'Showdown', Part 9: Into the Arc of Darkness
by Jean

Walter Skinner had learned very early in life how to defuse potentially explosive evocative episodes that could result in unfortunate destruction to life, property, and infrastructure, cracking bedrock and releasing long simmering magma that could wipe out whole generations of lawyers, though it is unlikely that anyone would object.
Such was the AD's notorious temper, and those in the past who had been on the receiving end had quickly learned to book flights for Mongolia, change their name, undergo extensive plastic surgery, and embark on careers such as alligator wrestlers in order to settle their nerves. Skinner had taken to heart lessons lovingly taught by a stalwart, if somewhat worn and resigned father who gave him excellent advice on survival and adaption of his own lethal abilities, thereby deterring potential enmity and a long stretch in the slammer for felonious ire.
Basically, the father, long-married to a defected and former East German Olympic javelin thrower and sire of Skinner's fourteen older sisters, had suggested that he curry favor with potential allies throughout his life by figuring out exactly what it was that women wanted, and giving it to them. This advice had saved Skinner's flawless hide many times, as anyone who cast aspersions on his valiant person, physical or otherwise, would be slowly ripped to pieces by any female witness to the insult, the remaining parts nailed to billboards as an effective warning to those of less potent stature, which included every male back to Genesis Yes, Dad had been very wise, and Skinner would often recall the image of this revered sage, now pale, tired, down to 100 pounds, and refusing to venture forth from the basement.
But the legendary temper remained nonetheless, and Skinner parsed it out on a need-to-slash-and-burn basis, usually reserving the more benign explosions for clueless subordinates who neglected to make his weekly public and professional body-oiling appointment on the stage at Monticello, but wasted on such a one as Mulder who would merely run, lips trembling, into the men's room until Skinner sent Scully to get him and slap his puffy red face back to reality, which no longer held much charm for her regressing partner who, since his office was torched, had taken up investigating the creation of a possible monopoly in Beanie Baby distributorships.
The AD's truly annihilating rage, which explained why whole columns of EMTs and FEMA buses followed him around on a regular basis, was miraculously held in check and reserved for threats of world shattering importance such as the looming cancellation of beloved if dismally rated Sunday evening programs on FOX, resulting in his levelling whole mountain ranges and the creation of inland seas, to the eternal gratitude of water skiers and trailer-park developers everywhere.
Such a moment had arrived as Skinner gazed forward into the snake-like eyes of the enemy, and fury bloomed in teeth-grinding enmity, the dissonance of which threw the chopper's engine into momentary auto-rotation and the precipitous drop in altitude, hurling the loathsome pilot upward into the anterior bulkhead and perforating the titanium shielding, but having little effect on the villain aviator other than brief embarrassment as he was protected by his LL Bean peaked and double-stitched acrylic camouflage hunter's cap with ptarmigan feather head-band and goose-down insulated ear-flaps. Yes, it was Cancer Man.
The last time these two men had confronted each other, CM impressively filled his shorts to overflowing, and sincethen had continued to replenish his Eddie Bauer mallard-embroidered carbon-fiber extra-large duck waders every time he even *thought* of the AD, leading to chronic dehydration and acute inflammation of hemorrhoids the size of mini-vans. And now, through the pale gangrenous light and thick haze of second-hand smoke, the AD concentrated his wrath with all his being, creating his own gravitational field that would bend light, and slowly but majestically made his way forward to the cockpit, preparing to squeeze the last remaining drop of blood from CM's scrawny frame like pythons on possum.
The object of his anticipated vengeance who, with well-tended pretence, covered his cowardice and fear adequately by stuffing his slack-lipped gob with a whole carton of lit Morleys, and began gesturing desperately at the chopper glove box which contained a recently laundered and deodorized Mulder gagged and trussed up like a Christmas turkey and held hostage to Skinner's guarantee of remaining cool-headed and restrained.
