Showdown, Part 6 - "Krycek's Narrow
Escape" or "The Thong of Power".
by Robin
<Those crazy sluts! They might have
killed me!> Krycek thought, mopping the apparently endless
cascade of perspiration that oozed from his face like so much
liquefied lard from a piece of Colonel Cluck's fried chicken.
Of course, he couldn't mop his face with his left hand, because...well...he
didn't have one. This left him in the rather unusual position
of having to steer with his knees while he mopped with his right
hand. At first, mastering the technique had been a little awkward
but as time passed, Krycek found that her rather *liked* it and,
if he was careful to wear his most strategically worn pair of
black denims, it helped him score with meter maids and drag queens
throughout the greater D.C. area. In fact it was while cruising
in this manner that he met, Renata, that juicy piece of overripe
tomato and swept her off her size eight red patent leather stilettos.
But this was no time to be reminiscing. He had a furious AD Skinner
on his tail and a hot red thong in his possession. What to do?
What to do?
His rodent instinct told him that carrying the bugle beaded trophy
around was tantamount to asking for a beating from any female
who got a whiff of Skinner's potent pheromones which were even
now impregnating the air in Mulder's car, judging from the number
of female joggers that suddenly, and for no apparent reason, switched
direction and began to follow in his wake. In awe, he inspected
the thong and found that there was writing stitched in the silk
lining. And it was in Russian!
"Lovingly sewn for my darling Stud Muffin, Walter Sergei,
from his Little Blini..." followed by the seamstress' name.
Krycek's eyes widened in shock as he recognized *who* it was that
had created this crimson jewel box. *Who* it was that knew Skinner
so well that she had made a thong that fit him to a tee...or a
vee, depending on how you look at things. This was indeed a gold
mine. And a way, perhaps, to get the Big Guy off his back once
and for all!
Rummaging around in Mulder's glove box, Krycek found an unused
ziploc evidence bag and sealed the manly yet somehow dainty garment
safely inside and locked the baggie and it's volatile contents
in the secret compartment he had custom built into his prosthesis
which also held a twenty dollar bill, a spare toothbrush, and
a pack of Certs.
Krycek then drove himself to a little out of the way Russian restaurant
and bar that was a haven to a regular group of Russian defectors
who gathered together for the pleasure of drinking themselves
into comas or the frigid depths of depression while keeping their
Russian language skills in tip-top shape. The manager knew him
and would let him sit, drink vodka, and sweat in peace as long
as he wiped the oil stains off the furniture and locked up when
he left. He rapped on the back door and gave the secret password
- "Gingrich is a nancy-boy" - and was admitted to that
dark and smoke filled den of lost souls.
"Alexei!" The group greeted him with a collective shout.
As always, Krycek was touched by the simple fact that here, everybody
knew his name. And he was always glad he came.
"Your usual stool, Alex?" the bartender asked.
"A little loose but thanks for asking." He basked in
the laughter at his little bon mot, taking the proffered glass
of glacially cold vodka with a beet garnish and heading for the
darkest corner in the joint, looking for the one person who could
give him the answers he sought. Yes, his contact was at the table,
as usual, slamming down glass after glass of Stoli and, yes, ...
chain smoking!
Krycek slid into a chair losing only a couple of "cool"
points when he nearly slid all the way off and had to fling his
drink away and grab the table to steady himself. Collecting his
only slightly ruffled composure - after all, this kind of thing
happened to him a lot! - he spoke without preamble.
"What do you know about a red thong?"
His informant studied him silently for a moment and then suddenly,
taken by a spasm of smoker's cough, hacked bits of phlegm and
what looked like rotting lung tissue across the table at him.
Krycek sighed. Another leather jacket to the cleaner's. This was
getting expensive. Finally the coughing wound down.
"Would this be the red thong adorned with a Chinese dragon,
rampant, perched in a nest in a towering tree at the summit of
a vast mountain below which lies a chasm with a raging river and
over which hovers the constellation of ...?"
"Yeah, yeah, that's the one."
"The thong of power!" There was no mistaking the awe
in the speaker's raspy voice. Krycek permitted himself a small
frisson of excitement. But only a small one as the oily seat of
his pants was having enough trouble retaining it's precarious
purchase on the chair underneath him.
