"I have a Harley that stuttered and bailed on me. I think it's the
carburetor," Alex said, "How far are you from... uh, just a second."
Craning his head into the sleet, Alex saw the blinking red and blue sign. He
said, "I'm at the White Sot,"
"White Spot," the mechanic corrected, "if I told Melville once, I told him a
dozen times; git that 'p' replaced, but no, he's too cheap. He says everyone
in town knows it's the White Spot and foreigners better watch what they say.
Well, you are a piece down the road. You just stay put, Mister. Uh mister?"
"Al Arneson. So when can you get here?" Alex asked.
"Give me a few. I got this hearse to get back on the road. Fancy folks down
the road want to ship their dearly departed to a warmer place to be buried.
Don't want to wait for the thaw like us poor country folks," Stew said.
There was a spitting noise, followed by a hawking liquid snort. "You just
mind your manners and have a beer and a pot pie. Melville does a nice pot
pie if I say so."
"All right, this is a Harley, a classic Harley, can you work on it?" Alex
said.
"Cut my teeth on them," Stew promised, "I'm a man of principal. I'll work on
a Harley or an Indian, but none of them rice burners. A man's got to have
pride or he's less than a man."
The bar smelled of sweat, beer, and stale crotches. Alex made sure his
baseball cap was tight on his head, holding up his long, loose hair. He
hadn't had a haircut since he'd left the bureau, and his fine hair was by
now long enough to cover his ears; it flew into his eyes if he was not
careful. At first, he had been too depressed even to think about his
appearance, then Spender complained about the length, and as a result, Alex
stubbornly refused to cut it. He might have had it trimmed soon though. He
was on the run from his boss. There had been an unguarded safe; he'd been
sent back to fetch Spender's briefcase, and the road had opened up for Alex.
The first thing he had bought was the big Harley, a rumbling bitch of a
gasoline hog, but it felt as good between his legs as he imagined Mulder
would.
The crotch of his jeans felt tighter all of a sudden at the thought of his
ex-partner. Mulder was a big puppy. Alex had been given many chances to
observe the size of that torpedo. He wasn't sure if he could really
accommodate the whole thing, but a guy could die happy trying. Alex snorted.
The die part was more likely than the rest. Mulder no doubt still wanted to
kill him.
The burly bartender, a big man the size and shape of a grizzly bear,
shambled over. He flopped a menu down in front of Alex, but Alex pushed it
away, saying, "Stew says to order the pot pie."
Surprisingly, behind the formidable exterior beat the heart of the chef.
Alex feigned interest as the man expounded on the virtues of fresh peas,
baby carrots, and the merest touch of basil in the seasoning. It didn't hurt
to butter the man up; Alex made a point of garnering as much support as he
could in any situation. Unlike Mulder, he could not afford to piss people
off on principal. Finally done with his discourse on the history of pot pie,
the galumphing gourmet returned to his kitchen to produce the item in
question. Meanwhile, the barmaid, a plump and vacuous looking blonde in her
forties, drew Alex a beer and leaned down to display her
blue-ribbon-at-the-country-fair-cow-barn prize-winning mammary glands. Alex
pretended a shy look and then blushed becomingly. She looked pleased and
turned her attention back to two men in cowboy hats and sweatshirts with
deer painted on them.
Sipping the beer, Alex blended back into the scenery as he had learned to do
from early childhood. An alcoholic father and a hysterical, bitter mother
had left him with the desire to blend into whatever group seemed to promise
safety. Spender had refined that talent into an art form; now Alex slumped,
hiding his height, the cap shadowing his eyes, his corner seat allowing him
to observe without being seen.
Bored and miserable in the sleet which had been coming down all week, Mulder
found a grim consolation in the resolution of their latest case. He and
Scully had traced illegal, fully-automatic weapons to this remote and dismal
area of the country. A few months earlier, the North Dakota town might have
been picturesque under a blanket of snow. Now, it was merely dirty, cold,
and depressing.
Flooding gutters sloshed over onto the sidewalk concealing patches of ice,
which could—and had—landed Scully on her ass. Mulder had ruined a pair
of shoes slogging along with a unit of evidence response team agents through
a soggy and manure-piled field. They had evidence of major arms deals, a
nervous farmer already talking deals, and a clean collar of thirteen
high-ranking militiamen. Maybe, this would get Mulder off the shit list for
a while.
