*montage of spinning newspapers, pausing briefly to show headlines*

ROCKRIDGE ROGUE UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT

WON'T TOLERATE SLEAZE, CLAIMS HOT CHICK IN CHARGE

PROMISES HARD HITTING, NO NONSENSE NEWS

ENTRANTS SOUGHT FOR WEENIE DOG RACE

*last paper is being held up before someone* *It lowers to show Scribe holding it* *She looks down at Inga* "You're not fooling me. I know that you're only setting up the race because you want to run last, and have all those butts bouncing in front of you." *Inga smirks*

The Grizzled Typesetter pokes his head out from under the press, "Whassuh?"

"Just admiring our first effort, Grizzle."

Blair, sitting at the desk, pushed his glasses up on his nose. "I meant to ask you about that. Why did we print four individual pages instead of doing two--front and back, then folded?"

Scribe said, "Aside from the fact I'd probably get turned around and have half the content upside down? Well, let's see... Since the citizens of Rockridge are too darn selfish to share their papers, they each wanted their very own copy, right?"

Jock nodded. "Yes, ma'am. Saw Jack Johnson try t' borrow John Johnson's copy, an' John rolled it up an' swatted him on the nose with it."

"Let's say we did like you suggested, Blair, and sold, oh, one hundred papers at a nickel a pop."

"That would be a fair profit."

"Now, suppose we... Why suppose? We did put out four individual pages and charged two cents apiece. Those one hundred selfish townspeople expended eight cents each for what would have cost them five cents." She smiled angelically. "It's called 'profit'."

Blair frowned. "It strikes me as unethical."

"Prairie poop," she said cheerfully. "You might have a case if I was auctioning off the last dose of plague serum, but the Rockridge Rogue is not a necessity of life, no matter what I hinted at in the editorial column. And if they'd just co-operate with each other, they'd be able to get around us. They might, eventually, so let's enjoy it while we can get away with it. And remember," she leaned over and quickly unraveled his bow tie, "I have to pay your salary, so I need a steady income." She batted her eyelashes at him. "Of course, if you want to negotiate taking your salary in some other form... Perhaps personal services?" *tinkle* *thud* "Jock, who do I see in town about having that freakin' door fixed?"

Jock stepped through the now open doorway. "I'd be proud to do it for you, Miss Scribe."

"Thank you, darlin'. Any time you get the chance..." Jock lifted the door and set it in the doorway, with her on the outside. There was a flurry of hammering, sawing, and power tool sounds. They ceased, and the door swung in smoothly, as Jock stepped through. "Damn, girlfriend. Bob Villa got nothing on you. The next issue won't be ready for a day or two, hon. You're welcome to just hang around, if you like, but it's going to be mostly me sexually harassing Blair, here."

"I brought the mail. One second." She stepped out, and came back in a moment later, carrying a basket (one that looked like it should have had a chocolate Easter bunny in it) full of letters."

"Yow!" said Blair. "I didn't think the editorial was THAT controversial."

Jock had set the basket on the counter, and Scribe was sorting through them. "Oh, most of these aren't letters to the editor. They're in response to my ads in other newspapers."

"What ads?"

"By some odd coincidence," the carpetbag was sitting on the counter, and Scribe opened it and reached in, "I just happen to have a copy here." She pulled out a paper and handed it to Blair. "Page fifteen."

Blair was flipping through the paper. "Where on page fifteen?"

"All of it."

"A full page ad in," he looked at the front page, "Yipes! The New York Times?"

"Two papers in New York, one in Boston, two in California, and one in Chicago."

"How on earth can you pay for that?"

"It's rude to ask a woman about her age, her finances, or her love life. I'll exempt you from the last one. Read the ad."

Blair read.

LIVE THE ADVENTURE--VICARIOUSLY. YOU'VE READ THE ADVENTURES OF THE FAMOUS AND INFAMOUS AND THOUGHT, "WHY DON'T THEY EVER TELL US THE -REALLY- GOOD STUFF? BUT DARN IT, I CAN'T VERY WELL TELL THE AUTHOR WHAT TO WRITE." NOT ANY MORE! IT'S CALLED FAN FICTION, AND IN IT, I CAN TAKE CARE OF THOSE LITTLE OVERSITES FOR YOU. TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT, AND I'LL SUPPLY IT--FOR A REASONABLE PRICE. THINK THAT WILD BILL HICKOCK'S WILDEST EXPLOITS HAVEN'T SEEN LIGHT? THINK THAT BILLY THE KID AND CALAMITY JANE WOULD MAKE A CUTE COUPLE? THINK LEWIS AND CLARK HAD SOMETHING GOING ON, AND NOT WITH SACKAJ... HOWEVER YOU SPELL IT. IT'S FUN, IT'S AFFORDABLE, AND YOU DON'T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT THE AUTHORS OF THE ORIGINAL ADVENTURES GETTING PISSED--I'LL TAKE THE HEAT. AFTER ALL, THE COPYRIGHT LAWS DON'T HAVE REAL TEETH YET. SEND DETAILS OF DESIRED STORY, AND I'LL SET A PRICE. FINISHED PRODUCT WILL BE MAILED AFTER PAYMENT IS RECEIVED. POSSIBLE BONUS--IF I REALLY LIKE YOUR IDEA, I MIGHT DO IT FOR FREE, JUST FOR THE HELL OF IT--BUT DON'T HOLD YOUR BREATH. CONTACT SCRIBE, THE ROCKRIDGE ROGUE, ROCKRIDGE...

