From: Lisby Date: Mon, 28 Dec 1998 12:22:41 -0500 Subject: NEW: The Pout 1/3 This has been hanging around for ages. If you've been following Lessons, you'll know who all the characters are. If not, you can still probably get a laugh out of it. Hope you enjoy. The Pout Being a Comedic Accompaniment to Lessons, that Infamous Work-in- Progress by Lisby and Ysabeau (written in May 1997) Rating: NC-17, bad words, rude thoughts, etc. Disclaimer: We merely borrow, for no profit whatsoever. This begins at the end of "Avatar" when AD Skinner refuses to tell Mulder what happened in Sharon's hospital room and lip quivers deliciously.... 11:42 am AD. Walter Skinner's Office, Judger Building, Washington, D.C., in the Dim Dark Reaches of Special Agent Fox Mulder's brain.... I can't believe that he is doing this why is he doing why is he doing this to me he can't shut me out forever I thought things had changed that weekend at the HoJo's we knew that it would be different he said we would always have to be careful around the office though Scully would never believe it unless she saw the semen samples of course there were plenty of those at least I know that he trusted me on that if nothing else but I can't believe oh god look at him sitting there shut the door Scully shut the door Scully if Scully shuts the door I can go to him and beg him to tell me what is wrong he loves it when I begs he said it gets it him so hard that he can't resist me the whipped puppy look he said shut the goddamn door Scully oh sir oh sir oh sir if only you would let me in you know that I will believe you you know that I will always believe you just like I knew that you would never go to a whore when you could come to me your nasty little agent who knows just how to get you off god damn it he's wearing that striped shirt he knows that is my favorite shirt I just love the way the cloth stretches across his shoulders I am glad I wore these baggy deconstructed Armani pants I wonder if this means that we are off for Sunday even only I could get through to him I know what he needs and he knows that I know it and I know that he knows that I know that he knows it... Scully coughed small and discreetly and Mulder started, his concentration broken. She reached out a hesitant hand and gently touched him on the arm. Mulder gave one last agonized look at the severely stolid AD. who was now fixedly fiddling with the files on his desk. Scully gently steered Mulder past the A.D.'s secretary who was also fixedly fiddling with files and out into the bustling hallway. "Are you all right, Mulder?" Scully asked, looking at him speculatively. "Yeah." he said, "Come on, let me buy you lunch." Scully made a face. "I'm on a diet. Nothing but cabbage soup for me." Mulder stared down at her, a 'I can't believe it's Not Astroglide' look upon his face. "I'm not going there, Scully; I make it a policy never to meddle with female eating patterns. But why you would want to sit in your office drinking cabbage soup when I am offering to buy you a nice fat juicy hamburger is an X-File that I doubt I will be able to solve without a tip from X himself." "I will think about your fondness for red meat, Mulder," Scully said pertly, "when I am attending your wake." "If an extended life means cabbage soup, I'll take the comfort of the grave." Mulder shot back, but his heart wasn't really into witty repartee. He shot a rather bovine look in the AD's closed door. They both laughed, Mulder hollowly and Scully forced, and then went their separate ways to their separate lunches, Scully thinking about Mulder and Mulder thinking about Skinner and Skinner, who was skipping lunch because his stomach was tied up in a Gordian knot, trying desperately to think of nothing at all. 4:30 PM, Basement, Judger Building, Washington, D.C. Several hours later Mulder was back at his desk, brooding and going over a sheaf of police reports from Vancouver, B.C. Several hundred people had reported seeing a weird glow over the city, a rain of vicious green goo and what appeared to be women on broomsticks shrieking and cackling around the Vancouver skyline, and he was trying to make up his mind if the sightings were worth a look-see. Scully was sitting behind her desk, supposedly reading an autopsy file on a body which had been found flayed and dangling by one foot from a myrtle tree in Mount Rainier, Maryland, but actually thinking hungrily and longingly about ho-hoes. The sudden moo of a cow split the quiet and Scully rolled her eyes. Mulder, who was watching far too much late night teevee these days (there was something bothering him, but she hadn't figured out what it was and he hadn't left the office long enough for her to go through his desk), had fallen for a This Incredible Offer Not Available in Stores pitch--a little tape recorder which converted the phone's ring into a variety of sounds-- all incredibly obnoxious. So far this week, the phone had played reveille, it had announced in sultry tones that it wished to be alone, it had barked like a dog, quacked like a duck, made whoop whoop noises and asked Scully how she had dug that happy crappy. When Scully had returned from her cabbage soup lunch with Tina Hill (who had eaten a large cheese and bean burrito with sour cream, rice, guacamole and jalapeno peppers and great relish) the phone had become a cow--no doubt Mulder's unsubtle way of reminding Scully exactly how much of life she was missing. Anyway, the phone mooed and Mulder picked it up, tucked it under his chin and slid the files to one side. "Mulder." he barked. The extended silence that then ensued made Scully look up from her own files. Mulder was now sitting ramrod upright, his face straight and flat as a board. His silence continued for a few more seconds, then he scrawled something on a sticky note, barked "Understood" and hung up the phone. "Who was that?" Scully asked. Mulder stood up and straightened his tie, grabbed his coat off the file cabinet. "Gotta go." "Go where, Mulder?" Scully demanded. He patted his chest to make sure he had both his phone and his gun. "See you Monday, Scully. "Mulder--" Scully moaned, but it was too late. The door banged behind him and he was gone. She sighed heavily and tossed the autopsy file on the floor, then picked up the phone. "Hi Tina, yeah it's me. If you bring the hohoes, I'll bring the movies. No Ho-Hoes. I don't like dingdongs, they're too, I dunno, too gooey. Yeah right, screw you. You bring whatever the hell you want.... Okay. See you at eight.... Yeah, I've got plenty of astroglide but you can bring more dental dams. We used the last ones last week.... Naw, in your wildest dreams, Tina. Mulder just went tearing out of here, without a word.... Yeah, I know, but what can I do.... Tina! I'm shocked at you! That's an invasion of privacy.... No, I am not going to let you come over and go through his desk. You've been hanging out too much with those DEA cowboys, Tina.... If it's important, he'll tell me.... yeah, I gotta go.... I can't deal with traffic today.... See you at eight.... Let yourself in if I'm not home yet, put Queequeg out, will you? But watch him, he's been playing hide and seek.... 'Bye." Scully picked her files up and set them tidily in her in-box, neatly arranged her pens and pencils in her pencil jar, points down, and made sure all her desk drawers were closed. She reapplied a glaze of peach colored lipstick, smoothed her eyebrows with one finger and ran a quick comb through her hair. Put her coat on, grabbed her purse and briefcase, and then by-accident-without-sorta-meaning-it happened to just glance down at Mulder's desk and saw that while the top post-it note was gone, Mulder's scrawl had left a deep impression on the blank post-it and then (just-by-accident- inadvertently) her brain sent a secret signal to her arm and Scully knocked Mulder's pencil sharpener over the piece of paper. And then, of course, she had to put her things down and clean the mess of shavings up and then just accidentally the shavings brought up a shadow of the words that Mulder had hastily written: "HoJo's, Beltsville, 7." Scully pursed her lips and tucked the paper into her pocket. Mulder was terrible about turning the lights in the office off, but Scully carefully flicked the light switch down and made sure the door was closed behind her. 9:00 P.M. Den of Iniquity (AKA Scully's House), Alexandria, Virginia. By 9 PM the dingdongs and hohos were just a chocolate smudged memory, the empty Chinese food take-out cartons littered Scully's fancy-pants rug, along with a somewhat drippy empty gallon