The morning after his shoes had been ruined, Mulder set off on a shopping
expedition. He finally managed to locate a small, men's apparel shop above
the Feed-n-Seed. The range of choices was limited, but the old-fashioned
wing tips he finally settled on were far and away better than any of the
dizzying array of boots he'd seen at the Army Navy store.
Selection made, he followed the garrulous saleslady, Alma, to the counter.
When he pulled out his Amex to pay, she appeared to be a bit taken aback.
She studied it intently, then studied him, a slight frown wrinkling her
forehead. Reaching under the counter, she pulled out a sheaf of paperwork.
Mulder leaned across to see what she was reading and wasn't all that
surprised to note that she held one of those lists that the credit card
companies sent out with stolen and cancelled card numbers as a courtesy to
merchants.
Mumbling to herself, Alma paged carefully through the sheets, stopping to
check his card number with alarming frequency. Every once in a while, she
glanced at him over the top of her glasses—each time, Mulder offered what
he hoped was a charming and reassuring smile.
Alma did not appear to be either charmed or reassured. An interminable
amount of time later, she set the pages aside and reached for the phone. "I
hate ta keep ya waitin', mister, but these days a body jest can't be too
careful. Why only last year, Woody over at the Mercantile got taked for
thirty dollars by a man with a stolen MasterCard. Mah husband insists that
ah call in any credit card purchase nowadays. Won't take but a minute."
Mulder sighed and wandered away to study the selection of long underwear.
Who'd have thought there were so many variations on that particular theme?
The bell over the door tinkled, announcing another customer. "Ruby!" Alma
greeted enthusiastically. "How's Oswald today? I heard that old cow of his
kicked him."
"Oh, he's fine, Alma. You know Oswald—once Doc tole him he should stay in
bed fer a couple of days, he was up and runnin'. Why, he ain't hardly
limpin' any longer. 'Sides, hiz wife is probably glad fer the break from
her conjugal duties."
The two shared a chillingly girlish giggle at Oswald's expense, and Mulder
moved further away, pretending to weigh the merits of flannel-lined jeans
versus flannel-lined corduroys.
"Lissen, Alma, ah jest couldn't wait to run over an' tell ya," Ruby leaned
forward and boomed secretively. "The ladies quiltin' circle over in Terma
found Jolene Whittaker in the church parking lot this mornin'."
"No!" Alma exclaimed.
"They sure did!" Ruby confirmed. "An', she was nekkid as a jaybird."
Apparently overcome by the information, Alma set the phone down and gave
Ruby her undivided attention. "But, ah thought she run off with that no
good third cousin of hers."
Ruby nodded sagely. "That's what we all thought. But when the ladies
brought her into the clinic, she kept babbling about lights an' probes an'
sech. Swears she's been flyin' around in a Space Ship!"
"Oh mah gawd!" Alma laid one hand upon her ample breasts. "The poor thing,
done lost her mind!"
"Well, you know that family. After all, her momma got right peculiar after
she went through—" Ruby paused to shoot a coy look in Mulder's direction,
then leaned closer to Alma and spoke from behind one hand. "The Change."
Alma was so stunned by the news that she wrote up Mulder's charge slip on
autopilot; all thoughts of credit authorization apparently having gone right
out of the proverbial window.
"An'," Ruby continued. "That's not all. Butch Sanderson disappeared last
night."
"Oh dear lord!" Alma sank down to sit on the chair behind her. "Whatever
will his wife do! Why, they jest had twins."
"Ah know, ah know." Ruby shook her head mournfully. "Ah can't imagine what
could've happened. Sheriff found his truck by the side of the road this
mornin'—right outside of Terma. Said ever'thin' looked normal. Said
there weren't even any footprints leadin' away from it."
Mulder had slowly moved closer and closer as the conversation progressed.
Damn! This was his kind of a case. Right up his alley, so to speak. He
signed the charge slip Alma had abandoned in her shock, tore off his own
copy, and made a quick retreat.
He couldn't wait to get back and tell Scully. An X-File. A real X-File!
Right here in the middle of nowhere. He just knew she'd be as excited as he
was at the opportunity to investigate something like this.