"How did you get them to let you put 'pissed' and 'hell' in the ad?"

"Look, if you're going to be unreasonable and demand a logical explanation for everything..."

"Yes?"

"You'll go through life disappointed."

"Okay, then. We've only been in business for a couple of days. How did you get the ads to the papers, get them published, and then get the results, when it takes a couple of weeks to get a letter cross country?"

"There you go with that logic again. Let's see what we have here." She ripped a letter open. "'TO THE AUTHOR..."

"How do you do that?" asked Jock.

"Do what?"

"Read aloud in all capitals."

"It's a talent. 'THIS IS A HEATHER IDEA, AN YOU WILL GO STRATE TO HELL!!!'"

"Heather?" said Blair. "They think it's Scottish?"

"Heathen."

"Strate? And how could I tell that was how it was spelled just from your tone of voice?" She stared at him. "Logic. Gotcha."

"Let's see... Personal attack, damned to hell, misspelling, all capitals, extra punctuation..." She clutched the letter to her chest. "My first flame! And what a pathetic one it is." She balled the paper up, and tossed it to Inga. "You know what to do with this one, sweetie."

"Yurf." Inga picked up the paper, and trotted toward the back.

"What's she doing with it?" asked Blair.

"She's going to carry it outside and water it. I can think of only two other uses for such things, but it's too hot to build a fire, and I brought plenty of toilet tissue with me. Next letter." She opened it. "Oh, this one looks more promising! 'I think that Huck and Jim probably got up to something on that raft.' Improved, but I'd have to age Huck up to about seventeen or eighteen, and that sort of messes with the running away from home theme. I may be able to come up with something later." She laid the paper aside, and opened another. "'Heathcliff is a sexy beast.' Oh, this one speaks my language! I saw a version of Wuthering Heights with a young Oliver Reed playing Heathcliff once. I was just in junior high, but I knew there was darn sure more than hand holding going on between him and Cathy."

"Scribe," said Blair. "Doesn't your conscience bother you about this? I mean, you'll be taking another person's creations and using them, taking profits away from them."

She hooked an arm around Blair's neck. "I hardly think that the Brontes really need the fifteen or twenty bucks I might earn. If they fuss about it, I'll mail them the cash I get."

"Suppose someone sues?"

"As I said in the ads, the copyright laws aren't all that much right now, and even if they do," she winked at him, "I can go on the lam like nobody's business. No one would be able to find me except someone like me."

Blair shook his head. "And there is no one like you."

"Not right now, there isn't. Now, what have you been working on for our next edition?"

"I'm beginning an investigation of the sanitary conditions for some of the establishments in town. I also have a story about corruption on the back burner--Howard Johnson tried to bribe me to write a bad article about the Gutfiller Gulch cafe--his chief business rival."

"And you refused?"

"Of course. But he didn't need to bribe me to give them a bad rating." He made a face.

"Bad?"

"Let me just say this--keep Inga away from there."

"She might get sick from eating scraps?"

"She might end up as the special of the day."

"Okay, they're off my list of places to eat. Let's see... I've got the horoscopes done..."

Jock gave her a round-eyed look. "I don't know how you can use the stars to really predict things, ma'am."

"It's simple--I can't. If you keep things vague enough, it will apply to everybody. For instance--'Watch your finances.' They'll either go up, down, or stay the same. If they go up, your vigilance is responsible, if they go down, you weren't watching them closely enough, and if they stay the same, great! Your attention kept anything from bad happening! As long as I don't get specific and say something like 'your spouse is cheating on you', I'm okay. Then there's the advice column."

"I like the title," said Jock. "Ask Aunt Fannie. Somehow you just feel like you can confide in someone called Aunt Fannie. But who is she?"

Scribe cleared her throat. "Personal friend. I wish I could include a comics section, but my drawing is for spit, and I don't think Grizzle could figure out how to get it on paper."

"Consarn new fangled ideres 'bout puttin' pick-sures in a newspaper," grumbled Grizzle. "Never last."

"I've got the advertisements from the general store, Howard Johnson's cafe, and Owen Johnson's saloon. The fashion section..."

"All you do in that is laugh about current women's fashions," Blair pointed out.

"Yeah," said Jock approvingly. "Next time one of them old biddies scolds me 'cause I'm not wearin' a corset, I'll tell her she's just in a bad mood 'cause hers is squeezin' her intes-tines."

"You go, girl," said Scribe. "In fact, I think this is where the term 'loose woman' came from--anyone with brains enough not to wear one of those constrictors."

