Title: The Maudlin Mulder Shuffle
Author: Alicia K.
Summary: Mulder's pity party.
Rating: PG-13, but only because that Mulder has
quite the mouth on him.
Category: A of the H kind.
Archive: Spookies okay. Anywhere else, please
ask. I'm easy. (Er, don't let that get out!)
Spoilers: A wee one for "all things," and a
bunch of spoilers for episodes from deep in the
XF vault.
Author's Note: Thanks to Livia, cofax, M.
Sebasky and Jess for rapid response to beta
whining. Yes, Virginia, this one's for you.
Feedback will keep me from wallowing:
spartcus1@msn.com
XXX
Everything is about me. Me me me!
Well, it is after six shots of tequila. The
empty glasses are lined up neatly on the bar in
front of me, sticky little soldiers.
Did I mention that I'm in a bar? I've been
here for a while, actually. This isn't a place
I usually frequent, but I was on this side of
town, on this night of all nights, after Scully
said this thing, of all things.
"Mulder," she said, "I think it would do us
some good to spend some time apart."
Well no, that's not exactly what she said. What
she said was "Get the hell out of my face,
Mulder, you're driving me crazy! And don't you
dare try calling me this weekend." Her words
were followed by the slam of the office door,
which proved to be quite an effective
punctuation mark.
See, Scully and I are lovers now. Have been
for a few weeks, actually. Okay, so we only
slept together after her big Buddhist
revelation, but it was pretty damn good. That
was our only time. So far.
But we're trying to be like a normal couple,
doing normal couple things like having dinner
and hanging out, watching TV. You could argue
that our pre-sex life was fairly similar, but
now we do it much more often.
Apparently TOO often for certain people, who
shall remain nameless. SCULLY.
Space. She wants space. I can give her space.
She'll get so much damn space from me, she'll
think she's on fucking Neptune.
So here I am at this mystery bar, in some hotel
on the definite opposite side of town from
Georgetown, because she wants space.
I'm in the bar of some swanky hotel, the kind
that hosts dignitaries and businessmen whose
wallets are busting out all over. Apparently
the Snooty-ville Choo Choo hasn't arrived yet:
it's only me and two other losers occupying the
premises. The three of us look like we all got
letters today that say, "Dear Baby - Welcome to
Dumpsville. Population: You."
I look that way a lot.
Hell, I can't help it. My lips are big, my
nose is big, my eyes are big and dark -- I've
practically got puppy dog written all over me.
Not like it's ever gotten me anywhere. And NO,
I've never practiced a hangdog look in the
mirror at home.
I call the bartender over and order yet another
shot, with the added instruction to "make this
one sing!" Todd (I gleaned this bit of info
after the third shot) gives me a very odd look,
but obeys.
Imagine my surprise when I down the tequila and
am staring at the bottom of the shot glass,
when I hear music.
Goddamn, he DID make it sing! Todd is magic,
the reincarnation of Doug Henning!
But no, it's only the tinklings of a piano. I
crane my head toward the back corner, where I
see a man in a tuxedo sitting at a grand piano.
It's shiny. When I'm this plastered, I'm like
a big, goofy magpie, drawn to pretty things
that catch my eye.
When Scully said she was quitting a few summers
back, I went to a bar and started yakking at
the bartender solely because her earrings were
shiny. I gave her the Cliffs' Notes of my
life, and she cut off my liquor supply, all
because of shiny.
I'm kind of dumb that way.
I only went into the bar that night to brood,
to gaze at my navel and ponder the possibility
of a Scully-less life.
Well, that and to down copious amounts of
tequila.
So here I am, downing copious amounts of
tequila and pondering a Scully-less weekend.
At least this time there's real music, not just
the tinny strains of punk-ass bands covering
old Doors tunes. Things like that make me want
to weep. Someone told me last week that
Britney Spears covered "Satisfaction" on her
new CD, and I almost slit my wrists.
Other things tend to upset me, too. Lots of
other things. I even have a list I pull out
whenever I want to wallow.
As I open Mulder's List of Pity in my head like
a folded cocktail napkin, a smarmy singing
sound reaches my ears.
Like stupid insects drawn to the buzzing blue
light of death, the other two losers pick up
their drinks and move to sit closer to the
loosely-termed musician. So much for what I
thought would be real music.
