Clive tapped on the bathroom door. They were supposed to be leaving for the Fortress of Solitude again (Superman was waiting in the livingroom) and Scribe had excused herself quite awhile ago. "Precious? You haven't fallen in, or anything, have you?"

Her voice was faint. "Nope."

He waited, but there was no further explanation. He tapped again. "Doll? Are you sick?"

"No, not really."

She came out, and Clive was immediately alert. Her eyes were red, and her face flushed. He said, "You said you weren't sick."

"And I'm not. Not any more than I ever am, anyway." She paused. "Once a month. For about three days." Tears welled up in her eyes.

"Oh. Oh, precious." Clive opened his arms, and Scribe went into them. The Dom held her and rocked her gently while she cried a little more. When she slowed to hiccups he said softly, "So, is this regret, or relief?" He fingers tightened on his arms, and he said quickly, "God, darling, I'm sorry."

"No, it's all right." She pulled away, and wiped her nose with the wad of tissues she'd been carrying. "It's, uh, it's a little of both, I guess. I really couldn't think about being a mother while I'm still so up in the air about this thing." She sniffed, and smiled. "I mean, I'm goofy enough normally."

Clive kissed her cheek. "Modesty is fine, self-denigration is not." He hugged her again. "There'll be time, when you're ready, if you really want to."

She blew out a breath and returned the smile wanly. "Right. Well, let's get on with this. I'd like to get my daily dose of tension out of the way."

At the Fortress of Solitude

"You're sure you can find this place? I haven't had any luck finding my home dimension."

Superman gave Scribe a sympathetic look. "Normally I wouldn't be so positive about it, but I did have a bit of Mixedpickles DNA to use for a lock." Scribe looked at Clive. "Look, I know the thing's name isn't really Mixedpickles, but that's what I hear whenever anyone says it. Can you figure it out?"

Clive shrugged. "Mixedpickles sounds pretty close to me, darling."

Scribe grumbled. "Damn. I need to get my hands on a sixties issue of Superman, so I can..."

Clive was eyeing Superman. "This issue looks pretty good to me."

"Comic book, Clive, comic book. Anyway, you should see it written down. Looks like most of the Scrabble hands I've been dealt. You never saw so many consonants in a row in all your life, not outside of the Eastern block, anyway. How did you get DNA?"

"Don't you remember the Mixedpickles display in my Trophy Room? I got his derby during one of our confrontations, and there was a hair inside it."

"Oo, and the lil booger can't afford to lose too many of those."

Clive looked like he was considering something. "Bald?"

Scribe shook her head. "You wouldn't be interested. He's got a few wisps, not enough to even get a good hold on, and besides, I'm pretty sure he does that 'comb a few strands over the dome' thing." Clive made a sound like a cat trying to hack up a hairball. "You learned that from Tietlbaum, didn't you?"

He ignored the question. "How are we going to do this, dear?"

Superman said, "Well, I've locked all our DNA patterns into the machine, and I came up with this handy-dandy little remote control." He showed them a small electronic gadget.

Scribe peered at it. "Looks like a pager."

Superman blinked. "What's a pager?"

"One of the major either blessings or curses of my world--depends on who you ask. Does it chirp like a cricket, or play the theme from Star Wars?" *blink* "Never mind. It would take too long to explain. Does it work?"

"We'll find out, I guess. I have the machine set to retrieve us in a couple of hours, just in case." He pointed to the dais. "I expanded it a little, so we could all go at once."

Clive patted him on the shoulder. "Good for you, dear. I don't mind snuggling--close can be a lot of fun, but I think we would have fallen off that thing if either of us sneezed."

"Go on up and I'll just set the machine."

Clive and Scribe went and climbed up on the low dais. Clive stood behind Scribe and wrapped his arms around her. "Ya know, Clive, he did expand the space. You can move back a little." Clive rested his chin on her shoulder and goosed her. "Or not. I'm easy."

"No, you're not," he whispered, "but you're worth the effort."