To his surprise, Scully said, "I have an appointment in a spa, an entire
weekend that Melissa bought me. I'm not going to miss this to chase
swamp-gas."
"If that's how you feel..." Mulder said resentfully.
"Mulder, try to stay out of trouble...one of the best things about this spa
is that cell phones are not allowed. They won't let anything short of a
family death disturb a guest," Scully said.
"Hey, no problem, I just want to ask a few questions...I'm going in
undercover," Mulder said.
Shuddering, Scully turned back and said, "Why do I have the premonition that
you're going to get in over your head again? Wait, don't answer that. It's
not an X-File, Mulder, it's a prediction based on your past exploits."
Still sulking, Mulder followed Scully into the hotel, where they took the
rickety elevator to the third floor. Mulder packed his bags before donning
the disguise he had selected. A gag store purchase temporarily made his
teeth mossy green with darker spots. Hair oil plastered his spiked hair flat
and unflatteringly to his head. A baggy pair of second-hand Levi's topped
with a camouflage sweatshirt which bore a bullseye design on the front
completed the disguise. He wore old boots from the same thrift store that
had yielded his clothing. Letting his back sag and his shoulders slump,
Mulder grinned at himself in the mirror. Fox Mulder had disappeared; no one
would be expecting to find him in this caricature.
After dropping Scully at the airport, Mulder switched the Budget Car for a
truck he had rented from a local. His thousand-dollar deposit was more than
the value of the truck; it sputtered and moved in a jerky manner as if
looking for a place to die. A tattered blanket that still could not pad
Mulder's ass from the springs that tormented it covered the seat. Patches of
rust hung like fur being shed from the body. The floor was worn through at
one spot allowing a view of the road.
Another bribe had bought him the information that the place to go in Terma
was a bar called the White Spot on the edge of town. Mulder had no trouble
finding the place, which sported a neon sign missing a 'p' and had an
illustration of a gyrating woman, with a blinking 'O' on her belly. The
parking lot was full. Just as he pulled into the lot, a Harley Davidson was
being hauled onto a tow truck. Mulder glanced at the bike without a great
deal of interest and found a large spot into which to maneuver the truck.
The bar was very full and Mulder settled in at the last empty table to study
the clientele. No one seemed to take much note of his presence—probably
all gossiping about Jolene and Butch.
Shortly, a trio entered. Two were large men with weather-worn faces. A
garishly made up woman, who looked as if she had some Indian in her
background, accompanied them. Red lipstick daubed her broad lips and she
laughed loudly before plunking down at Mulder's table. She said, "Hi, honey,
I'm Wilma and who are you, you handsome thing?"
Mulder smiled genially and trotted out his rehearsed cover story. "Hi, I'm
Marty Herbert from over Minot. I came out to look at the Jenkin's place. It
belongs to my cousin, Frank. He was worried about vandals, so I volunteered
to stop an' check on my way back from the auction in Jeromesville today,"
Mulder said.
The two men with Wilma sat down and Mulder bought a round of drinks. He
listened to local gossip with ill-concealed impatience, knowing that the
talk would eventually turn to the strange events that had taken place over
the past 12 hours or so.
Christ on a damned crutch. Even here, hell west of Bumfuck, he wasn't safe.
What the HELL was Mulder doing here?
And, more importantly, what had the man done to himself? He looked...
Jesus H. Christ, his TEETH were green. Krycek shuddered and shoved the few
remnants of his pot pie aside, appetite gone. He took another swallow of
his beer, and surreptitiously watched Mulder.
Surprisingly, his ex-partner seemed to be fitting in just fine. A little
too well, actually. With another shudder of distaste, Krycek just KNEW that
his favorite jerk-off fantasies would be forever intruded upon by this...
this horrible version of Mulder.
Well, seeing as Mulder appeared to be completely entranced by the words
coming from the bearded behemoth sitting at his table, Krycek decided that
now was as good a time as any to get the hell out of there. He threw
several bills on the bar next to his nearly empty plate and tugged down on
the bill of his cap. Satisfied that the admittedly weak disguise
camouflaged half of his face, Krycek climbed off of his barstool and
meandered casually towards the front door.
The woman at Mulder's table rose to her feet and turned to head in his
direction. As he was about to pass her, Krycek ducked his head and avoided
meeting her eyes. Just as he drew abreast of Mulder's table, the behemoth
stood and grabbed his shoulder.