The list is spread out in my mind, all my
trials laid out before me in convenient outline
form. Impressive, I know, but remember - I
have a really good memory. Even in my
heightened state of inebriation, Todd could
show me his little black book, and I could
parrot back every number twenty minutes later.
So anyway, the list. This is what it looks
like, in its most basic form:
I. Guilt
II. Self Pity
III. People Who Hate Me
See? I told you it was all about me.
It's difficult to concentrate with Mr. Lounge
Lizard singing "Seasons of Love" over in the
corner, but I meticulously lay out each item
under the appropriate heading.
Let's start at the very beginning. It is, I've
been told, a very good place to start.
Guilt is the heaviest of the categories. Or at
least the fullest.
There's your basic family guilt, for shutting
out my mother when she needed me most. I was a
teenager, what was I supposed to do? Teenagers
don't talk to their mothers. It's on page
forty-seven of the Teenagers Handbook.
Samantha. There's a name so loaded, it should
be supported by an association with Charlton
Heston at the helm. But we're just going to
zip by that one for the time being, seeing as
how I pulled that whole harmonic convergence
crap with the "I'm free" and all, after I saw
her in the starlight.
Starlight. Right. Okay, moving on.
Then there's the Scully guilt. If you have an
hour or five we could really get into this, but
I have this awful feeling that in less time
than that, the bar will be full of overdressed
patrons who swish mouthfuls of wine around
their tastebuds and talk about politics, their
careful voices never rising above a
conversational murmur. Not an especially good
wallowing atmosphere.
But I digress. See, the thing is, Scully
doesn't want me to feel guilty about all of
that - her abduction, her eggs, her cancer, her
sister, and on and on, and so forth and so
forth. She says that she's made her own
decisions, that she's chosen to stay with me,
that it's not my fault.
All of which makes me feel guilty AGAIN, this
time for feeling guilty in the first place. So
usually I try to stick with simply feeling
guilty for the first reason, because then I
don't have to worry about feeling guilty for
the second.
Bobo the Singing Monkey has moved on to Stevie
Wonder, complete with a hi-larious imitation of
a blind pianist. The two schmucks paying
attention are clapping and laughing,
encouraging him.
I suddenly wish I were a lawyer with the ACLU -
I'd sue him on behalf of blind people
everywhere, and then have Stevie Wonder and Ray
Charles kick his ass five ways from Sunday.
But no, I'm an FBI agent, a G-Man who risks his
life in the oddest ways, chasing down UFOs and
Reticulans from Planet Zoomba, and generally
fucking up everyone else's lives as well as his
own.
Did I mention I was in a self-pitying mood
tonight? Ah, good. Then let's move on to the
next category: Self Pity, appropriately enough.
You might wonder what the hell I have to feel
so pitiful about. I'm employed, I'm reasonably
attractive - once you get past my stupid nose -
and I have a fantastic partner.
But when it all comes down to it, I'm a big
loner. A lone wolf, you might say, or a lone
fox, if you're feeling particularly witty.
Yeah, well ha ha, asshole.
My family is gone. I think there's the odd
aunt and uncle floating around out there
somewhere, but this branch of Mulders has been
removed for a long time, probably not long
after dear old Dad stuck his finger in the
frosting of the great big alien cake.
I have no life. Do you know what I do when I'm
not chasing aliens down the New Mexico highway
system, or when I'm not having a pity party?
Let's see - there are a few things that I do to
pass the time. I like to bounce a basketball
against the floor and/or walls, much to the
endless amusement of my neighbors. I used to
watch a lot of porn, but had to stop when the
naked women on the screen started morphing into
Scully. I like to fantasize about Scully,
don't get me wrong, but I liked to hear MY name
come out of that mouth, not Ron Jeremy's.
The other thing I like to do is NOT, surprise
surprise, fantasize about my partner. Au
contraire - I prefer to moon over her. It is a
lovely thing to lie on my couch, stare up at
the ceiling or into my fish tank and think
about Scully.
Granted, I haven't needed to do that since we'd
started seeing more of each other (all of each
other, har har), but since this is the natural
progression of my wallowing, I have to go with
it.
I order another shot from Todd, who gives me
another dubious look. He probably doesn't care
how drunk I am, as long as I'm not trying to
talk to him.