Superman hurried back and climbed up on the dais with them. "Five seconds."

Clive arched an eyebrow at him. "Shouldn't you hang on, pet? I hate to think of what would happen if you slipped and fell of during transfer. I mean, it's hard enough to find your way back if you've been dropped neatly in another dimension, but if you fell between the cracks..." Superman put his arms around both Clive and Scribe, and Clive whispered in her ear, "Works every time."

There was that odd, all over static feeling again, and the surroundings melted, bleached, reformed, and colored, then solidified. Scribe rather wished they hadn't. She squinched her eyes shut. "Oh, wow. Clive, tell me I'm not seeing what I think I'm seeing."

Clive's voice was pained. "Fuchsia, cotton candy pink and tangerine? Sorry, pet. Wish I could."

She opened her eyes, looking around. "Lordamighty. This place looks like fun house designers and Pee Wee Herman dropped acid, then put their heads together to design it."

"I'm going to have a headache very, very soon. Kal, Clive--let go so I can sit on that bench over there."

They let go, and an indignant voice said, "Hey!" They looked around. A short, pugnacious female who bore an alarming resemblance to Mixedpickles, and was wearing an outfit that would have given a color-blind gypsy disco queen a spastic attack was glaring at them. "What's the idea of letting go? I was planning on selling tickets to the threesome."

Clive regarded her. "If and when I decide to perform, it will be by invitation only."

"I could give you a cut," she said slyly.

"I could kick your sadly-clad behind," snarled Scribe. Superman tried to shush her. "Oh, stop it, Kal! My nerves are pretty much shot right now--I'm not up to being polite to someone offering me the chance to be exploited." She took a deep breath. "Look, we're trying to find Mixedpickles."

The tiny woman cocked her head. "Who?"

"His name isn't really Mixedpickles," explained Superman. "It's actually Mixedpickles."

Scribe rolled her eyes. "I told you it always sounds the same to me." She looked at the woman again and said, slowly and clearly, "MIXED-PICKLES."

Orange eyebrows rose. "Oooooo--him. He's over in the Tishamingo Towers building, I think. Just don't let that crazy guy in the lavender dental smock and the sneaks with jingle bells talk you into the dentist's office."

"Wouldn't dream of it. Where's the Tishamingo Towers?"

"Well, duh." She pointed. Down the block they could see two huge buildings that were, sure enough, shaped like Ts (complete with the little hangy down things on each end of the top bar. "You sure I can't talk you into going into partnership? I mean, if you don't want to do peeps, I could still get you all gigs in a freak show." She got excited and started dancing around. "I know! The world's first co-ed pro basketball team! After all, you're all way fucking tall."

Scribe shook her head. "No way. Basketball uniforms are the most butt ugly of any, including hockey." She held up a finger. "Now, baseball..."

Clive nodded. "Clinging jersey."

"Or rugby."

Clive fanned himself. "Tiny shorts."

"But those floaty, baggy-ass shorts..."

"I don't know, dear. I keep hoping that something will flash during a pile-up. In any case, I think it's time we made our way. Onward."

They made their way down the street. Now that they were actually moving, the citizens became more apparent. There was actually quite a bit of traffic--pedestrian and motor. Scribe watched the tiny cars, each about the size of a chest freezer, chug past. "The last time I saw a car that size, it was in a circus, and twenty clowns were getting out of it."

Superman indicated one that was screaming neon purple. "Wow, they have some strange colors."

"Actually I've seen a few that color back in my home dimension." They stared at her. "I didn't say I LIKED them. I think they were bought mainly by teenage boys, or people who often forgot where they'd parked their car, and needed to be able to locate it easily." Someone wearing green, pink, and orange plaid walked past, and she winced. "Clive? Could you blindfold me and lead me wherever we're going? I'm getting a headache."

He patted her cheek. "As much as I love blindfolding you, pet, I don't think it would be wise right now." He swatted at something. Scribe looked down in time to see a sniggering midget scooting away. "Goose attempt, pet. I figured I'd rather not have to chase you down while you were trying to kill him."

