From: "Grey Lady" Date: Mon, 1 Nov 1999 19:30:51 -0000 Subject: NEW: Crazy Like The Fox 1/1 by Carol Gritton Source: xff TITLE: Crazy Like The Fox 1/1 AUTHOR: Carol Gritton E-MAIL: grey.lady@virgin.net DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully belong to Chris Carter, 1013 and Fox TV. They are used without permission and no infringement of copyright is intended. RATING: G CLASSIFICATION: V SPOILERS: Mytharc up to and including Biogenesis, FTF SUMMARY: Take one crazy old man... COMMENTS: Feedback is greatly appreciated and will be made welcome at the above address. Crazy Like The Fox 1/1 By Carol Gritton (grey.lady@virgin.net) The old man cackled, his eyes darting feverishly one way then another. He leaned towards me and caught my sleeve, pulling me close. He looked this way and that, then whispered, "I've seen things." Another furtive glance around followed, and then he added, "Things that you only imagined in your worst nightmares." "What things?" I asked. "Ssshhhh!" An angry look appeared on the old man's time and weather ravaged face and he put a finger to his lips. "You never know when they might be listening," he hissed. "Who?" "Them," came the whispered reply. "They want to kill me, you know. They've been after me for years, but I outsmarted 'em." He looked rather proud of that fact. "Why do they want to kill you?" I asked, thinking it better to humour the old guy. He was quite plainly crazy in my estimation. "Because of what I know... because of the things I've seen." The conversation was going around in circles. I swallowed my frustration and asked again, "What things?" Suddenly the old man sat up, dropped my sleeve and eyed me with suspicion, his eyes narrowed. "How do I know you're not one of them?" "Sir, whoever 'they' are, I'm not one of them." He peered at me, his eyes narrowed almost to slits. "You swear? You swear you're not one of them?" "I swear, sir. I'm like everyone else here - I'm just a volunteer." As a personal rebellion against the festive season and all its excesses, I had volunteered to work at the annual temporary charity shelter that was set up in DC each Christmas. Businesses and private individuals were generous with their donations, giving us food, drugs, beds and bedding, and unwanted clothing. We also provided a health screening service, staffed by volunteer medics and nurses from the local hospitals. A chiropodist and dentist were also on hand, as well as a couple of barbers and hairdressers. The clientele would be the flotsam and jetsam of the street - the homeless; people with drink or drug problems, and the plain crazy who had nowhere else to go. We offered them a roof over their heads and the chance of three square meals a day, plus the opportunity to get cleaned up, have a thorough medical check and swap their ragged clothes for some that were not so new but a darn sight more serviceable. That was how I came to meet the old man. He was one of the earliest to arrive at the shelter, pushing a wire shopping cart containing all his worldly goods. I don't know what it was that drew me to him - there was just something about him. He didn't look like all the others that had arrived so far - despite his worn clothing, he looked as if he kept himself clean as best he could. As all the volunteers had been instructed, I greeted him and offered him a mug of hot, sweet tea, which soon disappeared. Then I showed him to a bed and invited him to make himself comfortable. That was when our circuitous conversation had begun. The old man humphed and to show that he could trust me, I offered him some soup, and he accepted enthusiastically. "And bring me some bread," he called, as I headed off to the kitchen. When I came back, I handed him the soup and a large hunk of bread, which he immediately bit into and tore off a chunk with his teeth, which looked to be in perfect condition. "So," he said between mouthfuls. "What's your name?" "Nathan," I replied. "What's yours?" Again I got the suspicious look, then he answered me. "Bill. It's not my real name, but it's what you can call me." "Why can't you tell me your real name?" Again he glanced all around him, then leaned in close. "Because they might be listening and then they'll know where to find me." I nodded to show that I understood, despite thinking that he was as mad as a hatter. "How old are you, Nathan?" asked Bill. "Eighteen." I don't look it, I know. Bill nodded again. "You at college, Nathan? When I was your age I was at Oxford. You know where that is? England." I nodded, letting him know that I knew. "I'm a student here at Georgetown," I replied. "And why are you doing this instead of spending