"Hey, wassa matter with you, boy?" He leaned forward and spoke directly into
Alex's face. Flinching back from the blast of foul breath, Krycek
frantically searched his mind in the vain hope of identifying the source of
his apparent insult to the man.
"Ah," he hedged, trying like hell to keep his head turned in such a way that
Mulder wouldn't see his face. "Sorry, mister..."
"Don't tell ME yore sorry, boy," the man rumbled at him. He forcefully
shoved Krycek around until he faced the woman still standing at the table, a
satisfied smirk adding to the uneven line of her sloppily applied lipstick.
"You tip your hat to this lady, son."
Aw hell. The second redneck at the table pushed his chair back and rose to
his feet, looming threateningly as Krycek hesitated.
"You okay, Wilma?" he asked solicitously of the "lady" in question.
"Yeah, Oswald, I'm jest fine," she answered.
The bearded one, still holding Krycek by one shoulder, growled with
impatience and stared meaningfully at the ball cap still atop Krycek's head.
Giving in to the inevitable, Krycek sighed and removed his hat and nodded to
Ginny. "My apologies, ma'am," he started to say.
"Hey, lookee here, Little Jim," Oswald crowed. "You done caught yourself a
gen-yoo-ine hippy."
All three seemed to find this observation positively hilarious. As the
three enjoyed a great belly laugh at his expense, Krycek hung in one of
Little Jim's meaty paws, each guffaw that rolled through the man's massive
frame making him twitch in reaction.
And Mulder... Shit, shit, shit. He'd been recognized. The agent jumped up
from his chair and started for Krycek, blood in his eye. And, as Mulder
stepped closer, Krycek saw his chance. As soon as Mulder came within range,
Krycek kicked him in the knee, and twisted his body, lithely breaking the
hold on his shoulder. Rather than run, he decided a little... er, deflection
might be in order.
Grabbing the chair recently vacated by good old Wilma, Krycek held it by the
ladder- back, waving it in Mulder's direction in the best tradition of lion—and Fox—tamers the world over. "Watch him, folks. I know this guy—he
works for the GOVERNMENT."
Every eye in the bar turned to study Mulder suspiciously. Still hopping
about, clutching at the knee so abused by Krycek's steel-toed boot, Mulder
was oblivious to the fact that he'd become the center of attention. "Godamn
no good back-stabbing sonofabitch," Mulder cursed. "You're going to jail
this time, Kry—"
"He's with the FBI," Krycek yelled loudly.
A rumble went through the room and everyone moved a step closer. To Mulder.
Alex looked out the window and saw that his bike was gone. He was going to
have to use his wits to get out of here.
Pointing his finger at Mulder, Alex took a step nearer the door. "He's not
just an FBI agent. He's a faggot FBI agent! Why, him and J. Edgar used to go
shopping for dresses together. I have it from a reliable source."
"Oh mah sweet Jesus, I've been drinking beer with a pinko faggot fed! I'm
gonna toss my cookies!" Oswald gasped out.
Meanwhile, Little Jim had pawed through Mulder's grimy clothing and sure
enough the beautiful idiot was still carrying his FBI ID. The man shook
Mulder and said, "We got us another one!"
Alex had run out of there, popping into an unlocked car to hide. He peeped
over the door to see Mulder being dragged out of the bar into the parking
lot. Naturally, he was bleeding from a head wound. Rolling down the car
window a crack, Alex heard, "Gonna tar and feather you, FBI man!"
'Oh shit!' Alex leaned his forehead against the car door thinking. He
thought and then he thought again. Fucking crazy, you are so fucking crazy!
His former partner would just as well as kill him as see him. Getting Scully
back hadn't done much for his disposition. He'd gone for Alex like a mad
bull seeing red.
On the other hand, Alex had never seen anyone tarred and feathered. He
hot-wired the car, an old Buick Riviera; a big, boat-tailed wonder. Beneath
that hood, lay the heart of a Cadillac. Hell, it was worth stealing on
general principals alone. He'd always wanted one of these.
Alex joined several other vehicles in progress out of the lot. The big man
who had manhandled him sat imperiously in the bed of an old pick-up; Mulder
still tucked beneath his arm. You just had to shudder to think about what
that soiled and sweat-soaked armpit smelled like from up close.
