Status: WIP

Sequel/Series:

Disclaimer: I did not create the characters here, I don't own them. I derive no profit from this effort. I mean nothing but respect for the creators, owners, and the actors and actresses who portray them. Only Scribe and the occasional original character are mine

Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver

Warnings: Do NOT read this if you're looking for logic, strong plotting, and self-restraint. What have you people done to me? I can't even put in a fucking paragraph break, but I'm compelled to put up this template, lest I somehow lose this mad idea that crept up on me last night while I innocently tried to sleep. Okay--not so innocently. *sigh* I think Ed started it with a Blazing Saddles reference. I go to bed. A demented plot bunny (no doubt sent by Mel Brooks) sneaks into bed with me and starts whispering. *rolls eyes* If I haven't convinced you by now that I am insane--wait. I apologize for the lack of peaceful spaces to break up the ideas, but you know why, and as you know how frustrating this is for me, you should have some idea of how BADLY I want to write this fic. *clears throat* 'Scribe Does Rockridge'--not quite but I couldn't resist that. Rockridge has a new, not so welcome Sheriff--now someone has arrived to set up the town's first newspaper. Guess who? *gasp!* "It's a WUMMUN?!" *Scribe peeks down own cleavage* "Yup--unless I was REALLY misinformed in Sex Ed." And it turns out that, what with a handy-dandy printing press, Miz Mary Sue Scribe has a profitable sideline--turn of the century 'racy books', catering to the fantasies of the masses about such people as Belle Starr and 'Bat' ("You have NO idea what you can do with a nickname like that in smut. Check out porn videos in a few decades." "What are...?" "Never mind."). Sheriff Bart is going to need all the help he an get to fight the evil Hedley Lamarr (but can he be ALL bad when there is so obviously SOMETHING between he and henchman Taggert?) and who better than a fanfiction writer? *Narrator voice* Is the Old West ready for slash? All those lonesome cowboys stuck out on the range, waiting for the saloon girls and schoolmarms to arrive--what do YOU think? IS Mongo straight--or in denial? Will he coax Bart and The Kid into a three way? And precisely what does Taggert mean by, "Gol darnit Mr. Lamarr, you use your tongue prettier'n a twenty dollar whore." Tune in soon (hopefully) to find out.

Blazing Fanfictions, 3

Scribe clapped her hands, then rubbed them together. "Okey-dokey, introductions are out of the way. The local population has been suitably scandalized. Someone point me toward my new place of business." Everyone in the crowd pointed, in unison. "Terrific. You know, it there's a body of water anywhere near, you folks might consider setting up the first team of synchronized swimmers. But then, what's the point, since it's going to be some time before the first Olympics, and even longer before they have aquacades in Florida, or Esther Williams needs backup. Beau, you're into the gallantry thing. Hand me my bag."

Beauregard started to pick up Inga, who snapped at him. "YARP!"

"Careful--she's a little touchy about that. No one except me is allowed to call her an unflattering name unless they're canine, reasonably handsome, and of a manageable size. Besides, that gag is from Young Frankenstein, not Saddles." Beauregard handed her the carpetbag. "Now you may hand me my bitch."

"YARKyipYARK!"

"Oh, hush. It's a legitimate term, be proud of it. Besides, the newspaper office is down the street, and there are a lot of horses in this town. As short as your legs are, do you really want to deal with hooves and road apples?"

*sniff* "Nerf." Inga sat up to allow herself to be more easily raised, then settled into the crook of Scribe's arm.

Scribe started for the newspaper office. Then she paused and turned quickly. The entire crowd, which had begun to drift after her, froze. She stared at them, then slowly turned and started walking again. They followed. She turned with a jerk, and they went stock still again. She looked down at Inga. "I haven't played Statues since I was about ten. There are better games, though." She looked at the crowd. "Scribe says one big step forward." Everyone in the crowd took a big step, then watched her expectantly. "Scribe says touch your nose." Everyone touched the tip of their nose. "Oh, the power, the power." She looked down at Inga. "Whattaya think? Should I order a full-blown orgy, or just make everyone strip?" *plop* "Someone pick up the schoolmarm." Beauregard bent toward the again recumbent woman, and Scribe pointed at him, yelling, and "I didn't say Scribe says!"

"But... but..."

She waved at him. "You're out."

"But that's not fair!" Beau protested.

"Now, don't try to make excuses," said Owen Johnson. "We all heard. There was CLEARLY no 'Scribe says'."

"But..."

"Owen Johnson is right," said Howard Johnson. "Rules are rules, Beau. As a gambler you should know that."