Christmas at home with your family?" I gave him a little speech about wanting to do something worthwhile, and for those less fortunate than me, rather than spend my time eating my way through a mountain of food and opening gifts that I didn't really want. Bill seemed impressed by that. "I've never been a lover of Christmas, not since..." He trailed off then, his eyes misting over and his expression becoming very sad. "I never found her... she's gone forever," he whispered brokenly. "Who is, Bill?" I asked gently. "Your wife? Your..." "My sister. My little sister." "I'm sorry." I touched his wrist lightly and he pulled his hand away like lightning, glaring at me. I was suddenly afraid that he might attack me. It was something that all the volunteers had been made aware of when dealing with street people. I remembered what we had been told and summoned up all my courage. "It's okay, Bill," I said soothingly. "I'm sorry I touched you. I just wanted to offer you some comfort." Bill let out a long breath and relaxed. He put the empty soup bowl to one side and asked, "Could I have a bath, please?" I smiled, relieved that I'd been forgiven and that we seemed to be okay again. "Sure. While you're bathing, I'll find you some new clothes to wear." For that I received a grateful smile. Bill scrubbed up rather well. I imagined that he must have been some sort of businessman or executive before he ended up on the streets. "Feel better?" I asked when he reappeared after his bath. Bill nodded, and handed me his old clothes for disposal. "How are the new threads, Bill?" "Fine. How do I look?" he asked. "Very smart. I'll just get rid of these and I'll be right back." Bill was stretched out on his bed when I returned. I sat on the edge, wanting to know more about this strange man. "Would you like me to fix you an appointment with the doctor, Bill? You should have a check up while you're here. We also have a dentist and chiropodist, and even a barber so that you can get your hair cut." At that he grinned, and said that he'd see the doctor later. A comfortable silence passed between us, and then, "So, Bill - what are these things you've seen?" Bill sat up and leaned in. "You don't want to know," he replied in a low voice. "Things that are too terrifying to contemplate." "Like what, Bill? You can't get me all intrigued and then not tell me." As Bill looked all around again, I figured he must have been the most paranoid man that ever walked this planet. "Aliens," he whispered. "Little grey men." I was just about to laugh when Bill launched into this bizarre tale about his sister being abducted by aliens, experiments to breed alien/human hybrids, clones and spaceships buried in Antarctica and Africa. Not to mention the humans being used as incubators for the alien life forms. And all this was the work of some shadowy consortium involving representatives of the world's leading governments, the majority of whom had been incinerated by an attack of rebel aliens. There was much, much more than I can possibly remember, and then Bill told me about an artifact that had been found in Africa. "That's when I started hearing the voices," he whispered. "All the time... voices all around me." Reflexively, he raised his hands to cover his ears, as if he could hear the voices at that moment. "I thought I was going mad... I could even hear what people around me were thinking. I was locked in a padded cell..." Bill suddenly guffawed. "I guess for most of the people that knew me, it was a confirmation of what they'd always suspected." "What was that, Bill?" I asked. "That I was crazy, of course," he replied, as if I should have known. I didn't know what to make of Bill and his strange story. To be honest, while he believed every word of what he'd told me, I was less than convinced. I'd always considered conspiracy freaks to be nuts; seeing double dealing in even the most innocent of activities. Christmas came and went, Bill left the shelter and I returned to my college studies. I volunteered for the shelter again the following Christmas, and looked out eagerly for Bill to come through the door. I wasn't disappointed when he rolled up with his trusty shopping cart. He hadn 't forgotten me - in fact, I think he was rather pleased to see a friendly face. After settling in, and over a warming bowl of soup, he asked me how my studies were going and was pleased to learn that I had done well that year. "You keep it up, Nathan. Knowledge is the key to everything," said Bill. "However, too much knowledge is a dangerous thing." Then he chuckled. "They're still after me, you know. Their operatives are everywhere, but I outsmarted 'em again. Oh