Notes: If you have the weird sort of sense of humor that would let you enjoy this series, you probably don't need to be told who Brad and Janet are. If you really, really don't know, ask me.

"All right, Scribe, I've been really, really good about this whole gala dress thing. I believe you have to admit that I've been remarkably patient."

"You've been a brick, Lois." *quick pinch to investigative reporter posterior* "Or is that 'brick house'? I get the terms mixed up sometimes."

"Stop it. Quit trying to distract me, it won't work."

"No? It always has before."

*tickle*

*giggle* "No! I'm serious. I want to see what you're going to wear."

"No."

"Scribe! Look, I can handle the secrecy, I can deal with the smugness, I even took that 'neh neh neh neh neh neh' when I asked you about that rattling sound I've been hearing. But this... What the hell are you planning on doing with a bolt of black crepe?"

"Going into mourning for the state of good taste and common sense in America today?"

"Aargh!"

"You're so cute when you're angry." Scribe twirled a pair of scissors around her fingers like a gun in a western movie, then snapped the blades together briskly. "I learned this move from Clive. Along with some others that we won't discuss right now, but which will some day undoubtedly make someone very happy. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

"But the gala is tonight!"

"Which is why I have to hump it. Luckily the last part of the ensemble doesn't require a lot of fancy stitching. But Clive is planning on coming over to give me a touch up before he escorts us to the shindig, and Clive... Well, Clive requires a person's full attention."

Lois grumbled, but she had her own last minute preparations to attend to. Clive had offered to style her hair, but she had a regular stylist who would have been devastated if she'd been passed over. She couldn't understand Scribe's attitude. She'd said something about 'taking the road less traveled, and how that could make all the difference.

When Clive showed up, she was ready in her simple white formal. Scribe had bitten her lip almost raw when she saw the chiffon and petticoats, but had sworn that Lois looked fantastic in it. "Only you can carry something like that off without looking like a... a meringue."

Lois opened the door to the hairdresser, whom she'd met casually once or twice, and gasped. "Clive! You look stunning!" She winced. "Oh, I'm sorry. That's a sort of girly word. You look very handsome."

Clive snorted. "Precious, if I thought that the best I could manage was 'handsome', I'd hang it up. I'm gorgeous." He was. For a moment she thought that his tuxedo came with black velvet pants, then she realized they were suede. And the cummerbund was comprised of dozens of tiny braided black leather thongs.

She indicated the cummerbund, and said, "That's an interesting fashion statement."

Clive nodded, purring, "And it's useful, too." He cocked his head, giving her a quick once over. "I could show you sometime."

Scribe came out of her room carrying a large sack. "Clive, quit trolling. I need you to get what you're going to do, done."

"You're not dressed yet?" Lois was alarmed.

"Lois, chill. We have an hour and a half, two hours. I don't have to strap myself into my garments like you do. It'll be quick." She jerked her head toward the bathroom. "C'mon Clive."

"But... he can't be in there with you while you dress."

Clive and Scribe exchanged looks. Scribe looked at Lois. "He can't?"

Clive frowned. "I can't?"

"Well," Lois faltered. "You're a man."

Both Scribe and Clive looked at each other again, and nodded, Scribe vigorously. "Dear, if it bothers you," Clive soothed, putting a hand on Scribe's shoulder and guiding her toward the bathroom, "Just think of me in the same light as a physician. I'm going to minister to her needs." As he said this, he was shutting the door. Lois heard Scribe's peal of giggles, and Clive said genially, "Oh, hush!" Then the giggles were muffled, followed by a squeal. Lois began to reconsider her worry about hurting her cosmetologist's feelings.

"Okay, precious, strip. I need to do your hair before you put on the dress."

"But it doesn't go on over my head."

"Strip anyway."

"Okay."

Lois sat down. Lois tried to ignore the fact that it didn't sound like it was HAIR getting done in there for the next twenty minutes or so. Finally, after a couple of strangled yells, male and female, she heard Clive say, "Well, if they could come up with entertainment like this at the gala, I'm sure they could fund all the little old clinics they wanted. Okay, let's see the dress." Lois strained her ears. "That's it? It's..."

Lois was leaning her ear against the door. She had no idea a feminine fist applied to the other side would be quite so jarring. "Back off, Lo! Get away from the door, or I'll tell Clive about the nickname you acquired in junior high after you got locked in the closet with the class clown."

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Lois, you know me. Think for a minute." Lois thought, sighed, and moved away from the door.

She heard Clive murmur, "Remarkably well trained for such a forceful woman. What methods do you use, darling?" There was silent for a minute or two. "Mmm, yes. I begin to see what you were striving for. It's going to look completely different on." More silence, then a shriek. "Oh, I can't let you go out like that!"