container of Chubby Hubby and several wadded up dental dams (a liberal application of Ben and Jerry's could really cut that nasty latex taste) and the ladies were on their second bottle of Cuervo. Judah Ben Hur had just been arrested by the buttabutta Roman boy-toy and was being sold into slavery when Tina got her bright idea which she promptly whispered in Scully's shell-like ear. "TINA," Scully said, shocked, but also somewhat naughtily intrigued. "I am surprised at you." Actually that's what she meant to say, her exact words were closer to "TINA, Imb suprissed atcha." And they were less said than mumbled. Cuervo and glossolalia go hand in tongue. Tina snuggled closer and licked the hollow behind Scully's dainty ear. Scully squirmed deeper into Tina's ample lap and giggled. "It'll be fun...." Tina whispered, her tongue still lapping. "Come on, Bunny, doncha think this is the X-files to en' all X-files? And doncha think you gotta duty to explore it?" "Ahhhh," Scully moaned as Tina's large capable hand found the exact perfect spot and began to apply vigorous pressure. "Tinaaaa...." On the face of the flickering god, Chuck Heston slogged across the chain- gang sand clad only in sweat and a brief little white diaper thingy. Usually this was Scully's favorite part, but the incredible precision with which Tina was being persuasive had driven all thoughts of sticky men right out of her mind. "Just think, Bunnybunny," Tina said, nibbling. Scully shivered deliciously. "Just think, all these months we have been speculating as to the Fox-man's sex life or lack thereof. Here finally, is a clue and you shy away. This is our big chance. If your roles were reversed, do you think Mr. Spooky would have any qualms about following this lead?" Tina laughed that deep fruity laugh that made Scully tense with anticipation every time and then suddenly dumped Scully off of her lap and stood up. "Come on, Mutt," she said, looming over Scully like the Goddess clad only in a leopard print thong. "Throw some clothes on--unless you wanna go like that--might put your relationship with Foxy Boy in a whole new light!" Scully stood unsteadily up and resnapped the bottom of her emerald green silk teddy. "Who's gonna drive then?" she demanded. Tina laughed and pounded her ample chest. "Me heap big Injun, me hold heap big firewater better than small paleface." She steered Scully through the dining room and up the stairs towards the bedroom. "But I wanna stop at High's and get some coffee. And a couple of packages of licorice whips. And more Ding Dongs, food of the Goddess." Scully pawed through her closet and found a pair of ripped jeans and a motorhead tee-shirt which she yanked over the teddy. "What would all that be for then?" she asked, head emerging from the neck of the tee. Tina, who had pulled on a pair of black leather pants over the thong and who was now leaning over Scully's vanity, applying Fuck Me red lipstick to her full pouting lips, smirked. "Well, not that they would take the place of the real thing, darling, but yours not to wonder why, yours just to do or die." She handed the lipstick to Scully who-- now that she had finished putting her Docs on--quickly stroked and blotted and then stowed the lipstick in her pocket. Tina shoved her feet into her black armadillo Tony Lamas with the four inch heels and which made her all of six foot four and shoved her Wilson in the back of her pants. "Come on, Bun," she said, "Time's a'wasting. You look marvelous. Like Kali-Ma herself. I hope that Mulder is using some of his much vaunted psychic powers and quivering with a premonition of anticipation even now. Get your bomber and let's go." "Tina, you forgot your shirt," Scully pointed out. Tina grinned and shrugged into her floor length leather duster and buttoned the middle two buttons so that when she walked there was a glimpse of copper flesh above and copper flesh below, but the most interesting copper flesh was tantalizingly out of view, though suggestively straining at the leather. "It was dark and there were so many of them," Tina laughed. "Come on, Scullikins, pack your piece and let's Tally Ho. We've got a bad little fox to run down." On the way out the door, while Scully was transferring the contents of her purse to the pockets of her bomber, Tina sneakily snagged the half empty bottle of Astroglide, tucked the strap-on into one of duster's many pockets, and stole the Coil CDs out of Scully's CD cabinet. "Come on, Bunny," she hollered, standing by the front door and jingling the car keys loudly. "Time's a'wasting." Queequeg skidded out of the dinning room, yapping loudly, ready for a coachie ride. Tina pushed at his excited furry body with the tip of one cowboy boot and wrinkled her nose. She didn't approve of Scully's choice in dogs. Too fluffy and nervous. Give her a German Shepard anytime. Good guard dogs and useful on cold nights as well. "No, Queequeg," Scully said, coming out of the living room. "No coachie rides for you. Down, Down, Down..." "Aw, let him come, Dana," Tina said, her heart softening a bit when she saw how forlorn and abandoned Queequeg looked. The little pooch crouched down on the polished floor and tried to look heartbroken. "He doesn't get out enough and he can guard the car anyway. Poor baby, if that beaten down look works for Mulder, I don't see what it shouldn't work for Queequeg, too." "Fuck you, Coyote Woman," Scully said, but Queequeg's ears perked up and he looked so hopeful that she relented. "All right, but we're taking your car. I just had mine vacuumed." "Planned on it anyways," Tina said, scooping Queequeg up under one arm and opening the front door. "One does not go hunting foxes in a bimbobox like a Nissan. We need wheels with muscle." "Muscle," Scully snorted. "Fat's more like it." "Watch it, Bun," Tina said over her shoulder as she walked across Scully's postage sized stamp yard, "Or I'm going to have to spank you." "Promises, Promises," Scully muttered. She locked the front door behind her and followed Tina and Queequeg out to Tina's 1975 Lincoln Continental Mark IV, nick-named "Scarlet", though known in moments of extreme sentimentality as "The Pimpmobile," which sat long and hungry on the curb waiting for them. From lisby@earthlink.net Fri Feb 12 12:34:15 1999 Date: Mon, 28 Dec 1998 12:26:10 -0500 From: Lisby Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: NEW: The Pout 2/3--BTW, archive freely 5:30 P.M. Mulder's apartment, Alexandria, Virginia Earlier that evening, before the aforementioned dingdongs and dildos and dental dams and wampum-seeking damsels, Fox Mulder could have been seen, if you were a bird--say a sparrow, or perhaps a red- breasted sap sucker--and happened to be perched on the limb of the flowering tulip tree outside his living room window that gave him hay fever in the springtime, as it was now, the lanky said Mulder bent over a laundry basket sitting on his black leather sofa, tossing clothes into the air as he was blown upward himself by the force of a sneeze. Sweats where are your sweats and boxers--the ones with hearts on them ooooyes he likes those--and socks socks socks. A gray one. Okay, got a gray one where the fuck is the other gray one and fish feed the fish feed the god damned fish that last batch starved while you were in San Francisco under the flowering whatever-the-fuck- they-weres stoned out of your mind on antihistamines looking for internal organs and you still feel guilty so guilty you will carry the guilt of those starved fish for the rest of your life, Fox Mulder, you worthless cocksucking faggot.... "Eheh. Eheh," Mulder paused to giggle into his tissue as he cleared his nose. Dad's finally right and he's six feet under. Doesn't live to see the day his weenie-ass son gets weenied in the ass and tee heee heeee if you only knew who, Dad. At least I'm voluntarily grabbing my ankles for someone with honor and courage instead of that bag-of-bones with Keith Richard's complexion, and don't you think I don't know you relished the smell of Morleys, and I can't believe I just thought that about my dead father even if it was true and he was the cockingsucking faggot--not me--well, not me until--no, no don't think about that. Oh God what a pathetic excuse I was for a son and for brother and for a boy-toy, and I am really wasted on this shit, whatever this shit is, and you'd think with an eidetic memory I could remember something as simple as what sort of shit I'd taken and phew I better feed those fish and, you know, like find that lube stuff--what's it called? Slippy Slide? Mulder ran into the bedroom