SKINNER'S BURDEN

It was a glorious summer morning, with a pink-edged sun peeking over the slumbering horizon in heat-bloated majesty, warming the world with luminous anticipation of life pulsating with creative purpose and swollen expectation of triumphant release from the mundane, though invigorating, night time repose filled with compelling dreams and possibilities to be made manifest by the rhythm of humming humanity, united in sublime perseverence, glowing optimal excitement, and worthy desire, all expressed with confident jocularity and run-on sentences.
AD Walter Skinner roused himself slowly as the golden fingers of sunlight leaked insistently through his bedroom window, the translucent pleated curtains shifting flakes of revealing radiance over his vigorously lambent form, stretched placidly and monumental on blue satin sheets, resembling a prodigious and unyielding, though approachable, plateau of incarnate, honied marble, surrounded by a murmuring and tender ocean of admiration, awe, and overwrought adjectives.
Slowly, Skinner realized that today was his day off, with no need to fortify himself against maniacal perps, lawless enormities, and weepy subordinates, a day to dislodge the heavy and sometimes shameful mantle of exigent responsibility that normally plagued his waking hours with trepidation and dread of faltering at the moment of necessary and lethal decision, costing both lives and reputations methodically burnished over time and assembled into a stawart unit of fortitude and security, garnished with honor and the endurance to crack heads, crush spines, perforate with lead, and stomp the remains to pulp.
Yes, today was a reprieve from all that, a whole day where any whim could be exercised without restraint or justification, no grinding appointments to be kept, authority imposed with overbearing posture and wicked glares, devoid of sympathy or allowance for excuses. On this beautiful day he could relax, enjoy the mellow passage of time with tranquility, allowing nothing and no one to intrude without permission. It was a morsel of control in his life, essential to his nature, in which he thoroughly revelled.
Time for a shower. Rising from the shimmering blue sheets like an ancient, revered, aquatic god, shaking off drowsiness as this god would fling salty oceanic drops from his massive form as a prelude to divine favor bestowed upon grateful multitudes, he planted his feet on the floor, and breathed deeply of the pellucid morning air, then sighed contentedly, feeling wholly satisfied in general well-being and health. He slowly become aware of his flesh, his muscles, bones and skin, surging blood pumped proudly by a gallant heart. Quickly, he looked down. Yep, everything worked.
Skinner was well aware of the effect his massive and diligently maintained body had on people. Intimidating to men, which was not be design, he nevertheless used it when necessary to advance his objectives and ensure compliance with directives. Women, however, were a different matter, and it was sometimes required that he modify his behavior, usually by issuing sharp, though warranted, commands, in order to bring them out of their staring, orgasmic catatonia whenever they were in his presence. It was inconvenient, but effective, and he never regretted it overmuch.
But the first order of business today was to carefully make his way from bed to bathroom. It was always a challenge, a daily decathalon, carefully negotiating those few feet, covered and layered with coaxial cables, like lethargic, hibernating narrow eels, quiescent but insistingly extant, a reminder of relentless, though unsought, demands upon his consideration. His melted-chocolate eyes traced the cables' itinerary, from his bedroom window to the bathroom, and he sighed again, though more shallowly, in resignation.
Once in the shower, he reached the objective of these electrically gorged artificial serpents: His entire shower stall was lined, floor to ceiling, wall to wall, with tiny, waterproof closed circuit TV cameras. His image, magnified and multiplied in abundance, was being privately transmitted to thousands of females' homes, beamed from the plethora of satellite dishes on his condo roof. The stall was faceted with these little fish-eye lenses, resembling a jeweled, but ravenous vault stuffed with glassy and visual appetite.
At first, the landlord complained about these dishes as they interfered with broadcast reception, and ripped them out, selling them at flea markets, but they would only reappear within hours, like sprouting metallic flowers, unfolding with hormonal desire. Luckily, or unfortunately, depending on your point of view, the landlord left them in place, relenting happily when he noticed that they zapped obnoxious pigeons to toasty death, saving a fortune on cleaning and maintenance costs.
Taking charge of the inconvenient situation, Skinner had tried running the water at maximum bearable temperature, fogging and disabling the cameras' focus, trying to hold on to the one sliver of privacy remaining to him, but it resulted in continuous sabotaging of the condo boiler, inflicting the entire building with icy sprays and the associated discomfort for everyone.
