Chapter Thirteen: Jenny Blinked
"My name is Carl Hampton," said Carl, by way of introduction. "I am a friar. They call me Carl the Friar."
"My name is Jenny," said Jenny. "I'm a valley girl."
"Yes? And, er, what do you do for a living?"
"I get married every year or so, get divorced after a week, and collect alimony. Are you rich?"
"I'm a friar," said Carl.
Jenny blinked at him. "So?"
"Ever heard of a vow of poverty?"
"Is it anything like a vow of chastity?"
"Um— lets say yes."
"Then it doesn't particularly bother me. How much are you worth? Net," she added quickly, as Carl opened his mouth.
Carl reconsidered, and shrugged. "Allowing for inflation— fifty pence and a bottle of wine?"
"Mm-hmm," said Jenny, calculating.
"You know," said the Writer, "I find this whole conversation rather mercenary. I mean, how much are you worth, Jenny?"
Jenny smirked. "I've always said my face is my fortune."
The Writer nodded and looked her over. "So— three dollars forty-seven? Six? Around there somewhere?"
"Ah!" said Jenny, insultedly, which is apparently not a word. "Eeh! Oh!"
"Problem?"
"You're just jealous because when Carl and I met, inspirational music played."
"Yeah, so what?" sneered the Writer. "Crap, I should have written better lines for myself."
Jenny laughed. "You know, you really should have written better lines for yourself."
"And I should have written stupid lines for you," the Writer muttered furiously.
"Thank you, I'll come up with my own stupid lines."
"Oh. Forgot about that one." The Writer was rewarded by a snort from Van Helsing and a smile from Carl She smiled back and there was about two notes of inspirational music before Jenny shot the orchestra. The Writer got a bit upset.
"Hey, I spent half an hour crafting those guys! You can't just kill them off!"
"Uh, excuse me? I just did."
The Writer muttered, "Valley girl."
"Beg your pardon?"
"You want a piece of me?"
"Sure, what are you, four seven?"
"Four eight, and I'm tougher than I look," growled the Writer, putting up a pair of not-very-convincing fists.
"Jenny's annoying, isn't she?" said Van Helsing to Carl.
"Yes, she is, a bit."
"That's what I thought." Van Helsing pushed Jenny under a passing bus. The three stood and stared at her.
"Well, that'll show her," commented Carl.
"Its okay, she's a fictional character. So you guys are looking for Dracula, yes?"
"How did you know?" gaped Van Helsing.
The Writer rolled her eyes. "I keep telling you, baby, I'm the Writer, I orchestrated this whole fic."
"Got a good reaction so far?" inquired Carl.
"Yeah, pretty good. Ninety reviews, I think. There's my readers, over there." She pointed, and the two men looked.
"Is MariAmber there?" asked Carl.
"Probably she is, yeah. I hope, anyway."
"Who's MariAmber?" asked Van Helsing, looking understandably confused.
"One of Carl's fans."
"Carl's fans? Carl has fans? The monk has fans?"
"Yes," said the Writer. "Of course he does. Look at those ears. How could you not love those ears?"
Carl blushed, their eyes met, and the piccolo player, who was wounded severely but not entirely dead, stirred and blew a few breathy notes on his instrument. Van Helsing impatiently kicked him.
"Aaaugh!"
"What about me? Don't I have any fans?" demanded Van Helsing.
"Sure."
"Who?"
"Well— uh— their names escape me at the moment—"
"Who?"
"Uh, Lady Sirinial for one."
"Really?"
"And I have RogueCajunOszGrl and Nikoru Sanzo, and Katter, and Carnicirthial, amongst others," said Carl self-importantly.
"I don't believe you," said Van Helsing defiantly. Carl shrugged.
"Doesn't matter. They're a fact. Deal with it."
"I can't deal with it," snapped Van Helsing, beginning to cry. Carl rolled his eyes.
"A little help, Writer?"
"Hmm?" said the Writer distantly.
Carl snapped his fingers in front of her face. "Are you paying attention?"
"Sorry," she said, "I thought I saw Gerard Butler walking across the street— shirtless— followed by a squirrel—"
David Wenham stuck his head out a nearby building and complained, in slightly nasal Australian accent, "Hey, that's your random Dwenham moment!" A crowd of Fazguls came down on hot air balloons and chased him to France, where he met up with Christine Daae in the Opera Populaire and persuaded her to return to the Phantom, where she belonged. Unfortunately along the way he met up with Raoul the Fop and was forced to kill him in a duel. And that is how he became the Hero of Paris. Also the Hero of Time, because he subsequently got stuck in a Legend of Zelda game.
"Can we focus please?" said Carl. "Honestly, anyone would think you weren't hopelessly in love with me."
The Writer returned to reality with a bump, which was quite audible. "Well, even if I am, I can't be with you— makes it a Mary-Sue fic, see. Besides which, aren't you still in love with a certain— Tamerlaine?"
"Ah yes," said Carl, dreamy-eyed. "Tamerlaine. I did love that woman— but she drove me nuts."
"She what your nuts?"
Carl glared at the Writer. "I found that remark to be in incredibly poor taste."
The Writer pointed at Van Helsing, who had just then gotten it and was snorting wildly. "He thought it was funny."
"He thinks everything is funny," said Carl dismissively. "Allow me to demonstrate. Van Helsing!" Van Helsing snapped to attention. "Um— diarrhea."
"Aaahahahahahahahaha— "
"Cool, let me try," said the Writer with a grin. "Van Helsing! Pancakes!"
"Ahahahahaha— "
"Weasels!" shouted Carl, entering into the spirit of things.
"Aahahahahahaha—"
"Desiccated coconut!"
"Ahahahahaha—"
"Ducks!"
"AHaHaHahAAAAAaaaa—"
"Squirrels!"
"AhaahaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGUH! AAUGH! AUGH!"
Van Helsing's hysterical laughter turned abruptly to hysterical screams of terror.
"Sorry," said the Writer. "I guess I shouldn't have mentioned the squirrels."
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA—"
"You think?" said Carl.
"No. You?"
"No."
They looked at each other.
"There's a, uh, park across the way," suggested the Writer.
After ten minutes of industrious acorn-baiting, they were chasing Van Helsing across a parking lot, waving a seriously panicky squirrel in a cage."
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAA A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A AA A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A—"
Meanwhile, Dracula was having adventures of his own— we will get into those in the next chapter.
Or—
— will we?
Author's note: Mwahahahahahah!