Another citizen piped up. "If we didn't have rules, there would be CHAOS. Wait... There IS chaos. But we've sent for a sheriff, and we should try to abide by the rules even if he isn't here to enforce them yet."

"But that was a trick." There were raspberries. "Couldn't I just pay a forfeit instead of being put out?"

"That's up to the caller," said Owen. "if she'll allow..." *blink* "Where is she?"

Gabby Johnson said, "She skedaddled."

"You mean she left?"

"Nope. I've seen leavin', an' that was a skedaddle if I ever saw one." He looked thoughtful, then grinned. "A skedaddle with a little bit of a wiggle an' a cha-cha-cha thrown in. She was singin'."

"Singing what?"

Gabby warbled, but the effect just wasn't the same. "It's so easyyyy, so doggon easyyyyy..."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Scribe put Inga down so that she could open the door to the newspaper office. It was locked. She blew a raspberry at it, then cocked her head, considering. First she felt along the top of the doorframe. When that yielded nothing, she examined the ground. "Yap." She looked over to find Inga sitting with her paw on one of the most fake looking false rocks she'd ever seen.

Scribe petted Inga, turning the rock over to reveal a key attached to the back. "Let's ignore the existence of plastic in this time frame for as long as we can, right?" She unlocked the door, and Inga pattered in before her. Once inside she shut and locked the door, then dropped the key down the front of her T-shirt. It clanged to the ground. Inga picked it up in her teeth and sat up, offering it to her. Scribe took it and hung it on a nail. "Thanks. And thank you for not making any comment about not trying that unless I'm wearing a bra."

Inga shrugged. "Arf arroo arf."

"Yes, I guess someone who had about four sets that don't even manage a AA might have a little sympathy in that area. Okay, let's check out the digs."

There was a very large front room, divided by a counter. In front of the counter were a few chairs, and behind it was a wood stove, a printing press, bundles of paper (both printed and pristine), some filing cabinets, and a BIG ass roll top desk, which Scribe embraced with a squeal. "One of my childhood ambitions is fulfilled!" She rolled up the top and examined what was reveled. "Damn! Enough pigeonholes to keep a bigot busy slotting people for ages. Hmm. A fountain pen and an inkwell. Riiiight." She thumped her carpetbag up on the desk, opened it, and pulled out a huge pack of ballpoint pens. "What else? What's this?" She lifted a cover off a black, boxy object, and clutched her chest. "Shades of my youth! Inga, do you know what that is?"

Inga looked up from a fairly suspicious stain she'd been investigating. "Urf?"

"It's a frickin' upright manual typewriter! I learned to type on a dinosaur that probably wasn't too many generations removed from this. Nostalgia time." Her eyes narrowed. "No spell check, and no auto-correct, though." She shrugged. "I'm the only game in town, nyah-ha-ha."

There were two doors in the back of the place. One led back to a small, but nicely turned out bedroom. The lacy curtains and flowered spread on the gleaming brass bed made Scribe raise her eyebrows a little in speculation about her predecessor. She bared her teeth at the washbasin, water pitcher, and (most especially) chamber pot. Inga had pattered in after her to inspect her new quarters, and Scribe said with a sigh, "I just wish the damn toilet and shower would fit through the carpet bag, but I suppose I have to make SOME sacrifices. I don't so much mind leaving television behind. I mean, the selection would pretty much have to be crappy, right? But I WILL miss my indoor plumbing. Ah, well," she patted the carpetbag, which was now sitting on the bed. "At least I'll have plenty of tissue. I don't think this area has even reached mail order catalogue stage yet. Come to think of it, I believe I know what's going to happen to a lot of my newspapers once they've been read. All I can say is I hope the ink fixes to the paper well."

*snort*

"I know, I know. How to keep butts clean is not a priority for you. In fact, the riper they are, the better a doggie likes 'em--am I right, or am I right?"

*sigh*

"Don't roll your eyes. You KNOW I'm right. I'll unpack in a minute, but first let's see where that other door leads."

It led into a teeny kitchen. "Oh, look, I was wrong--I DO have SOME indoor plumbing. My very own water pump. I feel so special. And another wood or coal burning stove. Ee-yah. I don't picture much more than toast or S'mores being made on this puppy. I just hope this burg has a decent restaurant." She sighed. "I WILL miss pizza delivery, but not even Dominos could get it here in a half-hour." She looked down at Inga. "Which state are we in, anyway?" The weenie dog shrugged. "I suppose a Taco Bell is an impossibility." Inga leered. "Yeah, I know you have the hots for the Chihuahua. You're just like me when it comes to accents."

