"A bit inelegantly put, but accurate," agreed Scribe. "I'm normally a kind hearted soul, but right now the only reason I'd cry after dropping you would be if you landed on someone." She thought. "Actually, judging from the population that we've met so far, I'd only be upset if you, like, landed on a passing cat."

"You wouldn't dare!" said Mixedpickles indignantly.

"Clive, be a dear and swing his torso out the window. Be ready to let go when I tell you."

"Certainly, love." Clive started to stuff Mixedpickles through the window.

Mixedpickles grabbed at the window frame. "Waitwaitwait! Perhaps I've been too hasty."

"Ya think? Clive, maybe if you put your foot on his chest and push..."

"Well, I can try, precious, but remember that I'm only so flexible."

"Ain't what I've heard."

"Flatterer. Let me just shift my weight, and..."

"Alright, already! I'll send her back!" Mixedpickles screamed.

Clive grabbed the midget's shirt and hauled him back from the brink. "Thaaat's a reasonable little psychopath."

"How do we do this?" Scribe asked.

"Simple," said Mixedpickles. "Just strip, and we have sex, then..."

She sighed. "Give me his feet again, Clive."

"Heh, no need for that. Just a joke, ya know," Mixedpickles protested.

"You write for Paulie Shore, right?"

Mixedpickles gasped. "Well, if you're going to be insulting."

Superman said, "Who's Paulie Shore?"

Scribe patted his cheek. "You don't know how blessed you are. Yes, you have to live in a world that has Lex Luthor, but you are free from so many others."

"If you're quite through with petting the superhero," Mixedpickle's voice was snide, "we can get on with this. Scribe, grab hold of me." He wiggled his eyebrows. "Any old where will do."

I smiled sweetly, cracking my knuckles. "Are you absolutely sure about that?"

He paled slightly. "The arm or shoulder will do. You, tough guy--let go if you don't want to have an unscheduled trip."

"Just never you mind. She's not going anywhere without me."

"What? Look, I'll agree to take her back where I got here--that's only fair, in a twisted sort of way that appeals to me. But there's no reason why I should go schlepping you all around the multiverses. This sort of thing makes me tired!"

"You won't have to. Superman has his own little device cooked up. He has a way of keeping track of me, and snapping me back to our home dimension later on. Don't you, dear?"

"Already tested and tried," Superman agreed. "Um, Scribe... as much as I'd like to see you home..."

She gave him a kiss. "It's okay, sweetie. Check your thingy and make sure it's locked on me 'n Clive, then go on back to the Fortress and keep an eye on what happens. If this works out, I'll need you to tell Lois and Jimmy good-bye for me, and be ready to snatch Clive back."

"Hold on, precious. Supe, if we do get back to her place, you can just hold off on that snatching for a couple of weeks. Lambie has been through a traumatic experience, and I intend to help her re-adjust. Besides, her dimension sounds very interesting. I mean, no villains with super powers--just your ordinary thugs, terrorists, and psychopaths? Sounds positively restful."

"All right, Clive. If this," he held up the remote, "works, I'll be able to transport you from the Fortress, and..."

"You will come and get me yourself," Clive said firmly. "Honestly. You could give someone a heart attack if I just winked out at an inopportune moment. And besides, it smacks faintly of a date sitting in the car and blowing his horn instead of coming to the front door, like a gentleman."

Superman saluted. "Yes, sir." He hugged Scribe, kissed her cheek, and said, "I really hope we get to see each other again. You... you're..." He faultered, then shrugged. "Well, you're you."

"If you make me cry, I'll smack you," said Scribe, a trifle gruffly.

He set the machine, hit a button, and was gone. A second later he reappeared, grinned, said, "Works!" and disappeared again.

"That's a relief," said Scribe. "Now no matter where we end up, he can retrieve us." She took hold of Mixedpickles' arm. Clive tightened his grip on the little man's shoulder. "Ready when you are, MP."

"Fine. Now, then, close your eyes, and concentrate on your own dimension. Think about the exact same place that you were when we left."

She closed her eyes and thought of the hotel in Houston, and the convention rooms in particular. *Please, God. I'm tired of all the hoopla. I've had fun, I've met interesting people,* She felt Clive's free hand comfortingly on her shoulder. *I've met fantastic people, but I'm ready for some peace and quiet. Let me get back to where I'm just a simple, obscure little fangirl, okay?*

There was that all over, static-electricity-but-not sensation, and the atmosphere around her changed subtly. Noises began to fade in...

"Chill, Therese," the camera man said. "This is a real break for you. He's going to be filming you doing your bit while I do the same. Guess who's gonna make more money off it?"

"You know, when they assigned me to cover this weird ass disappearance, I was pissed. Who'd have thought that it would get so famous so quick?"

"Yeah, well, it was a slow news day, and we had a skeleton crew here filming the costume competition for some filler. That footage of the girl and the two mystery contestants disappearing into thin air is gonna make a mint. The booger is already being analyzed harder than the Zappgruder film and the Big Foot footage combined. So far it seems genuine. It's the first known recorded disappearance that didn't involve David Copperfield."

