+++++
For those of you out there who almost exclusively write angst, you no doubt
realize that when the mind is overloaded with character rage and "good ideas
for torture", it has a tendency to snap back. Well, my tendency is to snap,
period. This is just for fun, and Woodinat said I should post it. I
agreed with her. Yet more proof that the Internet brings insane people
together...
+++++

Mulder was distraught. His partner had been taken to the complicated sky by
aliens, or perhaps only killed. Only killed?, asked his mental voice,
enraged. How can you act so rational about something like that? His other
mental voices chimed in. Soon, it was like a Gregorian chant. It was like
having to climb that Skyland Mountain thing again, only with the cables
tensing a little closer to this left testicle than he typically found
pleasing.

He was sitting in his apartment alone, downing his last beer. Why in the
hell didn't he feel drunk? He held the label of the bottle closer to his
face. Non-alcoholic O'Douls. Oh. For dessert, maybe he could spoon the
frozen Bacardi out of the can. Two naked women on the porn video started
smearing one another with salsa and avocado dip. He couldn't see the green
of the avocado dip without thinking of those bastard aliens, and their
Syndicate dildos full of alien semen that would get to probe his pretty
partner before he did, dammit. Even "Tex Mex Sex", his favorite porn, had to
be sucked into the ruination of his life? There was irony in there
somewhere, but he didn't feel inspired, wily or manly enough to go in search
of it. His soul was a molecular biologist trying to catch amoebas with a
butterfly net.

As the two naked women dipped nachos into intimate areas, the doorbell rang.
Had he ordered his usual whore? Sometimes he did that when the shock was too
much, when the day pulled his arms behind him, twisted, and called him
"girlie." But no, he hadn't.

Answer the door! Cried the enraged voices.

Remind me to dose you with something psychotropic, he threatened them.

You're the one who replied back to our demand, they said snarkily.

His sigh was like the air being let out of a Tupperware container. The
voices had a point.

He put down his two-gallon bucket of fudge ripple on the couch and walked
forlornly to the door, as if he was being pushed and pulled, pummelled and
kneaded, breaded and fried all at once.

He opened the door.

Special Agent Alex Krycek grinned winsomely. "Hi there."

"Oh." Mulder said sadly. "It's you."

"I thought you might need a friend."

Mulder looked over his shoulder, almost hopefully. "You brought me a whore?"

Alex's grin disappeared like a subpoenaed CIA document. "I really don't know
you well enough to rudely assume I would understand or empathize with your
taste in whores. By friend, Mulder, I meant me."

"Alright then." Mulder stepped aside, a Fred Astaire with broken knees. "I
have fudge ripple and lesbian-food porno."

Krycek nodded. "I have a lust-engorged love rocket in my pants and a
horrifying lack of concern for your mental well-being."

Mulder looked up, eyes shining. "You know that shit about me not having a
bed isn't true, right?"

The voices sang Barry White that night, and the moon was a bright ball of
lunar joy in that complicated sky.

THE END.

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