Ya-Ya, Skinnerhood
By: Skulz of Dangly Chicken Inc.
Rating: PG13
Genre: Humor
Disclaimer: Skinner and Scully belong to Chris Carter, 10-13 Productions and FOX.
Spoilers: Well, I'm sure AA is really like this. I've never actually been to a meeting, let alone even tried alcoholic beverages.
Summary: Skinner and Scully go to an AA meeting to confront Skinner's problem.
POV: Skinner
Feedback: Yes please. I prefer no flames, and bad reviews make me sad, but whatever.
Author's Note: Who actually reads these little forwards anyway? I seriously can't understand why people insist everyone has one. I guess I just do this so I don't get sued.
Dedication: For Ducky and the Emerald Eyed Agent, who have stuck with my roll plays through thick and thin. Thanks guys, you're the best!
~~xxx~~X~~xxx~~X~~xxx~~X~~xxx~~
Through the door, down the hall, and into a brightly lit room that smelled of mint. Only one of the three windows was open, letting in the cool summer breeze, but it didn't seem to bother the others. A water cooler and a number of white plastic cups sat on a table at the far end of the room. There was a little circle of people in the center of the room. There was one young man, who was seemingly together. He had tanned skin, dark hair, a goatee, kind of tall and gangly, almost nerdy, even.
Another man, short, stocky and balding with little round glasses that sat upon the end of his nose. He was a Caucasian fellow who looked to be a drunkard and a smoker, possibly a Texan?
The third was a young woman; hair, recently dyed blond, was up in a ponytail. She had on coats and coats of makeup, some very sluttish attire, consisting of a short private school skirt and a sports bra.
Fourthly, there was another young woman, seemingly a single mother. There were bags under her eyes, and many strands of gray riddled her hair. All she had bothered to wear this calm and faithful morning were a pair of baggy blue jeans, a white 'I Love Grandma' sweatshirt and a little bit of pink lipstick.
Lastly, and most likely least, there was an elderly fellow with bushy eyebrows that bulged out on his thin face. Lips pierced into a sickly, withering frown, and ancient eyes that longed for love. He wore an aged murky orange colored plaid shirt, with half the buttons gone, a pair of jeans with several holes in them, and a New York Nick's cap. This old man certainly looked the most screwed up of all.
A woman dressed in a white blouse and blue skirt beckoned for us to sit down. "Go on," Scully whispered, nudging me in my upper back.
I stumbled forward and slowly sat in one of their cheap plastic 'chairs of healing'. To tell the truth, I had better seating equipment in my office. Suddenly, Scully plopped down beside me. She smiled, and I winced back. I didn't mean to be so ungrateful towards her; after all, she had brought me into all this. She was the one who knew I needed help and had taken the time and money to find it. But still, I felt weird about this.
I guess Scully saw me worrying, so she gave me another quick smile and squeezed my hand. "It's okay." Her lips didn't move, and no sound came out, but I knew that's what she was saying.
You see, Dana had known about my problem for years. My alcohol problem, that is. And now, we had both decided to find me some help. You know, rehab, AA, the place where the drunkards go to solve their problems. I had finally gone the distance, and she was there to help.
The woman in the blue skirt and blouse stood up and smiled at all of us. "Hello, everybody. Welcome to AA. I'm Wanda Klein, your 'coach' or so to speak," she happily announced, emphasizing coach with her fingers. Then, Wanda looked over at the nerdy, tanned young man and asked, "Why don't you tell us a bit about yourself. What brings you here?"
The gangly fellow looked cautiously around. Then, in a shaky, paranoid voice said, "M-m-my name's Gerald- Gerry... I work in, uh, marketing, see, and I've come here cause of my... err, drinking problem... See, my wife's gonna leave me if I don't stop guzzling booze and bringing home strange women..." Gerald took a deep breath.
"Well, Gerry, you've come to the right place," Wanda smiled. She pointed at the sluttish blond. "What's your story?"
The whore-like creature smiled, or at least I think it was a smile. There was so much lipstick on her face; it was hard to tell. Then, in a thick Russian accent, she said, "My name is Davila. I like the vodka, and the men, and the sensual, sexual dancing of parakeets." Davila took a little silver canteen out of her bra and drank from it. "I can't seem to stop." She licked her lips; most of the lipstick came off on her tongue. But she reapplied it, making an even bigger mess of it than before.
"I see." Wanda nodded and pointed to the old man. "And you?"
The old man's lips turned even more into an angry, twisted frown. His eyes seemed to flame, and the veins on his neck popped out. He stood up, took off his cap and threw it on the ground. "YOU WANNA GO, PUNK?" he yelled in a slightly retarded tone.
Wanda gasped. "I-I-I..." she blurted.
"WHO'S THE BITCH, NOW?" the old man asked.
Wanda just sat there, heart racing.
"I SAID: WHO'S THE BITCH, NOW?" he shouted, "DO I HAVE TO FREAKING SPELL IT FOR YOU!"
Wanda shuddered and shook.
"ANSWER ME YOU SWANKY BITCH!" screamed the man who was even wrinklier than agent Doggett.
"I...I...I am?" the 'coach' quietly blubbered.
"THAT'S RIGHT, BITCH!" he exclaimed. Then he picked up his Nicks hat, slapped the Russian hooker and ran out of the building with a big, "YEE- HAW!"
I looked over at Scully, who wore the same horrified look that my face had on. Then, we silently agreed to leave.
Once we were out the door, I smiled at my panic ridden partner and said, "I need a beer."