The liquor decides to play with my brain, and
the image of a nude Scully bobbling in my brain
doubles. She's cloned herself! What a great
trick! What a fabulous woman! How did I ever
get so lucky? Not only was she brought into my
life, but she wanted to have sex with me, too!
I smile proudly, thinking of my sexual prowess,
when my little mental naked Scully turns into
my little mental angry Scully, who yells at me
and slams the door.
So much for that. Where was I, anyway? Pity
still? Okay.
I have failed Scully so many times. If I had a
dollar for every breed of evil (human or
otherwise) that tried to harm her, I'd have .
well, enough to make a dent in my bar tab,
anyway.
This is where the subcategories of my formal
outline come into play. Sometimes I list them
in chronological order, sometimes alphabetical.
Duane Barry, Chaco Chicken people, Modell,
Pfaster, Tooms. That's just for starters. For
each one I shake my head, thinking of the
trouble I've gotten her into over the years.
I recognize the opening plinkety-plink notes of
the theme song from that damned "Chorus Line"
show that a date dragged me to once, years ago.
I would bet no cute little blonde would be
coming out to sing that "Tits and Ass" song
this time, though.
When I turn to glare at the pianist, I am
greeted by a most peculiar sight - a chorus
line of evil predators, all wearing white pants
with gold sequinned vests and top hats.
They start to do a grand kick line, and I again
have to question the amount of alcohol I've
consumed tonight.
They are the Rockettes, Vegas showgirls, and a
Busby Berkeley movie all in one. They kick,
they spin (hey, who knew that Tooms was such a
good dancer?), they smile million-dollar
smiles. And they are singing.
Just as I'm about to bury my head in my hands
and weep at the horror of it all, I notice the
dancer on the end - the one who can't quite
keep in step with Modell and Pfaster.
I recognize the half-burned tatoo on his arm.
It's Jerse, comma, Ed. As I stare at him, I
decide that he doesn't really belong under
Guilt or Self Pity. I think it's time to
create a fourth category: Jealousy and
Confusion.
Jerse, that fucker who can't even remember the
words, could be joined by Sheriff Hartwell. I
get a little twinge of something when I think
of him, but no, he doesn't really count. He
was only interested in sucking Scully's blood
and untying her shoes.
The chorus line exits stage right, and I decide
that one name isn't enough to warrant its own
category. Mrs. Cavanaugh told us in fourth
grade that if you only have one thing to put
under category C, then there shouldn't be
category C.
Ah, but if I take Mr. Jerse and rearrange him
(and I'd like to rearrange him, starting with
his testicles), we might have a category called
. . . oh, how about Fucking Pain, Rage and
Anger?
Mr. Jerse could keep company with Cancerman and
Krycek. This category could also be called
People I Hate, which is a nice counterpart to
my final category, People Who Hate Me.
This is the easy part of the list -- Bill
Scully, half the FBI, Skinner too, probably.
Kersh, definitely, but he's out of my hair now,
so it doesn't matter. Hell, I know the FBI
hates me - why would they have stuck me in the
friggin' basement?
"Spooky," I snort, and Todd comes over to me.
"Sir, why don't I call you a cab?" he asks,
sounding a little nervous.
I look around and see that the hotel's elite
have come to roost. I heave a sigh and say,
"Can I just request a song first? Then I'll
leave, I promise."
Todd gives me a nod and hurries over to the
other end of the bar, far, far away from me.
I get to my feet, testing out my brand new
drunk legs. I think perhaps there was an error
on the production line, because I find myself
grabbing onto the edge of a bar stool when my
legs buckle beneath me.
Unfortunately, it's a swivel bar stool, and I
next find myself on the floor.
"Sir!"
Oh good. Todd will help me back up. Maybe
he'll help me write a letter of complaint to
the leg factory, too. But no, he's only
glaring at me, his arms crossed over his chest.
"No, no. Don't get up." I wave a hand at him
and toss my wallet in his general direction.
"Tob and cad, Tad." No, wait. "Tab. Cab.
Todd," I correct, carefully getting to my feet.
Now there is a group of people looking at me as
if I were a very distasteful insect on the
bottom of their Bruno Magli shoes.
"Piano!" I yell sloppily. Everyone around me
takes a distinct step back, and I feel like
Moses parting the Red Sea. "Hey!"
I stumble over to the back corner of the room,
where the guy is now playing a wholly
unnecessary version of that song from that
stupid musical about cats.
"Request!"
