Scribe watched as the two men, one tall and dark *Very dark, as in 'ain't he a chocolate treat'?* and the other blonde and blue-eyed, rode off together into the sunset. She sighed, rubbing her aching ribs. Blazing Saddles was one of her all time favorite movies ("All together now--'Mel Brooks is a comic geen-i-us'"), and had been since it was first released. She'd had to wait and see it on television, since on her one chance to go she'd been saddled with a little sister one year shy of legal. And on television she hadn't gotten the full effect ("They cut the sound out of the 'beans around the campfire' scene. Cut the sound! Why the hell did they leave it in at all?"). But when she'd finally acquired a VCR and seen it in all its crude, rude, and socially unacceptable glory... Her family hadn't actually had to give her artificial respiration to help her catch her breath, but it had been a near thing.

That, however, had been before she'd discovered slash, and as any dedicated slasher ("No, not as in Freddy, Michael, and Jason--not unless they get in a really weird ass threesome.") will tell you, they see the world from a different perspective. Before she'd just giggled when Mongo had declared himself straight, when Taggert had made that twenty-dollar whore remark to Hedley, and when the chorus boys in the final fight had flittered so sweetly around the rowdy cowboys (some of them having hissies, some of them making dates). She'd just seen Sheriff Bart and the Waco Kid ("Damn, it's a shame Cleavon Little passed so early--he was funny. And Gene Wilder? No one does pop-eyed exasperation like that man, but he can be funny when he's laid back, too.") as the eternal 'pardners'. This time around... Ba-bing! Ow, might have been set in the 1870s or 80s, but it sure the hell looked like the Gay Nineties. And Brooks just let it go to waste.

As the credits began to roll, she threw a few popcorn kernels at the TV. "Kiss! Kiss before you disappear into the romantic glow, you numb-nuts! Kiss! God-dammit! Mel, you were so quick off the mark to do anything else controversial in this movie, why the hell didn't you take the obvious step and have Sheriff Bart and the Waco Kid act on the obvious mutual attraction?"

She slumped back on the couch, complaining, "It isn't as if I was asking for hot, sweaty guy/guy sex. Heck, you can't even really get that these day--um, except maybe on Queer As Folk."

Her tomcat, Snicklefritz, had entered, jumped up beside her, and was investigating what was left in the bottom of the bowl. He looked up, licked melted butter off his whiskers, and said, "Mmmmrowp?"

" I wasn't even asking for a commitment ceremony and a happily-ever-after. But Brooks owed us at least a declaration, don't you think?"

"Nnnowp."

"Said the ball-less tomcat who's in a cross species female domination relationship with an older weenie dog. No, it would not be 'odd'."

*sniff*

"Oh, stop it." She scratched him behind the ears. "It was either your dangles, or you had to live outside. A lot of guys I know have figuratively and metaphorically given up theirs for a comfortable living arrangement." Miss Inga, the plump, elderly black-and-tan weenie bitch (and the term is used more for biological classification than character description--she was quite a sweet dog, actually), waddled in and barked sharply. Snicklefritz immediately hopped down and began to groom her fur. Scribe shook her head. "You two have a weird relationship. If anyone ever finds out how you actually are together, it's going to sink that sweet little kiddy book I'm starring you in."

Scribe shut off the television and VCR, petulantly not rewinding in a burst of passive-aggressive defiance. She drummed her fingers for a moment, then got up and limped into the kitchen to deposit her bowl and snag a fresh, cold Diet Pepsi from the fridge. She popped the top and drank a good third of it in one gulp...

Not really a good idea. A sudden infusion of caffeine on top of a cold headache is not the best thing in the world when you're already irritated. She clutched her throbbing forehead, teeth gritted, and said, softly, "Fuck."

Her mother, ready to go out, was just passing through the kitchen. "Fannie, language!"

"Sometimes it's all that fits, Mom."

"What is it now? Bump you foot?"

"Oh, a movie I was watching irritated me. The people who made is just ignored the blatantly, obviously proper conclusion."

Her mother shrugged, kissing her on the cheek. "Your step-dad and I are on our way to the casinos now. We won't be back till Sunday--we have discounts you wouldn't believe." She patted her daughter. "And don't get so upset. After all, there's nothing you can do about it."

Scribe watched her mother leave, and was rather glad that the dear woman couldn't see the unholy grin that was lighting her face. "You're wrong, Mom," she crooned as the door shut. "For I am..." She threw out her chest, "Scribe! Mistress of the Mary Sue, and Mary Sue can solve it all! Mwhaa ha ha haaa!"

In the living room the cat and dog exchanged looks. Snicklefritz: *Oh, God, here we go again!* Inga: *I don't know about you, but I'm going along this time. Sure, she leaves plenty of food and water, but I can't work the cable box, and it gets fucking boring watching the same channel for one or two days. Besides, you have your sandbox--I have to potty on that cold tile in the laundry room, and you know how I hate that.* Snicklefritz: *Do I? Even when you sit up and beg you'll only do it on carpet--you won't let your twat hit bare floor.* Inga: *Oops! She's headed for the computer! Gimme some sugar if you aren't coming.* The cat licked her snout. Inga wandered off singing, *If loooving you is wrooong, I don't wanna be riiiight...*

As Inga had expected, after laying out plenty of pet food and fresh water (and half of a cold meatloaf, chopped into bite-sized pieces * Isn't guilt grand?* Inga thought, snatching a couple of mouthfuls in passing) Scribe had hobbled right to her computer station in her room.

