Scribe was humming cheerfully as she carried her carpetbag toward the jail. Wilson Johnson, out walking with his seventeen-year-old daughter, stopped the editor. "Miss Scribe, where are you off to in such a good mood this early morning?"

"My, you had to contort yourself into a pretzel to come up with a sentance like that, didn't you? I'm taking breakfast to the drunk in jail," she said.

The girl gave Scribe a round-eyed look. "You're going to see a smelly old drunk?" She cut a look sideways at her father, then said, "On purpose?"

"Not so old, and as to smell..." Scribe shrugged. "I grew up in an oil refinery town. It takes a lot to get to be too much if the guy is cute enough. I can always hand him a bar of soap and suggest we have some good, clean fun together." *thud* "I didn't know the school marm would be out this early on a weekend. I don't think that we've been introduced," Scribe smiled at the girl.

"Allow me to introduce my daughter," said Wilson. "This is Marietta Susan Johnson."

Scribe did a double take, then said slowly, "So, her nickname could be Mary Sue? That's funny, I don't remember you having a daughter."

"Neither did I till this morning. It's the oddest thing..."

Just behind her father, and out of his sight, the girl quickly put a finger to her lips, then mouthed a couple of words. Scribe (being a Mary Sue herself) could read lips, and the words were the name of a fairly well known Internet fanfiction author. Scribe grinned. "Right on, sister.

"Well," said Wilson stoutly, "if that drunk tries to get fresh with you--just scream." He cleared his throat. "I'm sure someone will hear and come to your rescue."

"Uh-huh."

"By the way, what was that tune you were humming? It's very interesting."

"It's called 'Smells Like Teen Spirit.'" Wilson was eyeing his daughter closely (and sniffing) as Scribe walked away.

She made her way to the sheriff's office. She'd locked the door after she'd put The Kid in the tank ("Just in case. Don't want anyone sneaking in and molesting him while he's too drunk to enjoy it.") One of the town's Johnsons (and having read extensively on pet nicknames for the male anatomy, Scribe had a hard time keeping a straight face any time she thought that) had warned her that she wasn't going to be able to get into the jail, since they seemed to have accidentally buried the keys with the last sheriff. She'd patted her carpetbag, telling him not to worry. "I have a pile of plot devices in here that could choke a Clydsedale." Now she set the bag down and opened it. After rummaging inside for a moment, she said, "Now where the hell is the key? This damn bag has never failed to provide me with what I need, so... Wait a minute. What's that under the copy of MAD Magazine?" She pulled out a long, slim probe. "Oh, for..." She glared at the bag. "No key, but I just happen to have a lock pick. Look, bag, I told you that there need be absolutely no catering to anything that resembled believability. You could have given me a phaser, and it would have been just fine. Now, let's see... Since I'm a Mary Sue, I either have to struggle valiantly for hours, sweating and biting my lip, worrying that the poor man is trapped inside with no food or water--or I can solve the problem with such ease that it's ridiculous. Guess which I choose?" She poked the pick into the lock and twisted it. *click* "What a shock."

Inside, gentle snores could be heard coming from the back cell. Scribe strolled back. Sure enough, the Waco Kid was sleeping in the top bunk. Well, partially in it. His upper torso was dangling over the edge. He looked as peaceful as it was possible for an upside down to look. Scribe found, much to her unsurprise, that the pick worked on the cell lock, too, so she let herself in. She bent down to check the man, then quickly stood back up again. "Whew!" She opened her carpetbag and took out a small, clear plastic case. After shaking a tiny white caplet into her palm, she bent down again. The volume of snores the Kid was producing required a lot of air, so his open mouth was an easy target. She popped the caplet in as neatly as Tiger Woods sinking a three foot putt.

Perhaps not the best idea in the world.

Bright blue eyes flew wide open, and the Kid began to make choking sounds. "Oh, come on! I didn't try to toss it down your throat," she scolded. She grabbed his shoulders and helped him up into a sitting position. He pursed his lips. She quickly reached into the carpetbag and pulled out a flyswatter that looked big enough to take down Mothera. "If you spit that out, I'll smack you!" He regared her warily. His cheeks started to draw in. "And don't swallow it! It'll negate the whole purpose. Just let it disolve."

"Ith throng." His voice was a little garbled.

"Are you kidding me? That's just a Tic-Tac. You're lucky I don't deal with Altoids. I'd be scraping you off the ceiling. Are you through?"

"Juth about."

"Since I've never had kids or a wayward husband, I never thought I'd have reason to say this, but--let me smell your breath." He bent down, opening his mouth. *sniff* "Some better. Now you smell like peppermint schnapps. How are you?"

"Approaching sober."

"That bad, eh?" She reached into her bag and pulled out a flattish bottle, offering it to him.

He took it gratefully. "Is this alcoholic?"

"It's wine."

"Oh. How ordinary."

"You're going to get along fine with Lili von Schtupp. It's called MD 20-20. Try it."

"My dear young lady, I'm afraid that wine, except by the barrel, hasn't done me much good for some time."

