At long last, ladies and gents, I give you "OVB: Road Trip!"

My ambitions for this fic:

1: to make people laugh till their sides hurt

2: to write a story that (not to go all valley-girl on you, but—) totally and completely rocks havers

3: to have David Wenham wandering through it periodically with (trumpet fanfare!) his shirt off.

4: to achieve at least a hundred reviews from you, when all is said and done (so review like you've never reviewed before!)

5: to have fun.

Wait a second, have I got my priorities a little mixed?

Yes.

1: to have David Wenham wandering through it periodically with his shirt off

The rest are immaterial.

Anyway, there will probably be more than a few references to my other VH fics in here, just to warn you. This is kind of a sequel to "VH and the Village People" since that was so (inexplicably) popular. And I love random humour, so why not keep doing it? Anyway, please review and let me know how bad it is. I like the second chapter better than the first, so don't give up on it right away.

Chapter One: In the Beginning

Once upon a time, the world was young. Life was good, and young Gabriel was in his first existence as an accountant.

Look at him, a seventh-century accountant— not so different from a modern accountant, really, except for the toga. He led a peaceful, harmless life— till one day he fell foul of his most prominent client, a certain Dracul, who wore bright pink togas because he wouldn't develop his well-known gothic sense of style for several hundred more years.

Dracul, a prominent businessman, was a pleasant, handsome man with a bit of a mean streak. He always gave his debtors two or three weeks at least to pay up— and then if they didn't, he killed them, in the most pleasant way possible. He was trying to defraud the government— and goodness knows the government at the time needed all the help it could get— and hadn't been paying all his taxes. Nothing serious, you understand; just petty coins, the odd bottle of olive oil here and there. But Gabriel was an upstanding citizen— and he wouldn't stand up for it.

When he found out, he confronted Dracula about it, which was his first mistake. He surprised Dracul with his consorts Aler, Vero, and Marisa. Dracul didn't take kindly to this, and the two men ended up in a fight.

Now, despite the fact that Gabriel was a skinny, bespectacled accountant, he was no mean fighter. He could duke it out with the best of them— if it weren't for his rather stupidly sticking to the rules of honorable combat. Dracul kicked him illegally, they both ended up on the ground, and that's where the fight really started.

Somehow, a lamp fell over, and all those hoarded bottles of olive oil got spilled.

The result was a noise like wumph!, along with instant death for all involved.

Afterwards, Gabriel and Dracul emerged coughing and ash-covered before the throne at Valhalla, to be sentenced by Zeus himself.

"Oh, Zeus," spake Gabriel, "have mercy on us."

"Oh, Zeus," spake Dracul, shoving Gabriel, "it was this imbecile's fault, not mine."

"Hey, no pushing!"

"I didn't push."

"Yes you did, you did this—" Gabriel demonstrated.

Dracul responded with a harder shove. "Don't push me."

"Gentlemen!" said Zeus.

"He started it," said Dracul.

"I did not."

"You did too!" Shove.

"Don't touch me!" Shove.

"This is all your fault!" punch.

"My fault?" Illegal kick.

"Yes your fault!" Bloody nose.

"I wasn't the one consorting with those three girls!" Broken nose.

"Do you seriously think we're here because of a little dalliance?" Kicked kneecap.

"Dracul, your entire life is one long dalliance!" Roundhouse punch.

Behind them, half-hidden in the clouds, Vero, Aler, and Marisa set up a cry. They'd been practicing it— it was specially designed to get their beloved's attention— and it sounded like this:

"AAaaaaaaAAAAAAAaaaAAAAaaAAAAAA!"

"Let go of my hair!"

"You let go first!"

"You're just jealous."

"What could I possibly have to be jealous about?"

Dracul paused. "You're jealous because— because I have three women and Ana keeps leaving you for other men."

"She was visiting her family!" howled Gabriel, and the fight started in earnest. Again.

"ENOUGH!" thundered Zeus. "YOU MORTALS ARE SO BLOODY ANNOYING. WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH YOU? YOU JUST WON'T LEARN!"

And thus it was that Dracul and Gabriel, not to mention Dracul's companions, were sentenced to circular immortality— no matter what happened, they would keep coming back. A sort of metaphysical merry-go-round, if you will.

History became legend— legend became myth— myth became an aggressive advertising campaign.

Dracul and Gabriel changed names, histories, life stories, memories, realities, and consciences more times than you could count, over the ages. By the time our story begins, the truth was beginning to be ingrained even in Gabriel's faulty memory.

This time, his name is Van Helsing.

Gabriel Van Helsing.

He likes introducing himself like that because it sounds cool.

Two years ago he lost his love Anna Valerious, and now he has an Irish wolfhound named Mack, a sidekick named Carl, and an unrequited crush on an opera star named Hannah. Secretly he suspects that he likes her because her name is spelt the same backwards as forwards. A few months ago he had a close call with a pal of his named Otto.

He looks at himself in the mirror. His face is so familiar, so well-known. Very handsome. Rather impractical, really, to walk around looking this good everyday. Almost a waste, like he should have a normal one for everyday wear and just save this one for special occasions.

Actually, come to think of it, most of the main people in his life were rather good-looking. Anna had been beautiful, as had her brother (who's name Van Helsing couldn't remember, but it was a stupid name so it didn't matter). Dracula was to die for. Carl was one sexy monk. Friar. Whatever, he kept changing his mind.

Even Cardinal Jinette wasn't bad for a small, old, bald, annoyingly Italian guy.

The reason for this was, of course, that Van Helsing's life was a movie; but Van Helsing himself was unaware of that. In fact the only one who really suspected this fact was Carl, and that was just because the Writer had told him so.

At the back of Van Helsing's mind was the ever-present thought, never far from him, that he was doomed to circular immortality. No matter what happened, the would keep coming back.

A sort of metaphysical merry-go-round, if you will.