From: piglit1975@aol.com Date: Fri, 3 Mar 2000 03:11:20 EST Subject: xfc: Spooky Action Coast to Coast Source: xfc From: piglit1975@aol.com Spooky Action Coast to Coast by JHJ Armstrong Rating: What do you call cartoonish smut? R, I guess. Content: Drivel. Parody. Humor. Another installment in Sabine's "Spooky Action at a Distance" series. Find this and other "Spooky Action" adventures here: http://emilyss.home.mindspring.com/myfic.htm Summary: Dear God, do I have to? Oh, all right. Fox Mulder. Dana Scully. Weirdness. Surreal. Go figure. Feedback: If you make it through this, won't you drop me a line? piglit1975@aol.com Notes: Sab made me do it. I didn't volunteer. I didn't stay up until 2:30 one night and type until I couldn't see. Really. I adore you, freaky cosmic West Coast other half. ;p I don't have any explanation or justification for this other than I was tired, it was late and things were damn funny while I wrote it. Apologies in advance. ------------------------------------------------------ California. Rodeo Drive. "I don't see any cowboys." My partner cocked an eyebrow at me. One of these days, something's going to shoot out of her forehead. You just can't keep cocking something and never fire it. I should know. I'm Fox Mulder, and I carry a gun. I'm also known for going off half-cocked, but that's another matter entirely. We stopped the car and entered a lingerie store. Flashing my badge, I said, "I'm Fox Mulder. Can I see something, oh, say, a merrywidow in blue?" Anna Nicole Smith walked out of a dressing room, clad in a navy bustier. "Thanks, that'll do," I said. Anna shrugged, then disappeared. My partner rolled her eyes. I picked them up off the floor and handed them back to her, apologizing to the lovely clerk, whose bosom -- I mean name tag -- proclaimed her to be Annabel Lee. "I'm Fox Mulder. Did your parents like Poe?" I asked. She giggled. "I don't think the Teletubbies were around when I was born," she replied. Annabel smiled then, all grey lipstick and white teeth. 'Now *that's* an intriguing color choice,' I thought to myself. Then I remembered: Blondes love red lipstick. And I'm red-green colorblind. Course, her pouty mouth might have been painted green, but I'm Fox Mulder. I know these things. Meanwhile, Scully had wandered over to some display shelving. Suddenly, she launched herself over a rack of pegnoirs (using the jet propulsion cells she hides in her four-inch heels) and tackled a man who was coming out of the stock room. "Federal agent!" she yelled. Not to be outdone, I trotted over, hollering "I'm Fox Mulder" on the way. My grey-haired partner and the stock boy were tussling in a sea of grey and grey camisole sets. "Gee, Scully, couldn't you have just waited until he hung them up? I know how you love a sale, but ..." She ignored me, slapping a pair of handcuffs on the young Turk, picking him up in a fireman's carry and heading for the door. "We'll be in the car, Mulder. When you're finished with Silicone Sally over there, why don't you join us?" "I don't know, Scully -- bondage is a wonderful thing, but a three-way? I'll let you know. And her name is Annabel Lee. And I'm Fox Mulder." She rolled her eyes again, but luckily I caught them before they hit the floor. Who knew what kind of germs were hiding in the carpet? Another cocked eyebrow (I really have to start ducking when she does that), and she and Camisole Boy were out the door. I turned back to Annabel Lee, who gave me another grey smile. "I'm Fox Mulder," I said. "Duty calls." I sprinted to the Taurus, where Scully and Camisole Boy were enjoying post-bondage bubble gum cigarettes. I yanked open the door and climbed authoritatively into the driver's seat. I put the car into drive and gunned the accelerator, but the car went vertical instead of horizontal. I stuck my head out the window and nearly had it hacked off by a helicopter rotor. "What the hell are you doing?" I shouted at the pilot, but all I got in response was an "Eeh-oh!" Climbing out of the window, now some 2 miles above sea level, I gained entrance to the cockpit, where two amorphous blobs of grey and grey were seated in the pilot and co-pilot's seat. Laa-Laa and Po, my mind supplied, but UPS sure hadn't delivered that info. I whipped out my badge and gun. "I'm Fox Mulder. FBI!" All I got in response was high-pitched giggling and the words, "Again! Again!" as the blobs morphed into a pair of porn-quality brunettes, flying the whirlybird while perched on lesser-porn-quality men. Suddenly, I saw the White House Lawn beneath us, and I hopped off the copter rail as the band struck up "Hail to the Chief." Secret Service men were running after me, so I only had time to yell out, "Mulder! FB-" before a hail of gunfire made me shut my mouth and run like my ass was on fire and the last lake in the world was up ahead. You ever try to do that in Rockports? It ain't easy. Once in sight of the gate, I risked a glance back, but the S-men were no longer chasing me, instead they were lined up on the lawn with the porn-quality actresses like that scene in Misty Beethoven where she sucks one guy off, jacks off another two and they all come at the same time. I was impressed. But then, I'm Fox Mulder, and I am impressive. The other thing I saw when I looked back was the logo on the side of the copter: "Teletubbies Travel." I would have reflected, but I think it would have caused my brain to implode from the sheer stupidity, futility, instability and unmaneuverability. So I refracted instead. Back at the J. Edgar Hoover Building, we sat in the dank, dark dungeon we called an office. Skinner came down in full armor and mail, complaining about losing yet another mace in the moat. I stood up to open the Acme Mace Cabinet behind my desk to get him another one, and one of the porn-quality actresses glided out from under my desk and walked out the door. Scully didn't notice the first, the second, or even the third or fourth time it happened. But I knew each and every time one of those nubile-nubbined nymphos came. OUT. Came out. Hm. Where was I? Oh yeah. I'm Fox Mulder. I know what happens beneath my desk. About the fifth time, however, my lovely grey-haired partner noticed the yellow-haired young lovely traipse past her desk. She watched the attractive Aphrodite go out the door and join in a chorus line of long-legged Lolitas and two Teletubbies, grey and grey. "Again! Again! Eeh-oh!" the blobs squealed. Scully, being the level-headed scientist that she is, likes to have a modicum of quiet in her work. What with the dance line and the squealing blobs and the medieval fortress, no modicum could be found. Reaching into the Acme Leg Extension cabinet behind her desk, she pulled out the 12-inchers, strapped them on, and went to join the festivities. I shrugged. You know what they say: If you can't beat 'em, at least go dance 'til you drop. I'm Fox Mulder. I'm a dancing fool. Suddenly, I hear my partner's voice scream, "CONGA!" and sixteen sultry Sallys and two grey blobs come kicking into the office, Scully at the lead. Once everyone is inside, Scully runs over, slams the door and mows the entire procession down with an Uzi. Myself, being Fox Mulder, had the perspicacity to duck before the firing began. I'm alive, under the desk. But there aren't any more porn-quality actresses. Damn. The shooting has stopped. My partner is sitting at her desk, serene as ever, only pausing to blot the odd bit of blood or Tele-fuzzy out of the files. All this gunfire would need one shitpile of paperwork. I sat at my desk and wondered what Brian Boitano would do. I don't know. But as I booted up my computer to start printing out forms, I remembered that I'm Fox Mulder, Jesus saves, and so will I.