"A, who the hell told you I was a lady, and B--that stuff is fortified, and its nickname is Mad Dog. I think it'll help."

"Right now bottled cologne would sound good to me." He examined the bottle. "How the hell do you open it? There's no cork."

"Give it back for a second." She unscrewed the cap, then smiled, eyes distant.

"What?"

"Nothing--just having a Back to the Future moment. Gosh, Michael J. Fox was cute. I wonder if anyone slashed him with Skippy?" She handed him the bottle.

As he took it, he said, "Exactly how violent is your circle of friends?"

"Well, some of the dark fic... Oh." She smiled. "Not that kind of slashing. Have a belt..." He upended the bottle and drank half of it. "Or two. I've seen that in movies, but never in (you should pardon the expression) real life. I didn't think it was possible with anything stronger than tea, and then the ice would give you a brain freeze headache."

Jim lowered the bottle. "You could have it without ice."

"In the south? Do you want to get lynched?"

Jim regarded the bottle thoughtfully. "I wonder how this would taste chilled?"

Scribe snorted. "Like you get the chance to taste it. I can let you see, but you'll have to hand it over..." He clutched it tight. "Just for a second, and you'll have to drink the rest more slowly. Can you do that?"

"I can try." He handed her the bottle.

She put it back in the carpetbag, and closed. "Just a second." She whistled absently, then sang, "Ain't gonna tell ya what I been drinkin'. Wiiiine." She opened the bag and peered inside. Whisps of what looked like steam curled up around her. She closed it. "Not quite. So, Kid--when that little boy shot you in the ass, did it leave an interesting scar?"

"You are the most peculiar woman I've ever met, and I've traveled with both a circus and a carnival."

"Thank you. I only asked because I thought that maybe a tattoo would cover it, if you were self-conscious." She opened the bag again, and pulled out the bottle. "Perfect. Nice and cold, but your hands shouldn't stick to the glass." She handed it back, saying, "Now, remember--you don't want to get..."

*glug* "Ow."

"Brain freeze."

"Could I have something for the pain?" She handed him two asperin. "I was thinking more along the lines of a nice Chablis."

"Can't. I brought you ham instead of tuna, and white wine goes with fish." She reached in the bag again and handed over two pills. "Try these. They're little, they're yellow, they're better than nothing."

"I have to dry swallow them?"

"I can get you some water." Jim shuddered. "I want you at least marginally sober for a few minutes, because I have something important to discuss with you." He gave her big eyes. "Oh, damn. I just don't understand how you can give puppy dog eyes when dogs don't have blue eyes."

"Siamese cats do."

"Yeah, but 'Siamese cat eyes' wouldn't make you want to do things for someone. They'd make you want to check yourself to be sure nothing was unbuttoned. W-e-l-l... I suppose one more." This time she pulled out a shot glass and handed it over.

Jim took the pills, tossing off the shot. He eyed the carpetbag. "That's a handy little device to have around. How much would you take for it?"

"If anyone tried to separate me from it, I'd probably take at least their kneecaps. Now, I need to explain a few things to you, since a very important person is arriving tomorrow. I'm too impatient to let things take their natural course, though given how cool you and Bart are it would probably take less time than some people might expect--say a couple of weeks instead of a few decades. Ready for the talk?"

"You said something about food?"

She handed over a sandwich. "I also have Fritos, and if you're nice to me--Pop Tarts." He started to lift the sandwich to his mouth. "Hold off on that first bite for just a second."

"Why?"

"Because I don't know the Hiemlich Maneuver, and you might swallow a chunk in surprise from what I'm about to say. Jim--you're gay."

Jim thought about it for a moment. "Actually, I've been pretty melancholy the last few years. That's why I drink."

"Suuure it is. I didn't mean gay. I meant--gay."

Jim thought some more. "Oh. Well, that would explain a lot, like my fascination for leather, and the mash note I sent my literature teacher when I was in tenth grade."

"This is going to be easier than I hoped."

"All I'm saying," said Blair, "Is that they sent the telegram to the state capital day before yesterday. It's at least a two day drive from the capital. How could he possibly reach a decision so quickly that the new sheriff will be arriving today?"

Scribe looked up from a copy of The Police Gazette. "Plot device." She showed him a pcture of a scantily (for that day and age, anyway) clad woman. "Is it just me, or is she only wearing her underwear?" She waited a beat. "Jock, lookit him blush!"

"I'm not a prude," said Blair primly. "But there can't be many women who'd agree to have their picture drawn in their unmentionables, and..." Scribe rummaged in her carpet bag, then handed him a thin, glossy magazine. "Victoria's secret? I didn't think the queen had secrets."

"Everyone has secrets, hon, and that's not it. Take a look."

He opened it. He did this--O.O. "What... uh..." He cleared his throat. "What's her secret?"

"How they get some of those to stay on without resorting to glue. You think this is risque? I'm fairly brazen now, but I still remember my reaction when I saw Madonna on the MTV awards singing Like a Virgin, wearing a tutu, a veil, and a long-line bra as outerwear." Blair started to say something. "It would take me till the turn of the century to explain. Keep it if you want."

