Subject:      Informants in Hell [Humor]
From:         jramire@ibm.net (Joe Ramirez)
Date:         1997/11/26


*Informants in Hell*

Today's Episode:  The Houseguest

Scene:  A rather messy kitchen.  At the table in the center of the
room, a slightly paunchy man with a furrowed brow and receding
hairline sits sipping coffee and reading a newspaper.  Suddenly a
dark-skinned man wearing a black bathrobe storms into the room, pulls
his hands out of the robe's pockets and slams a small, dirty bundle on
the table.

X:   Hey, Throat.  Throat!  These are *my* socks, d'you understand?
MY socks!

DT:  Sorry, but my slippers were all wet, and my feet were cold.

X:   Cold?  Cold?!  I'll show you cold!
[Pulls out pistol and quickly fires half a dozen shots into the man at
the table.]

DT:  Feeling better now?  Good.  Now make me some eggs.

X:   Make them yourself.  I've still got dishes to do from last night,
you sloppy bastard.

DT:  Can I help it that Bill came over again?  Is it my fault the guy
won't shut up?  I give hints, I send signals, but he just keeps on
with those sob stories.  The Project this, his impossible choice that
... it just won't stop.  What a bore.  And when he whines, he eats.

X:   Try and have a little *compassion* for the man.  He left a
*family* behind -- a friggin' insane family, but still.  And will you
*please* stop using your sleeve as a napkin!  Have you seen the last
cleaning bill?

DT:  You need to loosen up, my friend.  Didn't I always tell you that
Type-A stuff would get you gunned down like a dog someday?

X:   Look who's talking, mister trust no one.  At least I left
something in writing.

DT:  Yeah, and a lot of good it's done them, too.  You sure know how
to pick 'em.

X:   Well, I didn't have *me* as a backup.  Who else was there?
Anyone's better than another old fart in a raincoat.  Besides, she'll
probably be moving in here before too long anyway.

DT:  You wish.

Suddenly, a flash of light and a puff of smoke appear in the room.
The smoke clears to reveal a dour, middle-aged man with his hair on
fire.  He reaches into his coat pocket and removes a cigarette, which
he lights by poking it into his hair.  As the flames begin to die, he
speaks.

CSM: Greetings, gentlemen!

X:   Oh Christ, I'm not even dressed!

DT:  Listen, you get the couch and that's final.

CSM: I don't plan to stay overnight; this is just a little visit
before I'm called back.  Promises to keep, you know.

DT:  Well, then stay away from the refrigerator.

X:   And keep those damn butts off my carpet!  It's bad enough dealing
with him over there.

DT:  It's X's time of the month again.

X:   Shut up, Throat.

CSM: Tsk, tsk ... I see eternity has not improved your personalities.
But how was I to know?

X:   That reminds me, I have something for you.
[Whips out gun and shoots him several times.]

CSM:  Er, right. ...  As I was saying, I won't be here long.  And I've
always wanted to ask you fellows, face to face -- why'd you do it?
Why grow a conscience for Mulder?

DT:  I believed that by providing Special Agent Mulder with sensitive
information about a secret global conspiracy I could make amends for
past transgressions, help ensure the survival of humanity, and become
better, uh, acquainted with Agent Scully.

X:   I knew it!  I *knew* you were some kinda lame-ass pervert!

DT:  Hey, you gotta go where the chicks are, and in this business
that's not many places.  Besides, you saw her -- she's hot!

CSM: Careful, that's my future daughter-in-law you're drooling over!

X:   Oh sure, now we're supposed to take lessons in self-control from
this nicotine freak!  I didn't notice you leaving Mrs. Mulder alone!

CSM: What can I say -- I like her ... I like you too.

X:   I've killed men for less!  [Brandishes pistol.]

DT:  Yeah, yeah ... anyway, nothing ever happened with Scully.  She
was too hooked on Mulder.

CSM: As I planned it.  [Blows large puff of smoke in the shape of a
heart with an arrow through it.]  And what about you, X?  Why'd you
pull Mulder out of that train?

X:   Well, um ...

DT:  Out with it, or I'll invite Krycek's Arm over for poker again.

X:   Look, I just liked seeing my name in the window, OK?

CSM: Are you kidding?

X:   Hey, *you* never gave me any feedback.  It's nice to feel
appreciated sometimes, to know that somebody cares about you.

DT:  Don't tell me you're *his* father too!

CSM: Shut up, Throat.

DT:  Well excuse me!  [Belches.]

X:   Do you have to do that in front of company?  [Shoots him.]

CSM: Oops, look at the time!  Much as I've enjoyed chatting with you
gentlemen, I believe I must be going.

At this point something small and furry dashes into the kitchen and
clamps its jaws on the leg of the visitor.

CSM: Ouch!  Hey, get this damn mongrel off me!  [Shakes his leg
futilely.]

X:   Down, Queequeg, down!  That's a good puppy -- let go of the nice
man's leg.

DT:  I told you we should have gotten a muzzle after that attack on
Tooms.  Now we're gonna get sued.

X:   I will *not* have you torturing this poor dog, you understand?

CSM: It's OK, I'm fine.  But I really have to leave now, or else I'll
miss my afternoon appointment with Skinner.  The guy's a whiz at
Shiatsu.  [Disappears in another blinding flash.]

DT:  Thank God.  I thought he'd never go.

X:   You know, with that attitude of yours it's no wonder we don't do
any socializing.

DT:  Me?  I'm not the one making like Wyatt-friggin'-Earp with a
six-shooter all the time.

X:   Fine, if that's how you feel then *you* can do the dishes.  It's
time for my soaps. [Stalks out.]

DT:  Yeah?  Well I'll be bowling with Leonard Betts's Head if you need
me!  [Stomps out.]

Q:   Rooby doo!

THE END

Joe Ramirez