Chapter 5

------------------------------------------------------------------------

March 27, 2001 – Tuesday

Dear Diary,

Here is a fact that may not be commonly known: it is exceedingly difficult to get a good night's sleep in a bathtub, no matter how many extra pillows and blankets you intimidate the poor desk boy into bringing in for you.

Oh, very well; no matter how many extra pillows and blankets you pout the poor desk boy into bringing in for you.

Still, the fact remains that I am very tired and very, very cranky today.

My back hurts, my neck hurts, my legs hurt, my arms hurt, and my head hurts from where hit it repeatedly on the faucet by insisting upon sitting up quickly every time I was woken up by a snore from Drake, a sleepy and rather disturbing phrase about doing decidedly inappropriate things to Demi Moore from Acne, or a noise of unidentified cause from Yomiko and Nancy's room next door.

Eventually, at around three this morning, I realized exactly where my exceedingly brilliant bathtub plan was striking its snag, and turned around so that my head was on the other end.

And thus, my ankle hurts horribly from banging it on the faucet every time I stupidly tried to turn over.

Honestly, what on earth is the British Library's problem with checking a group of agents into three hotel rooms instead of two hotel rooms? It doesn't seem as though it could possibly be as difficult as…well, as sleeping in a bathtub, for instance.

Or as putting up with Acne when he kindly asks with a leering sort of grin on his greasy little face, if I would like to sleep with him tonight.

He has been duly hit with an empty coffee cup, as we are in the diner across the street from our hotel for breakfast, and is now clutching his head and whimpering in pain.

Ah! I feel much better now! I'm less achy and even starting to think that sleeping in the bathtub was fun for the sheer novelty, Nancy and Yomiko are an adorable couple once more instead of being simply aggravating by virtue of being happier than me, the children at the table over from us are likewise adorable, even the sky seems bluer!

I think we've discovered Acne's useless superpower.

And I thought mine was utterly useless and more trouble than it was worth!


I suppose I ought to consider myself lucky that I don't put people in a better mood by letting them beat me up.

Oh, my.

Drake is looking thoughtfully at Acne and hefting his empty coffee mug in a way that bespeaks great pain for the poor little boy in the near future.

Well, monkey see, monkey do. That's how it is with a man, I suppose.

However, I'm not sure what to make of the fact that Nancy is likewise gazing consideringly at Acne and brandishing her butter knife.

Acne has just announced that he will 'grab something quick from that gas station over there' and meet us at the helicopter in an hour.

I suppose we must have frightened him; the nearest gas station, as I recall from the map that I might have glanced at all of twice, is about a forty-minute walk from here.

Yomiko is currently reproaching us for being so mean to Acne.

Nancy has just asked her if she would rather he were still here.

Yomiko seems to be having a very hard time saying yes.

Poor girl; it must be tough to have a reputation of being kind and sweet to live up to.

I made sure to kill that silly rumour about myself the moment I first heard it.

It hasn't made it stop, or anything; I would simply like it to be stated that I did my very best.

Still, to make a lateral move back to the topic, I can't honestly say that anyone was sorry to see Acne – er, Benny – go, despite Yomiko's valiant efforts at pretending to be. He's just too obtrusively cheerful for so early in the morning.

If he has to be happy at ridiculous hours, the least he could do is keep it to himself and refrain from smiling beamingly at us and trying to lighten the mood.

Ah, well. The Utensil Brigade drove him off.

Nancy, Drake, and I are feeling very pleased with ourselves.

At least, I am.

I assume Nancy is, too, because she looks marginally more awake and is watching Acne (I give up! I can't call him Benny! I just can't do it!) scamper down the street, with a smug look on her face.

As for Drake, I know he must be in a good mood, because he hasn't threatened to throw my diary out a window yet this morning!

Evidently, I spoke prematurely, and thus I shall stop recording the absolutely nothing going on right now and rejoin the world.

9:48 a.m. – Have resorted to this form of journaling once again. Concluded that it must be a "Tuesday thing". Will remark again when something happens, aside from Nancy threatening terrible vengeance upon Acne if he does not cease his Elvis routine very soon. Wording mine, not hers.

10:08 a.m. – It has been twenty minutes, and Acne has not begun to sing again.

10:09 a.m. – In an incredible rush of joy, have informed Nancy that she is my new hero.