The back door led into a miniscule, fenced back yard, complete with... Scribe covered her eyes and groaned. "The little brown shack out back. Inga, remind me to check in my carpetbag for sandpaper. That sucker is getting a MAJOR working over before I trust my behind to a wooden bench. Hm. And Airwicks. Lots and lots of 'em. Maybe some of those dangling pine tree air fresheners, too." She shuddered. "And a can of All Purpose Raid, kept RIGHT by the door, just in case."

She heard a bell tinkle, and cocked her head. "Hark. Methinks we have our first visitor. Wonder who'd be brave or foolish enough to venture in first? Let's go find out." They went back inside.

In the front of the office, there was an EXTREMELY large man in generic cowboy attire. When he saw her, he removed his hat and smiled, showing a slight space between his front teeth. "Gut day, Miss."

She eyed him suspiciously. "Uh-huh."

"I yam..."

"Don't tell me--let me guess. Handsome Stranger?~"

He beamed. "Yes! You know me?"

"I know you're one of the most improbable beings to ever appear in any of my fictions. I only know of one other actor who did a western who became governor of California--and just CATCH me writing fanfictions about HIM. Whatcha want?"

"Vell, I heard you vere opening this place for business, and I thought maybe you'd have a position for me."

*Massive coughing fit breaks out somewhere overhead* *Scribe looks up* "Yeah, yeah, you dirty minded buggers. No freakin' way. There's just too damn much OF him, I'm not fond of the original model's politics, and... I lived through the Clinton administration. He smokes cigars, okay?" She looked at him. "No luck, cowboy. I need... oh, let me think... A grizzled, crotchety, mostly drunk typesetter..."

*bing* A grizzled man wearing sleeve garters and a green eyeshade staggered into the office. "I'm here for my dag-nab job back. Last hornswogglin' pissant editor fired me cause of my misspelling. Warrent my fault. War just ONE letter off. So I said the men in town loved the restaurant's new cock instead of new cook. The damn chef didn't seem to mind."

"You'll fit right in," Scribe assured him. "I'll also need an ambitious, idealistic, slightly eccentric junior reporter I can shovel most of the work off on--preferably young and sexy as hell." She paused, then looked up quickly, saying loudly, "MALE VERSION!"

*bing* A young man with long, curly brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing a suit that was natty for this area, a bowler hat, and rimless spectacles came in. "My name is Blair Sandburg, and I just heard that this paper will be starting up again. You need me."

Scribe smiled slowly. "You have no idea how right you are."

"I have a degree in journalism from Cascade University, extensive experience as an investigative reporter, and..."

"You're preaching to the choir, hon."

"But don't you want to see my qualifications?"

"Sure. Turn around and raise up your jacket." Puzzled, he did so. She eyed his ass. "Best references I've ever seen. You're hired. And lastly, I'm going to need a cute, feisty kid, probably being raised by a widowed mother, to hump the papers around and hero worship me."

*bing*

A short, slender figure in blue jeans, boots, low pulled Newsie hat, and a plaid shirt came in. "Golly, gee, Miss Editor Lady person. I really, really need a job to bring in money 'cause my Ma has to take in washing, and the people in Rockridge who don't wash their own clothes are so filthy that she don't get too much business."

"He's awful young to vork," said Stranger, with an edge of disapproval. "His voice hasn't even changed."

Scribe pulled off the Newsie hat, letting a pair of pigtails fall free. "Might be because he's a girl. Look, it's getting crowded in here, and you take up a lot of space, Stranger. There's plenty of desert out there. Go find yourself a loincloth, and I promise you that your future will be so bright you'll need shades. Go. Shoo." Stranger shuffled out, looking baffled (but why should he change expressions just for THIS situation?) "How old are you?"

"Sixteen, but I'm small for my age. Look, Ma really COULD use the money, and I need to be bringing in something. That way every person in Rockridge won't be asking me why I don't get married and start having babies."

"Why don't you?"

The girl gave her a level look. "I haven't run into the right woman yet."

"I like you. What's your name?"

"My name's Jocasta, but mosta the guys call me Sugarfoot or Little Bit."

"And what do you do when they do that?"

"Kick 'em where it hurts the worst."

"You're hired. How would you feel about being called 'Jock'?"

She grinned. "Suits me fine."

Inga was staring at Sandburg, who said, "Why is she giving me that look?"

"Because she knows that she's now out of the running for best 'puppy dog eyes'," said Scribe. She surveyed her new trio of employees with satisfaction. "Welcome to the asylum, people. Have any of you ever hear heard of a little thing called The World Weekly News? The National Enquirer?" They all shook their heads. "Good. I won't have to break you of aspirations to their levels of integrity."