They started off again. After about half a block, Scribe sighed. "All these little red-heads bobbing along just at the bottom edge of my vision. I now have an idea of what Judy Garland must've felt like." She felt her shirt being lifted in back and swung behind herself without looking. She connected with something slightly squashy, and there was a smack, a yelp, and the sound of someone scuttling away. "I'm just glad I don't have to wear that cutesypoo lil jumper--I'd have to cinch it around my thighs if I didn't want the entire dimension to know what color my panties are."

"But everyone in our dimension knows, Scribe," offered Superman. She arched an eyebrow at him. "It was in all the tabloids--you only wear plain white undies. There's been a tremendous upswing in their sale since that was made public."

"Didn't your mama ever tell you not to believe everything you read in those things?"

"You mean that they aren't...?" He blushed.

She rolled her eyes. "It might spoil the Adult Conspiracy, so I'm not telling."

"I am," said Clive. He winked at Superman. "Pink, with big red smoochies."

While Superman gaped, Scribe swatted Clive on the arm. "And who's fault is that? He hid all my plain ones. I just have to hope I don't have an accident, or the EMTs will have something to talk about for ages."

They'd reached the building and went inside. Scribe stared around, interested. "Any bets on what made the holes in the wall?"

"No, and I'm not speculating about how that duck ended up in the ventilator grill, either," said Clive.

Superman said, "My guess is that the cat swimming in the indoor fountain chased it up there."

"Are you sure this isn't a Swedish art movie dimension?" Scribe asked. "Look there's a directory over there. Let's see if we can find a listing for the psychotic pixie." They went over and looked at the large board. It was one of those kinds covered with narrow slits, and tiny plastic letters and numbers seated in them. "Hoo. Looks like someone coated the sucker with glue and then threw Scrabble sets at it."

"Still," Clive ran a finger along some of the lines, "there seems to be a method to the madness. These on this side look like business names, and there are floor and room numbers, so these over here must be names."

Scribe moved up close behind him, peering over his shoulder. "Slattybarstok, Grymytleikanak, Plotz, Shazbat, Jones... Ah!" She pointed. "Mr. Mxyztplk. Hot damn! I finally know how it's spelled," she crowed.

"I believe that it is pronounced 'mix-yez-pit-el-ick'."

She gave him a jaundiced look. "Uh-huh. So, what's Mixedpickles doing here in the Tishamingo Towers."

Clive checked. "Well, he seems to be right next to Dr. Nelson C. Armadingo, DDS." He read again. "Um, and Tooth Fairy."

"We'll sneak past, and I think we should walk up, judging from the fact that there's a bungee cord concession next to the elevators."

"It's on the fifth floor," observed Clive. He shrugged. "Oh, well. It's excellent for the glutes. Wagons ho, precious."

They trudged up the four flights of stairs, having to move quickly to the sides twice: once when someone skiied past, and once when a hail of golf balls flew past. Clive ended up rubbing the top of his head and swearing quiet vengence on the first denzin of this dimension he saw who had golf clubs or was wearing golf togs.

They finally reached the fifth floor and started looking at doors. Scribe wasn't too dreadfully surprised to see that some of them were marked with numbers, others were marked with letters, and a few had what seemed to be hieroglyphics. They finally located Hawk3Q. The sign on the door said 'Mxyztplk's Fine Foods. You'll relish our gherkins, chow-down on our chow-chow, and pine for our piccalili'. Scribe gave Superman a smug look. "As I was saying, MIXEDPICKLES."

"Don't be snarky, pet, or I'll quickly have your bottom just as pink as your scanties," Clive warned.

Scribe rapped on the door. A high-pitched voice inside called out. "Just slip the money under the door."

"What about the order?" Scribe asked.

"Uh, yeah. Sure. Shove that in, too, if you wanna."

*rapraprap*

"Open up, Shortstuff."

