WHOO! 142 reviews! You guys are making me feel so good, I think the flu is going away! Yess!

Nfinity: Fronk came from a moment of extreme distraction... I was supposed to be paying attention to something, suddenly the word hit me, and I wasn't good for anything for days. Kept bursting into laughter... you know how it is... and I'm glad to review my reviewer's stories, I really should keep up on that more... even though I don't like slash...

Lady ot Rings: really? Longest review? I usually write pretty long ones, but then... I need to get out more.

RogueCajun: (snerk) What exactly does "basking in its glory" entail in this instance? Spread the Gerry love... the Scottish Pout is now the desktop on my computer. (Hits self on head and quotes Firmin) "Good God, you're all obsessed."

Eris: yeah, the snickering potential is quite amazing with that word... I'm absolutely delighted that so many of you commented on that!

Nikoru Sanzo: Argh! Why didn't you say something earlier? I could have put that in! Oh well, not your fault, I should have thought of it... (goes off humming "I'm Too Sexy for a Soldier" the Faramir version of the song. Ooh, and "I'm Too Sexy For A Disfigured Musical Genius" the Phantom version... :)

Carnicirthial: No, you must NOT stop laughing! Keep on!

Chapter dedication goes to who can tell me where the Pale Poet's name comes from. Last name, that is.

Chapter Seventeen: The Really Well-Written Chapter

Quite to his surprise, Carl awoke the next morning in someone's bed.

He sat up.

He winced at the sound of dozens of fangirls cheering.

He shook his head and wished for coffee.

Then he realized his own situation and began looking around to see if there were any other occupants in the bed.

There was.

At first sight it looked like a lump of fur. On closer consideration it appeared to be the back of Van Helsing's head.

The fangirl's cheering was now joined by the determined yapping of dozens of slash writers.

Carl took a deep breath and continued in his inspection. Also to his surprise, on the far side of Van Helsing was the slumbering form of Dracula.

The slash-writer's howling took on truly alarming proportions. Carl began to feel slightly sick, when suddenly all was saved— there was a deep, rich, and melodious chuckle from the doorway. Carl looked.

The girl from the karaoke bar stood there. She wasn't pretty, but she was neat and well put-together. She had large pale eyes and short pale hair, giving the general impression of— well— paleness. She also had a squirrel sitting on her shoulder.

It was she who had chuckled. "Your face is a sight," she said. "I'm glad I was here to see it."

"What happened?" said Carl, trying not to panic.

"You don't remember?"

"No—"

"Really? Nothing comes to mind?"

"Um— singing?" Carl hazarded.

The woman nodded. "Singing. Yes. Very badly, as I recall. I doubt that the amount of lagers you swallowed assisted in the matter, however. And do you remember nothing further?"

"Um— walking down the street?"

"Yes, and?"

"Um— falling down the street?"

"Exactly. I believe that's where you passed out. Your friend there— not the one with the pony tail, the other one—" She nodded in the general direction of Van Helsing, who gave a great snore at the recognition. "He'd already been knocked out for about half an hour. And so your other friend gave me assistance, and as he said you had nowhere to stay, I brought you all home. I apologize for making you worry," she added, "but I only have the one bed, and as it was big enough for all of you, and you were asleep anyway, I didn't think it'd do any harm."

"Where did you sleep?" asked Carl. The woman laughed.

"You have a real talent for inconsequentials, don't you? I slept in the living room, on the sofa. Don't worry, it is a nice sofa. Very comfortable. Would you like some coffee, or are you anxious to be on your way?"

"Coffee," said Carl, breathing slowly and emerging from under the bedcovers, "would be much appreciated. Goodness, is there a draft in here—"

He stopped.

He looked down.

The woman snickered. "Sorry, but someone had spilled beer all over your robes. There was no way I was letting you get into my bed like that. Look, I left some of my brother's clothes on the nightstand. They ought to treat you up fine." She wiggled her fingers at him cheerfully and left the room. Carl swore lightly and stood, pulling on the trousers, which turned out to be extremely tight, and the shirt, which turned out to be extremely loose. However, they fit comfortably enough, and after running a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to tame it, he left the room and went in search of caffeine or some other stimulant.

He found the woman at work in her kitchen, which was painted black. There were more windows than walls, though, so the effect was actually quite charming. There was a gray, silvery quality to the air. She looked up from her perch on a kitchen chair and smiled at him. Her eyes were kind and her clothes were distracting.

"Sorry again," she apologized. "How do the clothes fit?"

"Er, fine," said Carl. He noticed she was scribbling on a piece of paper. "Um— writer, are you?"

"Poet," she corrected.

"Ah. I knew a writer."

"Yes?"

"Yes. She was— " Carl stopped, at a loss for words. He couldn't quite think of a word that really described the now-deceased Writer in a nice way. Odd didn't quite cover it; neither did strange, or weird, or unique, or unusual. Scary was more appropriate, but he didn't feel up to discussing it. In the end he simply abandoned the sentence and moved on to something else. "A poet, then?"

"Yes. Tell me what you think of this—" She stood and read from the paper, her eyes closed. "There was a tree/ the prettiest tree/ you ever did see/ it was tall/ and all the kids would climb it/ one fell off and broke his arm/ the bone emerged/ the rest of the kids were very typical/ and so they laughed." She opened her blank, pale eyes and scrutinized him. "What do you think?"

"Um—" said Carl. "Why are you wearing a swimming suit?"