Scribe glanced at Inga as she entered. "Another reason to do this, besides setting Bart and Jim up right? It'll give me a couple of days free of..." She rubbed her sore arm, then her sore hip, "This shit. I just looove being physically whole in the Scribeverse. Hee hee. Maybe I'll finally play around with some of the physical stereotypes while I'm at it. Might as well. My only regret is that they won't have Pop Tarts, because I could eat all I'd want..." A light dawned in her eyes. "What am I saying?! Of course I can have Pop Tarts there. I can have anything I want there--I'm the Mary Sue! Bwhaa haa haaa!" *sniff* "It's good to be the author."

She fired up the Pentium, lovingly petting the newly donated Dell keyboard that had replaced the other (which had probably succumbed to several years of cracker and toast crumbs, not to mention regular sprays of a variety of diet beverages, because she would read comedy while she drank), and opened Microsoft Word. She was setting up a new template, and Inga settled at her feet, saying, "Urf?"

"Hm? Yeah, sure I'm going to post it to the lists. Why not? I keep telling you, Mary Sues are a lot more widely accepted these days. Look at how well Career Girl Blues and The Proverb Series have done."

"Yerf."

"Yeah, you're right. I think comedy does give it a better chance of being accepted. The CSI one is going well, but it has a heavy lacing of comedy as well. That reminds me, I need to look up some more insulting names to call Sidle. Anyway, this one..." She chortled. Inga rolled her eyes. "This one should be fun. Pure farce."

"Nnrrr owr."

"I can't help it if you prefer Noel Coward for comedy--I'm not writing a slash of Blithe Spirit. I have nothing against femme slashing the present wife with the ghost wife--fairly hot idea, actually--spirit visitations... But damn it, I'm not writing it till I figure out someone to slash the Rex Harrison character with because he was a sexy beast back then, and... Why am I arguing with you? You don't even give feedback. You'd better get back to the kitchen, or Snicky will have gobbled all the meatloaf. He'll be so full he won't even mind if you bite him in the ass."

"Gro oo."

Scribe stopped typing and looked down at her. "Say what?"

"Errr ee."

"Yes, I heard you, but what do you mean you want to go to? Inga, I'm going inter-dimensional, to my MarySueverse. You know how crazy that is." Inga (big surprise) gave her puppy dog eyes. "Shit! Not the big, sad eyes! Okay, you can come, but don't say I didn't warn you. Let me set everything up." She typed busily.

Inga knew she had another couple of minutes (Scribe wouldn't run off and leave her after she'd promised. Years of living with temperamental animals who knew exactly what a softy she was for anything four-legged and furry had taught her that it could lead to wet spots on the bed, providing Inga could hoist herself up that high, and she could if she was motivated enough). The weenie dog trotted into the kitchen and bullied the cat away from the meatloaf in time to get a good third of it. Then, almost cylindrical, and burping (Scribe's Mom would put bell peppers in the mix), she waddled back into the bedroom and sat beside her pet, waiting patiently.

"You know, Inga, I believe that this is the first Mary Sue I've ever started without a clear idea of some character I wanted to jump." She stopped typing and looked down at the dog. "Quit smirking."

"Mff?"

"Yes, you. I've never noticed you confining your canoodling to the periods you're officially in heat. Actually, I'm glad you asked to come along. We're bound to run into Lili von Schtupp, so it might be convenient to have someone along who understands German."

Inga gave her a disbelieving look. "Oorneer."

"I know you were born right here in Texas, but you're a German breed. Hello--dachshund? This is going to be a MarySue, where characters brought in from *coughcough* 'Real Life' suddenly acquire fantastic powers--if I say so. Trust me--you'll speak German like Marlene Dietrich--or at least Sergeant Schultz, depending on how accurate Babelfish is."

She resumed typing, fingers pattering industriously. "Heh heh. Ya know, there weren't too many careers open to women back then, especially if you're going by the stereotypes of the western genre that Brooks was skewering. But I have a way to fit right in--western-wise, Brooks-wise, and fanficcer-wise," Inga opened her mouth, "and yes, I know that none of those are actual words. What are you--my beta? Okay, I've juuuust about got it set up." She grinned down at Inga. "Ready?"

Inga: *Shit. She looks just like that guy in the leather and safety pins who visited a while back--the one who was making whoopie with the winged guy and that TW person. Maybe I should rethink this...*

Scribe had bent down and scooped her into her arms. She smiled down at the little dog. "You like Coward, right? Here's a quote. 'Consider the public. Never fear it nor despise it. Coax it, charm it, interest it, stimulate it, shock it now and then if you must, make it laugh, make it cry, but above all never, never, never bore the living hell out of it.'" Her hand settled on the mouse, sliding it till the cursor on the drop down menu hovered over SAVE. "Let's go be interesting."

Inga: *It's times like these I wish I wasn't an agnostic, 'cause praying seems awful appropriate.*

*Click*

*Flash*