10:10 a.m. – Must have overdone the shiny, adoring eyes, as she is edging away nervously.

10:11 a.m. – Nancy is looking less nervous and irritated, as Yomiko has just agreed with equally shiny eyes, that Nancy is her hero, too.

Now Nancy is looking rather pleased, and Drake is looking rather nauseous.

10:12 a.m. – Have moved Nancy's duffel bag out of range in case Drake becomes airsick.

The poor bag has suffered enough.

10:13 a.m. – Should not have said this last part out loud.

Am now trying frantically to remove my foot from my mouth and explain that the "poor bag" was the duffel, and not Nancy herself.

10:15 a.m. – Acne has begun to lighten a mood that did not need lightening in the slightest by belting out "Jailhouse Rock".

Am going to refrain from throwing something at him, as he is currently flying the helicopter. Why, oh why, could the Library not have invested in a co-pilot as well as a third hotel room?

Would feel much safer if Yomiko was piloting.

While reading.

Seven books at once.

10:16 a.m. – Upon having noted as much to Drake, he has chuckled and remarked that at least if we die, we won't have to hear any more Elvis.

Have admitted that this is a good point, but that I would rather live to throttle Benny when we land.

For some reason, this made Drake laugh as heartily as I have ever heard him, and he has remarked almost kindly that we should be running into the boat our surveillance informs us that the book-napper stole, any minute.

11:16 a.m. – Am beginning to wonder exactly which minute will see us finding our elusive book-and-boat-napper.

Have asked Drake sweetly which moment he meant.

11:17 a.m. – Apparently, I am to stop being a smart-ass.

11:21a.m. – Now I am being told, predictably, that if I don't quit scratching away at this damn book, Drake will throw it out the—

11:21 p.m. – What an eventful twelve hours we've just had! I hardly know where to begin!

Yomiko, peeking over my shoulder to alleviate the book-withdrawal she must be suffering due to having read the fourteen books Nancy allowed her to bring within the first two hours of the trip, has suggested with a playful smile, that I begin at the beginning.

Now she's blushing at having been caught peeking, and Nancy is smiling this sweet, fond smile.

Honestly, the two of them could rot a person's teeth!

Right, then; the story.

I was cut off from finishing my sentence earlier, predictably, by Drake throwing my journal from the window of the helicopter. I was getting all set up to be outraged and annoyed with him, when the world went suddenly and inexplicably very dark, and seconds later, our helicopter was enveloped in a beam of light.

For some reason, as the light grew more intense, we all froze in place, as though posing for shots on a science fiction channel documentary, and I could swear that I heard the click and whir of several cameras.

Apparently, we all had a very good time posing like idiots, because despite the fact that all our watches told us it was 11:30 when the world returned to normal, it seemed like mere seconds had passed, if that.

Once the light had faded to normal and the sudden dark had seemingly buggered off to the other side of the world where it belonged right then, Acne began to panic. He ranted about how the Bermuda Triangle was going to eat us, and began telling the poor, confused man over the intercom that Flight 19 wasn't turning back, even if it meant the deaths of all of us.

Then he turned away from the controls (which gave us all a bit of a fright) and asked with a sheepish grin if we could land for a rest stop – that adventure had done bad things to his bladder, as none of us wished to know.

I asked pettishly if he were of American descent, only to have Drake growl menacingly that if I associated Americans in general with their president one more time, I'd be going the way of my diary.

While I was busily ignoring him, we landed so poor little Acne (who is apparently very unnerved by bright lights) could go empty.

As Drake, Yomiko, Nancy and I all hung about by the helicopter, we were approached by a tall, dark-haired, ample-nosed man in a dark suit and a ghastly ugly tie.

A pretty redheaded woman in a wonderful ivory pinstriped suit seemed to be trying to talk him out of it, but he nevertheless went right on approaching.

If only men would listen to the great wisdom dispensed by women once in a while, the world would be a better place.

I recognized both of them at once: our book-nappers, naturally.

Drake apparently recognized them, too, because he adopted a fierce expression which the dark-haired man ignored utterly.

He said in a low, intense tone that he had seen the light in the sky, and had moments later been compelled to leap into the water and thus out of the path of a high-velocity diary.

