From: KeagenJXF Date: 7 Aug 1998 02:07:14 GMT Subject: New: "Beware the Wrath of Me" (1/1) Title: Beware the Wrath of Me By Cancergirl and Bradford Category: SHA Rating: PG-13 for some language. Spoilers: None Keywords: Humor, Angst Summary: A humorous interpretation of what would happen if they actually killed off Mulder and Scully. They've killed off everyone else, right? A veritable death fest! In the tradition of Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Monty Python, and other strange British humor. Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully belong to 1013 and Chris Carter and the Fox Network. Hitchhiker's Guide belongs to Douglas Adams, and Monty Python belongs to Python(Monty)Pictures. We're not really sure who Sporks belong to. The idiotic humor is ours entirely. Authors' note: Feedback is practically begged for!! No, really. Send us anything! Have a problem with my grammar? Wanna make fun of my haircut? Responses are promised! Send to Syzygy42@yahoo.com **** BEWARE THE WRATH OF ME By Bradford and Cancergirl **** The air in the room was hot and heavy. You could cut the tension with a Spork(TM). Twelve people sat hunched in a corner, fearing for their lives, while a maniac with a gun ranted to himself or whoever would listen about aliens, conspiracies, and covert government plots against the nation and the world. He carried a Sig Sauer, the standard F.B.I. handgun. He waved it carelessly, panicking the hostages, as he went on about his paranoias and how everyone was out to get him. He was an F.B.I. agent. Well, at least until he had gone on a full-fledged psychotic rampage. Now he was attempting to rob a metropolitan bank to prove the little metal strips in money were tracking devices. One of the employees had sounded the alarm, and currently the entire building, the crazed gunman, and all the hostages were surrounded by teams of snipers waiting for a clean shot. The gunman had started out with eleven hostages, but then an over-zealous, trigger happy, careless, under attentive, sloppy federal agent had recklessly raced into the building to try to negotiate with him. It seemed his partner was one of the original hostages. To make a long story short, he now had twelve hostages. The two F.B.I. agents cowered together. The man, Special Agent Fox Mulder (the genius whose brilliant attempt at resolving the hostage situation had utterly failed) held his partner close to him. He engulfed her in his strong arms. He felt to blame for everything. He blamed himself for unsolved cases. He blamed himself for his dead goldfish. He blamed himself for other people's dead goldfish. He blamed himself for... well, a lot. But especially, he blamed himself when harm came to the people he loved. Special Agent Dana Katherine Scully was one of those people. Mulder mentally kicked himself for everything he had done wrong. (Well, he would have kicked himself physically, but it would have been rather difficult in the cramped corner, with Scully on his lap, and he probably would have looked like a real idiot, and everyone would have laughed, and said how idiotic he was, they would have asked how *he* ever got into the F.B.I. "Mulder, you're so stupid," "Mulder, I didn't know the Bureau hired idiots," "Mulder, your shoe's untied... haha made you look!" the others would taunt. He knew those lines all too well. Anyway. Mulder settled on kicking himself mentally. It wasn't quite as painful, either.) Mulder kept thinking of all the things he could have done differently. If only he had gotten there sooner; if only he had thought out his strategy a little better; if only he had actually *brought* his gun that day, instead of leaving it at home in his dresser next to all his red Speedos. His mind drifted to his red Speedos. He smiled. Dana Scully saw the smile on her partner's face. "What are you thinking about, Mulder?" she breathed in a sexy sounding whisper. Mulder suddenly snapped back into reality. His fiery-haired partner looked up at him expectantly, her blue eyes burning into his soul. He moved his mouth open and closed. He knew he was expected to answer, but he hadn't heard the question. Possible answers flooded his mind: 'yes', 'no', 'yesterday', 'oatmeal', 'green', 'oyster', 'tomato', 'Florida', '14%', 'anti-cheese'. He couldn't decide. His brain hit overload, backed up, went forward, hit overload again, backed up, went forward, hit overload one last time, and died. Mulder decided to give it up, and put his mouth on auto-pilot. "I love you?" was the best thing the auto pilot could think of on such short notice. It must have worked, because a look of desire and understanding came into Scully's eyes. Those beautiful eyes, those deep, clear, mysterious, gorgeous, intoxicating, enigmatic, mystic - Mulder decided to quit there, lest his brain die again. "Oh, Mulder! I- I- I love you too, " Scully smiled, pulling herself closer to him. 'WARNING' flashed in big letters across his mental screen. "I just needed to know that you felt the same way, " she continued. The walls they had built between them for so many years came crashing down like the World Trade Center. (Well, not literally crashing down. I mean, if the walls *actually* came crashing down, the psychotic with the gun might have noticed, but so far he hadn't noticed the figurative walls and was still on a tirade about his neurotic delusions...) Now red 'DANGER' lights started to flash in his head. "Mulder? Mulder, aren't you going to say anything?" Scully asked. Sirens went off, lights flashed, and little Keystone Kops scrambled around in his head. His auto pilot quit and left the job mad and disgruntled. His original conscience took over again and was devastated at what he found. It put out the first answer he came to that looked halfway decent. "I love you a lot." There, that should do it - no, wait! "...Scully." He added. She smiled. He liked that smile. At least he *thought* he liked that smile. Well, he *thought* he thought he liked that smile. At least, he had a distant memory of liking that smile. Currently, his brain was near fried from thinking so fast, so he stayed content with knowing that he had never *hated* that smile. "Oh, Mulder. Why didn't you tell me before?" Scully asked melodramatically. He struggled desperately to find the answer. He was very confused right now. 