In horror, Skinner could discern the ten pounds of plastic explosives stuffed up into Mulder's sinuses, embedded with a ticking egg-timer cruelly counting down to zero. It was a stand-off and, though the AD's killer instincts remained activated and alert, he forged a quiescent exterior that eased the nerves of this polluting nemesis long enough for him to slowly settle into the passenger seat, thankfully upholstered in ecru vat-tanned chamois rather than the tartan-plaid nubby Berber as was his government issue vehicle that always left itching stains on his flexing iron glutes when he drove to the bridal showers of female agents who wanted one last loving look at what they were giving up.
Cancer Man wasted no time in ingratiating himself with this formidable enemy as was his wont when presented with such superior and perpetually regnant loins and fire-power such as the AD was famous for, giving him the option of sniveling like vermin or running like an ex-lax stoked chicken into the tall grass. With tremulous grinning though obvious insincere beneficence, CM offered Skinner his choice of clothing, as the AD's nakedness was attracting dozens of 747s hijacked by women passengers who threatened the pilots with airline food that also served as flotation devices, leading to the emotional breakdowns of air-traffic controllers and missed connecting flights along half the eastern seaboard. To avert havoc, Skinner yielded, but reluctantly, and clothed his granite thighs with hunter's orange reflective poplin chaps topped with a rubbed leather and brass studded slit-vented shotgun tournament vest, both of which seemed wholly appropriate. From CM's stack of limited edition sportsmen's outerwear, Skinner also chose a pair of cleated ice-rappelling brushed fleece-lined knee boots autographed by sherpas, and then settled back in distasteful expectation, awaiting CM's unctuous explanation and tittering demonic proposals, for which he was famous after spending way too much time reading publisher's rejection slips and rifle-scope instruction manuals in the original Cantonese.
Skinner was prepared to perpetuate a ruse, dishonorably of course, but justified in order to save the blubbering and thrashing Mulder who was beginning to hyperventilate from the dry heaves and turn an alarming shade of plum, in order to get the upper hand and send this immortal patch of ice on the highway of virtue plunging to perdition, screeching like telemarketers during a brown-out, saving his captive and terrorized agent, though for the life of him he couldn't imagine why, and thereby making the world safer, earning yet another ticker-tape parade through the sperm banks of Malibu, and allowing every stockholder in Viagra to purchase a second Beemer.
But until then, Skinner was forced to await whatever heinous exchange this debauched reptile decided to proffer, like an oozing slug trying to move up the food chain. The chopper's whirling blades and CM's continuously purging bowels produced enough of a cacophony to drown out a pre-pubescent rock group, to say nothing of normal conversation, yet CM managed to make his thoughts known to Skinner by semataphore, morse code, and charades, not an easy task in such a small space.
Skinner was willing to condescend to this display of vestigial gymnastics long enough to determine that his adversary was proposing to transport him to the Consortium, the global citadel of temporal power, the repository of world domination, the lair of terrestrial juicers, in order to facilitate some sort of truce, and the conservation of investigative resources that could be put to better use elsewhere, such as the vast middle-wing conspiracy by up-scale bookish espresso shops to take over the planet's economy and have everyone from Bangkok to Des Moines on their knees begging for caffeine hits. Yes, the AD was being taken to Zurich.
And this suited Skinner quite nicely, for now he could gaze into the face of those true monsters that had haunted his dreams, threatened his subordinates, forced him to scrub out public restrooms and slither cravenly down elevator shafts, his only reward being vague promises of future largesse, one night stands with shape-shifting crones whose heads spun on ball-bearings, but also put his ex-wife into a dormant coma (or so he thought), so maybe they weren't *all* bad. Once in their presence, the thought of personal danger to himself being as unlikely as Frohicke bedding Princess Anne, he would be handed the opportunity to vanquish them utterly and eternally, leaving them groveling for mercy that would never come, and leading to postal workers everywhere swabbing out their own freakin' cans.
As an extra incentive, there was the bonus of rendering the vile Krychek without guidance, bereft of patronage, and reduced to free-lance puckering for any noxious lowlife who would pay for his lube jobs and send him to giddily puppy-smack dignified paragons in stairwells if he were backed up by platoons of off-duty wrestling championship bouncers. Skinner grinned sardonically at this vision, and signaled his acceptance of CM's suggestion by deigning to nod while simultaneously ripping the detonator from Mulder's schnozz and tossing him out the chopper window, consigning the hogtied agent to bobbing about in the Atlantic until spotted and towed homeward by a Girl Scout regatta.