He handed it back. "No thanks. That's not the sort of reading material I like."

She was rummaging again. She handed him another magazine. "Try that one. It's the International Male catalogue."

"I said I don't..." She leaned over and flipped the magazine open to the underwear section. "I... Need to go to the outhouse."

"Shurrent 'mbarass t' boy like that," grumbled Grizzle.

"Embarass? He took the magazine with him, didn't he?"

Jocasta timidly poked Scribe's arm. "Do you think I could...?"

Scribe handed over the Victoria's Secret catalogue. "Knock yourself out."

"I love you."

"I love you, too, dear--as a sister."

"Rats. There's no women in this town but kids, prudes, matrons, or tarts."

"Don't knock tarts, and don't worry, hon. There are going to be a few new people coming to town soon."

"I'm not interested in the new sheriff."

"I'm not talking about him, schatzie."

*Thud*

Scribe sighed. "Okay, darn it. A running joke can be taken too far."

Owen Johnson looked through the once again de-doored doorway. "Hurry! The new sheriff will be here soon, and we want to have the whole town there to greet him. We have to show our solidarity."

He left, and Scribe muttered, "Oh, they're solid citizens all right--mostly above the neck. Solid as a brick. Well, come on, children. I wouldn't miss seeing Bart arrive for anything less than a nekkid massage by Tom Cruise--and he'd have to promise not to talk about Scientology."

They'd done Main Street up to the zenith of outdoor decoration. That meant that they'd taken the gallows down off the central dais and draped it with a profusion of red, white, and blue cloth swags, and a WELCOME banner strung over it. As they made their way to the front of the crowd, Scribe reflected that in her own century they'd have added a flock of mylar balloons, or maybe a scrolling electronic signboard, flashing messages of welcome. *That would have been a good idea for the original movie. I can just imagine what it would have displayed when Bart appeared. OH SHIT! is my guess, though it could have been used as a comment throughout the movie. There ya go, Scribe--second guess a comedic genius, why don'tcha?*

All the Stock Characters had assembled. The Saloon Girls were painted and rouged in a manner that would have made Tammie Faye in her prime envious. The Respectable Women stood away from them, wearing bonnets. This was sort of a shorthand signal of female respectability. Bare-headed--tart. Hat--Good Woman. *Well, Lili IS going to wear a top hat later, but I don't think that qualifies.*

The crowd was muttering in excited anticipation. Blair looked around, then said, "Aren't you going to get the drunk? I thought you were looking forward to getting him together with the new sheriff."

"I am, I am, but they have to do the 'cute meet', so he stays where he is for now. I wonder if the early warning system is in place?" She squinted. "Yep. Gabby Johnson is up in the church steeple, keeping look out."

One of the townswomen (Scribe mentally labeled her Old Biddy before she even opened her mouth) sidled over and hissed, "I don't expect YOU to dress like a Decent Woman--your choice of a masculine profession shows that you have no respect for common decency..."

"My decency is as common as it comes."

She was, of course, ignored. "But you're supervising that girl." She pointed at Jock's jeans and boots. "How can you let her appear in... in men's apparel."

Scribe tipped a look at Jock. "I hope this woman doesn't get a look at Lili in her tuxedo, or she'll have a heart attack." She looked back at the Biddy. "Those are girl cut jeans, and why don't you hie thyself hence, lest I beat you about the ears till your eyes cross?" The woman's mouth worked for a moment, then she silently turned and went back to whisper with her companions. "Ah, my natural state--the subject of gossip."

"Thank you," said Jock.

"Think nothing of it, kid. I love coming up with a creative threat or insult. If she'd hung around, I'd have told her that she smelled of elderberries."

Gabby Johnson yelled from the steeple. "Th' new shurf comin."

The entire crowd, except Scribe and her staff (well, Gabby joined the chorus), said, "Huh?"

Owen Johnson interpretted. "He said the new sheriff is coming!" *cheers* "Can you see him, Gabby?"

"Yuh. H's comin fas."

"Huh?"

Again Owen translated. "He says he's coming fast."

"I hope Jim didn't hear that," said Scribe. "I promised him that Bart is a stud."

"Ring the bells!" shouted Wilson Johnson. "Let them peel out in welcome!"

Gabby squinted, then started. "Hey! Th' shurf issa Ni--" *clang*

"He said the sheriff is near!" declared Owen.

"No!" said Gabby. "I said he's a Ni--" *clang*

Owen said, "He said the sheriff is..." He paused. "Nice?"

"Goldang! Clean yer frassin ears! I said the shurf is a Ni--" *clang*

"He said," said Scribe, "that the new sheriff is a Nubian."

Wilson Johnson blinked. "Well, of course he's a Nubian. He's never been here before, so he's going to be as new as they come."

"That's newbie, Wil. While one doesn't necessarily preclude the other, there is a difference, and I've never known a Newbie to get the kind of reception that Bart is going to find."