She was peering down into the audience area, where the familiar man with the baseball cap and the salt-and-pepper beard was talking earnestly to two young men. "Who's that Speilberg is interviewing? Have we got footage on them yet?"

"Those two are friends of the woman who disappeared. They recognized her from the footage they ran last night. Names are Alex and Lawrence something. One of 'em fainted when they saw the film. I hear that the tabloids are already after them for exclusives, but they're too distraut to talk to them."

"Wow. They must've really been good friends."

The camera man shrugged. "It's not like the tabloids won't go ahead and make the interviews up, anyway." He checked his watch. "Showtime, girly. This is going out live, and there's no time to spare."

They shooed the hair and make-up people away. The woman took her place at the edge of the stage, the cameraman settled his camera on his shoulder, sound man checked levels, and they got ready. The cameraman held up a hand, fingers extended, and tucked them each as the seconds counted down. Finally he pumped his clenched fist, and she began, "Good evening, Houston. We're live here at the downtown Urbana Hotel--scene of last night's bizarre--some have even said unnatural, disappearance."

She walked a few steps farther to the side, the cameras following her. "It occured during the final day costume contest of one of the fan conventions that this hotel is famous for hosting."

"Plug inserted," murmured the cameraman.

"There was some sort of disturbance. Apparently one of the contestants believed he had been cheated of a win, and attempted to steal the blue ribbon. We'll run that footage in just a moment, for those few of our audience who haven't seen it. In any case, the thief, described as a gaudily clad, bald midget, was stopped by another contestant, and an onlooker. Then they all just..." she waved her hand, "disappeared. There were no exits, no trap doors, no curtains, but suddenly they were gone, before the very eyes of well over a hundred witnesses, and it was caught on tape by our own Channel 7 news crew."

"To make matters even more strange, we have only been able to identify one of the people who went missing. Despite the careful records kept by the contest promoters, there is no record of either of the two men having entered the competition. No one can recall having seen them until moments before the incident. The woman, however, has been identified. Friends who viewd the tape contacted authorities to identify her as Scribe Mozelle, a woman who'd checked into the hotel only minutes before the incident." Lawrence was sobbing loudly, while Alex held him comfortingly. Speilberg's second cameraman was filming them, while the first filmed the filming. The reporter continued. "She was registered to attend the horror convention that began today. Events have had to be shifted drastically to leave the scene of this alleged disappearance free, but the convention promotors have gone on record as being whole-heartedly in favor of anything that might help find the missing woman."

The reporter gazed solemnly into the lens. "What really happened to Scribe Mozelle? We may never know. All we can do right now is hope and pray that she somehow finds her way home..."

There was a pop, and suddenly three people appeared in mid-air, right over the reporter. All the television cameraman caught were a couple of pairs of dangling legs, but it turned out that Speilberg got a splendid full body shot of them popping into existence. Later he'd remark that he was a little disappointed--that the special effects in his movies usually looked more spectacular than the real thing.

In the split second before they dropped, the one in the middle, the little, orange clad one, whooped, "Wish granted!" There was another pop, he disappeared, and the other two landed in a tangle of arms and legs right on top of a very startled newswoman.

It was quiet in the room. Most mouths were agape. The three on the stage sat up rather groggily. The reporter, stunned, said, "What the fuck happened?" She clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide. "Shit! The FCC is gonna get my ass!"

"Who cares!" yelled Scribe. With all her recent experience with the media, she immediately recognized the news crew. Throwing her arms wide she crowed. "Yeeeeeeee-ha! Hello, Houston! Your wandering girl has come home!"

"Scribe"

It was a duet scream from Alex and Lawrence, who stormed the stage, swarming up without bothering to go around to the steps. She scrambled to her feet and in a moment, the three were hugging, bouncing, and squealing. "What have you done to your hair?" Lawrence asked. "I love it!"

Clive sighed. "I think I'm going to like it here."

The female reporter watched the scene numbly. "What the hell just happened?"

The very handsome blond man in leather, sitting half-across her lap, said, "You got Scribisized, precious. She can be a tad overwhelming." He frowned, touching the woman's hair. It didn't move. "What criminal have you been letting do your hair?" She patted it self-consciously.

"Scribe, your mother has been having an absolute fit!" said Lawrence, slapping her on the shoulder.

"We've all been worried sick," said Alex. "The crowd down at the Rendevous were already talking about setting up a canister and having a barbeque to gather money to hire a private detective to look for you."

"How long have I been gone?" she looked around, peeking out the entrance to the large room. The entrance was rapidly filling with gawkers, but she could see booths and decorations. *squeal!* "The spirits have done it all in one night! I'm not gonna miss the convention!"

A man in a suit approached. "Miss, are you really Scribe Mozelle?"

"I'd be very surprised to find that there are more than one of me."

"I'm Detective Alan Rossovic. Were you aware that we have been searching for you?"