Judging by the way his fingers jerk away from
the keyboard, I realize that I must be speaking
at a very high volume.
"Sir?" he says meekly, as if he fears for his
life. I wonder if he's thinking, "I KNEW I
shouldn't have played that song from that
stupid musical about cats!"
I lean my upper body with relief on the black,
shiny surface of the piano and smile my most
charming smile. "I have a request, can I make
a request?" I try to lower my voice, but
something in his expression tells me that I'm
still shouting.
He nods and clears his throat. "Uh . . . of
course, Sir. What would you like to hear?"
I lean even closer, the fingers of my right
hand practically tickling the ivories. "Do you
know that song? That one song?"
He recoils from my evidently heinous tequila
breath. "Can you be more," he clears his
throat, "specific, Sir?"
"You know!" I smack my hand on the piano.
Dammit, everyone knows that song! "That song
about the worms!"
I feel hands grab at my shoulders and arms.
Oops, looks like I'm being asked to leave the
premises. This may be my last chance to hear
the one and only song that speaks to me at this
stage of my inebriated wallowing.
As Todd et al are forcefully leading me toward
the exit, I open my mouth and start to sing:
"Nobody likes me! Everybody hates me! I'm
going out to eat worms! Big fat slimy worms!
Little greasy grimy worms! My how do they
squirm!"
Oddly enough, I do not hear thunderous applause
as I am unceremoniously thrown into the back of
a waiting taxi. Something thunks me on the
head just before the door slams, and I look
down with bleary eyes to see my wallet.
The cab driver turns to smirk at me. "Where
to, sailor?" And then he laughs, like he's
just told the funniest joke to ever hit the
universe.
Instead of answering, I lean over and vomit
onto the floor. Then I give him Scully's
address.
He peels away from the curb, cursing loudly. I
don't know what he's so upset about - it's not
like the floor was very clean to begin with.
With a groan, I gingerly lay down across the
back seat. I know Scully doesn't want to see
me or even talk to me this weekend, but I just
need to see her right now.
I need her to see me in my sorry-ass state, all
drunk and ridiculous and pitiful as all get-
out.
I hope she feels guilty.
**End**
Feedback lovingly embraced at:
spartcus1@msn.com
http://luperkal.simplenet.com/AliciaK/Enter.html
Author: Alicia K.
Summary: Mulder's pity party.
Rating: PG-13, but only because that Mulder has
quite the mouth on him.
Category: A of the H kind.
Archive: Spookies okay. Anywhere else, please
ask. I'm easy. (Er, don't let that get out!)
Spoilers: A wee one for "all things," and a
bunch of spoilers for episodes from deep in the
XF vault.
Author's Note: Thanks to Livia, cofax, M.
Sebasky and Jess for rapid response to beta
whining. Yes, Virginia, this one's for you.
Feedback will keep me from wallowing:
spartcus1@msn.com
XXX
Everything is about me. Me me me!
Well, it is after six shots of tequila. The
empty glasses are lined up neatly on the bar in
front of me, sticky little soldiers.
Did I mention that I'm in a bar? I've been
here for a while, actually. This isn't a place
I usually frequent, but I was on this side of
town, on this night of all nights, after Scully
said this thing, of all things.
"Mulder," she said, "I think it would do us
some good to spend some time apart."
Well no, that's not exactly what she said. What
she said was "Get the hell out of my face,
Mulder, you're driving me crazy! And don't you
dare try calling me this weekend." Her words
were followed by the slam of the office door,
which proved to be quite an effective
punctuation mark.
See, Scully and I are lovers now. Have been
for a few weeks, actually. Okay, so we only
slept together after her big Buddhist
revelation, but it was pretty damn good. That
was our only time. So far.
But we're trying to be like a normal couple,
doing normal couple things like having dinner
and hanging out, watching TV. You could argue
that our pre-sex life was fairly similar, but
now we do it much more often.
Apparently TOO often for certain people, who
shall remain nameless. SCULLY.
Space. She wants space. I can give her space.
She'll get so much damn space from me, she'll
think she's on fucking Neptune.
So here I am at this mystery bar, in some hotel
on the definite opposite side of town from
Georgetown, because she wants space.
I'm in the bar of some swanky hotel, the kind
that hosts dignitaries and businessmen whose
wallets are busting out all over. Apparently
the Snooty-ville Choo Choo hasn't arrived yet:
it's only me and two other losers occupying the
premises. The three of us look like we all got
letters today that say, "Dear Baby - Welcome to
Dumpsville. Population: You."