and stuffed the clothes into his overnight bag, then dashed back and forth down the hallway a few times in a panic of insensate lack of awareness of the location of the lube bottle ("And it's paramount that you don't forget the Slip Inside, Agent Mulder." "Understood, sir.") Shit shit shit. Oh. Okay, it's in the bathroom, the bathroom, no that's not the bathroom that's the closet you geek and okay I'm in the bathroom and thank God there it is. Get it, get, get, hurry, hurry, you sister-losing freak-of-nature 'cause you're running late and he's waiting. _He_ is waiting. Skinner. Mulder blushed like a school girl. At this point, if you were a red-breasted sap sucker, or perhaps a directionally challenged moor hen, you would have seen the tall, tragically pale fellow race through the living room with his bag over his shoulder, slide on the hallway runner and crash nose-first into the door of apartment 42, which is, of course, the answer to life, the universe, and everything (and there it was right under his nose all along), then manage to yank the door open without hurting himself, and dash off for his cock-sucking faggot assignation, having left the fish, once again, in the lurch of Aquarium Dachau. Once outside, Fox Mulder sprinted to his Bureau-borrowed Escort, flung the driver's side door open, tossed in his bag, folded himself like origami to get in and shoved the key into the ignition. Just then a piercing girlie scream emitted from his lips when a cool hand touched his cheek. "And where are you going in such a hurry, Mr. Mulder?" Mulder looked up into watery blue eyes. That was all he saw, because the rest of the face was hidden by a handkerchief mopping at a running nose. "I said," (sniff) "where do you think" (blow) "you're going, lad?" Mulder felt a sympathy sneeze coming on. He whipped out his soggy Kleenex and knocked himself back against the head rest with the force of the explosion. "Istzz num of yer dabmn bizness un whud the fuck er you here fer?" The Master sniffed again and lowered his handkerchief. His nose was very red. "I'm here, Mr. Mulder, because you are very late." "Late? I'm not supposed to be--Oh shit. No, it's next weekend!" "No," the patrician Englishman sighed and looked heavenward for assistance with his continually problematic pet. "It's _this_ weekend." "You distinctly said the fourth and fifth not the twenty-seventh and twenty-eighth!" "You misheard me, Mr. Mulder." "No, no, no, I did not!" "Oh, I know. I know," the Master crossed his arms on his chest and leaned against the vehicle. "You knew, but you didn't want to know." "You said the fourth and fifth." "Did not." "Did too." "Did not, colt." "Did too, sir!" Mulder slapped the center of the steering wheel and accidentally sounded the horn, which startled a bird out of the tree by his apartment's living room, but neither man noticed because they were glaring at each other. The rousted bird--a poorly planned and misplaced metaphor for the battle of wills now being conducted below--a battle neither man intended to lose--wheeled above them in tight circles. Several minutes later, the desperation of hay fever allowed for a temporary truce and the bird flew off to the west, smelling dingdong crumbs in the driveway of a Victorian townhouse on Pendleton Street, only a few blocks over. "Look," Mulder blew his nose, "No matter who is right, I won't come--I mean--I know I have to come--I mean--" The Master tapped the toe of his riding boot on the asphalt. "I mean," Mulder started again, "AD Skinner is waiting for me and he won't let me come--I mean he's got dibs on me coming--oh fuck it. You're going to have to talk to him. Here," Mulder pulled his cell phone out of his trench coat front pocket and handed it to the Master. "301-555-8654, room 234." 9:35 P.M. High's Convenience Store, Alexandria, Virginia With Queequeg as lookout, the two agents hit the High's like Byron's proverbial Assyrians. By the time they rushed back out to Scarlet, each G-chickie carried a large plastic sack full of junk food and each clutched a giant plastic cup in her hand--Tina's a Super Gigantic Will Riker Size Humonguous 180 ounce Big Gulp of PowerJava, black as pitch like the big boys drink, and Dana's an Extra Gigantor Fat-Free Sugar-Free Banana PowerSlurpee which she had recently developed an appalling dependence on. They left behind them a store denuded of dingdongs, ho-hoes, and red licorice whips, and behind the counter, a 17-year-old boy with a massive boner, who now had enough fuel for whack-off fantasies to last him until he was at least 45. "You're acting like a girl," Tina said as she slid behind the wheel, tossing her bag into the back seat. "Oh yeah?" Scully said, balancing her Slurpee on the rich burgundy Corinthian leather armrest and snapping her seatbelt on. "Yeah. Hey you little mutt, keep your nose out of that bag," Tina warned the dog. "Yeah, you're acting like a girlie-girl. First that fucking cabbage soup, now a fat-free sugar-free Slurpee that probably still has 1,000 calories in it." "Nahuh," Scully said as she snapped the "Scatology" CD into the player. "Does, too." Tina gunned the engine once. It roared like Diamanda Galas and then settled into a deep comfortable powerful purr. "Does not. It's only got three calories per ounce." The loud strains of "The Sewage Worker's Birthday Party" filled the cockpit and Scully turned the volume down a tad to forestall Queequeg's howling. "Yeah and enough nutrasweet to choke Nina Hartley," Tina said. "Yeah well, some of us don't look like Amazon Women," Scully retorted lamely. Scarlet edged out of the parking lot, cutting off a white 1968 Valiant full of kids dressed like the cover of Heart's "Little Queen" album, and when they turned onto the quiet road, Tina put the pedal to the metal. Scarlet torqued forward, thrusting Tina and Scully deep into their rich burgundy Corinthian leather seats and sending poor Queequeg face down into the bag of goodies where he immediately began to make the most of his good fortune. "Time for you to reread "The Beauty Myth, Bun," Tina said. "Piss off, Coyote Woman," Scully replied. She turned up the CD player and Tina powered the windows open so that the sweet heavy night air whipped through the cockpit, sending raven, red-gold hair and orange fur flying every which way as John Balance howled about being eaten alive by the perfect lover. When they hit the GW Parkway, this late at night as empty as Newt Gingrich's heart, Tina edged Scarlet up to 95 and levered the steering wheel all the way down so she could steer with her knees, leaving her hands free to light a clove cigarette. "Nicotine and tar is far worse than nutrasweet," Scully hollered over John Balance's lustful licking noises. "Yeah, but at least they come with a buzz," Tina said, blowing a thick stream of pungent smoke out of the window. "Which is more than you can say for nutrasweet." The road ahead was narrow and dark, the tall trees looming sentinel on either side of the lane, the headlights of Scarlet carving out a tunnel through the blackness. The swift and smooth motion of the car was soothing and hypnotic and the cockpit was cozy and womblike, smelling sweetly of tobacco, leather and Tina's "Red" perfume. "Hey--" Scully leaned over and pressed eject. John Balance was cut off in mid-orgasm. In the sudden silence, Queequeg's munching was clearly audible. "What the hell is that mangy mutt into?" Tina asked, glancing in the rearview mirror. Scully twisted in her seat, peering over the rich burgundy Corinthian leather headrest. "Queequeg, bad dog, bad dog," she scolded. Queequeg whined and hung his fuzzy little head, his muzzle flecked with white goo and chocolate shards. "If that dog ate all my dingdongs," Tina threatened, "I'm gonna show him exactly what it means to be eaten alive by the perfect lover." "He's just a dog, Tina." Scully frowned. "You can't hardly expect him to resist a whole bag of dingdongs can you? I think you need to stop, he looks like he's gonna be sick." "Fuck that," Tina scoffed. "I'm not pulling over so snapperdog can barf." "Well then, Agent Hill, you are going to have dog puke all over your backseat. See, I told you we should leave Queequeg at home," Scully said self-righteously. "Hold him out the window," Tina ordered. Ahead of them the darkness was opening up into the bright haze of the 270 interchange. Tina banked steeply and took the turn onto 270 towards Maryland at a sedate 75, then leaned on the afterburners and Scarlet whooshed back up to 90. "Tina, I am serious." Scully said. "Pull over." "Look Mutt, I ain't