'Showdown', Part 1: The Blot Thickens
by Jean
It was maddening. Not only was that creep
Krychek still alive, he was very much alive and *well*, perpetrating
who-knows-what kind of violence and chaos undetected and unhindered.
Skinner was seething, and wishing he'd disemboweled the guy instead
of just settling for a sucker-punch and a scenic excursion on
the balcony.
He'd thought all this was behind him with the death of Cancer
Man. But no, the forces of perfidy were still fermenting, still
malignantly infecting the wall of honor and order he so devoutly
swore to defend with all his strength. If his subordinates were
to be threatened once again, he would not so easily be convinced
to stand aside this time. He would end it. Forever.
This woeful news had come to him unbidden, and from an unlikely
source. Years ago he'd had the unhappy duty of firing a long-time
friend, a much decorated and revered fellow-agent, for clandestinely
taking pictures of the AD at Chippendales, where he had been moonlighting
since the discontinuation of overtime, and selling these pictures
on street corners to every passing female, making enough in extra,
and undeclared, income to buy a majority interest in Boeing.
At the time, it had grieved Skinner to pull the plug on such a
worthy comrade, but the proliferation of these photos had badly
cut into his nightly tips, and he soon afterwards resolved to
put the entire tragedy out of his mind.
But this morning, like a famished and penitent ghost, this old
friend had called him with disturbing news. Since his self-inflicted
fall from grace, this former agent had been haunting motels and
bars, attempting to spot Mulder and Scully in a tryst, and to
sell the evidence to the tabloids for which he would be paid enough
to buy the *rest* of Boeing, when he saw, in the (partial) flesh,
his boss' old nemesis Krychek.
He was hanging out at a sleazy run-down bar, sitting jovially
in a far roach-infested corner, fondling a lonely trucker's wife,
who not only didn't object, but seemed to invite the attention
as a parched downtown median strip would welcome a bored and insentient
groundskeeper turning on the sprinklers.
As the recipient of this unsettling account, Skinner had a decision
to make. Should he pass it on to his superiors, letting them deal
with it (or not, a more likely outcome), or instead plead ignorance,
and effect a quick and surgical liquidation, justified only in
his own mind, but eliminating any future peril to those for whom
he was responsible and had come to respect?
It was a no-brainer. Krychek was going to die. Skinner smiled.
He vowed that Krychek would die as painfully as possible,and he
pledged to affect this outcome forthwith, anticipating the fulfilling
pleasure of watching as the lifeforce seeped out of his mangled
frame inch by inch, breath by breath, whimper by whimper, while
the AD grinned in victory at this warranted fate.
His starting point would be with Krychek's latest apparent squeeze,
a woman named Renata.....
To be continued.....