'Showdown', Part 5: The Night Has a Thousand
Thighs
by Jean
Curse that floozie Renata! What he had
presumed to be her throes of wanton passion while perched on a
blaring neon jukebox, her whoops loud enough to drown out Hank
Williams yapping about undying devotion to all his rowdy friends,
were in actuality a cunning diversion while she copped his glasses
and probably hid them in her generous cleavage,large enough to
house a family of four. The AD was used to women's incendiary
lust in his presence, but to use this natural response in the
service of deception grieved him sorely and led him to question
his prodigious love-skills for perhaps an entire nanosecond, but
he once again resumed his normal state, engorged with anger and
hardened with vexation at the world's injustices.
One of which was standing before him at this very moment. The
frightening prospect of having his panties treated with disrespect
was bad enough, but to see them shredded and profaned by filth
drove him to instantaneous rage and led to his discharging his
weapon wildly at the pathetic, and wholly innocent, agent Fox
Mulder, obviously a mere victim of circumstance and lack of foresight,
as devious cognition was beyond him, and who would rather swallow
an inner tube dipped in flotsam than offend his boss and therefore
endanger his opportunities of serendipitously basking in Skinner's
heroic aura, which was the only thing he could use to impress
Scully these days.
This led to the AD's having mixed feelings regarding the loss
of his glasses, because the inconvenient myopia resulted in Mulder
being merely winged and knee-capped rather than torn to pieces
like a kielbasa at a veliceraptor reunion, somewhat of a mixed
blessing but one he could live with. Skinner holstered his weapon
and, with a deep annoyed sigh, attempted to consol the pouting
Mulder, who now looked like Toom's Lunchable, with the pleasant
information that he could take the weekend off.
But before the AD could soothe his confused agent, familiar, if
ghastly, sounds attracted his attention. Slowly he turned his
head, and in horror, realized that the darkened clump in front
of his condo lobby was not, as he'd assumed, a seething mass of
harmless boozy transients that the AD found convenient for keeping
his pistol-whipping skills at their peak. Instead, it was another
savage clot of frenzied women in an estrogen-glutted hysteria,
a state he had no problem whatsoever in recognizing as this was
his normal experience with females who came within the influence
of his testosterone saturated essence, once calculated as having
a radius that reached the galactic rim.
Normally Skinner was fully capable of thrashing his way through
such bestial hordes, but at this moment he was woefully vulnerable
due to Mulder's depending on him for sentient response and lightening
quick reflexes, expertise unknown to Mulder even in the best of
times. Quickly the AD determined that an unusual shift of tactics
would work best, not in a cowardly manner of course, an affliction
incomprehensible to him, but due to the exigency of the moment.
Instead of confrontation, he constructed a flawless ruse to save
his feeble and goggling subordinate - he would run. With determined
and feline grace, Skinner solidly, and limned with daring, dived
through the open window of his car and pulled a banked peel-out
from the curb at 80mph.
At that very instant, one of the carnally besotted females, senses
honed to razor-like acuteness, caught the waft of Skinner's effluvience,
and turned a pin-point gaze in the direction of the escaping vehicle
with an anticipatory shriek of victory, galvanizing her cohorts
to reel as one and, with predatory coordination borne of long
practice, they hunched in satiated glee at finding the target
of their deepest and most secret dreams. Even as the AD burned
rubber across the city limits, his worshippers managed to gain
on him and, with an orgasmic yodel, hurled themselves at his car,
jerkily clinging with remora-like tenacity heretofore unobserved
in the human species.
Meanwhile back at the condo, what was left of Mulder finally stirred,
and in the gloom and sudden quiet of the night, proceeded in the
attempt to thumb a ride home, convinced that he had finally been
abducted and framed a case file in his addled mind that was sure
to impress the AD and bring down civilization as we know it, perhaps
inspiring Scully's surprise and admiration, which would lead to
her finally allowing him to selflessly adore her without having
his effusive pleas met with eye-rolling disbelief and the high-fives
of other agents as Scully would immediately declare a sudden appointment
with the Pretty-in-Pink Assassination Training Unit, leaving Mulder
standing helpless and cluelessly rooted as he was at this very
moment.
Walter Skinner, narrowly escaped the hags after chewing his way
through a security gate, was suddenly and disappointingly filled
with alarm when previously unconsidered observations forced their
way into his piercing consciousness. What was it that had so consumed
those lust-raptured women back at the condo? He replayed the scene
in his mind, and instantly focused on the object of their mania.
What appeared to be, in his memory, a set of deep blue shimmering
mainsails was in fact (gasp) his bed sheets!!
How could this be possible? All of his monogrammed and studly
embroidered bedclothes had fiber optic silent alarms woven into
the seams to prevent this sort of theft, yet there they were,
being pawed over in public view like a newly groomed Pomeranian
puppy insistently cuddled into submissive urination. Who possessed
the twisted covetedness and knowledge to pilfer such valuables
with obvious atavistic iniquity? Slowly, like fermenting offal,
the name of the perp revealed itself to Skinner in all its loathsome
brigandry.
Krychek! That nemesis of tranquility and virtue! The very thought
of that slimy renegade caused the AD to clench his jaws and fists
in unholy fury, and he sardonically envisioned slowly squeezing
the human rat in his righteous grasp, rendering enough oil to
deep-fry a giraffe. Once the rage has passed, and Skinner reasserted
calm and honorable discipline over himself, he felt merely unclean,
and longed for a nice hot shower, lingering under steamy sprays
of pure moisture, and perhaps wondering if Renata would really
slather herself with guacamole and let him tie her up in various
positions as she'd promised.
But no, it was all lies. Life was full of lies, and every uttered
word was no more than the Publisher's Clearinghouse of Bunkum,
the Sally Struther's School of Fibs, the Cosmic Doorstop of Falsity.
Skinner knew that only he and a few others could stop this relentless
encroachment, and he vowed to hasten, in determination, with offing
the night creature Krychek who haunted his dreams with Crisco-like
threats and puckered lips.
The leather clad grease-tank must be brought to justice, even
if it endangered his heretofore spotless career and landed him
in the basement with an office next to Mulder's where he might
be forced to eternally slog waist deep through sunflower seeds
and have pencils puncture his virile dome like leaden rain, and
be forced to watch porn tapes instead of performing in them, which
supplemented his income nicely and paid for those custom thongs
with Expando-pouch that had to be imported from the pouch capital
of the world, Australia, as no tailor could be convinced that
any man could actually fill such a huge undie until Skinner sent
them polaroids, leading to massive depression in the men's fashion
industry and the establishment of a new religion amongst seamstresses
everywhere.
Just as Skinner made his way to an empty street corner, hoping
to hail a cab, he was awakened from his reverie bythe fleeting
glimpse of a crimson bugle-beaded dragon-embroidered thong that
slowly cruised into his line of sight on the front seat of a vaguely
familiar vehicle which stopped at the intersection in front of
him. The rancid, pasty, perspiring face of the driver seated behind
the wheel caught his attention like a bowling ball to the crotch,
and recognition dawned.....
To be continued....