pulling over. This road is crawling with local pigs and while you may want to practice your FBI wiles trying to explain exactly what two G-women are doing dressed in fuck-me duds sitting by the side of 270 at midnight watching a Pomeranian urp dingdongs, I got better things to do with my time. Just hold him out the damn window and let him do his thing. As ye reap so shall ye sow," Hill added for good measure. Scully made a long suffering sigh, which usually sparked at least a sympathetic glance and an offer of a cup of coffee from Mulder, but had no effect whatsoever on Special Agent Christina Mankiller Hill. She unhooked her seatbelt and climbed into the backseat, powered down the window, and held the now very very sorry Queequeg out so he could projectile spew a stream of viscous brown goo into moist spring air. For a little dog, Queequeg had an amazing capacity for dingdongs; they were approaching the Mormon Temple in Silver Spring before Queequeg was done and Scully could, after stowing the rest of the goodies out of Queequeg's reach, climb back into the front seat and resume her position at Ops. "Surrender Dorothy," Tina cackled, as they swept by the Temple, which did indeed bear a startling resemblance to the Castle of the Wicked Witch of the West. "Tina--" Scully said in a tone that Tina called her 'party pooper' voice. The cool air, the Banana Slurpee, and the sweet smell of Queequeg's puke had sobered her up. "Don't wimp out on me now, Dana Katherine Scully," Tina said severely. "You Will be Assimilated. Resistance is Futile." "But--" "Relax, Dana, I have a cunning plan," Tina said in mock-Baldrick accent. "That's what I am afraid of," Scully said. "Sometimes I think that you and Mulder should be partners, you and he are both such big fans of cunning plans which always end up being extremely costly to both life and limb and generate lengthy expense report inquiries, not to mention upping our Bureau insurance premiums." "Dana, you ought to get down on your knees and thank the goddess that you have me and Mulder, cause if you didn't you would be more boring than Janet Reno. It's only cause of us that you ever have any fun or have any kind of life at all. Trust me on this one, Dana. I know all about the Mulders of this world and this is gonna be fun. You just sit back and let Coyote Woman take charge--" "But--" Scully said again. "Relax," Tina smiled, taking her clove ciggie out of her mouth and shoving it in Scully's. "Look, this is just a stupid slash piece. There aren't gonna be any expensive report inquiries or fans howling about character continuity, or trying to figure out how Cancer Man is really behind all this. We're gonna have some fun and CC isn't ever gonna ever find out about it. Life will be cool. And best of all, we don't have to worry about the network censors. So just go with the flow, Bun." Whateverwhateverwhatever. Scully took a deep drag on the clove cigarette, and chased the pungent smoke down with a huge swig of her Slurpee. Looming ahead of them were the big green glowing signs for the 95 interchange--North to New York or South to Florida. Tina swerved into the left lane, cutting off a long white stretch limo full of drunken rockstars and sore-throated groupies that was heading from the Cap Center towards BWI, then they were barreling South towards Beltsville and the Howard Johnson's. Scully slammed an AC/DC CD into the player and as the Great God B- O-N began to hoarsely wail about being on the Highway to Hell, she leaned her head back on her rich burgundy Corinthian leather headrest and sang along. Tina quickly joined in. "No stop signs speed limits nobody gonna slow me down like a wheel gonna spin it nobody gonna mess me around...my friends are gonna be there too...I'm on the Highway to Hell..." the two G-chickies yodeled as Scarlet came down upon Beltsville like a wolf on the fold. 5:45 P.M. Mulder's Bucar, Alexandria, Virginia Oh Jesus Oh hell just keep walking back and forth, Fox, back and forth across the parking lot and don't even look at Derek, Duke Dildo, talking to _him_ to Sugar Daddy to my daddydaddydaddymakesmefeelsopricklyandooooooooohhhh and Sir Snappy Whip _did_ tell me to show up next weekend, frickin' limy, and damn damn damn he's probably got a house full of fat Albigansians or--oh God, I'm so stoned I can't even remember the name of a single other country in--shit. I can't remember the name of the continent, either--AndwheretheFUCKISTHATKLEENEX??-- waiting for me to play raspberry tart on their dessert table of love and Daddy better not cave or I'll know he doesn't love me, doesn't love his little Foxy-woxie, and I'll never let him--well, okay, I'd let him anyway because I'm such a--Oh Fuck! The fish! The fish! Several sneezes sent Mulder staggering backwards into a Ford Windstar--exactly the kind of minivan Scully had recently told him was an ideal family car. He hunted madly in his trench coat pocket for a new tissue and blew his nose. For the one blessed moment that his sinuses were clear--that sacred, special second before they began to full again with pollen--hence with mucus--Mulder smelled synthetic chocolate and vanilla cream on the gentle May wind. "Oh Sam," Mulder sighed. "You so loved ding dongs." 5:45 P.M. HoJo's, Beltsville, Maryland Meanwhile, in the bridal suite of a Howard Johnson's in Beltsville, Maryland, AD Walter Skinner sat on the edge of the pink heart- shaped bed and looked upwards to the ceiling and the mirror which clearly reflected himself starring upward at the mirror that reflected himself back down at him. Infinity yawned before him. Teasing and taunting like those damned Viet Kong. When he'd entered the room to make an assessment of the situation facing him and his agent and to catalog the supplies that would be necessary for the success of the mission (lamp cord? Check. Purple shag rug? Check. Complimentary ice. Check.), he had wondered if the mirror wasn't going to remind Mulder of somethingthatmaybeMuldercound'tthinkabout--one of the many bleak, terrible, tragic, fiendish, awful, gut-wrenching, twisted, perverse experiences that Mulder jumped up and down on in the dark, dank suitcase of his mind. Skinner had pondered if perhaps he should request another room sans ceiling mirror to spare Mulder any resurrection of the painful memories, but decided to cuff Mulder to the bed face down instead. Then the phone rang. Skinner felt his balls shrink into tiny knots that were kind of like really fucked up macrame when he heard the clipped English cadence. "Mr. Skinner, we have a problem here. A SHED-U-al-ling problem. I'm afraid Mr. Mulder is otherwise occupied this evening. You'll have to excuse him." Skinner's jaw muscles worked. His eyes narrowed at the corners. His lip twitched in just the exact same way as Elvis's. "Mulder is my honeybunny and he's coming here tonight." "Let me correct you, Assistant Director Skinner, Mr. Mulder is my impeccably trained pony-boy and he's coming with me." "Now lissen up, limy," Skinner said as low and steady as John Wayne. "I've had a bitch of a week and if Uncle Wally and the twins don't get their recreational spelunking I just might be angry enough to send in my G-men to bust up her whole stinking operation, you tea-slurpin' punk." "Honestly, Mr. Skinner. I have a house full of Bulgarians waiting to eat Mulder for dessert, for Lord's sake." "Bulgarians?" Skinner's eyes narrowing like Clint Eastwood. The Master _was_ in a bind. "I see your problem." "Yes. I suspected you would." "The same Bulgarians that crashed the Single Spies' Achy Breaky Heart Hoe Down at Quantico last November?" "The very same." "Jesus frickin' Christ." "Yes, exactly." "This could cause an international incident!" Skinner snapped like George C. Scott playing General Patton. "So, you see my predicament." "Yes. But you see mine." "Well, certainly, if Uncle Wally and the Twins are as needy as Sir Richard Cephallus and the Faithful Horse Bag Bean. Can't we come to a mutually beneficial agreement, Mr. Skinner?" "How long can you stall the Bulgarians?" "Until around midnight, I should think." "Fine. Plenty of time for a quickie for both of us. Get that tasty piece of FBI ass up here, on the double, man!" "Roger, LEFtenant. Over and out." 9:30 P.M. Bridal Suite, HoJo's, Beltsville, Maryland "....I think my foot is going to sleep its buzzing like hell I wonder where the hell they went I'm getting tired of lying here like this but I think that is the point I wonder if they're watching _he_ loves to watch me twist and turn maybe I ought to thrash about a little bit I'd moan