I look that way a lot.
Hell, I can't help it. My lips are big, my
nose is big, my eyes are big and dark -- I've
practically got puppy dog written all over me.
Not like it's ever gotten me anywhere. And NO,
I've never practiced a hangdog look in the
mirror at home.
I call the bartender over and order yet another
shot, with the added instruction to "make this
one sing!" Todd (I gleaned this bit of info
after the third shot) gives me a very odd look,
but obeys.
Imagine my surprise when I down the tequila and
am staring at the bottom of the shot glass,
when I hear music.
Goddamn, he DID make it sing! Todd is magic,
the reincarnation of Doug Henning!
But no, it's only the tinklings of a piano. I
crane my head toward the back corner, where I
see a man in a tuxedo sitting at a grand piano.
It's shiny. When I'm this plastered, I'm like
a big, goofy magpie, drawn to pretty things
that catch my eye.
When Scully said she was quitting a few summers
back, I went to a bar and started yakking at
the bartender solely because her earrings were
shiny. I gave her the Cliffs' Notes of my
life, and she cut off my liquor supply, all
because of shiny.
I'm kind of dumb that way.
I only went into the bar that night to brood,
to gaze at my navel and ponder the possibility
of a Scully-less life.
Well, that and to down copious amounts of
tequila.
So here I am, downing copious amounts of
tequila and pondering a Scully-less weekend.
At least this time there's real music, not just
the tinny strains of punk-ass bands covering
old Doors tunes. Things like that make me want
to weep. Someone told me last week that
Britney Spears covered "Satisfaction" on her
new CD, and I almost slit my wrists.
Other things tend to upset me, too. Lots of
other things. I even have a list I pull out
whenever I want to wallow.
As I open Mulder's List of Pity in my head like
a folded cocktail napkin, a smarmy singing
sound reaches my ears.
Like stupid insects drawn to the buzzing blue
light of death, the other two losers pick up
their drinks and move to sit closer to the
loosely-termed musician. So much for what I
thought would be real music.
The list is spread out in my mind, all my
trials laid out before me in convenient outline
form. Impressive, I know, but remember - I
have a really good memory. Even in my
heightened state of inebriation, Todd could
show me his little black book, and I could
parrot back every number twenty minutes later.
So anyway, the list. This is what it looks
like, in its most basic form:
I. Guilt
II. Self Pity
III. People Who Hate Me
See? I told you it was all about me.
It's difficult to concentrate with Mr. Lounge
Lizard singing "Seasons of Love" over in the
corner, but I meticulously lay out each item
under the appropriate heading.
Let's start at the very beginning. It is, I've
been told, a very good place to start.
Guilt is the heaviest of the categories. Or at
least the fullest.
There's your basic family guilt, for shutting
out my mother when she needed me most. I was a
teenager, what was I supposed to do? Teenagers
don't talk to their mothers. It's on page
forty-seven of the Teenagers Handbook.
Samantha. There's a name so loaded, it should
be supported by an association with Charlton
Heston at the helm. But we're just going to
zip by that one for the time being, seeing as
how I pulled that whole harmonic convergence
crap with the "I'm free" and all, after I saw
her in the starlight.
Starlight. Right. Okay, moving on.
Then there's the Scully guilt. If you have an
hour or five we could really get into this, but
I have this awful feeling that in less time
than that, the bar will be full of overdressed
patrons who swish mouthfuls of wine around
their tastebuds and talk about politics, their
careful voices never rising above a
conversational murmur. Not an especially good
wallowing atmosphere.
But I digress. See, the thing is, Scully
doesn't want me to feel guilty about all of
that - her abduction, her eggs, her cancer, her
sister, and on and on, and so forth and so
forth. She says that she's made her own
decisions, that she's chosen to stay with me,
that it's not my fault.
All of which makes me feel guilty AGAIN, this
time for feeling guilty in the first place. So
usually I try to stick with simply feeling
guilty for the first reason, because then I
don't have to worry about feeling guilty for
the second.
Bobo the Singing Monkey has moved on to Stevie
Wonder, complete with a hi-larious imitation of
a blind pianist. The two schmucks paying
attention are clapping and laughing,
encouraging him.
