The stagecoach rumbled along the dusty road toward the, up until now, peaceful town of Rockridge. Up on top the reins were held by a crusty stagecoach driver. Bits of the crust occasionally blew off with the gritty wind whipped up by the team of horses. Inside there was a small selection of stereotypical western stagecoach passengers--Miss Priscilla Goodwoman (Schoolmarm), Goldie MacKnickers (Saloon Girl), Beauregard Regard (Flashy Gambler), and Raunch Cootie (Sullen and Disrespectful Drifter/Cowhand).

It had been a long trip. The Schoolmarm had snubbed the Saloon Girl, the Drifter/Cowhand had insulted the Schoolmarm with leering suggestions, The Flashy Gambler had threatened to thrash the Drifter/Cowhand and did everything but lick the Schoolmarm's boots while loftily ignoring the Saloon Girl. The Saloon Girl (who had a lot more sophisticated thought processes than any of the other passengers) had thought that if the Flashy Gambler actually had licked the Schoolmarm's boots, things might have gotten a little interesting.

In other words, the standard Incidents Among Wildly Different Passengers had all been accomplished, and everyone was more than a little bored. This never goes on long in a fanfiction.

There was a crackle, a flash, and a woman thumped down into the narrow space between Beauregard and Raunch. An instant later a small, long, fat black-and-tan dog landed in the woman's lap. She instantly jerked the dog off her lap and put it on the floor. Just in time, as evidenced by the immediate pattering sound and faint ammonia smell. The woman looked down at the dog and said, "I thought you knew that you needed to 'go' before we 'went'."

"Erreeoo."

"Don't give me that 'I didn't need to' nonsense." She glanced around at the others. "Sorry, but she's getting old, and the, uh, faucet doesn't close quite as tightly as it used to." She noticed Raunch's foot coming up. Instantly she reached out, grabbed the grubby bandana around his neck, and took two turns of it around her fist, bringing him to 'eyes bugging out' level. "Try it and you'll end up with even less balls than she has." He put his foot down, and she let go. "Good choice."

"Miss," said Beauregard. "How on earth did y'all get here?"

Scribe looked up at the ceiling, muttering, "I guess Mel is writing some of the dialogue." *snort* "Yankees." She looked at Beauregard. "Y'all is a plural term, dip. I may be larger than I want to be, but there's only one of me. How did I get here? Well, you see, my daddy met my mommy, and they fell in love, and were married. Now, when a man and a woman love each other very, very much, they want to get close in a special way..." Priscilla fainted. The woman blinked. "If she faints at that, the woman is going to spend most of this story unconscious."

Beauregard was busy fanning Priscilla with a handkerchief, so Raunch started up the interrogation. "Who the toot are you?"

"The movie was rated R," she told him. "You're allowed to say hell. And since this is my version of it, you can do a lot more than that."

"All right--who the fuck are you?"

"Good thing Priscilla is still unconscious." She pulled out a notebook. "Foul mouthed supporting character. Check." She made a mark on the page. "My name is Scribe."

"That's a funny name."

"This from a man named Raunch."

He grinned, showing that professional dental hygiene was still a long way in the future. He patted his lap. "Come sit here an' I'll show you how I got my name."

She scratched out what she'd written on the page and made more notes. "Foul mouthed supporting character who will in the future get kicked in the balls. Check." She gave him a cold look. "Back off. I don't want to exhaust all my stereotypes in the first chapter."

Priscilla had regained consciousness. "Who are you, and how did you get here?" she asked.

"Damn, you people are in a rut. I've already told who I am, so why don't we move on to what I am, which will explain how I got here." She spread a hand on her chest. "I'm a Mary Sue."

Raunch looked puzzled, which was probably a natural state for him. "I thought you were Scribe?"

"I am. Quit trying to understand it. You'll just make your head hurt. I didn't bring aspirin, and... Wait, what am I saying?" She reached up and pulled down a large carpetbag.

Goldie said, "What is that?"