By: Skulz of Dangly Chicken Inc.
Rating: PG13
Genre: Humor
Disclaimer: Skinner and Scully belong to Chris Carter, 10-13 Productions and FOX.
Spoilers: Well, I'm sure AA is really like this. I've never actually been to a meeting, let alone even tried alcoholic beverages.
Summary: Skinner and Scully go to an AA meeting to confront Skinner's problem.
POV: Skinner
Feedback: Yes please. I prefer no flames, and bad reviews make me sad, but whatever.
Author's Note: Who actually reads these little forwards anyway? I seriously can't understand why people insist everyone has one. I guess I just do this so I don't get sued.
Dedication: For Ducky and the Emerald Eyed Agent, who have stuck with my roll plays through thick and thin. Thanks guys, you're the best!
~~xxx~~X~~xxx~~X~~xxx~~X~~xxx~~
Through the door, down the hall, and into a brightly lit room that smelled of mint. Only one of the three windows was open, letting in the cool summer breeze, but it didn't seem to bother the others. A water cooler and a number of white plastic cups sat on a table at the far end of the room. There was a little circle of people in the center of the room. There was one young man, who was seemingly together. He had tanned skin, dark hair, a goatee, kind of tall and gangly, almost nerdy, even.
Another man, short, stocky and balding with little round glasses that sat upon the end of his nose. He was a Caucasian fellow who looked to be a drunkard and a smoker, possibly a Texan?
The third was a young woman; hair, recently dyed blond, was up in a ponytail. She had on coats and coats of makeup, some very sluttish attire, consisting of a short private school skirt and a sports bra.
Fourthly, there was another young woman, seemingly a single mother. There were bags under her eyes, and many strands of gray riddled her hair. All she had bothered to wear this calm and faithful morning were a pair of baggy blue jeans, a white 'I Love Grandma' sweatshirt and a little bit of pink lipstick.
Lastly, and most likely least, there was an elderly fellow with bushy eyebrows that bulged out on his thin face. Lips pierced into a sickly, withering frown, and ancient eyes that longed for love. He wore an aged murky orange colored plaid shirt, with half the buttons gone, a pair of jeans with several holes in them, and a New York Nick's cap. This old man certainly looked the most screwed up of all.
A woman dressed in a white blouse and blue skirt beckoned for us to sit down. "Go on," Scully whispered, nudging me in my upper back.
I stumbled forward and slowly sat in one of their cheap plastic 'chairs of healing'. To tell the truth, I had better seating equipment in my office. Suddenly, Scully plopped down beside me. She smiled, and I winced back. I didn't mean to be so ungrateful towards her; after all, she had brought me into all this. She was the one who knew I needed help and had taken the time and money to find it. But still, I felt weird about this.
I guess Scully saw me worrying, so she gave me another quick smile and squeezed my hand. "It's okay." Her lips didn't move, and no sound came out, but I knew that's what she was saying.
You see, Dana had known about my problem for years. My alcohol problem, that is. And now, we had both decided to find me some help. You know, rehab, AA, the place where the drunkards go to solve their problems. I had finally gone the distance, and she was there to help.
The woman in the blue skirt and blouse stood up and smiled at all of us. "Hello, everybody. Welcome to AA. I'm Wanda Klein, your 'coach' or so to speak," she happily announced, emphasizing coach with her fingers. Then, Wanda looked over at the nerdy, tanned young man and asked, "Why don't you tell us a bit about yourself. What brings you here?"
The gangly fellow looked cautiously around. Then, in a shaky, paranoid voice said, "M-m-my name's Gerald- Gerry... I work in, uh, marketing, see, and I've come here cause of my... err, drinking problem... See, my wife's gonna leave me if I don't stop guzzling booze and bringing home strange women..." Gerald took a deep breath.
"Well, Gerry, you've come to the right place," Wanda smiled. She pointed at the sluttish blond. "What's your story?"
The whore-like creature smiled, or at least I think it was a smile. There was so much lipstick on her face; it was hard to tell. Then, in a thick Russian accent, she said, "My name is Davila. I like the vodka, and the men, and the sensual, sexual dancing of parakeets." Davila took a little silver canteen out of her bra and drank from it. "I can't seem to stop." She licked her lips; most of the lipstick came off on her tongue. But she reapplied it, making an even bigger mess of it than before.
"I see." Wanda nodded and pointed to the old man. "And you?"
The old man's lips turned even more into an angry, twisted frown. His eyes seemed to flame, and the veins on his neck popped out. He stood up, took off his cap and threw it on the ground. "YOU WANNA GO, PUNK?" he yelled in a slightly retarded tone.
Wanda gasped. "I-I-I..." she blurted.
"WHO'S THE BITCH, NOW?" the old man asked.
Wanda just sat there, heart racing.
"I SAID: WHO'S THE BITCH, NOW?" he shouted, "DO I HAVE TO FREAKING SPELL IT FOR YOU!"
Wanda shuddered and shook.
"ANSWER ME YOU SWANKY BITCH!" screamed the man who was even wrinklier than agent Doggett.
"I...I...I am?" the 'coach' quietly blubbered.
"THAT'S RIGHT, BITCH!" he exclaimed. Then he picked up his Nicks hat, slapped the Russian hooker and ran out of the building with a big, "YEE- HAW!"
I looked over at Scully, who wore the same horrified look that my face had on. Then, we silently agreed to leave.
Once we were out the door, I smiled at my panic ridden partner and said, "I need a beer."