10:45 pm
The Unknown Wilderness also known as a Bayou, Bon Temps, Louisiana
RENFIELD, THE common house fly, buzzed about in erratic patterns. No sooner had he began his journey—to where is irrelevant—when he found purchase in the nasal canal of one Special Agent Fox Mulder. Mulder, presently comatose, experienced a series of facial spasms—upsetting poor Renfield and slowly regained consciousness. As Mulder became increasingly aware of his surroundings, he realized his forehead hurt quite a lot. He reached up and touched it, the pain intensifying and his fingers coming away sticky and bloodied. Then, and only then, did he being to worry—kind of. Endeavoring to hoist his upper body into something resembling into a sitting position, he realized he was no longer encased in the mangled confines of his car. Studying his surroundings by the light of an orange lava lamp, Mulder recognized the sound of 70's music pouring eerily from hidden speakers. Taking in the full effect of the horridly outdated room he occupied, he registered olive shag carpeting, faux wood paneling on the walls and a pair of white patent leather shoes wedged under his ass. He moaned in horror.
Having regretfully spent his childhood in the seventies, it was not an era he wished to revisit.
Distracting him from his revulsion, the sound of a door opening and shutting echoed through the seemingly basement-like room. Mulder stared at the bottom stair, waiting for his captor to appear. When the man paraded down the steps, trotting like a show pony, Mulder barely stifled a violent gag at the man. Wearing a low v-neck sweater with a forest of black chest hair thick enough to put the Pacific Northwest to shame, he struck a pose. His white nylon stretch pants unfortunately highlighted his less than generous plenty. While lacking gargantuan globs of fat dangling from his frame, he possessed neither washboard abs nor a stunning physique. He looked entirely top heavy, sporting flabby male breasts and standing on disproportionately scrawny chicken legs—made even more obvious by his heinously lofty mustard colored platform boots. His hair would have made even slime eels envious, complimented by a full beard that seemingly merged into the start of his chest hair. His eyebrows however seemed to have received all of the hair grooming attentions as they, in their manscaped glory, were little more than toothpicks over his watery eyes.
Taking in his present condition—inevitable in a uniquely Mulder-esque way—he moved on to other more pressing matters—sunflower seeds. Steeling his mind against the ineluctable task of making conversation with the beast, he posed query.
"I don't suppose you have any sunflower seeds?" he asked. Privately, Mulder ruefully acknowledged that even if the man had sunflower seeds, there was nowhere in his corset-like clothing that he could hide them.
With a Macaroni flourish the man withdrew lace adorned handkerchief from his sleeve. How exactly he wedged it in there, Mulder didn't know, nor did he have any express desire to know so. With the predatory grace one would usually associate with a pedophile, the man stalked toward Mulder. Despite being backed into a corner as he was, Mulder attempted to flee. He scuttled backwards with crab-like movements. His hiking boot waylaid his progress as its shoelace hook caught on the obscenely long, polyester shag carpeting (Mulder caught himself thanking any deity that was listening that he didn't have a lighter). Nevertheless, he managed to wedge himself further into his corner. The wood paneling was oddly smooth in contrast with the abrasive shag rug. His assailant moved closer, catching a booted heel on a fiendish leg of the odious coffee table. He landed short of Mulder's petrified form. Lurching forward like a zombie from a grave, he descended upon the terrified FBI agent. He reached forward, his hand shaking. Mulder unconsciously flinched away. With determination sparkling in his beady eyes, the man attempted to initiate what Mulder suspected could only be a mind meld. His sweaty palm smacked the side of Mulder's head. He waited for something momentous to happen, expecting Armageddon. He waited and waited, and waited. His heart palpitated in unsteady bursts.
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