At this acknowledgment, CM grinned like a satiated shark and set course for the Matterhorn through a fog bank thick as lint soup, vamping his total lack of aeronautical skills by detouring through Zimbabwe, Tranquility Base, the English Chunnel, decimating whole species of migratory birds in the wind shear.
The destination was reached at dawn, and as the AD exited the chopper, pulsating blades of warmsunlight flickered rapturously along his massive dimensions chiseled in flawless flesh, a majestic figure cast in seamless bronze yet his silken fervor glowing from within, putting all celestial luminaries to shame, and his measured stride, designed to both awe and allow clinical appraisal of the situation, resembling that of a lustrous god arrived for veneration and tribute.
As CM busily fought his way out of the protective rubber lined lead-shielded high-country pup-tent, flopping around on the tarmac and issuing whole clouds of tobacco smudge, bringing him to majestic peaks of rage as he pondered the accumulation of ills thrust upon him by an AD who could bend quaking throngs to his will with a mere jaw-clench, though only a few hours previously he'd been clocked by NORAD as a UFO. Skinner stoically entered the rough-hewn cupolaed and cheese bedecked chalet at the end of the runway, the presumed repository of evil, of restless and insidious enemies to both his person and the world of law abiding libidinous recreation and mock spankings leavened by pectoral modesty to which he was dedicated. His reputation for rising to enormous magnitudes when steeped in adversity had preceded him, as the inhabitants of this den
of iniquitous tyranny had moved way back against the walls and they greeted him in funereal anxiety, perennial unhappiness, and with floods of drool echoing like ham chunks plopped down a poodle, due to their extreme age that would cumulatively span geological era. Yes, these ruling powers were decrepit, infirm, grizzled, staggering, muddled, but cunning, as if receiving hourly sentience injections along with their sheep-and-goat-gland facials, and Skinner perused this line-up of sedentary geriatrics.
At last one coherent old coot, obviously possessed of a few remaining functioning neurons, gumming tapioca in beige-haired desperation while toppling into a potted fiscus, managed to exclaim in querulous tones interspersed with twitches and spastic 'seig heils', the objective of this impromptu but fortuitous meeting, and their reasons for seeking the AD's aid to achieve climactic and unassailable world domination. Skinner listened in restive silence, growing more chilled and repulsed at their sinister, but admittedly ingenious scheme, at the same time becoming increasingly wroth and turgid by the moment, causing the vegetative geezers to break down in nostalgic sobs, and was presented with their offer which went thusly: They needed the Thong of Power. With this Thong, so lovingly stitched and fitted, specially designed to highlight and embrace every magnificent and peerless protuberance and crevice, which would instantly and effectively bring half the global population's (female) elated allegiance, causing the other half (male) to submit and comply with any proclamations these prehistoric terrorists could contrive just to get a little action. In return for his agreement, Skinner would receive massive amounts of funds, a continuous supply of raw meat, a perpetual electric-clipper endorsement contract, as every frenzied and rejected male beyond puberty would be shaving his scalp down to the dura.
Skinner was sickened and felt debased at the presumption of this fulminating corrupted crowd, as he was perfectly capable of attaining every one of these boons on his own and before breakfast, and he wondered at their stunted imagination and diminutive aspirations, the blatant impropriety of which goaded him into visions of destruction.
The part about decimating the competition appealed to him, and his
vise-like fists opened and closed in anticipation of shredding these fiends like a document listing undeclared income, expunging them from the face of the earth, and relieving himself of mounting expenditures for desk-drawer locks.
But before he could bring his supple and mighty form to the zenith of performance, an approaching thunderous roar interspersed with automatic weapons' fire swept everyone off-guard in bemused distress and brought a halt to all thoughts of vengeance and snoring snorts from assorted coots, as the chalet's stained-glass floor-to-ceiling window portrait of Caligula burst inward with a shattering barrage of flaring shards, showering upon the assembled company now frozen like a tableau of spuds, and followed by a ski masked armed assassin who exploded into the room, peppering the air with hot lead and picking off every geezer not already dropped by an infarction, flinging himself in front of the AD as protection and yelling for him to escape in a rasping urgent voice which Skinner immediately recognized.