yes - they couldn't catch me." Bill cackled, and it sent a shiver down my spine. When he wasn't raving about the conspiracy and the aliens, I found Bill to be an extremely knowledgeable and intelligent man. He could converse on any subject under the sun. He also had a terrific sense of humour. Over the holiday, he confided in me a little more. "Do you love your father, Nathan?" he asked out of the blue. "Yes," I answered, not sure where this was going. "I hated mine." Bill's face wore a cold, hard expression. "Which is ironic since I decided to take his name." He paused. "I came to understand what he did, and why he did it, but it was his actions that tore my family apart. I can never forgive him for that." Leaning in, Bill whispered, "My real name is Fox Mulder. I'm a key figure in an ongoing government charade..." He went on, basically going back over the ground that he'd covered the previous Christmas. It all sounded to me like a bad 'B' movie. And as for that name - it was like a character from a cheap pulp fiction novel. I wasn't sure that it wasn't something he'd dreamed up to protect his real identity, given his paranoia. He was convinced that everything he was telling me was real, that it had actually happened, that these people really existed. "I was in the FBI," confided Bill. "Because of my work, I was an embarrassment to my superiors - they tried no end of times to shut me down, but like the bad penny, I kept on bouncing back." Bill suddenly grabbed my wrist hard, his fingers digging into the flesh. "You haven't repeated anything that I've told you, have you?" I shook my head. "No Bill - I haven't told anyone." "You swear, Nathan? If I find that you've lied, I'll kill you." I had no doubt that he meant what he said. "I swear, Bill," I replied, my voice shaking, betraying my terror. He studied me for a moment then relaxed his grip on my wrist. "I'm sorry if I hurt you, Nathan - I can't take any chances on them finding me." I thought my best course was to humour him. "It's okay, Bill - I understand." The scream woke me, and I sat bolt upright. It had come from the direction of Bill's bed and I hurriedly made my way over there to find him battling the sheets, the sweat pouring off him. His eyes were still closed and he was sobbing the word, "Scully" over and over again. I reached out and gently touched his shoulder - he jerked awake immediately, his eyes wild and his breath frighteningly rapid. "Bill, it's me, Nathan," I said softly. I didn't want to wake all the other occupants of the shelter. "You had a nightmare - you were shouting out in your sleep." Bill calmed down slowly, his breathing coming back to normal. I sat down on his bed and waited while he came back to himself. "I'm sorry," said Bill eventually, running a hand through his greying hair. "What was I saying?" "You were shouting out something about a Scully." I had no idea who or what Scully was, and I wondered if Bill would tell me. There was a long silence, then Bill asked for a glass of water. After taking a couple of long draughts from the glass, Bill spoke. "Scully was my partner," he revealed quietly, going on to outline her role in the fight against the so called conspiracy. Once again, I couldn't believe what I was hearing, especially when he told me that 'they' had put a microchip in her neck and that when she removed the chip, she developed a rare untreatable cancer. Bill stopped speaking and lay back. "My fault," he whispered. "It was all my fault." Bill and I met up at the shelter over the next three Christmases. I had grown quite fond of the old guy, and looked forward to seeing him. Every year he would tell me a little more of his story and I would go away each time, convinced that the old man was getting crazier and crazier with each passing year. Bill didn't come this year. I waited and waited but he didn't show. Then on Christmas Eve, a package arrived, addressed to me, care of the shelter. I found a quiet corner and opened it. Inside was a note from a Dana Scully, telling me that 'Bill' had died the previous summer and that they had found a note inside the lining of his coat that his personal effects should be forwarded to me. I tipped the envelope up and out fell a black leather wallet and a short handwritten note, thanking me for my friendship over the years. I opened the wallet and inside was an official FBI identity card for one Fox William Mulder. The picture was old, taken when he was a young man, but it was unmistakably him. Had 'they' finally caught up with him? I closed the wallet slowly, feeling bad that I had not believed his story. Maybe the old guy hadn't been so crazy after all. The End