*pause* "No habla English."

"Si habla Tex-Mex. I'm from south Texas, bub--you don't get off that easy."

Nothing. *rapraprap* "Candygram."

"I've seen that show."

"Great, wasn't it? C'mon, Annoying--open up. I have someone out here who can convert your door to toothpicks." Clive tapped her on the shoulder. "I have two someone's out here who can splinter it."

"No way, Toots."

She thought. "Open up, and I'll let you grope me."

*click* *zip* Scribe had a short, bald, orange clad nutcase fastened to her bosom. She plucked him off and slapped him silly. "Hey! You said I could."

"I never said there wouldn't be consequences. Remember me, Munchkin? Stop staring at my chest--you didn't get that good a look at it the first time around."

"Gimme a hint."

"I tackled you like you were a rookie quarterback."

He squealed and thrashed angrily. "That was after those blind cheats denied me my just victory!"

"Denial--nothing quite like it." She shook him. "I wanna go home!"

He sneered. "So click your heels together three times and say..."

"Give him to me, pet." Scribe handed Mixedpickles over. Clive dangled him by the scruff of the neck so that he was eye-to-eye with him. "Be polite to that lady, or..." he bunched up a fist and showed it to him, "I shall put this somewhere that will cause you great discomfort, and I don't mean in your face."

Mixedpickles didn't look too frightened. "Crank it down a notch, Butch. Okay, maybe I over-reacted a bit." He snickered. "Ya gotta admit it was a good joke, though."

"I haven't laughed so hard since double-daylight savings time forced me to walk to my bus stop in pitch dark," snapped Scribe. "Shake him, Clive."

"Ask nicely."

"Pretty please."

*shakeshakeshake* The derby fell off. "Hey!" Mixedpickles protested.

Scribe smacked him on the bald pate. "You're not the worst bald-headed man I've ever run into, but you're running a close second!" She smacked him again. "If I have to go back to Superman's dimension instead of home, I'm calling a press conference. I'm saying that you're hung like a runt gerbil, your palm is so callussed that you can smooth sandpaper with it, and you're the leading cause of radical lesbianism in your home dimension."

He yelped. "You can't do that! We monitor the media over there! You'll ruin my rep! My score rate will plummit."

"From zero to negative?" Clive murmured. Mixedpickles tried to kick him.

Scribe caught his foot. "You really don't want to do that. It isn't that I'm concerned for your wellfare--it's just that I'd have a hard time getting you to send me home if I have to get you up with a squeegee and a sponge." He scowled at her. She sighed. "Okay." She peered into his office. "Oh, good, you have a window." She went in and opened it, then looked out. "My, my. You know, it looks a LOT farther down than I expected it to. Clive, bring him here, would you?"

Clive did. Scribe took a firm hold on both of Mixedpickle's ankles. "Now, then--I must warn you that I don't have a whole hell of a lot of upper body strength. Never even managed a single chin-up in gym, despite my Amazon coach's exhortations. So I'd say I can probably dangle you a total of, oh, say thirty seconds. That is IF my palms don't get sweaty, and you don't wiggle much."

Mixedpickle's mouth dropped open. "You wouldn't dare!"

"I thought you'd been paying attention to the media in the other dimension. Have you NOTICED that I'm a particularly restrained person? Send me home, or I make a psych test blot out of you."

He looked at Superman. "You're a hero! You can't let this happen!"

Superman folded his arms. "It's my day off." Clive blew a kiss at him.

"Besides," there was a hint of despiration in the little man's voice. "I can float! It won't do you any good to dangle me. When you let go, I'll just hover."

"You know," Scribe said conversationally, "I've learned that there was a whole lot I just took for granted in the comic book dimension, and that things over here don't always work like you expect them to. I just have this sneaking suspicion that maybe that levitation bit doesn't work on your home turf." She put her face close to Mixedpickles'. "I've always kind of wanted to play high stakes poker. So, Mixedpickless, I happen to think you're bluffing. Your call."