'Showdown', Part 3: 'Nixed Blessings'
by Jean
Assistant Director Walter Skinner slowly
strolled out of the vermin infested bar, shaking himself mentally
as if to rid his memory of clinging defilement. Upon his promotion,
he had thought these experiences were at an end, due to his more
important status and the possession of numerous field agents he
could send at will into any hell-hole on earth. But, on occasion
a more personal touch was needed. He had discovered, over time,
that many subordinates could not resist the temptations thrown
at them from every side, sapping their strength and deflecting
them from righteous objectives.
Such a one was Krychek, that traitorous scum who had not only
threatened the lives of those in his care, but had an unsettling
habit of weeping in wretched envy whenever they happened to be
using the men's room at the same time. Of course, the AD was used
to this behavior, though not to Krychek's disturbing habit of
launching himself from darkened hallways in a full body tackle
at every female that came within ten feet of the AD, leading to
countless worker's comp claims, and a flinchy, teeth-chattering
stress level in the secretarial pool that had woefully diminished
his on-duty social life. He did not appreciate being placed in
the undignified position of acting as a mere babe-magnet for every
inadequate and humbled neurotic on the planet.
Speaking of which, he wondered if Mulder was done with his laundry
yet. His stock of sequined thongs was running low, and tomorrow
he had a command performance at the Daughters of the Revolution
Garden Club Cotillion, a fine group of ladies that, because of
his efforts alone, contributed massive amounts of money to the
Old and Disabled Agents Home, while his assistants would troll
the periphery getting the granddaughters' phone numbers. Mulder
was the one agent that Skinner trusted implicitly to care for
his flashy undies, even if Mulder did complain of the rash he
was getting from the dry-cleaning fluid and had to be gently reminded
every now and then to cut back on the starch.
These charitable deeds, however, were in contrast to his relentless
focus on destroying the slime-glutted turncoat Krychek, who must
be eliminated before the world could once again spin peacefully
on its axis. The barfly Renata had not been forthcoming with essential
information, though he did appreciate her assistance with his
tenth satisfying and tension-releasing event of the evening, even
though he had to keep a wary eye on her quivering spandex-encased
thighs which, it seemed, threatened to explode at any moment.
The only datum she would admit to, between squeals and honks like
a run-away fire truck, was that Krychek was just as intently looking
for *him*.
Good, he thought. That will cut back on investigative efforts
considerably. All he had to do was wait, if he chose to. As invitingly
as this prospect beckoned, he still was a man of inherent aggressive
thrusts, and to simmer in anticipation of mayhem, no matter how
appealing, was not an easy decision to make. He decided to think
about it as he drove home, making a mental note to stop by the
gym and bench press a few water buffalo, indulging the towel girl
with some deep leg squats, and who in gratitude would stock his
condo with vats of pressurized strawberry/mango/tofu/sprouts shakes,
which he'd found worked better than pepper spray in disbursing
unruly mobs at express check-out lanes.
Skinner took a deep breath, sucking in the gnat-laden air under
clear starry skies, and walked slowly and confidently to his government-issue
vehicle that swilled gas like a rocket booster and had all the
distinction of a waffle while going zero to sixty in the time
it took to build the pyramids, when he noticed that someone was
pilfering through his car trunk. This did not disturb him, as
many admirers would frequently skulk around, searching for gum
wrappers, dental floss, corn plasters, belly-button lint, and
any other souvenirs of his heroic existence.
From experience he knew that it was best to ignore them, as eye
contact and an indignant jaw-clench would just cause them to faint
in transported heaps, blocking traffic clear to Peoria. Instead,
he climbed casually into the car and triggered the spring-latch
that would instantaneously slam the trunk lid shut, discouraging
any further liberties against his person. Reversing the car away
from the curb, he felt a slight bump, but assured himself that
it was only another pile of refuse in this flea-bitten part of
town, except for it releasing the odd aroma of imitation leather.
Slowly accelerating, he heard what sounded like frantic, pounding
footsteps trying to keep up, but decided it was only his imagination,
as no resident of this decaying neighborhood could possibly manage
such a feat of energy. Off to his left was the interstate on-ramp,
but instead of taking the more direct route home, he preferred
instead a more leisurely, roundabout itinerary, giving him time
to think about and plan for the coming confrontation with the
ambulatory oil-slick that was Krychek.
He punched the speedometer up to 45 mph, and for the next hour
enjoyed his comfortable pace through pot-holed back alleys, toxic
waste storage ponds, cattle feedlots, a broken-glass recycling
center, Space Mountain at Disneyworld, and two of the Great Lakes,
all the while accompanied by what sounded like screeches of agony
and weepy little girlie screams, which he took merely to be a
malfunctioning muffler.
Once home, the AD stepped out of his car, foreseeing a relaxing
evening of quiet contemplation while watching his favorite shows,
'Beat the Felon', Elliot Ness, Hero Hunk', and infomercials on
'Interrogating at Home for Fun and Profit', while sipping a large
mug of bull-haunch pan-drippings laced with mead, when he noticed
from he corner of his eye, coming from the rear of his car, strange
jittering movements. Upon closer inspection, it appeared that
a human-sized chunk of ragged debris was caught in the trunk seam
by a filthy remnant of itself.
This glop of fulminating, pustular sludge, to Skinner's surprise,
began to slowly move, detach itself from an leg-sized lump still
caught in the trunk lid, and painfully sniveled before him, like
an unwavering and oracular ghost bearing woeful news, or a Jehovah's
Witness impassively immolated on the archetypical Front Porch
of Wrath. This humanoid nightmare looked hideous, smelled worse,
and to Skinner's horror, slowly began to move towards him in shuffling,
spasmodic steps, mewling like a puppy and blubbering something
about 'hugs' and 'gotta boo boo'.
In his long career, the AD had faced the worst that humanity and
the cosmos could throw at him, including a now-demoted data-entry
clerk who had stomped his forehead to slush, but never before
had he known such fear as now, when the dim streetlight cast a
sliver of illumination across the bottom half of this fetid specter,
and Skinner saw that, disbelievingly, it was holding a plastic
bag full of freshly laundered, but now shredded, special-order
BVDs! In wild-eyed terror at this certain omen, and bereft of
all cognizance, he drew his gun in one swift, experienced motion,
firing into the darkness at the apparition. Once! Twice! Three
times!
To be continued....