"Really? That's so nice of you." She turned back to her friends. "So, have they started the movie marathon? I can pass on the classics, but aren't they supposed to run trailers for Rob Zombie's coming movie?"

"Miss, we need to get a statement from you and figure out exactly what happened," the detective said.

Scribe laughed. "Good luck. I went through it, and I don't know what happened."

"I'll have to ask you to accompany me to the station so we can get statements."

"You can get statements on Monday. I paid for this convention--I'm enjoying it."

"I'll have to insist."

She rounded on on him, eyes glinting. "What am I charged with?"

"Uh... well..."

"Thought so. You can wait." She turned back to Alex and Lawrence. "Did Savini make it in? I have something for him to autograph."

"He sure did," said Alex. "And look who's taking home movies." He pointed at the bearded, glasses wearing man, who was watching this all with fascination.

Scribe blinked, then squinted. "Is that who I think it is?" Her friends nodded. "Wow! That's the third richest man I've ever seen!"

"Scribe," said Lawrence, "I know who you hang with. Who have you met who could possibly be on a par with Steven Spielberg?" "Lex Luthor and Bruce Wayne."

Alex and Lawrence exchanged looks. Alex said slowly, "It didn't look like she landed on her head."

Scribe said patiently, "Did you, or did you not, just see me appear out of thin air?"

"Ye-es."

"Then why is it so hard to believe that I met Luthor and Wayne?"

Again looks were exchanged. "She has a point," said Lawrence.

The female reporter, her hair-do squashed sideways, came up, microphone extended. "Miss Mozelle! Can you explain your startling disappearance, and even more startling re-appearance?"

Clive stepped between Scribe and the reporter. "I already told you--you're not coming anywhere near her till you have that godawful mess on your head taken care of. I'm a tolerant man in most cases, pet, but I mistrust anyone who'd allow that to be done to them in the name of career advancement." He waved his hand. "Shoo. Shoo."

The cameraman said, "They just cut us off, anyway. We need to get back to the studio so we can start putting together your bit for the ten o'clock news. They're gonna give you the feature bit!" They both ran.

Clive was staring at Lawrence and Alex. Alex was a large, buff young man with shoulder length dark, wavy hair. Lawrence was a small, slender, rather delicate young man with equally dark hair worn in a ponytail that dripped down to the middle of his back. They stared back. Clive licked his lips. "Scribe, precious, aren't you going to introduce me to your friends?"

"Clive, these are my friends Alex and Lawrence. Alex, Laurey--Clive--the one and only Leather Hairdresser."

"Charmed," purred Clive, shaking hands perhaps a little longer than was strictly necessary. Neither Laurey nor Alex seemed to be in a hurry to stop him. "You both have the most beautiful hair. May I?" Before anyone was really aware of what was going on, Clive had Laurey's ponytail undone, and he had a hand buried wrist deep in each of the young men's hair, rummaging sensuously, his eyes half-closed.

Scribe said, "Purely professional interest?"

"Certainly not, dear." He gripped and gave each head a gentle, slow shake.

Lawrence whispered, "Alex, I certainly hope you were serious about what we could have for our anniversery, because I think I just found what I want."

Scribe grinned. "Betcha wish you had your special station back at Attitudes."

"Pet, is there one of those delightful little shops in the lobby that provides ammenities like, say, shampoo, conditioner, and perhaps even scissors?"

"Come to think of it, I believe there is."

"Does your room have a bathroom, and a lock on the door?"

"Yes."

"I can make do."

"Oo, crap. I don't have my room key. It kinda got lost in that interdimensional shuffle. It may take a little while to get another one."

Alex said, "Scribe, you could tell them at the desk, and check out the convention. They should have arrangements done by the time you're ready to go to bed. If they haven't, there's a fold out couch in our room."

"Shouldn't be a problem. My luggage should still be in there, so that should be proof enough." She slapped her forehead. "Poot! I need to call my Mom. She'll have my head if I don't."

"Oh, here!" Lawrence pulled a calling card out of his pocket. "My treat!"

"Terrific. What's the PIN number?"

Lawrence blushed, flicking his eyes at Clive, "Um, 6969."

Clive smiled gently. "I know I'm going to like it here. I'll see you later, pet." He herded the two young men toward the upper levels.

Scribe found a pay phone. There was a tap on her shoulder, and a voice said, "Excuse me, Miss Scribe. I was wondering if I might..."

"Later, Steve." She giggled. "I have to phone home." She dialed. "Hello, Mom? Don't rent out my room, I... Mom. Mom. Mom. Don't cry, Mom, you'll get me started. Yes, ma'am, I know you were worried, but believe me, I didn't have time to call and ask permission. What? Yes, the man who fell on top of me is a friend. Yes, a good friend. How good? Very good. No, I don't think that's likely. It just isn't. He's very fond of me, but there's no chance of us getting married. Well, you'll just have to trust me on this. I know." Her expression softened. "I love you, too, Mom. It's good to be home."