Sigh. I knew Drake would nearly kill someone that way.

Much to my horror, Mr. Mulder went on to inform us that he and his partner, Miss Scully (the exceedingly stylish redhead) had taken the liberty of reading it.

I could have cheerfully killed both of them, although to her credit, Miss Scully did look horribly embarrassed.

Mr. Mulder went on to say that I should just talk to this Mr. Joker guy about how I felt, if Batman villains were really my type. What a strange man!

Then he said rather coolly that he didn't exactly appreciate my implying that he was brain-damaged, although he would overlook it, as most people implied or outright said the same thing.

Miss Scully took that moment to outright say it. She also told me that she appreciated what I had said about her hairstyle, since imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, after all, but that I might want to think carefully about the matter before I go cutting off all my hair.

I was about to agree to give the matter all the careful, sober thought that such an important one as hairstyling deserved, when Mr. Mulder broke in, apparently very miffed at being ignored in the middle of a story.

He asked me why I had stopped writing at exactly 11:21.

Now, one would think that, if he were so interested, he would stay quiet long enough to let me answer.

However, this would assume an entirely different code of logic and courtesy than Mr. Mulder seems to work with.

He hurried on and said that he had a feeling he knew the cause: a close encounter.

I asked exactly why it was so important that I'd stopped writing at 11:21 – it seemed a rather random time to me.

He said solemnly that a lot of really weird things have seemed to happen to him at 11:21, both a.m. and p.m.

Miss Scully said that they seemed to happen to her since joining Mr. Mulder to work on the X-Files, and that he needn't think she had forgotten that he was very much to blame for it.

Mr. Mulder pointedly ignored this, and said with a vague undertone of triumph, that he was willing to bet his entire tie collection that the cause of my abrupt stop in journaling had been a close encounter.

I said that the cause had been, as he said, a close encounter.

He was not impressed when, after giving him time to get excited enough to almost emote, I went on to explain that it had been a close encounter with an angry Drake, who hurled the diary from the window of the helicopter. Indeed, he looked a little put-off, although Nancy, Drake, and Miss Scully seemed to find it amusing.

I suppose that, despite her amusement, Nancy must have felt some sympathy for poor idiotic Mr. Mulder, because she explained what happened right after.

It was rather worrisome to see someone's eyes light up that much at an account of another's misfortune.

Still, I suppose it is understandable when one considers that his sister was taken away by aliens – apparently – and that every time they saunter down to say hello (we're clearly talking about some very bored aliens, I expect) he comes closer to finding poor Samantha.

Honestly, where were those bloody aliens when I was growing up and wishing that my aggravating, loud, smelly, and borderline abusive older brothers would disappear mysteriously?

Still, without them, I likely would have discarded the idea of going into the rugby team without a thought.

As it was, a girl needs to know how to defend herself.

Or at least, how to develop a high pain tolerance.

At any rate, Mr. Mulder went on to tell us that he planned to summon the aliens using a rare series of volumes on the subject of the Bermuda Triangle, from the very center of the Triangle itself, and that we could come along if we liked.

Either he didn't realize our connection with the Library from which he obtained said books, or he's simply mad.

Not to imply that those two are mutually exclusive, of course.

When he offered, I could practically see little pictures of books flash into Yomiko's eyes like money signs in a cartoon.

Drake and Nancy must have seen them, too, because they reluctantly agreed to go with Mr. Mulder.

And thus, the six of us set off in their stolen boat, after carefully losing Benny (I managed it! I finally managed it!).

After all, it might have gotten frightening, and we weren't about to place much trust in his bladder at that point.

About an hour into the trip, Nancy fell quite suddenly asleep, and soon after, so did Drake.

Personally, I think Drake saw how Mr. Mulder suddenly stopped talking to Nancy when she fell asleep, and got the idea of faking it in order to avoid conversing with the poor man, but I could be wrong. I've been told that it's happened before.

As for Miss Scully, she's clearly been with Mr. Mulder for a very long time, because almost as soon as we left in the boat, she fell asleep, which only serves to solidify my suspicion that neither her nor Drake were really asleep.

I'd believe that Nancy was legitimately asleep, if only due to how late I saw her and Yomiko's lights burning last night. If they were up that late, no wonder she was tired today!

