by Jean
It wasn't easy, being James Tiberius
Kersh, with both the weight and responsibility of the world upon
one's shoulders and attacked from every side by meddling underlines
who refused to recognize the value of deception and misdirection
in order to obtain one's ultimate end, which was, becoming Master
of the Universe, and my oh my, how pleasant the world had become
since he achieved that goal. Everything had fallen into place,
as planned, and Big Dog now had the run of the kennel.
"Sir?" said Dana Scully, covered in barfed up Gerber's
Cherry Plankton, "I'll be taking my maternity leave now."
"Very good, Agent Scully," said Kersh kindly while power-routering
new cloacas for interns, "And congratulations on finally
receiving an alien probe that worked."
Dana Scully had proven the easiest adversary to neutralize, without
any effort on his part. Kersh was amazed how docile she became
when the alarm finally went off on that ticking biological clock
that could be heard clear to Neptune, but also wondered why, in
an organization teeming with daily macho scrimmages, no one had
voluntarily stepped forward to lick the frosting off *that* particular
cupcake.
"Sir," said Fox Mulder, still engrossed in the discovery
of opposable thumbs, "I'm off to Wichita, investigating the
rumor that the face of John Denver appeared on an apple turnover
at the vernal equinox."
"Very good, Agent Mulder," said Kersh, admiring his
new cufflinks made from Skinner's testicles, "And glad to
hear you finally got over the colic."
Kersh gave Mulder little thought except when Mulder needed his
shoelaces tied, but did respect his ability to keep the ratings
up. It was easy enough to psych-out the sapless agent by merely
moving his facial mole to the other cheek, a minor amusement in
which Kersh often indulged, when not ignited like an impacted
tooth over the sight of an expired emissions sticker.
"You are a traitor, Sir, and I will bring you down,"
said Agent Doggett, looking buff in his Casual Day barbed-wire
boxers.
"Mm," said Kersh with astringent dismissal, indifferently
fiddling with the broken tv remote. The batteries must be dead,
he thought, as Skinner's annoying screams of agony echoed down
the hallway. Despite Doggett's threats, Kersh had learned to play
him like a flute.
There were always urgent cases with frightening implications upon
which to send him. No one had yet determined why the entire fleet
of FBI Tauruses vanished at high noon and turned up at a chop
shop in Zachetecas, or how a drooling troop of touring anacephalic
Girl Scouts made off with the agency's entire inventory of laptops,
or when secret nuclear codes were sent to Venezuela wrapped in
Egg McMuffins, or who the new Director might be on any given day,
and Doggett would chase those checkered flags until his bladder
gave way.
There was always danger underneath Agent Reyes' grinning charm,
Kersh thought, though she had looked quite fetching today in her
new k. d. lang hair-bob, plus, she was inordinately happy at being
bequeathed Smoking Man's stash. Kersh had learned, however, to
distrust good humor, ever since his jolly mom had entered him
in the Goodwill Games on the year they took place at The Walton's
house, dropping him off at the curb without even the benefit of
bolt cutters.
But, what had passed was past, and things were looking up. His
only fear was that the fuming rotter's corpse of Krychek had gone
missing.........
........to be continued.