Yay, I'm back!Re. the Great Debate, its eleven for, two against (me,that is) but actually I had already decided how I was going to handle it a few hours after theanonymous guy told me to get lost (in an incredibly nice and flattering and non-flaming way, of course).So: behold the next chapter!

And RogueCajun... I LOVE his voice! Not because its great or anything, but because its his. I just don't think Scotsmen are meant to sing opera.

One more quick note, the bleedin' Fanfiction people took down "Lord of the Onion Rings." I don't remember if any of you guys read that one, but... its gone now. (sniff) They also took down the preview to this fic, which I didn't particularly care about, and also my BSS Phantom Of The Opera thing, which I resent quite a bit because it wasn't against the rules. Grrr. But I am in the process of rewriting LOTOR so that should be up soon, also I'm starting some new fics so watch out for those... thanks!

Chapter Fourteen: Harbingers of Doom

It was night time.

Or at least, it was dark.

He though it was night time and relaxed until he felt his skin start to bubble and burn. Then he realized that it was, in fact, daytime, and he merely had his eyes closed.

Panic, for a vampire, involves running around in circles and screaming a lot. After all, the undead are people, too— just not living ones.

He crashed into a few buildings before locating a door. Bursting into the lobby of an air-conditioned building he took ragged, panting breaths, waiting for his skin to heal. A few people gave him odd looks, but he looked sufficiently creepy enough for them to leave him alone.

Gradually he came back to his senses, approached the desk and smiled pleasantly at the clerk.

"Good evening, do you know of anywhere I could perhaps purchase an umbrella?"

The clerk gaped at him.

Dracula repeated his question.

The clerk still gaped at him.

"Umbrella," prompted Dracula.

The clerk continued to gape at him.

Dracula mimed putting up an umbrella.

The gape remained and, if anything, intensified.

Dracula became worried. Clearly he would have trouble imposing his will on people if they were already zombies. He displayed his fangs briefly and the clerk said, like a mindless automaton— which she was—

"I'm sorry, sir, this is the greetings desk For actual assistance please make your inquiries over there—"

She pointed. Dracula looked.

The desk in question sported a line a half-mile long, and one lone gum-chewing, harassed-looking clerk.

Dracula smiled again. "Thank you," he said, and went to do a little will-imposing.

It was not easy.

For one thing, when he approached the desk, the man at the head of the line gave him a slight shove and said, "Push off, mate, I'm first."

Dracula glared at him. The man, totally undaunted, glared back.

Dracula bared his fangs slightly.

The man punched him in the face.

There was a bit of an uproar.

The upshot of everything was that twenty people were taken into police custody, several of them bleeding slightly from the neck. Dracula escaped by dint of hiding behind a potted plant and when the coast was clear, turning into a bat. Desperate, he made for the doors, cannoned into them, and struck his head rather hard. Losing control of his body, he changed back into a human form—

And that was how his cape got caught in the revolving doors.

Tragedy strikes in the moments when you least look for it.

Nearly everyone in the lobby looked up as the screaming vampire went by for the third time; the only one who didn't was deaf.

Finally Dracula managed to rip his cape off his shoulders. Tumbling out of the building, he ran up against the legs of someone who looked down on him with rather dubious eyes.

Dracula looked up and dimly perceived that the person was extremely familiar. More important, however, he was holding an umbrella.

"Rox?" said the man in an Australian accent. "What are you doing here?"

Barely acknowledging to himself the fact that the man did look rather familiar, Dracula leapt to his feet and punched him in the stomach, wresting the umbrella out of his grip. With an undignified cackle he ran off down the street, the umbrella held low over his head to protect his pasty skin from the killing rays of sunshine.

Behind him, people rushed to help Hugh Jackman up. With a slight gasp of pain, he explained that an actor friend of his had just beaten him up and stolen his umbrella, but it was probably just a joke of some sort, so that was alright.

The people privy to this statement had always kind of suspected that Hugh Jackman was rather a nice guy, and were of course quite happy to be right.

Dracula, meanwhile, was still racing down the street, unknowingly headed for exact place where stood Van Helsing, Carl, and the Writer, who was still looking for errant Scotsmen. She'd not had enough coffee that morning and kept insisting that she saw Billy Boyd off in the distance. She was definitely worrying to Carl, though not really to Van Helsing, who couldn't care less.

"Don't I have any other fans?" said Van Helsing.

Carl was fed up— this was at least the eighth time the monster hunter had brought this up. "Want a little cheese with that whine, Van Helsing?" he snapped, rolling his eyes. Van Helsing looked hurt.

"I don't know," said the Writer, gazing off into the distance and looking upset about something. "Oh, wait." She snapped her fingers. "Eris. You have Eris. And— someone said they have pictures of you plastered all over their room, if that makes you feel better. Shoot, who was that? I knew the name a minute ago—"

"Hmm," said Van Helsing thoughtfully.

"Carnicirthial!" said the Writer triumphantly, slapping Carl on the shoulder. Carl ducked.

A half a block away, Dracula tripped and fell— the umbrella sailed out of his hand and rolled on down the street as though it had a life of its own. Gradually it came to a stop in front of our three intrepid Something-Or-Others; Carl examined it with interest, Van Helsing was looking for a mirror, and the Writer looked at it with dull eyes.

"That worries me a bit," she said.

"Why?" asked Carl. "It's just a parasol."

"Yes— and what did we learn from "Pirates of the Caribbean?"

"That Johnny Depp is hot," supplied Van Helsing.

"No, we knew that already."

"Um— that Orlando Bloom is actually a boy, and just looks, sounds, walks, and acts like a female," guessed Carl.

"That, yeah, but—"

"Geoffrey Rush is the coolest villain ever," said Van Helsing.

"Yes, and—" The Writer gestured impatiently.

"Oh! That parasols are harbingers of doom!" said Carl.

The Writer smiled. "Exactly. I should be careful if I were you. Sorry, I don't know why I'm talking like I'm British. I'm, y'know, Californian. Wishful thinking, I guess."

Carl stepped back from the parasol very, very slowly, eyeing it as though it were one of his more dubious inventions, perhaps something he'd conceived while under the influence of the sacrificial wine. "Do you think it will explode?" he said.

"I should think it more likely that a band of immortal skeletons come rushing around the corner," said the Writer frankly, and then Dracula came rushing around the corner, half his skin burnt off and hanging off his bones.

Perfect timing, as usual.

The Writer and Carl screamed in a very nearly identical manner and clutched at each other. Van Helsing screamed as well, and began to run at the creature with a silver stake held high. It was pure reflex.

Suddenly the Writer realized who the steaming skeleton actually was, and she ran after him, hollering for him to wait. She was a fast runner.

What happened next was either a terrible accident or a source of great merriment, depending both on how much you like the Writer and how sadistic you are. Either way it was entertainment, and therefore no bad thing.

She tripped. Van Helsing tripped. Dracula raced indoors just in time. The Writer and the monster hunter went down together in a tangled heap of bodies— she probably would have enjoyed it more if she hadn't been stabbed through the heart at that time.

Van Helsing backed away from her stilled body quickly and stood by Carl, who's blue eyes were wide with— not quite horror, but definitely not happiness. Together they spoke the one word that is, no doubt, even now on lips of readers everywhere—

"Oops."