but this ball gag is too tight ooooooo I gotta scratch I gotta scratch I gotta terrible itch on my shoulder blade I'm gonna wiggle ooooooo I shouldn'ta wiggled now Mr. Spooky's getting back up again I think I'll just rub into the sheet a bit _ he_ loves it when I rub up against the sheet and wiggle my bottom there the itch went away but now my arm is going to sleep too I wonder where the hell they went he didn't leave me for good did he? Naw _he_ would never do that though the maid might be surprised tomorrow morning I dunno if that would be funny or not I wonder what Scully's doing this weekend the look on her face if she could see me now ooooo Mr. Spooky calm down I gotta rub harder harder the rubber feels terrible on my teeth is it hot in here or is it just me? the sheets feel awful damp where the hell are they it's been hours when _he_ gets back I wonder if he'll use the collar ooo I love that collar it makes me feel so warm and speshul and maybe _he_ went to go get some ice cream oohohoheohiho the cold wetness and the cold yummy chocolate and Mr. Spooky oooooooooowawoehmoooooooooaneouhhhh uhhhhhh pant pant pant oh daddy you didn't abandon your little boy did you oh daddy baby Fox needs his daddy yes he does ohoheoihouhhhuh uh uh up and down up and down back and forth oh the friction the friction the friction oh warm warm OOHOHEOIHOIHOERIHEROIHEROIHahhhhhhhhhhh hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.... From lisby@earthlink.net Fri Feb 12 12:34:38 1999 Date: Mon, 28 Dec 1998 12:43:55 -0500 From: Lisby Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: The Pout 3/3A --archive freely The Witching Hour I-95 Scarlet swooped off of 95 and wung her way through the stoplight, banking sharply around Beltsville Plaza. The parking lot meandered with shaggy-haired stoners in concert t-shirts drinking PBR, toking off of bongs shaped like dragons and horned skulls, waiting for the midnight showing of "The Song Remains the Same." As they barreled along the edge of the parking lot, Tina leaned on the horn with her knee and stuck her head out of the window. "The 70s Sucked," she hollered at the stoners, much to Scully and Queequeg's mortification. A few stoners looked up vaguely, but most were too busy toking and stroking equally shaggy-haired stonettes. Beltsville was the Gateway to Redneck Heaven, a seedy DMZ between placid suburbia and the part of the Maryland where Ma and Pa Kettle and their sons Lynard, Skynard, and Freebird were King, Queen, and Princes of the Double Wide. Back in the 1950s, Beltsville had been the wave of the future; a gleaming suburb of identical brick HUD houses designed to make America a better place and make better Americans. Now many of the brick houses were in disrepair, their once perfectly manicured green lawns (the pride and joy of every suburban husband) now covered in rusting auto parts and mangy looking coon dogs. Whenever COPS did an episode on the DC area, Beltsville figured prominently. Ahead of them, just past the intersection, gleaming like the Casbah, was a long low building painted in garish tones of orange and turquoise, a neon sign lazily blinking "Ho's", which somehow seemed tres appropriate. Scarlet wizzed through the light and landed in the parking lot. "I can't believe that Mulder would ever be caught dead in a dump like this!" Scully protested as Tina threw Scarlet into park. The two agents stared at the facade of the HoJo's. Up close the orange and turqouise paint exterior was peeling and dirty and some of the windows were mended with cardboard. The parking lot in front of the restaurant was full of Harley hogs, ancient rusting cameros held together with baling wire, and monster Ford trucks with deer lights, rifle racks and NRA license plates. "Oh my," Tina sighed as the door to the restaurant was flung open and two skinny flip-haired women in braided leather haltertops and low riding jeans tumbled into the parking lot and begin to bite and scratch each other. "He must have been talking about another HoJo's," Scully said. The cat fight was drawing a loud cheering crowd and some of the audience were throwing what Scully was willing to bet were fried clams at the fighting women. "Au contraire, mon amie," Tina replied. "First off, this is the only HoJo's in Beltsville. Secondly, if you would use your FBI training, you would see that his car is parked right there." "No!" Scully gaped, looking the direction that Tina was pointing. Directly in front of the hotel office, a bucar was parked neatly in between a 1995 Chevolet Silverado Dually and a midnight blue Trans Am with its hood padlocked shut. "Come on, let's do it." Tina opened the car door and swung her long legs out. After admonishing Queequeg to bark if anyone messed with Scarlet, Scully took one last pull at her Slurpee for courage, patted her gun, and followed Tina across the dirty parking lot towards the office. The cat fight was abruptly terminated when a man appeared out of the restaurant and poured a bucket of water on the women. Some of the crowd drifted back to the eatery, and others jumped on their hogs and roared helmetless out into the night. "This is like Motel Hell," Scully whispered to Tina as they entered the lobby. Signs of decaying suburban grandeur were everywhere. Faded mauve carpet showed what looked to Scully's trained eye like motorcycle tire treads and the walls were pockmarked with bullet holes and scribbled graffiti. Tina strode up to the desk and authoritatively rang the bell. A wizened old man wearily got up off the saggy sofa that sat across from the desk and took his place behind the counter. He pulled out a grimy ledger and held his pen ready, barely glancing at Tina and Scully. "Single or Double? Hourly or Daily?" "We don't want a room," Tina said in her best Elliot Ness voice. "We want information." "Listen sister, all I know is single or double, hourly or daily--urhgoh" the man's eyes bugged out as Tina reached across the counter and grabbed the collar of his tattered Hawaiian print shirt. "Listen bucko, I am Special Agent Alexandra Krychek and this is Special Agent Krycheka Alexander of the National Agency of Security and we have reason to believe that you are harboring a dangerous fugitive. Under the Anti-Terrorism Act of 1996, if you refuse to cooperate with us, we may take you into custody and subject you to questioning under mastication. So what'll it be?" The man gurgled and writhed in Tina's grip and when she released him suddenly, flopped over on the counter, gasping. "Okay, okay, I'm a good American. You shoulda just said so. I'm a Republican. What do you want to know? I'll cooperate, but they are all dangerous felons here, ma'am, you could just pick anyone of 'em. All I do is sign 'em in and take their money. I don't ask no questions." "yeah, yeah," Tina nodded. "We have reason to believe that a man wanted for the federal crime of corpophilia in the first degree has taken a room here. We want to see your guest register." "Um. Okay." The man pushed the ledger over to Scully and Hill and then cowered back against the mail cubbies. "Well, what a fuck," Scully exclaimed when she saw Mulder's familiar sloping scrawl. He had checked into the bridal suite at six-thirty that evening under the name of 'David Duchovny.' "Don't worry, Agent Alexander." Tina tucked the ledger under her arm. "The trap is almost snapped. Sir, you have been a great help and your government is grateful. I am afraid that I must confiscate your guest register, but I know that you understand that no sacrifice is too great for the security of our glorious nation." She paused as they turned away, and then turned back to the still cowering man. "You realize, of course, that our visit here is top secret. If you breathe a word of this to anyone, you're a dead man." The manager nodded, "Yes, ma'am. I'll be as silent as the grave. God Bless the U.S.A. Happy Fourth of July--" The two agents ignored him, and let the door slam heavily shut behind them. "Well, Coyote Woman?" Scully asked, as she followed Tina back out to Scarlet. "What now?" "Hey--" Tina had paused in front of the Chevy Dually and was looking at it oddly. "Doesn't that truck look familiar?" Scully gave the vehicle a once over and shrugged. "No. I don't think so. Why?" Tina approached the truck and peered into its bed. "I dunno. Just seems like I have seen this car before but I can't think of where." "Come on, Jeffie, who do we know who would drive a monster Chevy like that?" Scully asked. The bed of the truck was empty and clean and Tina fished her small maglight out of her duster