"Overhead luggage." Everyone looked up at the ceiling (which was bare of any sort of overhead rack) then looked down at Scribe. "Is this really something important enough for you to spend time trying to figure it out?" She opened the bag and began to rummage in it. She came up with a small bottle, opened it, and shook out two little yellow pills, offering it to Raunch. "Advil. It's little, it's yellow, it's better than nothing."

He took it. "I can't swallow these without..."

She reached into the bag again. This time she pulled out a glass of ice water--one with a cartoon Great Dane etched on the glass--and handed it over. Raunch gaped at it, then cleared his throat, and said casually. "I don't usually drink plain water."

"I'm not giving you beer, but..." She reached into the bag again, pulled out a lime wedge, and dropped it in the glass. She closed the bag and patted it. "I got the idea from Mary Poppins."

Beauregard pointed at the bag. "That... that... that..."

"Yes, I'm a carpetbagger. Get over it. But you're right--I'm being rude." She opened the bag again. "Let's see." She began pulling out glasses. "Lemonade for the schoolmarm. Mint julep for the cutie-poo Southern gallant. And Goldie--a Pink Squirrel. Try it--you'll like it. And for me..." She pulled out a violently reddish-pink drink, decorated with a tiny, bright paper parasol. "Mai Tai."

"Once again," said Beauregard, "How did you get here?"

She looked at him blandly. "Are you sure you want to know?"

"Yes!"

"Okay. I'm from the future, or at least one version of the future. Or maybe you should say that I'm from another dimension. In my world, there is a movie called Blazing Saddles. Do they have nickelodeons yet? If they do, movies are like those, except you don't have to peer into a box, they're blown up dozens of feet high, and they have sound. If they don't have nickelodeons, think of a play made of thousands and thousands of pictures that change to tell a story, so quickly that it looks like you're watching real people moving around..." She took a deep breath. "Good Christ, this is complicated! I'm a writer, and I've created my own world, and now I'm here to play around. Basically, you're a semi-autonomous creation, and I can pretty much do whatever I want to. Happy?"

"I wish I hadn't asked."

"Told you. Anyway, I'm on my way to Rockridge. I figured I'd mix things up a little."

"Oh," said Priscilla. "You won't find any excitement there. Rockridge is a very quiet, peaceful, respectable town."

Scribe grinned at her. "Wait."

"Ma'am," said Beauregard, "While Ah would never dream of insulting a lady, your cheese has obviously slid off your cracker."

"Ya think? What gave you a clue?"

"Well, aside from your babbling, there is your," he looked interested, but askance, "outlandish and borderline obscene attire."

She looked down at herself. "What? I'll admit that stretch pants and a T-shirt aren't exactly Sunday-go-to-meeting, but I'm not even wearing one of my risque shirts. I considered the one with the line of cats walking toward you on the front, and the same cats walking away with tails hoisted on the back, but I figured that all those little pink spots would freak... She's fainted again."

Beauregard fanned Priscilla. "Ah am sorry, but upon arrival in Rockridge, Ah am afraid Ah will have to restrain you, then hand you over to the sheriff for incarceration until you can be passed along to a suitable asylum."

She pursed her lips. "One--I'm not interested in wearing a straight jacket. I just don't look good in canvas. Two--there is no sheriff in Rockridge. That's pretty much why I'm here. And three--while I've had a few 'oh no! I'm in the clutches of an evil doctor who has interesting ideas about the use of stirrups' fantasies--not this time around. So..." Once again the bag was opened. This time she pulled out two pairs of dark lenses glasses and a device that looked a bit like a chunky metallic fountain pen. She donned one pair, then settled the second on the weenie dog's snout. She held up the device. "Everybody, please direct your attention to this."