Lois hung her head and groaned, but Clive continued. "No, love, really! It's absolutely criminal. You need to be classified as a lethal weapon. I would have brushed up on my life saving techniques before I came over if I knew you were wearing that." A dark chuckle. "Weeelll... Maybe I'll end up getting to give mouth-to-mouth to some pretty person who hyperventilates."

"Works for Superman."

Clive opened the door, and exited, grinning. "Don't worry, doll. You won't feel like walking ahead of her."

Lois' mouth was dry. She had to admit, if Scribe had wanted to cause even more interest, she had succeeded. The media had gone bananas trying to find out what she was going to wear. There had been fashion spreads with different designers' takes on what she should wear. Scribe had griped, "I wouldn't mind so much if the friggin' models weren't all sizes zip to three! I couldn't wear most of those clothes when I was in grade school." Paused. "And had been sick with my tonsils for about a month. I mean, they'd have to get anorexia to look healthy." "What's anorexia?" "Tell me again: WHY am I trying to leave this world?"

Scribe swept out...

I mean, really swept out. Lois' mouth snapped shut. "Scribe!"

"Well, you were wondering what the black crepe was for. Camouflage tactics." She was enveloped from head to foot in a swirl of black cloth, including a hood that was drawn forward so that her features could just barely be seen peeking out.

"I don't believe this. Who are you supposed to be?"

"Snideness will get you nothing but my envious admiration. The closest I can come to an example would be the togs of the Evil Emperor Whatsisname in the Star Wars saga, or possibly Darth Vader, sans helmet, but since that means bupkiss to you, don't worry about it."

"You're going to have to open that thing to open doors..."

"Not with my trusty hairdresser here." There was a knock on the door. "And it's about to get opened anyway. That'll be Clark, I expect."

"I'll get it." Clive went and opened the door. "Well! Hello, Blue Eyes!"

"Down Clive." Clive stuck out his tongue at her. "Don't do that unless you mean it."

"You know, Scribe," Lois said dazedly, "You seem a lot more... um... knowledgeable than when you first arrived."

Scribe inclined her head. "Thanks to various people in present company, I have received an education the State Board of Texas never dreamed of, believe me." Her three companions exchanged glances. Lois and Clark blushed, Clive smirked. "Let's get this caravan moving. The natives are restless."

She wasn't kidding. The sidewalk outside the apartment was mobbed with paparazzi trying to get shots to rush to the printers. Flash bulbs went off, but there was a grumble of disappointment when they saw her cloak. One of them was stupid enough to creep up and try to sneak a peek under it while Scribe was waiting for the chauffeur to open he door of the limousine Bruce Wayne had sent for him.

The ambitious, but incredibly idiotic, photographer found himself lifted off his feet by a big, dark haired, grim faced man on one side, and a slightly smaller, blonde, equally grim man on the other, and deposited head first in a partially filled refuse can. He didn't get the photo, but he sold his story to his own newspaper later for a tidy sum. It took him a week to get the smell out of his hair, though.

They swung by Jimmy Olsen's apartment to pick him up. He was taking Bettina, one of Clive's ditzier shampoo girls, as his date. When they got in, Scribe took one look at Jimmy's plaid cummerbund, and Bettina's little white sixties suit, and squealed, "Brad and Janet!"

*Blink.* "Who?"

"Looong story! Just watch out for guys wearing fishnet hose and mascara tonight, y'all."

Bettina, perplexed looked at Jimmy. He shrugged. "I find it safest to just let it wash over me."

Things were a bit squeezed in the back seat of the limo, even with second seat that faced the back let down. Six warm bodies, including three substantial male ones, crammed into a space designed for perhaps, say, four-fifths that amount of flesh. Scribe had once again managed to maneuver herself between two men: Jimmy and Clark, this time. Clive pouted a little at not being seated next to Clark, but proceeded to charm the knickers, almost literally, off Lois. Her petticoats kept poufing up, and Clive was very solicitous, and very thorough, about smoothing them down.

As they neared the Metropolis Grande Plaza, where the gala was taking place, Clive said, "All right, people. Let's plan this escape..."

Bettina wrinkled her nose, looking remarkably like a blonde rabbit. "Escape?"

"Darling, peek down the street and get a look at that horde awaiting us around the entrance. Note the friendly, and may I say absolutely luscious looking, horse mounted patrolman directing traffic. God, I must find out where he got those boots. Believe me, if we are not organized, our trip from limo to lobby will be a route."

The other's readily agreed. "Now, if I'm not mistaken, I see that they have a safe passage corridor cordoned off, and a few burly bellmen acting as escorts. I suggest that Lois and Bettina hop out, and allow themselves to be whisked in. We all know who's going to cause the greatest uproar, and don't smirk, dear, it's one of your least becoming expressions. I suggest that we three big, strong men form a triangle around Scribiepoo and get her up to the entrance. I see the official photogs have massed up there. They'll want a brief photo op, then we can pop right in. How's that sound?"