I suddenly wish I were a lawyer with the ACLU -
I'd sue him on behalf of blind people
everywhere, and then have Stevie Wonder and Ray
Charles kick his ass five ways from Sunday.
But no, I'm an FBI agent, a G-Man who risks his
life in the oddest ways, chasing down UFOs and
Reticulans from Planet Zoomba, and generally
fucking up everyone else's lives as well as his
own.
Did I mention I was in a self-pitying mood
tonight? Ah, good. Then let's move on to the
next category: Self Pity, appropriately enough.
You might wonder what the hell I have to feel
so pitiful about. I'm employed, I'm reasonably
attractive - once you get past my stupid nose -
and I have a fantastic partner.
But when it all comes down to it, I'm a big
loner. A lone wolf, you might say, or a lone
fox, if you're feeling particularly witty.
Yeah, well ha ha, asshole.
My family is gone. I think there's the odd
aunt and uncle floating around out there
somewhere, but this branch of Mulders has been
removed for a long time, probably not long
after dear old Dad stuck his finger in the
frosting of the great big alien cake.
I have no life. Do you know what I do when I'm
not chasing aliens down the New Mexico highway
system, or when I'm not having a pity party?
Let's see - there are a few things that I do to
pass the time. I like to bounce a basketball
against the floor and/or walls, much to the
endless amusement of my neighbors. I used to
watch a lot of porn, but had to stop when the
naked women on the screen started morphing into
Scully. I like to fantasize about Scully,
don't get me wrong, but I liked to hear MY name
come out of that mouth, not Ron Jeremy's.
The other thing I like to do is NOT, surprise
surprise, fantasize about my partner. Au
contraire - I prefer to moon over her. It is a
lovely thing to lie on my couch, stare up at
the ceiling or into my fish tank and think
about Scully.
Granted, I haven't needed to do that since we'd
started seeing more of each other (all of each
other, har har), but since this is the natural
progression of my wallowing, I have to go with
it.
I order another shot from Todd, who gives me
another dubious look. He probably doesn't care
how drunk I am, as long as I'm not trying to
talk to him.
The liquor decides to play with my brain, and
the image of a nude Scully bobbling in my brain
doubles. She's cloned herself! What a great
trick! What a fabulous woman! How did I ever
get so lucky? Not only was she brought into my
life, but she wanted to have sex with me, too!
I smile proudly, thinking of my sexual prowess,
when my little mental naked Scully turns into
my little mental angry Scully, who yells at me
and slams the door.
So much for that. Where was I, anyway? Pity
still? Okay.
I have failed Scully so many times. If I had a
dollar for every breed of evil (human or
otherwise) that tried to harm her, I'd have .
well, enough to make a dent in my bar tab,
anyway.
This is where the subcategories of my formal
outline come into play. Sometimes I list them
in chronological order, sometimes alphabetical.
Duane Barry, Chaco Chicken people, Modell,
Pfaster, Tooms. That's just for starters. For
each one I shake my head, thinking of the
trouble I've gotten her into over the years.
I recognize the opening plinkety-plink notes of
the theme song from that damned "Chorus Line"
show that a date dragged me to once, years ago.
I would bet no cute little blonde would be
coming out to sing that "Tits and Ass" song
this time, though.
When I turn to glare at the pianist, I am
greeted by a most peculiar sight - a chorus
line of evil predators, all wearing white pants
with gold sequinned vests and top hats.
They start to do a grand kick line, and I again
have to question the amount of alcohol I've
consumed tonight.
They are the Rockettes, Vegas showgirls, and a
Busby Berkeley movie all in one. They kick,
they spin (hey, who knew that Tooms was such a
good dancer?), they smile million-dollar
smiles. And they are singing.
Just as I'm about to bury my head in my hands
and weep at the horror of it all, I notice the
dancer on the end - the one who can't quite
keep in step with Modell and Pfaster.
I recognize the half-burned tatoo on his arm.
It's Jerse, comma, Ed. As I stare at him, I
decide that he doesn't really belong under
Guilt or Self Pity. I think it's time to
create a fourth category: Jealousy and
Confusion.
Jerse, that fucker who can't even remember the
words, could be joined by Sheriff Hartwell. I
get a little twinge of something when I think
of him, but no, he doesn't really count. He
was only interested in sucking Scully's blood
and untying her shoes.