"And the woman that made it? Is it who I think it is?"
The figure in the gloom nodded slowly.
"And she would pay any price to have that thong back. Imagine
the scandal if it were to leak out that she...she and Walter..."
The voice faltered. Krycek waited patiently as another cigarette
was skillfully extracted from the pack on the table. He listened
to the sound of the match scraping on the box and then taking
flame. He watched as the once beautiful face of Sharon Skinner
leaned into the glow and sucked the hot air through the slim roll
of tobacco. Sharon wiped her nose on her sleeve and then looked
Krycek in the eye.
"Do you have it?"
"Who me? No! But I might know where it is. How to get it."
"Then you'd better watch your back. Walter is not a man to
tango with."
"You mean 'tangle'."
"No, I mean Tango. He kootch dances great but he just never
caught on to the Tango."
It was obvious to Krycek that the one woman who had known married
bliss with Skinner had lost her mind when she lost her man. He
reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and slid a greasy
Susan B. Anthony dollar across the table, leaving it in front
of her. She stared at it and then pounced like a duck on a June
bug, snatching the coin and dropping it down her sagging cleavage.
He pretended not to hear when it hit the floor.
"Thanks, Krycek," she said breastlessly, watching him
stand in preparation to leave. "Maybe you and I could get
together some time and have a little fun, huh?"
"Sure, Doll. We'll do that sometime." He decided to
take pity on the broad and leaning down, gave her a long, poignant,
soul kiss during which she fell sound asleep and slipped out of
his grasp disappearing into the swamp of ashes and spilled vodka
underneath the table.
It was a much happier Alex Krycek who left the bar. There was
a spring in his step. A song on his lips. A dead fly in his hair
but he didn't notice it. He climbed in Mulder's car and drove
away, intending to find a safe place to put his treasure until
he could make contact with...Her. He decided to take a last good
look at the thong and opened the secret compartment in this left
arm with his teeth and pulled the thong out with his right hand,
all while steering with his knees - which may account for his
popularity with certain segments of the population. You know who
you are.
Stopping at an intersection he held the thong under the light
of a street lamp to make his inspection.
Without warning a fist smashed the driver's window and clasped
his arm in a death grip. In terror, Krycek turned to face the
inferno that was the flinty gaze of his nemesis, AD Skinner, whose
flared nostrils were snorting super-heated steam. The cacophony
of Skinner's grinding teeth nearly deafened Krycek, who did not
notice, let alone care, that the crotch of his pants was now quite
warm and wet. Krycek knew without a doubt that in a moment he
would be mewling and puking like a baby but he couldn't decide
whether he should mewl first or lead off with the puking. Then
it happened. Skinner's fist clenched and shattered Krycek's prosthetic
arm like the dreams of all those housewives that spent the rent
money at Chippendales's watching him dance. Yes, indeed, Ladies
and Gentlemen. Skinner had grabbed the wrong arm!
Krycek was a survivor by nature and he wasted no time in taking
advantage of his good fortune. He flipped the quick release lever
on his prosthetic harness and slithered across the car seat and
out the passenger door, pausing only to grab the baggie with the
thong inside and cram it down the front of his now cold and wet
pants.
"Skinner photos here!" Krycek screamed with all his
might. "Get your signed *naked* Skinner photos here!!!"
It was a mark of just how frightened Krycek was that he was willing
to violate city, state and federal ordinances against yelling
"Skinner" in a public place. But the only thing he cared
about was survival. And the tactic worked. Before the echoes of
his cries had bounced back from the walls of the surrounding buildings,
he could hear the rumble of a tidal wave of women washing toward
them. He knew that Skinner would have to run for it.
"You *will* pay for this, Ratboy..." Skinner hissed
in seething anger even as he looked for a way out that would put
none ofthe adoring multitude in harm's way.
"Maybe," Krycek called over his shoulder as he made
his escape.
"But not today..."
It was only when he was blocks away that Krycek slowed down and
caught his breath. Skinner's words echoed repeatedly in his mind...You
Will Pay For This Ratboy! "Geez, I'm 35 years old. Can't
they start calling me Rat*man*?"
Well, that was no matter. He had work to do. He had to find a
safe drop for the thong, get to Renata's and pick up his spare
arm, and then...
Then, he had to go find...Her...
To be continued...