The little procession wound out town. Alex pulled out as they turned down a
lane. The man in the front car got out to struggle with a gate that appeared
to have been made from the metal frame of a mattress spiked through with
barbed wire. He yelled and danced around, waving his hand after he snagged
it on a prong.
"Mother fucking gate, Jim, what's wrong with a regular gate?" the character
yelled.
Little Jim leaned over the side of the Dodge truck's bed and shouted back,
"My daddy made that gate. It's a good gate. Keeps the critters in and the
varmints out. If it was good enough for my daddy, it's damn right good
enough for the likes of you."
The truck and the two carloads of rednecks progressed down the road. One of
them fastened the gate loosely behind them. Now the sensible thing to do was
for Alex to take off. Get his bike and keep on going.
Turning that Riviera around, Alex looked at the floorboard and picked up an
eight- track. Damn, it was a time warp! But what the hell? A band called the
Kentucky Headhunters? He had to hear that.
(Besides it would drown out Mulder's cries as they dribbled hot tar all over
his tender body. Shit! Shut up guilt!)
Plugging the eight-track into the player, Alex heard, "You say you're sorry
once again, dear. You want me to take you back once more. You say you need a
helping hand, dear. That's what you told me once before."
Leaning his chin on the steering wheel, Alex told himself, 'Mulder asked for
it. He did. No skin off my back...'
Bet that felt like hell having hot tar on your skin. What happened
afterwards? Alex wasn't sure if the poor guys lived through it or not. Burns
hurt and Mulder had such tender skin, such smooth skin, so pretty. Too
pretty to be messed up by a bunch of rednecks! Alex resolutely captured the
shotgun from the back seat, patted his automatic in its small-of-the-back
holster, checked his ankle holster, and got ready to rock and roll.
Something was burning. It smelled like a freshly tarred street. Mulder
moaned and stirred as rough hands stripped off his disguise, leaving him
only the minimal dignity of his boxers. A filthy thumb lifted the waistband
of his boxers and the huge man from the bar said, "Hooo whee! Take a look at
the scud missile in this guy's pants!"
"That's disgusting, Little Jim," Oswald snapped. "Now where are the
feathers?"
"Fox got all of my chickens last week. Don't have no feathers," Little Jim
replied, scratching under his arms.
"Well, get a pillow then. He's skinny, one'll be plenty." Oswald said.
"You can't do this to me!" Mulder protested, "My partner is right in the
next town."
"Done it before. Done it to the census man who come spying. And the Revenue
man," Oswald mused, his thick tongue curling over his raw pork chops of
lips.
"Then there was the bible salesman..." Little Jim said.
"Well, that 'un was a mistake. Jesus, Jim, telling everyone he was selling
commie literature!" Oswald remarked, stirring the pot of roofing tar.
"Well, he was lording it over me that I couldn't read. Besides those were
all New Testaments. Probably was a commie. A bible-selling commie!" Little
Jim commented.
"If you wasn't my cousin twice-over on both sides, I'd whup you one, Jim. I
truly would," Oswald stated. "Now, get the pillow so we can get on with
this!"
"I'm out of the feather pillows. Got me all those foam rubber ones, three
for ten at Wal-mart," Little Jim announced.
"Well, that ain't right," a skinny old man remarked, "Can't rightly tar and
foam rubber a man. Ain't decent."
Rubbing his chin, Little Jim said, "Well, hell, if it's good enough for
Wal-mart, it's good enough for this F-B-fucking-I man."
"He's got a point," said a pink-skinned blond man who might have been
handsome if he weren't missing most of his teeth as well as a jagged bite of
ear. "Foam rubber will stick just fine."
Whimpering, Mulder shivered on the cold ground as the man-mountain named
Little Jim took off to get the pillows. Not only was he going to be tortured
to death, but also he was going to be a foolish corpse. "Jesus Christ, you
could at least send out for real feathers! No one tars and foam-rubbers
anyone...all the other terrorists are going to find out and laugh at you."
A huge fist slammed into him and Mulder went nighty-night for the second
time in the last four hours.
"Damn!" Krycek winced in sympathy as he watched Mulder collapse back to the
ground, unconscious again. "Only Mulder... This could only happen to
Mulder. Where the hell are your aliens when you need them, Mulder?"