'Amoeba', 'the chicken', 'medium-rare', 'polka', 'to get to the other side', '42', 'same thing we do every night, Pinky, try to take over the world!' No, no, no, no! Nothing seemed right. His mind let out a sigh of relief when the bank robber interrupted them. "You two!" The man pointed his gun at Mulder and Scully. Scully jumped, gasped, and clung tighter to Mulder. "The next one of you who talks gets it! And it's not gonna be pretty!" Scully turned ghostly pale. The gunman went back to pacing. "Mulder, whatever shall we do?!" Scully moaned. "That's it!" the gunman snarled. "I warned you!" He yanked Scully off of Mulder's lap. His left arm reached out and wrapped around her neck, jerking her into a choke hold. She shrieked, and clutched the arm holding her. "Mulder!" she gasped. "Be quiet," the bank robber growled. After pointing the Sig one last time at Mulder, he shoved it in the waistband of his pants. The psychopath reached into his sock to draw out his secret ultimate weapon of destruction. //Oh, no,// Mulder thought. //He's going to get a knife, he's going to draw her death out as long as possible, he's going to make an example of her, he's going to...// Mulder gasped audibly as the gunman withdrew the utensil from his stocking. //Oh my God,// he thought. //This guy *is* sadistic.// The man discarded the plastic wrapping, and gripped the utensil, placing it strategically against Scully's throat, touching the skin directly above the jugular vein. She felt all three prongs against the skin of her neck. The rest of the hostages took in a conglomerate gasp when they saw the wanton weapon the wicked weirdo was wielding - a Spork(TM)!! "Nobody moves, or she *gets it*!" he yelled Mulder, moving on his first instinct, jumped from his sitting position and dashed towards the gunman (or rather, Spork(TM)man,) and his lovely hostage. The psychotic pointed the Spork(TM) at Mulder. Mulder stopped mid-stride, and backed up slowly, sitting down on the floor again. He decided that his impulsive moves weren't quite as effective today as they had been in the past. The author must not like him today. Mulder frowned. The man raised the Spork(TM) up in the air, poised to strike. Scully's eyes grew wide, her bottom lip trembling in horror. He brought the Spork(TM) down mercilessly through the air, against Scully's neck. Scully closed her eyes, praying death would be quick. The prongs on the Spork(TM) bent in three different directions. "Damn!" the Spork(TM)man cursed, and raised the Spork(TM) again. Mulder bit his lip, trying to hold back giggles. He found the whole situation, tense as it may be, quite hilarious, actually. He brought the Spork(TM) down again, on Scully's arm. The handle bent, then broke off completely. Scully still had her eyes closed tightly, wondering what was going on. She wasn't dead yet. At least, she didn't *think* she was dead yet. She opened her eyes to find Mulder, rolling on the floor, grabbing his midsection, tears streaking down his face. "Mulder, are you okay?!?" she cried over-dramatically, thinking the worst. "Yeah- yeah... I'm fine!!" Mulder managed to get out between chortles. Scully, mouth agape at his insensitivity, tried to think of something to say. She was in a choke hold by a dangerous, menacing, neurotic, maniacal, erratic, demented, nefarious, villainous, vile (can't you have *fun* with a thesaurus?!?)... guy, and all he could do is laugh like... like- something funny was happening or something. The... bad guy, who thought Mulder's laugh was really distracting him from hearing the voices in his head, yanked the gun from his pants (seeing as how the Spork(TM) wasn't really effective...) and pointed it at Mulder. A shot rang out through the room. Then a dead silence. Then another shot rang out. Then another more silence. Scully slumped to the ground, out of the gunman's hold. Yet another silence. The gunman slumped to the ground, falling on top of Scully, both dead. Even more silence. The silence was only interrupted by a person kicking a window behind the bank. The glass didn't break, but it got everyone's attention. There was some angry mumbling on the outside of the window, and the person kicked the window again, still to no prevail. There was one more attack on the window before the assailant gave up. Moments later, a young man carrying a rifle stumbled through the front door of the bank. He wore a abashed expression and slumped as he shambled in the building. He was dressed in a bright yellow jumpsuit and matching hat. The words "DISCOUNT SNIPERS" and "1-800-WE-SHOOT" were emblazoned in black screen-print at random intervals on the uniform. The sniper shuffled over to the pile of dead people, and glanced down. "Oops. Huh-huh." He laughed nervously, glancing around at the rather irate former-hostages, one of which was now dead. Mulder, perhaps the most irate of them all, glowered at the man's pimply, post-pubescent face. The man withered under his stare. "I guess I'll be going