It was his old friend and investment partner Bruce, the CEO and Operating Manager of Chippendale's where the AD danced nightly to 'Bolero' amidst hushed longing and who brought in enough cash to retire the National debt, and whose profits would vaporize like yoghurt through jet engines if Skinner were to go AWOL for even an instant.
It was wholly against his nature to run from a fight, but Skinner sensed that no headway could be made against the demonic forces arrayed and imbedded so deeply in the well-manured soil of intrigue, and he made ready to exit along with his pink spandex and kevlar jumpsuited liberator who was busily dispensing half-price coupons, but before they could hoof it, a shadowy figure suddenly hurled itself at the entrepreneur like simmering bankruptcy and proceeded to throttle his gullet with teflon-varnished high-test filament fishing line until the poor sap's eyes popped like toaster strudel. He then turned on Skinner, aiming at the AD's heart with a triple-laminated compound bow and big game grapple, a maniacal and gratified glint in his nicotine stained corneas, and Skinner knew that no mercy nor patient negotiation would come from that quarter. The apparent end caused his life to suddenly flash before his eyes, a high-definition love-garden of delights sprocketing through his brain the likes of which CM and Pee Wee Herman could only hopelessly yearn for with passionate fulfillment denied.
After an hour or so, when the last of his conquests had re-run itself (something about a munitions' heiress, maple syrup, and a hedgehog), the cogitating AD went from perpetual coupling to regret and then to rage at all the fulsome women that would forever be deprived of his extended charms, and the harsh injustice of this crime against nature accounted for his throwing discretion to the winds and vowing to snuff CSM like a Morley butt and rid the world of concentrated carcinogens forever, even though he himself might expire in the process, not doubt valiantly and with a retrospective on A&E in the obligatory wide-screen format.
With frightening and contemptuous zeal, Skinner slowly raised his arm in preparation for crushing his enemy into smoking cube steak, but before he could strike, his attention was deflected by something he held,
splintered and twisted, in his right hand. Krychek's prosthesis! He'd maintained a killer's death-grip on this sinister trophy for the entire evening and now by wondrous accident, he spied the secret compartment with its hidden treasure. A barrel of crude! Obviously Krychek would need sustenance if he were ever a quart low, and this cache would serve the AD's purposes nicely.
Before CM could register this sudden reversal on his retina, Skinner wrapped the barrel in his bulging sinew-ridged arms and squeezed for all his was worth. Like a giant pimple of Valvoline, superheated oil exploded under the pressure, the cascade hitting CM square in the jewels and driving him, jack-knifed and forever bow-legged, clear to Brussels and beyond. Skinner, now in his element, executed a heroic (natch) rescue of Bruce and himself by jumping into the Berne and piloting his way through the labyrinthine rivers, canals, streams, irrigation ditches, water mains, utility tunnels and sewers of Western Europe until he finally found an outlet to the sea without even stopping for lunch or the group tour, and the still-goggling Bruce around his tanned marble sculpted neck.
He proceeded to swim the Atlantic freestyle, while his tireless thighs and hips stroked in rhythmic abandon and let us all pause a
moment in order to contemplate *that* vision.
In spite of the third degree sunburn he was taking on the dome, Skinner spent this voyage thinking of nothing but that weasel Krychek, and the havoc he would no doubt create amongst the human population with the Thong of Power at his disposal. The resulting chaos was too dire for contemplation and Skinner resolved to waste no time in finding this buttery rodent, neutralizing him and, once regaining his priceless undie, hiding it safely where the temptation could no longer threaten world peace or his scheduled appearances at Victoria's Secret grand openings.
By suppertime Skinner and his soggy cargo had made port, where he rose from the waters like a vengeful Neptune, tumescent with venom, and immediately sensed the oily and reeking effluvia permeating the air. Krychek was here! Quickly dismissing the disoriented Bruce who was wondering if he shouldn't start scheduling matinee performances, Skinner disdainfully pulled the sturgeon from his ears and began scouring the waterfront.

To be continued.....

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