At any rate, after searching the boat for a book and finding none, Yomiko told Mr. Mulder a little timidly that she hoped we would be able to find his sister.

Mr. Mulder's expression shifted to something that was almost a smile, and he told both of us that he did, too, but that his reasons for hunting down these aliens wasn't entirely to find his sister.

When I asked, against my better judgment, what his other reason was, he smiled a full-out smile.

I wish he hadn't, as it has been a long time since I have seen something that creepy.

Then he told us that about six weeks ago, he had taken several articles to the dry cleaners, who had lost all of them.

Yomiko and I stared blankly at him, and I'm sure Yomiko was wondering, as I was, what this could possibly have to do with aliens.

Don't worry; we found out soon enough.

Mr. Mulder explained that the dry cleaning industry has long been in league with the aliens to pilfer the choicest articles of clothing from unsuspecting humans for decades now. Apparently, it dates all the way back to the 1920's, and involves the government, too.

Yomiko, bless her soul, tried to make sense of this by asking, slowly, if Mr. Mulder meant that we were on this impromptu trip to regain his dry cleaning, and why exactly he was so certain that the aliens had taken it.

Mr. Mulder replied, scoffing, that it was obvious.

At this point, Miss Scully woke up and, upon tuning into the conversation, rolled her eyes and asked Mr. Mulder if he was still on about his dry cleaning.

He informed her, with trace amounts of indignation in his tone, that the aliens had "totally stolen his dry cleaning, Scully".

Drake woke up at this point, very grumpy, and demanded to know why the hell Mr. Mulder didn't just buy some new dry cleaning, then.

Mr. Mulder explained airily that his favourite shirt had been among the articles taken, and that he had never been able to find another shirt with just that cut and colour.

Apparently, black shirts with green alien head buttons are not easy to come by.

I think this is a good thing, but I would never dream of telling Mr. Mulder that.

After all, this might make him suspect that I'm in league with the aliens and the dry cleaning industry.

They also apparently built and control the Bermuda Triangle, by the way, which is why he needed to go to the centre of it to summon the aliens with the books.

What a strange man! I realize I've already said this at some point, but it really must be said again.

Well, we eventually got to our destination, at the centre of the Bermuda Triangle.

I had some slight misgivings about it, after hearing Acne talk in tones somehow more eager than frightened, that we'd probably never be seen again, but Drake took me point-by-point through a lengthy lecture on exactly why the most famous incidents of disappearances surrounding the Devil's Triangle were easily explained away in terms other than paranormal activity.

I felt a lot better after that, even if Mr. Mulder looked a little miffed at Drake's description of "nutcases who believe in that crap", and even better, the lecture took up the rest of the boat ride, so we didn't have to listen to Mr. Mulder lament for his missing dry cleaning any more!

Now, this is the part of the story that might get a little incoherent from sheer annoyance. Honestly, it was the single stupidest and most aggravating ten minutes of my life, and it signaled the most utterly wasted three days of my life.

Aside from our last mission, of course.

Still, I suppose I ought to get to explaining.

Once we reached the center of the Triangle, Mr. Mulder began searching through his duffel bag for our missing books, but to no avail.

He told Miss Scully with an odd combination of panic and sheepishness, that he couldn't find the books, and asked her if she could look for him.

Miss Scully sighed heavily, rubbing her forehead in irritation, and told Mr. Mulder that there was no point in her looking for the books; she already knew they weren't in his bags, or even on the boat.

Time seemed to slow as Mr. Mulder looked up with a suspicious glare from his position crouched on the floor to check beneath his seat. He asked with an ominous sort of calm why exactly this was.

Miss Scully seemed about to answer, but was interrupted in doing so by the beeping of Drake's communicator, which he had switched off earlier when one of the boys in the control room began humming "Blue Suede Shoes". I suppose it made Drake a little nervous when I came flying through the air at him, intent upon destroying the communicator and thus stopping the pain of Elvis.

I knew even before Drake answered that it was Mr. Joker. Somehow, when he contacts someone, the beeping of the communicator, the ringing of the phone, or what have you, always sounds politer and less obtrusive.

When Drake answered, Mr. Joker said, more sheepishly than I've heard him say anything in a long, long time, that we could turn around and come home now.

Yomiko protested, aghast, that we hadn't recovered the books yet, and it might take a little longer, since the book-napper had lost them.