"Oh." She looked down at herself. "This isn't a swimming suit, its my underwear. Sorry, I always write in my underwear. Its very calming."

"Not to me," said Carl under his breath.

"It helps me keep a perspective on life in general, and allows me to write things like this." She motioned towards the paper. "This isn't my best work, of course, I've done better. I wrote one about your dark-haired friend as I was putting him to bed. Would you like to hear it?"

Nothing in the world could have prevented Carl from hearing it, and so of course he said he would love it.

She took a deep breath and launched into it, keening the words like a banshee—

"A man/ a big man/ a big dark man/ a big dark strange man/ a big dark strange handsome man/ who looks exactly like Hugh Jackman/ is asleep in my bed/ thank you, God."

Carl had just taken a drink of his coffee, and he snorted it out across the table. "Oh, no, sorry, sorry, please, no, I'll clean it up—"

"What's the matter, didn't you like it?"

"Like it?" repeated Carl, "it was fantastic!"

She smiled and looked pleased. "Thank you. What's your name, anyway?"

"Carl Edward Mayne Hampton," said Carl readily, and gave an abbreviated bow. "You may call me Carl. I am a friar."

"Actually, he's a fronk," came a voice from the doorway. Van Helsing emerged into the room, dressed in a purple robe that he had evidently taken from the woman's closet. It was quite too small, and the look on the woman's face when she saw him wearing it was something Carl would cherish forever.

Van Helsing, seemingly unaware of the stir he had caused in the female heart near him, strode over to her and offered her his hand. "Gabriel Van Helsing. Please don't call me Gabriel, when people call me Gabriel, it means they're going to be my mortal enemies."

She took his hand, looking dazed. "Lovely to meet you," she murmured and, quite overcome, bent and pressed her lips to his hand. "Lovely," she whispered into his skin. "Lovely, lovely."

Carl coughed violently to hide his laughter. Van Helsing, on the whole, looked pleased rather than not.

"Are you one of my fangirls?" he inquired.

She looked up. "Why, do you have many?"

"Not as many as some," Van Helsing said, glowering in Carl's general direction. Carl shrugged. "Who are you?"

"I rescued you from the owner of the karaoke bar. They were going to throw you out."

"Were they?"

"You were creating a bit of a disturbance."

"Was I?"

"You were."

"Oh."

"My name," said the pale poet, "is Lemon Gently." She watched him closely to observe his reaction to this. She was disappointed. Van Helsing had just come to an entirely new century, and spent a few days with a fronk and a vampire, getting drunk and killing people. There was no way he was going to be derailed simply by a silly name.

"Very nice," said Van Helsing formally. "May I call you Gently?"

"Gently or roughly, makes no difference to me," she said wistfully. Carl did the snorting-out-coffee bit again.

"Oh, sorry, no, don't move, I'll clean it up—"

"Your other friend, the vampire? He tells me you've come to look for his brides."

"Yes, that's true," said Van Helsing gravely, nodding.

Lemon Gently frowned. "I wasn't aware that Mormons were allowed to be vampires."

Van Helsing continued nodding seriously for several moments before he managed to say, "What?"

"I mean," said Lemon, "three brides. Married to one man. Polygamy, you see? As opposed to— well, not monogamy."

"I thought," said Van Helsing, still nodding furiously, "that was some kind of wood—"

Lemon Gently looked at him in some disgust. "Men," she snorted briefly. "They're all the same."

"Not really," disagreed Dracula, entering the room. "Some are quite different." He looked at Van Helsing. "Haff you found my brides yet?"

Van Helsing rubbed his eyes. "Give me a minute, okay? I just woke up, and I've got a bleeder of a headache."

"Allow me," said Lemon Gently. She hopped off her stool and busied herself in the kitchen, while the three men looked at each other and mouthed, "Allow her to what?" She came back a few minutes later with a few small white pills.

Van Helsing eyed them. "I don't believe in medicines," he said. "Carl makes potions to give me, but other than that I'm against it."

"It'll take your head ache away. Come on, take them. You're going to need to be functioning on all your cylinders if we're to find Sir Whatsisnames brides."

"Count," said Dracula. "Actually."

Van Helsing had thrown the aspirin back in his throat and was choking on them, so Carl took it on himself to say, "Listen, Mrs. Gently—"

"Ms," she said quickly. "Gently was my father's name."

"We certainly appreciate all you've done for us, but we cannot allow you to accompany us on a mission that could prove fatal, or, at the very least, incredibly annoying."

"There's no way you can stop me," she said, shrugging. "It's a free country. And besides, Sir Galahad here—"

"Count Dracula," said Dracula underneath his breath, "actually."

"— says you lost your sponsor. Your— um—" She snapped her fingers. "What is the word? Link to the world of today."

"You mean the Writer?" said Carl, at a loss.

"Yeah, that. So you need a new one, am I correct, to help you along and explain things to you?"

"Well, I suppose—"

"I'm your girl." She beamed at them, and Carl felt that he could not refuse. Well, he actually felt that he could, only Lemon Gently was waving a knife at him in a vaguely threatening manner, and he felt that, all in all, he'd rather keep all his body parts intact and attached, thank you very much.

"Right," said Lemon cheerfully. "I suppose we need some sort of vampire bride identifying machine—"

Carl frowned. "Do they make those these days?"

Lemon laughed. "You'd be surprised what we have this century—"