will wetting yourself," he said reprovingly, and moved to the controls.
A few flicks of switches and the Smallish Fattish Monk disappeared from view.
"Aha! Success!" said Dracula.
"Wait, that's my line," said Carl indignantly.
"Sorry."
"Aha! Success!" said Carl. Then— "It's not got the same quality, has it, once you've said it already."
Faramir poked his head in the door. "Did someone mention quality?"
Twelve of the monks threw back their hoods and revealed themselves to be Fazguls in disguise. With disturbingly Fran-Walsh-like shrieks, they raced after the disappearing prince of Ithilien. Carl carried on unperturbed because he was used to the Writer's randomness.
"I'm really sick and tired of people stealing my lines," he said, as was mentioned, unperturbed.
"Well, I'm really sick and tired of Faramir showing up," said Van Helsing. "What is it with the Writer putting him in every fic she writes? I think she's a Fazgul in disguise too. Its almost as bad as her putting you in every fic she writes."
"I'm sick and tired of the Writer," said Carl agreeably.
"Well, I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired."
"Well," said Carl, determined by this point to one-up Van Helsing, "I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired of being sick and tired." He thought about this. "If I could just go back to being sick and tired, everything would be alright."
"Well— success, right?" prompted Dracula.
"Don't be impatient," snapped Carl impatiently. Dracula glared at him and Carl said, "Meep!" before he could stop himself.
"Hey!" said Van Helsing. "I thought that word was reserved for script fics!"
"I know," said Dracula. "I am somevhat confused, I vasn't expecting to hear that."
"Cutting edge, Writer," said Carl to the room at large. "I'm impressed."
"Thanks, Carl," said the disembodied voice of the Writer, floating across the ether.
Briefly, because her mind was wandering, David Wenham wandered, shirtless and with stubble, across the room, followed by a squirrel.
"Well," said Carl, in a misguided attempt to get back on track. "Success!"
"How can you be sure?" asked Van Helsing.
"Well, the Smallish Fattish Monk hasn't shown back up inside out and twitching," said Carl, and shrugged. "That's a minor victory in itself."
Van Helsing nodded and looked serious. "And that's good," he said. "Because its not possible to make mashed potatoes out of Smallish Fattish Monks— is it?"
"So shall we attempt?" said Dracula, spreading his cloak.
"Quit being so dramatic," said Carl dismissively, "and get in the Chamber."
Dracula quit being so dramatic and got in the Chamber. "What do you call this thing, anyvay?" he yelled out the window.
"A Gaseous-Property-Based Time Propulsion Chamber," Carl shouted back. "For short, the Gas Chamber." He waved and smiled. "Happy time travel!"
Dracula disappeared in a flash of light.
"That's funny," muttered Carl, "I didn't push the button yet."