"Well, it isn't storming the beaches at Normandy, but it sounds logical to me. I went through enough with this damn dress, including blood loss and submitting to wearing a strapless bra, to want to make a splash unveiling it." Scribe commented.

No one else had any objections. The police kept the mob mostly on the sidewalks, so the car managed to get up to where the cordoned walkway began.

The door to the limo popped open, Bettina and Lois popped out, and were up the walkway and into the lobby in a swirl of chiffon and a clatter of high heels. Then Jimmy, Clark, and Clive got out. The anticipation of the crowd grew, their buzz rising.

When Scribe emerged, swathed in funereal black, the noise rose even higher, and continued to climb as she was swept up to the entrance. She kept her head down so that even her face was obscured.

At the entrance, Scribe murmured, "Damn. Shades of the Oscars." Because there were a couple of camera crews, and one radio announcer set up. The celebrity entrants were all expected to pause for pictures and a brief interview. Lois had given them scant shrift, and they were slavering for something more substantial.

Jimmy, bless 'im for not having an ego problem, quietly stood aside. Clark and Clive made a few innocuous comments for the media. Well, Clark was innocuous. Clive was genetically incapable of being vanilla, but he toned it down a tad, out of respect for the event.

Scribe had deliberately hung back. Now she was beckoned forward by an eager announcer. Camera's were whirring and flashing madly, and she hadn't even taken off her cloak yet. Because of the hood, they couldn't see the ironic smile on her face as she stepped up to the microphone. *All right, y'all want a diva? Tonight, you get one."*

She looked at the announcer.

*Jesus, God. How the hell did a Robin Leach clone make it over here?*

"Well, there's no doubt who the big draw is tonight at the Metropolitan Charity Gala! She's fascinated the entire world for months, now. Her every move and mood is exhaustively chronicled, yet still she remains a tantalizing woman of mystery..."

*Yadda yadda yadda.*

"And now this interdimensional diva..."

*Oh, lord. At least they can't see me roll my eyes.*

"Proves that her heart is just as big as her..."

*Butt?*

"...fame. Scribe has generously offered..."

*Offered, my fanny. I got guilted into this shindig.*

"...to allow a portion of her valuable time and her sought after presence..."

*I'm pretty sure that's rotten grammar. I hope your highschool English teacher is listening, and sends you a nasty letter.*

"...to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. All in the name of charity!"

*Crowd roars*

*Hooray for HOLL-ywood!*

"Scribe, will you say a few words? And..." *chuckle* "I'm sure everyone is dying to see what you're wearing tonight. Speculation has been rampant."

"What?" She quickly threw back the hood and tossed the cape off with a flourish. "This old thing?"

Stunned silence. Pandemonium.

She glittered, head to toe. Her hair was covered by a woven chaplet of gold cords, threaded with crystal beads. The dress itself was strapless. It started just at the swell of her breasts, a faint shadow of cleavage could be seen. Her shoulders and arms were completely bare and, since the dress was midnight blue, they looked startlingly white. The dress itself was really not much more than voluminous length of silk, wrapped. But...

There was a sash just under her breasts, giving the gown a sort of Empire flair. It was a braided, satiny cord, with long fringed tassels at the end. It was, actually, a curtain pull from a drapery store. There was a thick line of the same crystal beads that adorned her hair along the neckline. And the rest of the dress was covered in sprays and starbursta of silver and white sequins and beads.

The flashbulbs popped so thick and fast that one of the patrolmen's mounts had a hissy, tossed the (luckily uninjured) officer, and made off through the scattering crowd. It was found a couple of days later wading in the duck pond in Metropolitan Park.

Scribe, knowing what was expected, and feeling sarcastic, did a slow pirouetted, and stopped with one hand on her hip, said hip canted slightly. In an affected voice, she drawled, "Scribe is wearing a Scribe original, called 'What the Hell, If I Gotta Wear A Dress, I May As Well Go Glitz'. It is Deep of the Night Midnight Blue, with an elegant lashing of white and silver sparklies, to catch the eye of that hard to please millionaire. Just the thing for when you plan on doing a little flesh peddling for a good cause. Sash is courtesy of Wanamaker's Window Dressings, sparklies courtesy of the Dunnit Myself Hobby Shop. Entire creation courtesy of blood, sweat, tears, and hours of cursing. And I hope you people appreciate it, because not only am I wearing a dress, but I succumbed and put on hose, a bra, and unsensible shoes. But I drew the line at the damn girdle."

"I'm so pleased to hear that."

That smooth, amused voice was impossible to mistake. Scribe winced. *Oh, brother. I will go showing off.* She turned to the large, well dressed, handsome, sexy, evil, possibly sociopathic, and bald, man behind her, twiddling her fingers. "Hi, Lex."