"I hate the Bills." Spender muttered when they were riding in
the elevator to his apartment at the Watergate.
"They didn't even make it to the playoffs," Krycek
answered, as he held the door for Spender. "They're out of it
this year." He added soothingly.
"I hate the Bills," Spender said again as he poured himself a
scotch and lit a cigarette.
Krycek wished he had a drink too, preferably several. He wished he
were in the large suite the Consortium maintained for visiting
guests, killers, scientists, and shape shifters. The guys downstairs
had the game on, beers in the fridge and Hoagies on the table. It was
kick-off time. He sighed soundlessly; even hours of pre-game hype was
better than being stuck with Old Smoky. Didn't the man ever take
a day off; it was Super Bowl Sunday goddamn-it, and he had three big
ones on the outcome.
"I've got a job for you Alex," Spender said. "This
one is delicate and handling it properly will go a long way in
advancing your career with us."
Krycek nodded and hoped the mark lived far enough away that he'd
get to hear the game on the car radio. Maybe he could time the hit
just right and take care of it during halftime.
Spender handed him a sheet of Watergate stationery. He read the
writing on the paper: William Johnson, Billy Pruitt, and Wilhelm
Schmidt. "I believe you know where these gentlemen live,
Alex?" Krycek nodded. "Take care of it," Spender said,
picked up the remote for the TV, dismissed Krycek with an indifferent
wave of his hand, and switched on the game.
Krycek stopped by the suite downstairs and picked out a couple of
unregistered guns. The guys were all there, gathered round the TV.
They took the time to make sympathetic gestures or wise-ass grins, as
Krycek put the weapons in one of the empty Subway bags. They all
chanted "Bills, Bills, Bills," as he closed the door.
Bastards, Krycek thought as he made his way to the underground
parking lot, but he knew it was useless to complain. Every year it
was the same thing and this time it was his misfortune to be the one
selected to do the wet work and miss the game.
But three? Krycek muttered to himself, as he checked his vehicle for
car bombs or bodies in the trunk that some lazy ass might have left
there for him to clean up. Three was two more than he expected.
Krycek frowned as he turned into the Martin Luther King library
parking lot; he was tired of the same shit every year. Just because
he was a hit man didn't mean he shouldn't have the occasional
day off. That decided, he went into the library and sat down at the
nearest computer terminal. He logged on and typed a message. Krycek
hit send, sat back and grinned. He wished he could be there when
Mulder tried to get a 302 out of Skinner for an X File about the
large number of Bills that died every Super Bowl Sunday.
End
Balls
by Flutesong
Alex Krycek wearily rubbed his forehead. This was the worst time of
year for all the Consortium hit men. If he'd ever had doubts
about Spender's sanity, he was now, totally convinced the man was
bonkers.