pocket and walked around the side of the truck to peer into the window. She was within a foot of side window, maglight poised when a slavering furious canine face plastered itself against the glass, barking furiously. Two cars down, Queequeg began to yip in sympathy. "Jesus Mary!" Tina recoiled, banging her hip into Mulder's crappy escort. "What the fuck is that?" In its eagerness to get at Tina and rip her from limb to limb, the dog rapped its head hard on the window and fell back onto the wreckage of a car phone. "I think it was a pit bull," Scully said, moving down the lot to Scarlet and admonishing Queequeg to shut up. (For a more complete understanding of this incident, please reference "Will" by Ysabeau. Available at IOHO--The Friendly Place.) "Jesus, that was a nasty looking dog." Tina said, moving away from the truck. "I don't know who in the right mind would keep one of those things around. More dangerous than a loaded gun. I'm glad it was on the other side of the glass or I would've had to ventilate the little fuck." "Come on, Tina," Scully said. "Forget the truck, forget the fucking dog. Let's get this over with." She grabbed the bag of goodies out of Scarlet, and ignoring the interesting looks that the two G-chickies were beginning to garner from the bikers hanging out in front of the HoJo's restaurant, she and Tina headed down the row of doors, looking for Room 315, the Bridal Suite. "Who the hell would honeymoon in this dump?" Scully asked, stepping over a flaccid, wet condom. "The same kind of person who would walk down the aisle to Free Bird'" Tina snerked, shining her maglight at the numbers on the doors. "The same kind of person who would get married four times and always have the same in-laws," Scully added. "The same kind of person who would put the NASCAR logo on their wedding invit--ah here we are, Room 312." The two agents stopped in front of the door and Tina snapped her maglight off and dropped it into her pocket. The door to Room 312 was as peeling and warped as all the other doors they had passed, but to indicate the special status of the room, the number had a big red heart around it. "Well, well, ain't that just romantic." Tina admired, leaning her ear against the door. Scully leaned as well, but all they heard was silence from the room and the faint refrain of "Achy Breaky Heart" from the direction of the restaurant. "This is going to be the No Knock Entry to end all No Knock Entries," Tina said gleefully. "I pity any kitty cat who gets in my way!" She nodded to Scully and they both pulled out their guns, Scully moving to the left of the door to cover Hill. Hill raised her gun, raised her foot and drove the four inch heel of her left armadillo Tony Lama into the door with full force. The door cracked and then splintered open. "Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, Hands in the Air!" Tina hollered as she and Scully dashed into the room, guns waving, hair waving, incredibly sexy butch serious expressions on their faces. They expected to be greeted by shouting, sheet grabbing, and general confusion and terror. Instead they were greeted with the sight of Special Agent Fox William Mulder handcuffed face down to the king- -sized heart shaped bed, the dizzying mirror clearly reflecting an infinite number of his well shaped, somewhat tender-looking bottoms. 10: 30 P.M. HoJo's, Beltsville, Maryland Shortly before the arrival of Tina and Dana Fury, a bird perched in the ledge of the overhanging roof outside the restaurant at the HoJo's that is now the focus of our story. The bird had flown for many miles, fortified by the strength lent him by the ding dong crumbs dropped by the All Powerful Winged Father Avian, and was now settling down to rest for the night. Nothing disturbed the bird--not the roar of a bloated Harley, not the slurred "Ikillyoooooo!" or "Ikillyoooootooooobitch!" of the bearded man and tube-topped woman brandishing bowie knives in the parking lot. Naturally, the bird had a bird's eye view of the action on the opposite side of the dirty plate glass window and, because birds are blessed above all creatures--or so they, themselves, believe--the bird's superlative hearing allowed it to clearly discern every syllable of the conversation being carried out between the scantily-haired human and the gray-haired human feasting on what looked like bread crumb-covered worms in the torn faux-vinyl nest directly inside. Unfortunately, the bird did not speak English and so we may never know what genuinely transpired between the two Homo Sapien Sapien males. This, however, is what the bird supposed they said, based on its interpretation of the humans' preening and head- cocking. "I say, dear feathered one," chirped the gray-haired man, "I misinterpreted your relationship to my flock. You are an acceptable Alpha Prime, after all." "Why, thank you, beautiful plumaged goshawk. I find you an acceptable crumb-seeking brother as well. The dark-fletched one will be a suitable mate for us both and later for our Eastern Cousins. Was the nest I built not suitable for the ancient act of fertilization?" "Indeed," the gray one nodded, licking his beak. "The reflecting pool in the sky reminds me of my homefields." "Yes, yes," the head of the bald one bobbed. "And for that reason the dark-fletched one must not see it's glory." "And yet we may see his." "It is imperative for the success of the act, Goshawk Brother." At this point, the conversation and the bird were disturbed by the primitive squabbling of other humans and the sudden airborne miracle of flying crumb-covered worms. As the bird landed lightly upon the black, warm unnatural surface to seek the sweet annelid meat, it was rudely set to flight by the stomping heels of a giantess with an ocean of dark hair cascading from the peak of her mountain- high head and the black stomping boots of a smaller Homo Sapien Sapien female with fire spouting from her scalp. These two creatures loped into the humans' large, enclosed nesting ground, trailing a cloud of exotic human smell. Just then there was much screaming and shrieking and human feet tromping the lovely worms. In disgust, the bird returned to his perch and witnessed this reaction from the occupants of the nauaghyde nest inside. "Oh mother of all starlings! I have seen the sacred cow birds and they are attending!" swore the bald human. "Alas! We must leave our munchy worms and sweep round them in short circles or they will find the dark-fletched one who is caged!" "Come, Brother Goshawk! Fly!" And so the human men exited the nest without leaving green stuff behind. From lisby@earthlink.net Fri Feb 12 12:34:47 1999 Date: Mon, 28 Dec 1998 12:48:17 -0500 From: Lisby Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: NEW: The Pout 3/3B --Archive freely 10: 35 P.M. HoJo's, Beltsville, Maryland Tina turned to savor Bunnbunny's reaction to the glory that was Mulder's bottom, but the space behind her was empty. Dana, that fraidie cat, had scampered, leaving only a faint waft of vanilla behind. "Damn you, Bunny," Tina swore, torn between chasing Scully down and frogmarching her into the bridal suite at the point of her gun if need be, and attending to the deliciousness that was lying there so lonely only and lost on the bed. Tina made her choice, turned back toward the bed, and did the Happy Faerie Dance. Then she slammed what was left of the splintered door shut, shoved her Wilson in her waistband and advanced, grinning like a fool, upon the bed. 10: 40 P.M. HoJo's, Beltsville, Maryland Scully fled, overcome with emotion and the roiling feeling gifted by six Ho-Hoes, a Gigantor Banana Slurpee, a bottle of Cuervo, most of a carton of Chubby Hubby and the cabbage soup. She blindly flew across the parking lot, oblivious to the hooting of the bikers and down an alleyway, stopping only when she got a stitch in her side and the rumbly in her tumbly was in imminent danger of proving that in this case, gravity was not her friend. She leaned against the wall, and heaved once, spit twice and felt a hell of a lot better. She stood up, spit again and then in a blinding flash it occurred to her--she had run. Tina had not run. Tina was still in the Bridal Suite. Mulder was still in the Bridal Suite. Mulder was handcuffed to the bed. Mulder was helpless. Tina was far from helpless. Like Grant receiving the news of the Lee's Surrender, Scully reeled as her final thought hit her: TINA WAS HAVING ALL THE FUN. Scully straightened up and squared her shoulders. She turned around and marched back to the Bridal Suite. 