"Showdown" Pt. 4 - 'This Oil's
Slick'
by Robin
Krycek pushed the accelerator pedal of
the stolen car to the floor and drove slowly, almost dreamily
through the streets toward Skinner's apartment building. It would
have been a delicious experience except for the nagging feeling
that there was something ... amiss. Shifting nervously in the
driver's seat, the darkly handsome yet thoroughly oily and sweaty
young man felt and heard an ominous crunch beneath him, as though
the seat of his darkly handsome and yet fungi-ridden black jeans
had simultaneously crushed a couple of hundred locusts. Looking
down he was astonished to discover that the seat he was sitting
on - in fact every interior surface of the car - was covered with
mounds of spent sunflower seed shells!
"What the...?" Krycek said. And then, disturbed by his
own lack of erudition he said it again in Russian, deciding it
sounded much more classy that way. Pulling over to the curb he
made a cursory and disgusted inspection of the car's interior.
Half-buried in the mounds of shells in the back seat he found
a half-dozen newly-purchased porn tapes, six copies of the Lone
Gunman newspaper, several "eyes only" FBI file folders
and a pair of women's panties with the initials "D.K.S."
sewn on the label. He sighed in resignation. Obviously he'd stolen
the wrong damned car...
"Oh well. Wheels is wheels," he said to himself. He
frowned thinking that over. He tried it again in Russian. Yep.
Much better.
He resumed his driving arriving at Skinner's apartment building.
Unfolding himself from the driver's seat, which took some time
as he had to reach across himself to open the door with his right
hand and got the sleeve of his leather jacket entangled in the
automatic seat belt, Krycek paused a moment thinking he heard
something. Something like whispering. But all was silence so he
sauntered insolently into the building in the manner of a pool
boy at a Florida retirement resort for the rich and near-sighted.
He had no trouble with the security codes - "babe candy"
for the door and "love muscle" to circumvent the alarm.
He stepped into Skinner's apartment and found himself reeling
at the heady scent of testosterone mixed with laundry starch and
Brut cologne. Why just being in Skinner's apartment made Krycek
feel more manly himself! And it was only that feeling that kept
him from breaking down and weeping uncontrollably when he slithered
into the bedroom and discovered that the laundry hamper was empty.
Reflexively he reached over to pound a fist on the wall, stopped
himself just in time, turned and used his right hand instead of
the left. Rats *can* be trained...
With a sigh he sat on the unmade bed and tried to think. And then
he realized he was sitting on a fortune! The sheets! The AD had
obviously slept in them the night before, having God-knows-what
kind of hormone-induced dreams! Yes. The sheets would do nicely.
Gleefully Krycek stripped them from the bed, stopping only to
do a quick happy cha-cha when he found a pair of BVDs tangled
in the folds of 64-count cotton. Warbling a sincere if rather
off-key stanza of Volga Boatmen, Krycek dropped to his knees,
imprinting the plush yet manly carpeting with twin oil stains,
to take a quick glance under the bed. Lady Luck gave him a big,
sloppy wet one right on the mouth. A muted gleam revealed an overlooked
thong adorned with the figure of a dragon, lovingly stitched in
bugle beads. Krycek's perspiring yet angelic visage split in a
triumphant grin. He was going to be a very rich man!
Bundling his ill-gotten gains under his (left) arm he sauntered
back out of the apartment after resetting the alarm using the
"steel buns" password. As he approached the car, he
again thought he heard whispering and had the uncanny feeling
he was being watched. Turning quickly, Krycek found he was facing
a small but ferocious looking band of women. Dressed in an eclectic
mixture of torn leather and lingerie with handcuffs dangling from
their spike-encrusted belts, they were all armed with baseball
bats. They were looking him over like he was the prize bird at
a turkey shoot. One stepped forward.
"You the new laundry boy?" she asked pointedly patting
the palm of one hand with the tip of her Louisville slugger. Krycek
began to sweat like a maiden aunt at a male strip show.
"Uh...yeah. That's right." He nodded rapidly, wishing
he'd thought to answer in Russian. The woman turned her head slightly
to address one of her comrades.
"What do you think, Maria?" In response another woman
stepped forward, licking her lips and smiling coldly.
"I think he's cute, Kelly. But a liar. And a bad one at that."
"Erin? What do you think?" Maria asked without taking
her eyes off him. Another woman pushed through the group.
"Oooh. Pretty! ...Can I keep him?"
"Maybe. What do you say, Jean?" A fourth woman, the
scariest of all, stepped forward and shoved her face into his.
Krycek backed up slowly, leaving a silvery slime trail along the
body of the car.
"Just how stupid can you be, towel boy? The laundry boy left
here an hour ago. We'd have caught him this time but he used some
sort of pressurized strawberry/mango/tofu sprout shake to drive
us back."
"Yeah, well...he forgot these things so Skinner fired him
and..."
"Nice try, greaseboy. But you're a liar. And we don't like
men who lie... ."
"I know karate!!" Krycek squeaked, now trembling visibly.
"And probably a couple of other Korean words as well,"
Jean sneered. "But they won't save you now... ."
The pack began to close in. There was only one thing he could
do to save himself. With a wild cry (in Russian) Krycek hurled
the bundle of sheets and the BVDs as far from himself as possible.
The trailing scent of musk and dream sweat drew the women like
cats to a fish fry. They turned as one, throwing themselves on
the linens, scratching and spitting, moaning and clawing...
In the confusion, Krycek slid into the car and spent the next
five minutes gratefully accelerating to the corner. He was glad
to be alive. He was distraught at the loss of the laundry. With
his fourth or fifth heartfelt sigh of the day, Krycek wiped at
his forehead with the left sleeve of his jacket. It was then he
discovered that the beaded thong had caught on the middle finger
of his prosthetic hand! He crowed with delight. He did it again
in Russian.
Life was good. He could sell the thong and be out of town before
Skinner found him. All he had to do was find the right buyer and
ditch Mulder's car somewhere...
To be continued...