Chapter nine: Guessing Games

We now return to your regularly interrupted program.

"I hope that wasn't a mistake," said Carl, sounding as though he didn't, in all actuality, care.

"How could it be a mistake? We just sent the son of the Devil to the year 2005." Van Helsing grinned. "I say its time to party. And its all thanks to you, friar boy."

"Well— " began Carl modestly, before Jinette came and attempted to smack some sense into them both.

"Ow!"

"What is it, Jinette?"

"I have hurt my hand!"

"What did you hit me for?" shouted Carl. "I just got rid of Dracula, didn't I?"

"You have to follow him," said Jinette darkly. "You must go to the year 2005 and find Dracula and his brides and bring them back.

"Why?" asked Van Helsing. "The year 2005 is a long way off. Let them worry about the vampires for a while."

"That is a good point," said Jinette. "I shall have to go away and think about it." He went away and, presumably, thought about it. Carl and Van Helsing stood around and played guessing games.

"I'm thinking of something small— and red— and starts with an —– "

"Monk," said Carl immediately.

"Oooh, good one. Okay— something a little larger, in brown and gold, starts with an m —– "

"Mullah."

"Fantastique, Carl!" Van Helsing looked surprised at himself. "I meant to say 'fantastic' I don't know why it came out all foofy-sounding. Anyway. Someone tall, dark-haired, extremely interesting looking— "

"You."

"Right again. Okay. Tall, dark-haired, extremely interesting looking, not me."

"Steve Coogan."

"Ho did you guess that one? Alright, short, hair that goes flippy, and ears that go boing—"

"Me."

"Spec-tac-ular!"

"I have thought about it," said Jinette gloomily, coming up behind them. "And I know now the answer to your question."

"Oh really?"

"Yes really."

Van Helsing nodded and gave him a squinty-eyed, calculating look. "And what was the question again?"

"You must go to the year 2005 and bring back Dracula and his brides because— " Jinette cleared his throat. "A, I said so. B, the Pope says so. C, the Writer says so, and— " He thought for a moment, reciting the alphabet song under his breath. "Ah yes, and D, if you don't there is no story. No story, no plot. No plot, no sequel. Also, the alternatives are less than thrilling."

"The alternatives being— " Van Helsing prompted.

"The Writer gives up and turns you back over to Stephen Sommers."

Van Helsing nodded and cleared his throat. "Those all sound like good reasons to me. Carl?"

"What was C again?" asked the friar sharply.

"Beam me up, Carl."

"What?" asked Carl blankly.

"Send me forward."

"Eh?"

"Through the gas chamber," said Van Helsing patiently, "or I'll whack you."

"Whatck?"

"Whack you so hard you won't know Eve from Adam."

"Who?"

"Carl, why is it both you and I are suddenly saying a lot of words that begin with W?"

"Speech impedimentia backlash against Dracula," said Carl immediately. Van Helsing winced.

"Carl, I have asked you not to use long words when I'm around."

"Get in the chamber, Van Helsing, and say goodbye to— " Carl paused. "To whatever year this is."

"Are you feeling alright, Carl?"

"Yes, fine, its just the Writer is drawing a blank. Righto, all set?"

"Yeaaaauuuuuugghhghgh!" screamed Van Helsing, disappearing in a flash of light and sparks. Carl looked around at the busy monks and smiled. Soon he would be in a new century, where men were real men and women were real women and small furry blue creatures from Alpha Centuri were real small furry blue creatures from Alpha Centuri.

Carl climbed into the gas chamber and wished that the Writer would stop stealing lines from The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

He seated himself, strapped in everything that was supposed to be strapped in, and found himself staring across the room at the controls, which suddenly looked very far away.

He mumbled curses to himself and fumbled at the safety belts.

Thus, after several minutes of anger and irritation, the remote control was born.

Carl called it "The Thingie."

Not exactly a whiz with names, our Carl, but extremely accurate.