now. Huh-huh." He took one last glance at Mulder, one last glance at the carcass heap, then scurried out the door and quickly left. Mulder, obviously depressed at his partner's life coming to a screeching halt right before his eyes, yet still needing to take care of bodily functions after eight hours in a hostage situation, set out on a quest. A quest for vengeance! A quest for retribution! A quest for retaliation! A quest for the nearest public restroom facilities! Mulder left the bank, eyes brimming with tears, face downcast, yet walking unusually quickly for someone so depressed. He went next door to The Museum of Optimistic Consumer Service Products and Household Appliances. Mulder dashed up the wide stone steps that *all* museums must be required to have, and approached the automatic doors. They opened as he came nearer. "Thank you for letting me open for you, " the doors said. Mulder frowned, thinking perhaps *he* was beginning to turn psychotic as well. Little voices in his head. They sounded so damn *content*, too. He walked through. The doors closed after him. "Have a nice day," they sighed. Mulder realized where the voice was coming from. He glared up at the door. //I will *not* have a nice day,// he thought as he walked on. //I just saw my partner shot down by a human schoolbus, and besides that, I *really* have to go to the bathroom.// Mulder stood in line to buy his ticket, tapping his foot more impatiently than he normally did. He noticed a sign on the front desk. It announced: HappyDoors(TM) The newest innovation from your friends at Optimistic Consumer Products and Household Appliances (OCPHA). Designed to make your every entrance and exit pure enjoyment. So, to allow you to experience HappyDoors(TM) to their fullest, we've placed them *all over* the OCPHA museum. Your opinions would be greatly appreciated before you exit (through a HappyDoor(TM) of course!) Thank you, *THE MANAGEMENT* Mulder hurriedly paid for his ridiculous $12.50 ticket and started for the most inconvenient, farthest away corner of the museum (that is the required place for the restrooms, especially when you *really* have to go.) He passed the display of HappyToasters(TM) and HappyBlenders(TM), winding his way to the back of the building. Oh no. Up ahead, directly in his path to the public facilities was a HappyDoor(TM). There was no way around it. He approached cautiously, stealthily. Damn. It saw him anyway. "Thank you for giving me the pleasure of opening for your doorway needs," it sang. Mulder clenched his teeth and his fists and walked through. "Have a nice day!" it purred. Mulder spun on his heel to face the closed door. //It said that on purpose!// he thought. Mulder felt the door said it caustically, just to taunt him. "You wanna start something?!?" Mulder yelled at the door. "C'mon! You wanna piece of me?" Mulder shoved the glass door. "We would appreciate it if your would not jostle the HappyDoors(TM). They are equipped with motion sensors, and are designed to open themselves so you don't have to. Thank you, and have a nice day." Mulder kicked the door to try to make it shut up. "We would appreciate it if your would not jostle the HappyDoors(TM). They are equipped with motion sensors, and are designed to open themselves so you don't have to. Thank you, and have a nice day." Mulder drew back his foot preparing to boot the door again, but realizing it would be futile merely glared at it one last time and kept walking. The little vein on his forehead was pulsing visibly. His pace was faster, more determined. The grim, dogged expression on his face cleared a path for him through the groups of people and frightened small children. //Okay, almost there,// he thought. The public restroom facilities were just around the corner. Mulder passed the display of HappyVending Machines(TM) and turned right. He stopped dead in his tracks. //Oh, shit,// he swore. There was the entrance to the men's room. The entrance was a door. A HappyDoor(TM). Mulder clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth. He glanced around for witnesses then discreetly griped his Sig Sauer. He gradually approached the door, aiming his Sig at the chirpy little speakers on top. The doors started sliding open for him. The perky voice began. "Thank you for-" BAM. BAM. BAM. Three shots were fired. "allowing me to....." The door's voice died. Mulder smiled triumphantly, and replaced the gun in his holster, walking through the partially open doors. He still had that triumphant smile when he exited the men's room. Mulder coolly tossed his hair back. The doors. Ha ha. He smiled even more when he saw the smoke still coming from the blasted speakers. He took a step forward, through the doors. Mulder felt a sharp pain on either of his shoulders and was suddenly immobilized. The doors had caught him! "Have a nice day," it sneered (if doors can sneer, that is.). Mulder was trapped! The doors kept closing tighter and tighter. Mulder struggled for his life. "Have a nice day. Have a nice day. Have a nice day," it repeated sadistically. It kept shutting, farther and farther. Mulder kicked and twisted, trying to free himself from the HappyDoor(TM)'s death grip. Finally, he relented, giving up. The life was sapped from him as his head slumped forward. His knees buckled. The door released him, letting him fall to the ground. "Have a nice day. Have a nice day. Have a nice day." THE END. **** Want more? Let us know! There are so many people left to kill off!! Ratboy, the UNBlonde, that Black-Lunged-Sonofabitch, the whole shadowy syndicate!! All feedback is appreciated and we promise to respond! Send feedback to Syzygy42@yahoo.