Mr. Joker told Yomiko that there was no need of looking for them where we were, as they were currently at the Library, sitting in front of him on his desk.

A loud silence reigned throughout the book.

Finally, Miss Scully spoke up with an amount of poise and calm that I only pray to someday be able to emulate. She told Mr. Mulder that she had found the books in their office about three weeks ago, and packaged them for mailing straightaway.

Mulder demanded to know what gave her the right to go through his things, which sent her into a bit of a tirade about how she wouldn't have to, if she damn well had somewhere of her own to work instead of having to sneak a corner of his desk or work at home. Not only this, she added, but she was getting tired of the British guy continuously phoning and very politely threatening her life.

At this point, Mr. Joker spoke up and thanked Miss Scully for returning the books so hastily, and she replied that it was no problem, and that she usually had to do such things for Mr. Mulder: return his library books, return his videos, make sure his heating, water, and electric bills had been paid…

Drake broke in here, saying angrily that he didn't care how big an idiot Mr. Mulder was, because Mr. Joker had to be at least as big an idiot to not have noticed that the books were on his desk the whole time, until after he had sent a field team out to retrieve them.

Mr. Joker protested over the communicator that it hadn't been his fault; the books had simply been misfiled, and that the person responsible had been sacked.

I said hesitantly that I supposed that, since as far as I knew I still had a job, I hadn't been the one to misfile the books, and Mr. Joker assured me that I hadn't, but he was still quite interested in sacking me, albeit in an entirely different way. Then he gave a horrified exclamation and requested that we all forget he had spoken.

I wonder if he means he wants to come to my family picnic with me and join the potato sack race, after all. I was only teasing when I asked, but it could shape up to be a lot of fun. And if he thinks he's getting out of it now, he is sorely mistaken.

Will make sure to tell him that when we get back.

Will also make sure to ask Nancy tomorrow why what he said made everyone aside from Yomiko snicker.

Have already asked Yomiko why everyone else was snickering, and she simply shrugged in confusion and said that perhaps they found the mental image of Mr. Joker putting me into a sack to be a funny one.

Either way, following Mr. Joker's call, we set off back to Florida, a very despondent and severely annoyed group.

Mr. Mulder and Yomiko were the most despondent of us, Mr. Mulder over the now eternal loss of his dry cleaning, and Yomiko over not being able to read the stolen books on the way back to the Library as she had hoped.

Drake was predictably the most annoyed, and more than once began to tell me forebodingly that he would throw my diary out the window if I didn't put it away, only to droop a little dejectedly when he saw that I was not, in fact, writing in it right then, having learned that his threats were not empty ones.

Still, even the most aggravating of situations has to end sometime, and this one was no exception.

We eventually got back to Florida, at which point Drake made an executive decision: we would NOT be leaving for London right away. He wanted the chance to hang out somewhere good for a change, instead of bloody Yellowknife.

I can't say I blame him.

Apparently, neither did Nancy and Yomiko, as they offered absolutely no protest, and quite jumped at the chance to get as far from Drake, me, Mr. Mulder, and Miss Scully as possible.

It was just as well that none of us particularly felt like dealing with a helicopter ride right then, as finding Benny proved impossible.

Yomiko tried very hard to be worried about him, but it was fairly clear that even she couldn't manage it.

Drake, Nancy, and I didn't try.

And thus, after a thoroughly fun and relaxing evening of getting hopelessly lost in side streets and finding my way again thanks to my uncanny and catlike sense of direction – and, let me stress, NOT thanks to dumb luck – I eventually made my way back to the hotel.

And now, as I am receiving another vicious look from Drake, who is sitting next to me in the booth within this perfectly nice seedy little coffee shop, I shall end here for tonight. After all, I am going to have to share a bed with him tonight if Benny ever finds his way back to the hotel, and I would rather not incur his (Drake's) wrath enough to wake up smothered by a pillow.

Or rather, to not wake up as a result of being smothered by a pillow.

I honestly do quite like living, you know.

Your faithful servant,

Wendy.

End Notes: Sigh. I give up on trying to normalize either chapter length or number of diary entries per chapter. It just won't be normalized. Just a pointless little remark from an author a little loopy on cold medicine. Yaay for NyQuil! :o)