10:45 P.M. The Bridal Suite, HoJos In the wilderness of his sleeping mind, Fox William Mulder danced through the long grass with a small faun playing the panpipes. The faun had blonde hair and blue eyes and his little hooves were painted pink. Dancing, Fox realized that he too was playing the panpipes, then that he too was a faun with cunning little crooked legs and knobby hairy knees and not only a faun but an ithyphallic one to boot. But that was okay because oh they danced the little children of stonehenge, round and round in the long grass, piping a happy tune which Fox vaguely recognized as being the theme song to Gilligan's Island then running through the long grass was a figure in a long flowing chiton, her magnificent red hair waving in the gentle Arcadian breeze, all her other delicious parts bouncing gently under the gauzy and nearly transparent cloth...and what was that she was singing? IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAAAAAOOOOO and Fox tossed the panpipes up in the cerulean sky and bounded to meet her, some of his delicious parts bouncing and some of them waving deliciously and then their warm flesh touched and she was licking his ear and screaming: I ONLY WANTED YOUR SYLPH-LIKE BODY FOR MYSELF, MULDER and he was singing IIIIIIIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAAAAAAOOOoooooooooooofffffffffffff....some one's breathing on my neck is it my daddy oh daddy oh daddy Mother Mary on a pogo stick that is COOOOOOOOOOOLLLLDDDDDD! Something indeed was breathing on Mulder's neck--a warm gentle breeze of a breath that smelled sweetly of cloves and darkly of chocolate. Something indeed very cold was now pressed in the softness of Mulder's neck in that sweet taut area of flesh that covered his collarbone, something cold and metallic and round, and then a sweet gentle breeze of a voice, whispered into his shell-like ear: "Roswell. Roswell." Mulder danced like a fish on the line, but that only made the round metal thing press harder and the someone nibble on his ear. This nibbling induced in Mulder a roaring in his ears and he jerked and jived like a crackhead on Jolt Cola. This jerking and jiving only seemed to encourage the nibbling which quickly escalated into Nibbling with a Capital N. For every Action, there must be a Reaction, and Mulder and his unknown benefactor soon locked into a tight rhythm--the benefactor would taunt and Mulder would quiver; benefactor would burrow and Mulder would clench. Rock, Roll. Hide, Seek. Advance, Retreat. The benefactor locked and Mulder loaded. And then the benefactor carefully squeezed the trigger and Mulder was surprised when he went off. When the roaring in his ears gradually died away, he realized that part of what he had thought were the Heavenly Host celebrating his Climax was actually the Angry and Annoyed Sound of his Daddy. Oops! thought little Fox and he began to quiver all over again. <> "Special Agent Hill, unhand Special Agent Mulder's G-balls this moment or I'm bustin' your ass to a GS-8 and shipping you to the field office in Tornundershirt, Texas!" Oh! That was my Daddydaddydaddy! Fox wiggled his ass in delight. _He's_backmydaddddddddddddddyyyyyyyyyyyyyy! Hmmmmm...So that was Tina Hill? Well, she had an interesting technique, didn't she?--rather primitive and to-the-point. Honorably savage like her proud and noble people. Cherokee people, Cherokee tribe, so proud to live, so proud to--oh wait Tina was a Sioux. Oooohhhhuuummmmmmmmm, Mulder moaned as Tina fondled Puglsey and Wednesday. That feels really nice really nice geeeeeeeeeeeee ooohhhhhhhhhh ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmm To the left oh yes to the left a littlemoregoodnessowewohyesssssssssshhhhhhhhhh. "Back off, baldy," a woman's voice ordered. "I'm not lettin' go of nothin'. You and the King of Pain are SOL." "Agent Hill, move away from those testicles very slowly. The stability of the world order hangs in that scrotum," the Master's voice was edged with tension, muffled by his hay fever, raw with the anger of being disobeyed, but thick from post-nasal drip. Overall, he sounded perfectly normal. Hill was silent for a moment, then-- "Eheh. Eheheh. And you're Wallace Simpson, right?" "I azzure dou, Agent Hill, I yam derious. Dery derious," the master honked into something--in all likelihood a Kleenex or a handkerchief, Mulder's ten year's of FBI experience told him. "Very, very serious," echoed Daddydaddydaddy meanwhilest. "Oh, ettraordinarawy derious, Adent Hill." Sniff. Honk. "Serious. Sssssssssserious," Daddy intoned. "You see, Agent Hill, I have a Bulgarian delegation awaiting at my small country place. They are currently in possession of--of--how much would you say, Walter?" "A shitload." "Yes, a shitload of radioactive plutonium that some Russian former nuclear scientist traded for a bag of peanut M&Ms, three pairs of blue jeans, and the new CD by Greenday. They have promised to sell their ill-gotten gains to the Cubans unless we provide them Agent Mulder for one evening of pleasure." "Why Mulder?" Hill sounded suspicious as Geromino speaking to Charles Gatewood. "Jesus woman, LOOK at that thing!" the AD roared. "Every frickin' rosie in Hanoi is after his eggcrate!" "Calm yourself, Walter, calm." From the little slapping sounds Mulder knew the Master was stroking Skinner's bald head. "I believe they met Mr. Mulder at the Single Spies' Achy Breaky Heart Hoe Down last fall and there became enamored. Now, you must listen to me carefully, Agent Hill," the Master was using THAT voice--the voice that, if not obeyed, would lead to obscure tortures with lemons and Bounce dryer sheets. "The Assistant Director and I have ascertained that Mr. Mulder can endure only a certain number of erections this evening." "A certain number. A certain number," Daddy agreed. "How many did we ascertain, Walter?" "A shitload." "Yes, a shitload. And I have almost a shitload of Bulgarians at my tiny, really very modest country home. That leaves, at most, three erections Mr. Mulder can sustain. YOU, uncivilized squaw bitch, have just wasted one, and we will be damned if you will waste another. Now step away! Those two squirts are ours!" "Step away! Step away!" Tina was still fingering the Addamses, making Fox jiggle beneath her like a bowl full of dank, dark arsenic jelly. Suddenly her fingers tightened and twisted and HICHEEEMAMA! Mulder drew in air through his nose sharply and a loose feather from the pillows with it and--oh shit I have to sneeze I have to sneeze! Mulder sucked the ball of the ball gag halfway down his throat and was very, very glad when it shot back out with the explosion of air and the offending feather. No one would have noticed if he choked to death, as much attention as they were paying to his scrotum, because, of course, who needed him if they had his scrotum, not that HE was important or anything, they could just surgically remove the scrotum and sell the rest of him for junk parts, and of course he deserved that, freakasoid that he was--he deserved much, much worse for his unspeakable cock-sucking, Samantha-misplacing, fish-murdering ways. He should just give the Bulgarians his scrotum as an act of penance. Meanwhile, Daddy and the Master were howling their indignation and Wednesday and Puglsey were enjoying the pain immensely and Tina was SQUEEZING and making warpath noises --and then a little voice shocked them all into silence. A little, tiny, fragile voice: "Don't make me use this." Scully. Mulder felt his heart melt. MywiddieScullywully. Mineallmine. MyScully. Awwwwwwwwwwwww, CUUUUUUUUTTTTEEEEE iddy biddy Scully with little pink titties (oops, don't let on you peeked, Fox!). "Hey, Bunny-bunny, where'd ya find the hand grenade?" Hill stopped whooping to ask sociably. "In the trunk of the Pimpmobile." Awwwwww. Widdie Scully. "Cool. I forgot that was in there. Did you happen to see a 12-gage military-issue shot gun and a black, lace-up boostier?" Then Mulder jumped, unable to grunt, when Tina put a stranglehold on his nuts as Walter Skinner shrieked, "INNNNNNN COMMMMMIIINNNGGGGG!" 