"But Scribe, I have to have a number where I can reach you for..."

*"Shhhhhhh!"*

The chorus of hisses from the surrounding darkness made it sound like a clowder of very pissed off Siamese cats was fighting with an equally pissed slither of snakes. The man in the baseball cap and glasses combed nervously at his salt-and-pepper beard. I sighed, got up, took his hand, and dragged him out of the large, dark room into the well lit hotel lobby. The man blinked in the lights, muttering, "Damn, they were touchy."

I glared at him impatiently. "Steven, you were talking during SPIDER BABY! Hello? Classic schlock horror? Lon Chaney, Jr.'s last film? You're lucky they didn't gag you with JuuJuubees and cram a popcorn box over your head." I pointed back toward the darkened room. "Those are fans in there! You remember fans, right? You've had dealings with them?"

"I... uh..."

"It's been too long since you've been to a grass roots level convention, bub."

"I just need a phone number where I can reach you or your secretary for... Why are you laughing?"

*sniff* "I'm sorry. Secretary--hooooo boy. Please don't say that in front of anyone I know--I'd never live it down. I'm in the book. Well, my Mom is in the book--I don't have my own phone." Spielberg was giving me a shocked stare. "Don't look at me like that. There are some of us who find telephone access to be less necessary for survival than oxygen."

Spielberg sighed. "All right. I'll get in touch with you in the next couple of days so we can set up a conference about this project. You ought to get some sort of representation before then. I'd recommend an agent and a lawyer."

I grunted. "And I thought I'd left all this nonsense behind when I got home. Oh, well. Hopefully my native fellows have a shorter attention span. Better make it three or four days. I'll start sorting through the contacts that started piling up about ten minutes after that newscast."

"Are there many?" Speilberg asked curiously.

"Looked like a small town phonebook the last time they tried to hand them to me."

"Be careful. There are a lot of scam artists out there."

"Don't worry about me." I smiled at Clive as he sauntered over from the elevators. "I'll have my own, personal bullshit detector with me at all times."

Clive greeted me with a peck on the cheek. "Precious, have you been up All night?"

"The marathon ran all night." I raised an eyebrow. "Weren't YOU up all night?"

"Sweetie," he drawled, "Not even Superman is capable of that. We dozed occasionally. I had the loveliest assortment of body parts to use as pillows."

"Speaking of, where are Laury and Alex?"

"Sleeping like the lambs that they are." Clive was eyeing Spielberg. "Why do I have the feeling that you have an absolute mess under that cap?"

Scribe gave Spielberg a little push. "Go. Go while you can." Steven went. "Clive, are they going to recover?"

"Yes, darling, but I've spoiled them for all others. Who was that?"

"Steven Spielberg. It wouldn't mean anything to you--it's a dimensional thing. Suffice it to say that he's staggeringly rich, very powerful, and considered a genius by many, many people."

"So is Lex Luthor."

"Mm, I don't think Steven is quite that ruthless. Anyway, he wants to make a movie of my story, with an option for two or three sequels."

"Lord knows enough has happened to you, sweetie. Tell me, do they have anyone who's devastatingly sexy enough to portray me?"

"No one could live up to you, Clive."

"Naturally."

"But they don't know you like I do, so I suppose they'd try. If I do it, I'm gonna demand cast approval, and if they suggest someone under thrity-five for me, I'm walking out. If they suggest someone under a size fourteen, I'm raising my price, and if they suggest Julia Roberts, I'm smacking someone."

"That's my lamb. Is this shindig going to last much longer, dear?"

"Well, most of the 'good stuff' is already done. It looks like after this, I'll be able to afford to travel to go to conventions, so I suppose I could give the rest of the activities a miss." I smiled at Clive. "Are you ready to meet my mother, Clive?"

He smiled back. "In my long list of experiences, no one has ever considered me someone to take home to Mother. I'm looking forward to it."

It didn't take long to get packed, since I hadn't really UN-packed. We stopped by Alex and Laury's room and woke them long enough to say good-bye. I extracted a promise to meet up the next weekend at our favorite karaoke bar. "It isn't Lavender's Green," I told Clive, "but it's fun, and since I'm not quite so notorious there, we may actually get a chance to relax a little. Um, that is if it isn't 'Disco Night'. It gets pretty rowdy with the Village People Lookalike contests."

We took a taxi to the bus station. Normally I would have been a little nervous about having to wait for our bus there, considering the sort of 'individuals' who hung around. With Clive beside me, though, arms crossed and giving a frosty eye to anyone who seemed inclined to show an undue interest, it was a lot less tense.

We chose seats near the back of the bus, and I allowed Clive to have the window seat only after he told me that the only way I was getting it was by sitting on his lap. I received a few interested looks from the other passengers as they boarded, but they all ascribed to the common sense rule of 'eye contact equals invitation to become bosom pals', and left us in peace.

As we left the station, Clive examined the towering buildings on either side, nodding. "Not bad, but no match for Metropolis. And you say you live in a small town? I haven't been in one of those for awhile."

"I said I lived in a one miniature Shetland pony town. It makes wide spots in the road look urban. It consists of flea markets, churches, and feed stores." *pause* "Oh, and video rental stores."

"Videos?"

