Woo hoo, I'm back! Kind of! And I am really running out of plot-bunnies, so I'm thinking maybe only a few more chapters. Be prepared to say goodbye— aw come on, you know you don't really care anymore— :) Seriously, you've all been loyal readers and I promise to name one of my children after you. Something along the lines of Roguecajuncarnicirthialnfinitylaiquarasephireris— pretty, huh? Yeah, any kid would be pleased to have that for a name—

Chapter Nineteen: Going Mad

They were halfway to the Night Club when Carl noticed that the squirrel was still following them. Startled, he dropped his half of Van Helsing rather heavily.

"Ow," groaned Van Helsing, rubbing his head.

Carl pointed at the squirrel, which was slowly venturing closer and had cocked a beady little eye at him.

"I swear that thing is following us!" he cried.

Dracula rolled his eyes. "Honestly, monk—"

"Fronk!" cried Van Helsing from the pavement.

"You're going mad, I am sure of it."

Carl shook his head and stared fixedly at the squirrel.

"Yeah, Carl," said the squirrel, "what's wrong with you?"

Carl yelped and performed an odd little dance. Dracula stared at him, raising an eyebrow.

"The squirrel!" shrieked Carl, pointing at it. "Its talking to me!"

Dracula heaved a sigh and attempted to pick Van Helsing up.

"I mean it!" said Carl. "Its talking! To me! Can't you hear it?"

"Honestly," said Dracula, heaving a sigh. After about thirty seconds, the squirrel echoed him. Carl shrieked again, but Dracula by that time had managed to get Van Helsing slung over his shoulder and was moving off down the street.

"Its alright, Carl!" said the squirrel.

"No its not!" bellowed Carl.

"Yes it is!"

"No its not!"

"Yes it is!"

"Alright," said Carl, wiping sweat off his brow. "This is simply not happening. I am not here having an argument with a demonic squirrel, I'm just not!"

"This is not an argument," said the squirrel icily. "Its just a series of contradictions."

"its not!" yelled Carl.

"It is! You just contradicted me!"

"No I didn't!"

"Yes you did!"

"No I didn't no I didn't no I didn't!" bawled Carl. The squirrel stared at him.

"Clearly you have become unhinged," it said.

"No I haven't!"

"Also you are in denial."

"No I'm not!"

"Time to give up my secret," said the squirrel with a sigh. "Carl, I didn't want to tell you this, but I'm the Writer. Really, its me, Carl— I snuck back in. I couldn't commandeer another human avatar, so I borrowed the squirrel's body for a bit. Its quite comfortable, actually," it added, "just rather low to the ground."

Carl stared at it for a few minutes. Then he faltered. "Really you're— you're just the Writer?"

"Yes. In disguise, if you will."

Carl teetered a moment longer between indecision, then bent and gathered up the squirrel in his arms. "Oh, I missed you! Things have been absolutely insane since you were killed! I mean— not that they weren't insane before, but— I missed you!" He planted a kiss on the squirrels head.

"Huh," said the squirrel, "if only I were human, I would really have enjoyed that." It sighed. "Oh, the saddest words in any language— if only—" After a moment it became aware that Carl was staring at it, and drew itself up. "Come, we must catch up to Van Helsing and Dracula. I don't trust them not to get into trouble without me there."

"How are you going to help?" Carl inquired, allowing the squirrel to run up onto his shoulder, where it perched, holding onto his ear for balance. "You're just a little furry critter."

"Oh ye of little faith," said the squirrel piously, and pointed down the street. "Onward, dearest friar."

"That's another thing," said Carl conversationally, as they quickly began to catch up to the Van Helsing-laden Dracula. "Van Helsing has discovered a word he likes, and keeps repeating it."

"Ah yes. Fronk. I remember." The squirrel sniggered.

"I wish you would make him stop," said Carl petulantly.

"Why? Its funny."

"Its annoying."

"That's what makes it funny, silly," said the squirrel, tweaking his ear.

"But I'm supposed to be the Comic Relief!"

"And you are. But people laugh almost as much at Van Helsing's stupidity as they do at your— well, whatever it is you'd call it that you do. And as a writer, I cannot turn down a chance for a laugh."

"That must make life hard."

"It does, yes." The squirrel was silent, and then added, upon reflection, "Also, as I am now considerably smaller, picking up the pen is difficult too—"

Van Helsing suddenly woke up. The first thing that met his eyes was the squirrel. The next thing that met his eyes was the ground as he flailed until Dracula dropped him face-first onto the pavement.

He got up, holding his nose and screaming, nasally, "Squirrel! SQUIRREL!"

"Oh dear," said Carl, resignedly.

"You said it," said the squirrel, heaving a sigh.

"SQUIRREL!"

"He certainly does latch on to things, does he not?" remarked Dracula. "Come, we are here."

"Come on," said Carl to the squirrel, and walked towards the door where Dracula stood. The vampire tilted his head to look at the friar.

"Vhy—" he said, "are you speaking to that small flying rodent?"

The squirrel squeaked indignantly.

"Its not a small flying rodent," said Carl. "I mean, yes, it is, but it is also the Writer. Say hello, Writer."

"Bugger off!" screamed the squirrel at Dracula.

Dracula looked mildly amused.

"I am mildly amused," he said. "Have you trained the creature to chatter when spoken to, or is it just good timing?"

"No, it spoke to you. It told you to bugger off."

Dracula laughed. "It did no such thing."

"Yes it did!" Carl frowned. "It did too!"

"Squirrels do not speak English," said Dracula primly.

"This one does! I tell you, it's the Writer."

"Ah, vell, that vould explain things," said Dracula. "Vriters do not speak English, either."

"Writer," said Carl to the squirrel, "say something."

"Something," said the squirrel sourly, folding its little furry arms.

"There!" shouted Carl in triumph. "It said something!"

Dracula shook his head.

"I heard nothing," he said. "Except a little tiny squirrel noise. It vas quite cute, but it vas not a vord."

Carl stared at the squirrel, aghast. The squirrel stared back.

Did it mean that he was the only one who could hear the squirrel speak?

Did it mean—

Was he going mad?

For a brief moment he freaked out over this, but then the realization came to him that he had already acknowledged that he was a fictional character, and so it didn't really matter if he was sane or not. The point was moot.

It was also moot because at that moment Van Helsing finally snapped and shot the squirrel with his crossbow.