In humble, though regrettable, generosity, Skinner surrendered to these anonymous hordes, and actually began to assist them in their ardor, because the current situation was far preferable to the bleachers these women had installed in his shower last year, accompanying his every move with squeals in raincoated glee, each carrying a camcorder and screaming directions. So now, he would linger in his ablutions, flexing various muscle groups, lovingly soaping each part until his flesh became puckered beyond human recognition.
Refreshed and squeaky clean, Skinner dressed casually in BVDs and made his way downstairs, anticipating a satisfying breakfast, a pleasant preface to a day of contemplated leisure. As this glowing, invigorated paragon crossed the living room, the very air parting in homage at his passage, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Once again he sighed, yielding to the inevitable scrutiny and urgent entreaties from many admirers. From across the room came the sound of ceaseless fluttering, as through the mail slot in his front door came pouring a flood of packages, like a continuous paper tidal wave, a stamped tsunami of missives.
Each one was addressed to him, and each contained used, perfumed lingerie sent by women desperate for his attentions, longing for his gentle, intimate touch. As always, he would place them ruefully in the already overflowing Hefty bag for Mulder to dispose of later, a duty for which he eagerly volunteered without hesitation.
Thoroughly famished now, Skinner opened the fridge, hoping to partake of various viands to satisfy his robust cravings, but once again his anticipated prospects were thwarted. The fridge was empty, and there would be no repast in the foreseeable future unless he were to restock what had obviously been efficiently pilfered by the stealthy ladies who snuck into his kitchen at night, leaving pictures of themselves on his refrigerator door with pink bunny magnets. The only choice remaining to him was to go shopping.
Back upstairs, Skinner perused his wardrobe, but hesitated in choosing his normal valiant black overcoat, heroic ties, and the stiff white shirts he wore like armor against a world darkened by felonies. No, today he would not subject himself to the public spectacle of having his clothes ripped instantly and expertly from his sturdy frame by swarming women until they were warned off by his steady and expert wielding of tear gas grenades.
Besides, sometimes it didn't work, and these rampant females would brave the danger, falling to the ground in heaps of rapturous triumph, grasping a fragment of trouser cuff in their trembling fingers, the last words from their gasping mouths an invocation of welcomed fulfillment. It was always an embarrassment, almost a reproach, that he could not control these mundane matters. Plus, his budget could no longer easily take the hit in clothing costs. So instead, for performing a small errand, he settled on the more appropriate, though less dignified, midnight-black Armani silk tank top and gray gabardine thong.
Though the market was only a block away, his journey to it would be fraught with the possiblity of violent confrontations, and the logistics of the maneuver required great forethought, split second timing, and furtive haste. Most men of Skinner's commanding poise would find this demeaning, but the AD believed these preparations and the obligatory strategy only reinforced his intense professional training, and kept him in good order, maintaining reflexes for the inevitable and palpable threats from enemies ubiquitous in their wrath, though less determined and cunning than the female swarms he was seeking to avoid.
Last month, Skinner had merely stolled down the street, and the resulting chaos bred gridlock over three states, with the accompanying calling up of the national guard to maintain order by governors already exhausted from too many Garth Brooks' concerts. The mayor had offered to provide him with flashing barricades and Bradley tanks along his route, but Skinner soon discovered that all these schemes were for naught, as women would then just drop upon his unsuspecting and innocent bod from his sixteenth-floor balcony, where they had taken up residence and held nightly festivals in his honor, leading to his being perpetually cited for noise-ordinance violations and confetti pollution.
So, Skinner, always a quick study and notorious for his adaptability to sudden, suicidal conditions, which had won him the exalted position he now held, steeled himself for the expedition involving ground-hugging trajectories, silent dumpster reconnaissance, serpentine back-alley advancement, roof-top vaulting, and economy sized Chunky Cocoa Puffs. For him, clandestine persistence was always operative, but also challenging, something to be acknowledged with unflinching acceptance, and also, with a hint of satisfaction, as he grasped the doorknob with customary certitude, thinking to himself in gratifying vindication, "Bet Mulder never has days like this."

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