The chorus line exits stage right, and I decide
that one name isn't enough to warrant its own
category. Mrs. Cavanaugh told us in fourth
grade that if you only have one thing to put
under category C, then there shouldn't be
category C.
Ah, but if I take Mr. Jerse and rearrange him
(and I'd like to rearrange him, starting with
his testicles), we might have a category called
. . . oh, how about Fucking Pain, Rage and
Anger?
Mr. Jerse could keep company with Cancerman and
Krycek. This category could also be called
People I Hate, which is a nice counterpart to
my final category, People Who Hate Me.
This is the easy part of the list -- Bill
Scully, half the FBI, Skinner too, probably.
Kersh, definitely, but he's out of my hair now,
so it doesn't matter. Hell, I know the FBI
hates me - why would they have stuck me in the
friggin' basement?
"Spooky," I snort, and Todd comes over to me.
"Sir, why don't I call you a cab?" he asks,
sounding a little nervous.
I look around and see that the hotel's elite
have come to roost. I heave a sigh and say,
"Can I just request a song first? Then I'll
leave, I promise."
Todd gives me a nod and hurries over to the
other end of the bar, far, far away from me.
I get to my feet, testing out my brand new
drunk legs. I think perhaps there was an error
on the production line, because I find myself
grabbing onto the edge of a bar stool when my
legs buckle beneath me.
Unfortunately, it's a swivel bar stool, and I
next find myself on the floor.
"Sir!"
Oh good. Todd will help me back up. Maybe
he'll help me write a letter of complaint to
the leg factory, too. But no, he's only
glaring at me, his arms crossed over his chest.
"No, no. Don't get up." I wave a hand at him
and toss my wallet in his general direction.
"Tob and cad, Tad." No, wait. "Tab. Cab.
Todd," I correct, carefully getting to my feet.
Now there is a group of people looking at me as
if I were a very distasteful insect on the
bottom of their Bruno Magli shoes.
"Piano!" I yell sloppily. Everyone around me
takes a distinct step back, and I feel like
Moses parting the Red Sea. "Hey!"
I stumble over to the back corner of the room,
where the guy is now playing a wholly
unnecessary version of that song from that
stupid musical about cats.
"Request!"
Judging by the way his fingers jerk away from
the keyboard, I realize that I must be speaking
at a very high volume.
"Sir?" he says meekly, as if he fears for his
life. I wonder if he's thinking, "I KNEW I
shouldn't have played that song from that
stupid musical about cats!"
I lean my upper body with relief on the black,
shiny surface of the piano and smile my most
charming smile. "I have a request, can I make
a request?" I try to lower my voice, but
something in his expression tells me that I'm
still shouting.
He nods and clears his throat. "Uh . . . of
course, Sir. What would you like to hear?"
I lean even closer, the fingers of my right
hand practically tickling the ivories. "Do you
know that song? That one song?"
He recoils from my evidently heinous tequila
breath. "Can you be more," he clears his
throat, "specific, Sir?"
"You know!" I smack my hand on the piano.
Dammit, everyone knows that song! "That song
about the worms!"
I feel hands grab at my shoulders and arms.
Oops, looks like I'm being asked to leave the
premises. This may be my last chance to hear
the one and only song that speaks to me at this
stage of my inebriated wallowing.
As Todd et al are forcefully leading me toward
the exit, I open my mouth and start to sing:
"Nobody likes me! Everybody hates me! I'm
going out to eat worms! Big fat slimy worms!
Little greasy grimy worms! My how do they
squirm!"
Oddly enough, I do not hear thunderous applause
as I am unceremoniously thrown into the back of
a waiting taxi. Something thunks me on the
head just before the door slams, and I look
down with bleary eyes to see my wallet.
The cab driver turns to smirk at me. "Where
to, sailor?" And then he laughs, like he's
just told the funniest joke to ever hit the
universe.
Instead of answering, I lean over and vomit
onto the floor. Then I give him Scully's
address.
He peels away from the curb, cursing loudly. I
don't know what he's so upset about - it's not
like the floor was very clean to begin with.
With a groan, I gingerly lay down across the
back seat. I know Scully doesn't want to see
me or even talk to me this weekend, but I just
need to see her right now.
I need her to see me in my sorry-ass state, all
drunk and ridiculous and pitiful as all get-
out.
I hope she feels guilty.
**End**
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