They did. There was a bright flash. The other four people in the coach suddenly developed glazed looks. Inga pawed off her pair of shades, picked them up gently in her teeth, stood on her hind legs, paws against Scribe's knees, and managed to drop them in the open carpet bag, while Scribe said, "You will not remember anything that happened after you left the last stop. I got on board with you from there. I am Miss Mary Sue Scribe--the new newspaper editor for Rockridge. The drinks? Let's just say that the last rest stop was really kick ass." She started to put away the neuralizer, muttering, "I gotta remember to get this back to Kay and Jay pretty soon. I wouldn't want Tommy Lee Jones irritated with me."

"Urf!"

"Oh, sorry, Inga." She raised her voice again. "This is Inga. You are to treat her slavishly. Treats of all kinds are allowed, except alcohol and chocolate."

"Yarf!"

"You know you can't handle booze. I'm still pissed at Rachel for leaving that Amaretto Sour on the floor at the last party. I love you, but you can't sing 'Melancholy Baby' for crap. If you'd just stick to the blues..."

Inga eyed Scribe. "Eeer?"

Scribe thought about it. "Since you're German, I suppose it would be cruel and unusual to deny you beer. But the first time I find you in the gutter, you're on the wagon again."

"Yipyipyap."

"Yes, I know that with your short legs you're more gutter-prone than most people. You know very well what I meant, Inga. Don't try that splitting hairs crap with me. Just because I tell you not to pee on the floor doesn't mean you're allowed to jump up and pee on the ceiling." Priscilla fainted. Scribe quirked an eyebrow. "Was it the pee comment?"

Beauregard nodded. "Ah do believe."

"Well, I'll have to remember not to say anything even slightly vulgar if she's holding anything hot..." Priscilla was waking up, "or nursing a baby." She fainted again. "She'd never make it as a teacher in my time--not if the kids were over about third grade. They'd just go potty mouth, then run riot." She rummaged in her bag again and this time came up with a small squirt gun. She squinted, then nailed Priscilla in the face. The woman woke up, spluttering. "I usually use that to get my cat off the counters--who knew it was so versatile?" She put away the gun. "And the I suppose I'll drop the no chocolate rule, Inga. After all, if I can have Pop Tarts here without hurting my health, you should be able to pop Hershey Kisses, without harm, if you want."

There was a rap on the roof of the coach, and the driver yelled, "Rockridge! Comin' into Rockridge."

Scribe chirped, "Fasten your seatbelts, and please return the stewardess to an upright position." The other passengers started looking around, feeling for seatbelts. "I just hope you people aren't going to be so easy that it takes the sport out of it."

The stage slowed down, then pulled to a stop. Beauregard opened the door, stepped out, and reached up to help Priscilla down from the coach. He held out his hand again, and Goldie and Raunch looked at Scribe expectantly. "What? I'd have to step over him to get out, and I'm not doing that. He looks like the type who'd take advantage, and unfortunately the types who'd take advantage are so seldom the types you'd want to give an advantage to." They stared. Scribe sighed. "That means 'after you', Toots." Goldie disembarked. "You, too," Scribe told Raunch. "I'm not about to turn my back on you in an enclosed space." He snapped his fingers, then stepped down. Scribe got a good giggle when Beauregard didn't react fast enough, and ended up holding Raunch's hand to assist him down. She rubbed her hands together. "Two guys holding hands, even if by accident. It's a start... It's a start."

"Ma'am," said the stage coach driver. "Do you intend to continue on to the next stop, or are you going to be getting out soon?"

"Watch it, or I'll write you a flaming case of hemeroids, coupled with the trots." She stood in the doorway of the stage, surveying her surroundings. It was your stereotypical small old west town--watering troughs, hitching posts, saloon, livery stable, blacksmith shop, general store, cat house, sheriff's office, little red schoolhouse, little brown church, orange roofed hotel... She looked again, them murmured, "Riiiight. I forgot that the town is populated with Johnsons.

The arrival of the stagecoach in a little place like Rockridge was an event, and people had come from every corner of town. Scribe looked out on them, mentally checking off characters and types, everything from Big Token Blond Swede, to Sloppy Town Drunk. Then she noticed that everyone was staring at her. She quirked an eyebrow questioningly. "Yes?"