"They allow adult material in our neighborhood. Trust me--you'll like it."

A (sadly) familiar voice floated over the seat from behind us. "Shouldn't watch them. The Mafia and the Communists slip sublingual messages in 'em to control your mind."

Clive raised an eyebrow at me. "I'll have to hold them under my tongue to enjoy them? I can think of a few body parts that might be pleasant with, but..."

"Subliminal. Clive, whatever you do, don't look around," I hissed.

"Of course that's only in them poor-no-gray-fees. Now, the Moonies and Hairy-Kreskins use the martial arts movies. The Satanists and the Moor-mans use the horror movies." Clive was starting to twitch. I patted his arm. "The Lez-beans use the chic flicks to set up unrealistic standards for men, and recruit women. They also encourage women to get uppity, and abandon their God given place as homemakers, babymakers, and man pleasers, and..."

I lost it.

I turned, kneeling up in the seat, and clutching the back of the cushions. I glared back at--yes, it was the same scrawny, beady-eyed fruit loop who'd declared the end of the world on my first trip. When he saw me, his teeny, piggy eyes widened to almost normal size. I growled, "If you don't shut up I'm going to have the aliens up the mind control ray bombardment till even aluminum foil can't deflect it. I'll have my New World Order contacts increase the flouride in your water till you glow in the dark. I'll slip information in fortune cookies all over the world giving your address to the Tongs, and I'll set up a web site specifically to tell the women of the world that you're hung like a hamster and have the staying power of a May fly and the breath of a water buffalo."

He squeaked once, stuffed a finger in the ear that didn't have the earphone button plugged into it, closed his eyes, and clamped his mouth shut. I sat back down, and Clive gave me a kiss on the cheek. "Tongue Fu--verbal martial arts," he murmured. "The ability to cut a man's knees out from under him with a few well placed words."

"I occasionally channel my inner bitch. It comes in handy."

The rest of the ride was peaceful enough.

Mom was waiting at the Beumont bus station when we arrived. Clive got off first and, ever the gentleman, gave me his hand to help me descend. I thought Mom was going to have an orgasm at this show of old fashioned courtesy.

After she finished trying to squeeze the life out of me, I introduced them. We went into the coffee shop, and I gave her a very brief (and very editted) version of what had happened. I didn't even have to prompt her to invite Clive to stay with us. She bubbled that we had a nice spare room, next to mine, that he could use. He waited till her back was turned to roll his eyes. I shrugged, and whispered, "About two steps from my room."

Luckily, the phone was in Mom's name (as I'd told Speilberg), so we had a couple of days of peace before the media jackels found me. Clive and Mom got well acquainted. (No, not that well acquainted! *Squick!* I mean, I know Mom isn't dead yet, but please, give my sensibilities a break.)

Spielberg had a rough draft of the deal he was proposing messengered over. (The poor delivery man spent an hour roaming in the wilderness, trying to find the house. If he hadn't stumbled on the overpass in front of our yard, he'd still be looking) Clive was sitting on the couch, reading it, a pair of rimless glasses perched on his nose. He glanced up and caught my eye. "Not a word."

"I was just wondering where the hell they came from."

"Inner vest pocket, and if you tell anyone I'll tan your bottom well enough to make another vest out of your hide."

"Shutting up now." I sat next to him, and sighed happily. "It's good to be home. I did enjoy my trip to the other dimension, but it'll be nice to not be confronted by the physical incarnation of fictional characters for awhile."

Clive hummed. "I'm just glad that we managed to locate Mixedpickles and, er, negotiate his co-operation. You might still be in my home territory if we hadn't."

I nodded agreement. There was a knock on the door. I started to get up, and Mom came out of the kitchen. "Sit, dear. I'll get it."

I snuggled against Clive's side, and he looped an arm over my shoulder. I could hear Mom talking to someone on the front porch, but I couldn't hear what was being said. She came back in, looking a little bewildered. "Scribe, hon, there are some people here from the FBI who want to talk to you."

I sat up. "What the hell? I can't believe that the government would be interested enough to send someone. They usually need proof of something in triplicate, video taped, notarized, and attested to by several dozen upstanding citizens."

Mom shrugged. "They look like very nice people." Her voice dropped. "You ought to see them, dear. I think the man is single, and he looks very nice, even if he does need to comb his hair."

"What the hell. Show 'em in."

She did. I stared. The short red-headed woman said, "Miss Scribe Mozell? We're..."

"You wouldn't happen to be Gillian Anderson and David Duchovney, would you?" They blinked. She said, "Who?"

The tall, hazel-eyed man with the thick, messy sable brown hair (which Clive was eyeing lustfully) said, "No. We're..."

I pointed. "Fox Mulder, and Dana Scully?" They exchanged looks. "And you're here to look into my late adventure for a special section of the FBI called the X Files?"

Dana said, "Did someone advise you that we were coming?"

I let my head drop back on the sofa. "Clive, I guess I'm going back with you when Kal-el brings you home, and then we're going back, finding Mixedpickles, and I'm going to give that theory that he can't fly on his home turf a practical test."

He tore his eyes away from Mulder to look at me, understanding lighting in his eyes. "You mean...?"

I nodded resignedly, "I think I'll make it the next time, but till then--same song, second verse..."

The End