He pulled the car as close to the gate as possible, turning it so they could
make a fast escape once he'd managed to get the man away from the ravening
mob. Climbing out, he slung the shotgun over his shoulder and, after a
brief struggle, got the gate open. As he walked up to join the crowd, he
hoped Little Jim was distracted enough by the tarring part of the operation
that he wouldn't notice that the gate gaped open enough for a man to slip
through.
As he approached the fringes of the mob, Krycek suddenly and inexplicably
felt every hair on his body rise. He shook his head in confusion. What the
hell— "DAMN!" Oswald yelled, pointing to the eastern sky. "What in gawd's name
is THAT?"
As one, Krycek and the crowd turned to look. Again as one, they all stood
staring gape-jawed at the sight they beheld. It was a ship. A great BIG
mother of a ship. Krycek had been forced to view Mulder's collection of UFO
photos often enough to identify the object immediately as an actual alien
ship.
Slowly, majestically, the object glided close, until it hovered over the
still and silent group of men. A column of light shone from its underbelly,
sweeping the crowd back and forth. A cacophony of shrieks, moans and the
occasional call for 'Mommy' could be heard coming from the men. After a
moment, the light settled on Little Jim. Ever so slowly, the behemoth rose
up into the light as the ship rotated and started moving off to the south.
"Jim!" Oswald screamed. "C'mon boys—it's got mah cousin."
Oswald in the lead, the assembled company took off running across the field
in pursuit of the ascending form of Jim.
Shaking off his own shock, Krycek dashed forward and grabbed Mulder,
throwing him over one shoulder in a fireman's hold. He abandoned the
shotgun in favor of steadying the dead weight he hefted, and ran like hell
for the Riviera.
Pausing only long enough to toss Mulder's oblivious body into the seat ahead
of him, Krycek climbed in and turned the engine over with a quick twist of
the key. As he drove away, he tracked the progress of the UFO in the
rearview mirror. At last sight, Little Jim appeared to have been sucked up
into the craft. Oswald and company were still running pell-mell across the
field in pursuit of their comrade, as Alex went over a rise in the road and
lost sight of them.
The radio blasted out, "Radar Love" as the Buick Riviera purred down the
road with all the might of its V-Eight engine. Alex had cracked the window.
His long hair was flowing in the wind, and he was feeling damn good!
A pool of dampness collected on Alex's leg. He'd propped Mulder in the
passenger seat and fastened his seatbelts...DOT statistics don't lie you
know, it is safer to wear a seat belt. However, somehow or other Mulder had
drooped his way out of the shoulder belt. His mouth rested on Alex's denim
clad jeans. His warm breath puffed over Alex's thigh and little Alex was
standing up and waving. Sex, rock, and a hot car...that was living!
Snorting, Mulder came back to life. Cautiously, Alex pulled over down a dirt
road that led down to the river that flowed a baleful muddy yellow across
the flat landscape. He pulled to a stop, hidden from the road by a thin
grove of the overgrown weeds that passed for trees in this harsh landscape.
He didn't want to be driving if Mulder was going to go for his throat.
Pushing himself upright, Mulder said, "Scully?" in a 'little boy lost' kind
of voice.
Yeah, right, the jackass! Mommy went away and left you with no one but the
big, bad, double agent to bail you out of trouble.
Rolling back against the greasy headrest, Mulder uttered a groan and
gingerly touched the tar, which had already dried on his sparsely haired
chest. His pretty nipples were untouched, but he was going to lose the patch
of brown curls decorating his breastbone. Speckles of the stuff splattered
Mulder's smoothly muscled arms.
"Krycek? How the hell did you get me in this car?" Mulder demanded.
So far, so good, he hadn't got physical. Mulder did look pitiful with the
remains of his disguise, his tar bedecked chest, and the bump on his
forehead. "The sod of the earth was distracted by a UFO before I could
figure out a way to get you out of there without getting hurt," explained
Alex.
"Why?" Mulder demanded.
"I don't really like getting hurt, Mulder," Alex answered.
And Mulder returned one of those 'God, grow a brain looks' he'd shot at Alex
so many times when he'd been playing at partners. He said, "No, I meant why
did you bother rescuing me? What are your intentions?" Soft chuckles
bubbled from within Mulder's chest. Alex stared, dumbfounded, at the man
whose whole body was shaking with laughter.