"But that leaves the front page undone," said Blair. "We need that quickly, if we're going to put it to bed this evening."

"Oh, it's ready to go," said Scribe. "I'm just waiting for the event to actually happen."

"What?"

"Don't ask me to explain, just accept. Now, are you folks ready to defend our place? If the presses get smashed up, it would take even me quite awhile to get them running again. I'd have to haul new parts out of the carpet bag one at a time, and then assembling them would be a booger."

Blair had been sitting with his feet propped on the desk, and now he lowered them quickly. "Did you have something in that last edition I missed, something that's going to bring a horde of torch and pitchfork bearing townsfolk down on us?"

"Young Frankenstein--don't mix your movies. No, not the townspeople. But Hedley Lamarr is due to start his nefarious plans any minute now." She opened the carpetbag and pulled out a wooden bat, then another, handing one each to Blair and Grizzle. "Louisville sluggers. Now, Jock..." She tapped her chin, studying the girl, then reached into the bag and pulled out a pair of sticks, joined by a chain. "Numchuks. I haven't seen a girl use those in a chop-sockie movie yet, and it's about time."

Blair stared at them. "What's she supposed to do with those?"

"Jock, move away from anything breakable." The girl did. Jock studied the sticks curiously. She experimentally let one swing back and forth a little. "Just do what comes naturally, hon," said Scribe.

Jock rotated one wrist. The dangling stick swung in a circle, making a faint swish. Her face lit up. *whishswishwhish* She suddenly was swinging the numchuks in an intricate pattern, the weapon moving so quickly that it blurred. It was obvious that anything that got in the way was in for severe damage. She ended up with catching the flying end under her arm in the approved manner. "Golly, that was fun!"

"Wait'll you have something deserving to aim at."

Blair was tapping his bat in his palm. "If you think that this is going to be bad enough that we should be armed, what about you?"

"Oh, I have something a little special in mind." She pulled out of the carpetbag a small aerosol can, and a long, slender black rod, with two prongs on the end.

"A cattle prod?" said Blair. "I'm not sure how effective that will be unless you use it as a spear."

"Yes, you're used to the plain prods, aren't you? Better modern living through electricity hasn't reached them yet. This one has something special." She pushed a button on the rod. There was a faint crackle, and blue-white light zapped between the two prongs. She smiled angelically, "I've upgraded it to taser quality. Believe me, this will do fine for a weapon."

"I'm glad you like me." She mimed a kiss at him. "What's the can?"

"Pepper spray."

"Consarn wumman worryin' about cookin' at a time like this," grumbled Grizzle.

"You're lucky I need you to set type," said Scribe, "or I'd show you how this works."

Inga came back in. "Graff."

"Thanks, Inga. You'd better stay inside. I know you're hell on wheels when you get going, but there are going to be a lot of horses trampling around." She snarled. "Tell you what--you stay inside, and if someone gets past us, chew their ankles off."

Grizzle stared at Inga. "That 'ar dog is smilin'."

"Yes. She hasn't had a good fight since the unbalanced rat terrier next door passed away. That's why I told you that it wasn't wise to get into her M&Ms."

There was a noise rising outside--thudding hooves, bangs, crashes, yells, screams, neighing, and gunfire. "What's that?" exclaimed Blair.

Scribe put the prod over her shoulder. "If I had to guess, I'd say it's rustlers, cut throats, murderers, bounty hunters, desperados, mugs, pugs, thugs, nitwits, halfwits, dimwits, vipers, snipers, con men, Indian agents, Mexican bandits, muggers, buggerers, bushwhackers, hornswogglers, horse thieves, bull dykes, train robbers, bank robbers, ass-kickers, shit-kickers and Methodists. Now, given my tastes in literature, I don't think that the buggerers and bull dykes will be much of a problem, since I'm working to make this a friendly environment for them--but we may have problems with the Methodists."

The noise had been coming closer. *Bam* *tinkle* *thud* The door fell in, exposing a grinning raider standing outside. "Haw! Ain't gonna do you no good to hide in..."

"Yark!" Inga leaped.

*Shriek!*

"There's something you don't see every day," said Scribe. "A ruffian with a weenie dog hanging from his crotch. Inga, let go. You don't know where he's been, and you'll make yourself sick." Inga dropped to the floor and headed back behind the counter.

The injured man started to follow, yelling, "I'm gonna stomp...!"

Scribe squirted him in the face with the pepper spray. The next shriek was two octaves higher than the first one had been. As the man clawed at his eyes, Scribe poked him with the prod.

*Brrrzapt!*

The man dropped to the floor, twitching. Scribe twirled the rod like a baton *note: here's where some of the Mary Sue mystique comes in. I always wanted to twirl when I was young, and never could--short, plump fingers, and very little coordination*, and said, "Be kind to animals--or else. Well, folks, we don't want them coming in here, so it's time to join the party. Are you ready?"

Blair hefted the bat grimly. "I was born ready."

"I'm going to remind you that you said that later, sweetums." They stepped out into the fray...