10:47 P.M., Route 40, Maryland It was dark where he was. Dark and womb-like. Dark and womb-like and humming with the heartbeat sound of the open road. His feet and hands were still bound, but the ball gag had been removed and his face was laying on something soft and lacy, something that smelled of dark chocolate, sweetgrass, and a faint flavor (decided by experimentally licking the silky fabric) of salt. Fox breathed deep the sweet smell and took another little experimental lick. Yup. He knew that smell of old, had sneakingly sniffed it when Scully was locked in the bathroom and her suitcase was lying temptingly open on her hotel bed, oh how those hotels were so tormenting, always always they were given rooms with enormously large queen size beds, connecting doors and 24 hour a day Playboy channels, not to mention those nifty little bars full of goodies, and always always they each lay lonely in their queen sized bed with those doors yawning like the gates of hell between them and the Nature Channel on in her room and ESPN on in his room, which was hardly any consolation unless of course ESPN was showing Ultimate Fighting Championships those sweetly muscled almost nekkid gods gripping and straddling one another in the octagon, straining and sweating and gripping and gripping and sweating and straining and THUMP! Fox was flung into the air, almost banging his head on the trunk lid and his Proustian reverie was rudely cut off. He spat the lacy thing out of his mouth and twisted around, trying to find a comfortable position. The bump had dislodged things and now a rather heavy cardboard box was lying on his feet, its edge sharply poking into his shin. He was lying partly on something long and round. Some experimental wiggling made the determination that it was the double barrel that he hazily remembered Tina asking about back in the hotel room. Back in the hotel room. Ahhhhhh....back in the hotel room when widdle Scully had burst in and saved him from the sweet, yet savage, tortures at the hands of the merciless foe. When widdle Scully had snatched him out of the jaws of his outraged Daddydaddydaddy (ooootingletinglewhatwilldaddydowhenhegetsmeback) and the speechless Master (ooothosebelgiansandtheirwaffles) and the savagely beautiful Agent Hill (ooothosesewingawlsoooo). When widdle Scully had somehow slung his helpless frail naked body in her strong arms and bore him, a helpless captive, out into the night air, cool on his fevered skin, to this place that he now lay cozy and safe: the trunk of Tina's car. Mulder relaxed into the warm nest of girl scented underpinnings and chamois gun-oil smelling cloths. Though his arms were becoming a bit cramped from the restraints, he knew that when she stopped Scully would put her medical training to good use and fix him right up. Oooooo, at the thought of Scully fixing him right up, Mulder could not suppress a tingly little quiver. Those snappy latex gloves, cool and sinuous as they spread betadine on his bare skin. The authoritative way she snipped the thread of his stitches and jabbed those sharp prickly-pear needles, the calm and efficient manner in which she went over his lists of meds, nodding in approval in some places, pursing her lips and shaking her head in other, the gimlet eye she would give the night nurse.... Mulder snuggled deeper into his little warm hollow and drifted off into another Proustian revere, twisting and turning through Scully's medical talents, but always, always coming back to the latex gloves. While Mulder dozed the car sped through the night, eating up the great American highway like the great American gas guzzling behemoth that she was. Scully sat at the wheel, almost lost in the rich Corinthian leather seat, the dials and radio blinking steadily and greenly in the rich Corinthian leather darkness. They drove and drove until they had almost reached California. Actually, Scully finally pulled into the Bide-A-Wee Motor Court just outside of Myersville, Maryland. A shuffling old lady in a ratty Vickie Secret's bathrobe and a huge beehive of curlers answered the bell at the desk and gave Scully the key to Room 17 and an empty ice bucket. Scully waited until Ma Kettle had shuffled back to bed (Pa was in there watching Jenna Jamison and whoooeee didn't that make the ole coot feisty) until she pulled the car around to the last little cottage and popped the trunk. 11:00 P.M. The Bridal Suite, HoJos, Beltsville, Maryland Meanwhile, back in the bridal suite, pandemonium rang from the flocked red velvet wallpapered walls, from the infinite mirrored ceiling, from the vibrating heart shaped bed. Recriminations, threats, perverse language, and the occasional hacking sniffing cough stirred the billowing nylon lace curtains and stirred the still water of the full Jacuzzi. Guns were drawn and riding crops were brandished until Tina fired twice into the ceiling. The ensuring shower of fragmented golden veined mirror cut through the muleskinner blue air like a hot knife through William Wallace's entrails. "Allrighty then," Tina said, still pointing the gun ceiling-ward." Next time, it'll be right between the eyes, Saabs?" The Master's mouth dropped open, not to protest, but to sneeze. Luckily for him, Agent Hill's lightening fast reflexes were up to the job and he didn't end up with his roman, er, patrician nose splattered all over the red flocked wallpaper. Daddydaddydaddy took advantage of Agent Hill's momentary focus on the Master to make a gazelle like leap across the room and onto Agent Hill. There was a brief struggle, blows were exchanged, followed closely by tugging, pulling, swearing, pushing, yelling, hitting, sweating, grunting, panting, biting, tugging, pulling, pushing, pulling, pushing, grunting, giggling, pushing, pulling, grunting, sweating, panting, howling, yelling, hooowling, puuuuulliing, puuuussssssssssssshing, hoooooooooooooooowllingggggggggggggggggggggggg.... With a grimace of distaste, the Master spun on one Bruno Mahli heel and slammed the door heavily behind him. Really, those Americans were so gauche and ill-bred. Fancy going at it like two stevedores just off of a four day jag and not even once extending one an invitation, or even acknowledging one's presence. Not for the first time the Master thought nostalgically about the good old days at school. As he walked down the tawdry hallway, he hummed a bit of the old school song: "Row row row your boat, gently down the stream Mates up, trousers down, isn't life a dream...." The Master stopped outside of the motel and dug in his tweedy jacket for his pipe, surveying the parking lot and considering. The night was young and the Bulgarians were waiting, what to do, what to do? As he considered, chewing absentmindedly on the pipe stem, a huge roaring sound, accompanied by a huge Harley hog, purred into the parking lot. It idled for a moment in front of the HoJo's and then hummed forward to a stop in front of the Master. Tall black boots gleamed on a pair of shapely feet. A pair of equally as gleaming black leather chaps greaved up the rider's long sinewy flanks which were gripping the saddle of the hog in a most satisfying way. Eyes of the darkest hazel, a straight, slender, broad nostrilled nose, a mouth firm and clear-cut under the curling mustache, chin and jaw square and resolute, and clean-shaven, forehead broad and white, in odd contrast to the bronze that spread over face and neck, hair that was dark and wavy. The rider was pronounced silently by the Master as a "splendid looking fellow." A shy smile was bestowed upon the master. The Master tucked his pipe back into his breast pocket and smiled back. Perhaps the Bulgarians wouldn't be putting a stop on that cheque after all. A brief conversation ensued and then the hog roared back into the night, the two figures astride not only in flagrant violation of state helmet laws and the federal speed limit, but also, some would say, of several of nature's laws as well. However, since we all know that nature abhors a vacuum, we shall give Pat Buchanan a miss and wish the Master and his soldier boy godspeed as they head down the highway towards their joint, and high satisfying, destiny. 2:22 A.M. Bide-a-Wee Motor Court, Myersville, Maryland The trunk popped open with a gentle, almost loving, sound. A whooosh of cold air on his bare skin almost caused Mr. Spooky to withdraw internally and Mulder began to shiver almost controllably. Gentle hands fumbled at his head and the blind fold dropped away. He squinted upward, at first seeing only the blankness of the night sky. Then as his eyes adjusted, though a pin prick of stars came into focus, the darkness remained in the shape of a head looming over him. The same pair of soft hands fumbled at his head again, and this time the ball gag fell away. Mulder experimentally pursed his lips and was delighted to see that they still worked. He was going to need them where he was going. "Scully?" Mulder whimpered, his voice cracking from long disuse and rubber distortion. "Come to Mummy," she said, reaching for him. And he did. THE END Feedback welcome. lisby@earthlink.net