"I've never seen a woman in trousers," said a stunned looking individual in the front.

"What a sheltered life you've led, and you still haven't. These aren't trousers by a long shot." She stretched the waistband. "No buttons, snaps, or zips." Priscilla fainted. Luckily Beauregard caught her. "She reminds me of one of those goats. Do you suppose if I snuck up behind her and clapped my hands...?"

One of the men--a Johnson by the look of him, and probably in charge of something or other, was looking at the new arrivals. "That's obviously the schoolmarm," he said, "and that's just as obviously the new saloon girl. We all know Raunch--he's been through acting as ranch hand and general henchman to a few minor villains." Raunch tipped his hat, releasing a small avalanch of dandruff. "Mister Regard is passing through on his usual gambling circuit..."

Scribe looked at him. He looked a little like Clint Black in his cameo Maverick movie role. "You ride a circuit to gamble?"

He shrugged. "They'd end up running me out of town anyway if I stayed too long, so it makes sense."

"But who," the Johnson continued, "are you?"

"Damn! And someone catch Priscilla. I'll be glad when this first chapter is over--maybe then I won't have to hear that question again. Let me ask you one--is there anyone y'all are waiting for?" She looked at Beauregard. "Plural usage--get it?" He nodded.

The people were muttering amongst themselves. "New form of saloon girl?" "Feisty waitress in the cafe?" "Surely not a new milliner?" "Not with that sense of style."

"Hey!" She looked down at her T-shirt. It read I'M COOLER THAN ALMOST EVERYBODY HERE. "All right, so I should cross out the 'ALMOST' till Bart gets here."

"Who's Bart?"

She smiled slyly. "Yoooou'll find out."

They went back to discussing. "Preacher's wife?"

Scribe barked with rude laughter. *sniff* "Sorry, but honestly--do I look like a meek, subservient charity worker? You're all way off base. I'll give you a hint--is there anyone you've been expecting that hasn't showed up yet?"

*muttermuttermutter* Finally someone said timidly, "We're supposed to be getting a new editor for the Rockridge Reporter."

"Bingo!"

Everyone blinked, the chorused, "Pardon?"

"What? You mean you don't...?" She pulled a paperback book out of the carpet bag, flipped through it, and muttered, "Huh. Not invented till the 1930s. Damn these inconsistent anachronisms." She put away the book, clearing her throat. "Got it in one!"

"Ah," said the spokesman. "The editor's wife has come ahead to prepare things while he finishes up business back east."

Scribe slapped her forehead, sighing. "Where's Gloria Steinem when you need her? No, wrong--but close. Try again."

His eyes widened. "You don't mean that you...?"

She spread her arms. "Ta-da! First order of business will be to change the name of the thing. I was thinking maybe the Rockridge Rogue, if I must stay with alliteration."

Gabby Johnson, Grizzled Prospector and Desert Rat, gaped, pointed, and said (or rather mummble/slurred), "Th' new editor izza wuhmun!"

Scribe peeked down her own neckline. "So I am!" she confirmed cheerfully. She hopped down into the street, lifting Inga down after her. Much to the townspeoples' amazement, she proceeded to do a brief jig, which included a very odd motion that consisted of bending her arms at the elbow and circling them while she circled her hips in the opposite direction, while singing, "That's the way, uh-huh uh-huh, I liiiike it! Uh-huh uh-huh!" She stopped and asked the dumbfound crowd, "What? You've never seen a woman with no aches, pains, or stiffness? Someone pick Priscilla up again. Maybe we should get her a helmet and tie pillows to her bottom."

"This is most irregular," spluttered one of the men.

"Yeah? Well," she sang again, "you ain't seen nothin' yet. Buh-buh-buh baby, you just ain't seen nothin' yet." She spoke again, in a voice that would be recognized in the next century as a very creditable Bette Davis impression. "Fasten you're seatbelts--it's going to be a bumpy ride." The crowd all began looking around for belts. She sighed. "And possibly a very long one."