Much Too Much Nonsense



Mulder tried to shake the throbbing, sensitive sleep from his head as he pulled up to the drivethru window. His neck ached from some kind of bad pillow experience, and his lower back was no better. But that was no mystery; the hotel he was staying at had horrendously hard beds and they were no substitute for his favorite sofa he usually slept in. Another morning in another town somewhere in America. Where didn't matter. They all had McDonald's'. That's the only thing required.

"Welcome to McDonald's, may I take your order?" the friendly ordering box greeted him.

"First," Mulder said, "I must have coffee. Large. Black. Coffee."

"I.I'll have to check," crackled the box.

"On what?"

There was a pause. "It looks like the percolator is down this morning."

This didn't compute with Mulder at first. His FBI instincts never kicked in before six in the morning. "Large," he tried, hoping the word would elicit a more favorable response.

"A large what, sir?"

"What have I been talking about? I want coffee." Mornings made Mulder grumpy.

"I'm sorry, but we don't have any coffee at all. Would you like something else?" asked the box.

He tried to comprehend. No coffee. "No coffee?"

"None. But we do have a new mocha milkshake, and it kinda tastes like coffee."

Coffee. "Yes, I'll have a large."

"Alrighty, and will there be anything else for you this morning?"

"No."

"Your total is $1.89," announced the box. "Please drive through."

Mulder had spent the last two sleepless nights in grave meditation. Samantha. His precious one was lost to him, always to be just out of reach. What cruel Fate had snatched away his beloved sister in the flower of her youth, only to tease him with hope, with flashbacks, and with genetic clones? Why me, he asked himself. How can I endure these hardships?

At the window Mulder fumbled in his wallet for money. No cash. Darn that Scully, always snatching his hard-earned dough. Would they take VISA?

The woman at the cash register stared at him. There was something repulsive in her manner. She had the air of an obsessive bubble-gum chewer; the sort of woman who spends her paycheck on useless herbal ooze and professionally painted fake fingernails that made her look like the sort of thing he and his partner hunted down with guns during the week. "Fox?" she gaped. "What are you doing here?"

Mulder squinted at her through his grainy, sleep-deprived eyes. Flipping through his mental index of acquaintances, he found no matches for her face. "I'm getting coffee," he said. "Or something. I'm not sure anymore. It has caffeine, doesn't it? How did you know my name?"

"Fox, it's me, Samantha, your sister."

He laughed. "You don't understand. Aliens took my sister away."

"What aliens? Fox, have you been staying up all night again to watch those old monster movies?"

Mulder frowned. He knew what was going on now. This McDonald's woman was no ordinary human. She was a telepathic soul-sucker. He'd seen them before, and he could spot one a mile away. The way to handle them was to throw them off their guard. "No, you're wrong," he said with emphasis, shielding his forehead with his hand to thwart her probing vibes. "Do you take VISA?"

"Yes, VISA, Mastercard, and Discover. Fox, I think you need to get some sleep."

Handing her his credit card with his free hand, he said, "I'll be the judge of that."

The cashier rung up the bill and handed back the card. "Whatever. Listen, if you don't get a job pretty soon, you'll max out your cards. You have to make money somehow. There's a position available now if you want to work here."

"I'm an FBI agent," Mulder declared. "I make more money than you do."

She handed him his milkshake. "Well, Agent Mulder, enjoy your milkshake and have a great day."