"What?" Alex demanded.
Straightening at last, Mulder affected a Jane Austen voice and said, "Well?
Your intentions? Are they honorable?"
"Shit, Mulder, you must have been hit on the head one too many times!" Alex
exclaimed.
"Ouch! Fuck!" Mulder answered as he tried to peel the tar off his chest.
"This won't come off."
The back seat held a bag of groceries. Spaghetti noodles, a jar of
ready-made sauce, a loaf of French bread, toilet paper, condoms, a bottle of
extra virgin olive oil...
Alex grabbed the oil and said, "This might help. I'll just pour some of this
on and see what I can do. Lift your chin."
It was a good idea. The oil spread soothingly over Mulder's chest and the
man settled back, sprawled out, a sigh of relief quivering from his lips.
Mulder had a pretty chest, lovely nipples. Lovely nipples that were peaking
at Alex's occasional straying touches. Mulder's eyes opened, gazing at Alex
beneath his lashes.
The tar was yielding to the olive oil and to Alex's massaging hands. Soon
he'd have to stop touching Mulder. There'd be no excuse. Alex gave a little
frustrated sigh.
"That feels nice," Mulder remarked, guiding Alex's hand lower, sliding it
down his belly, guiding it between his boxers and his hot, hot skin. Alex
nearly jerked his hand away as it encountered the hard, curved arc of
Mulder's cock.
Staring at Mulder, Alex could only wonder if the blows to the head had
worked some marvelous change on Mulder's personality?
"One time only, Alex, payback," Mulder purred, plucking at Alex's turtleneck
sweater. "I'm a man who pays his debts."
Shaking a little, distrustful, Alex pulled the garment off. Mulder had the
button for his jeans undone in a moment. He eased the denim down off Alex's
hips, taking the black briefs with them. "No more white BVDs?" Mulder asked.
"That wasn't me," Alex said, "It was somebody's idea of what a junior agent
would wear."
"It was cute. Would you wear them for me again someday? Should have made a
move then," Mulder mourned.
Kicking his boots off, Alex started to pull off his jeans. Mulder reached
down and tugged them off for him. Mulder lowered the seat suddenly, causing
Alex to sprawl over him, having to catch himself quickly lest he fall over
into Mulder's sore-looking chest. An easy move, flipping Alex over and
straddling him on the seat, and the seemingly languorous agent had become a
tiger.
Fortunately, Mulder was truly able to separate his feelings into neat boxes.
This one was labeled XXX and high explosives. Mulder kissed as if he had a
lifetime to do it. The first brush of his lips was like fire. Alex almost
forgot to kiss back. One of Mulder's hands entwined with his, holding his
arm down strongly. The other hand stroked through Alex's hair. He murmured
words, which were smothered in his kisses. Alex couldn't quite make them
out, but it didn't matter.
This moment was his. He would ask no questions, make no demands, take it
all, take it, and keep it, hold onto it wherever he went and what ever
happened to him. A moan fluttered out as Mulder let his hand go, to place it
on his ass instead, stroking him, kneading him and Alex would have let him
do anything, anything at all, as long as he didn't stop.
The car was roomy, but they still kept hitting into handles, knocking
against the gearshift. Mulder swore and pulled away. Alex was afraid he had
changed his mind. Instead, Mulder snaked an arm into the back and snagged a
blanket that was crumpled there. "Let's take it outside."
The ground was cold, but Alex hardly felt it as Mulder pushed him down flat,
his palms flat on Alex's thighs, holding him down. His hands felt like fire.
And his mouth, that opulent mouth sliding down his cock, tongue exploring
lightly. Sparks flew out from the nova of Mulder's interior. Alex was
arching, aching, palpating with need.
"Wait, you can wait," Mulder chided. He stood up and returned to the car,
Alex stayed as he had been left, afraid that if he moved the spell would be
broken.
Then Mulder was back, sliding a condom onto Alex, surprising him. He poured
some olive oil on his hand and slid his fingers into his anus, preparing
himself, making a show of it. He was meeting Alex's eyes, smiling down at
him.
Reminding himself not to think, not to speculate beyond the moment. Alex
moaned, putting the pictures away in his soul because his heart was not
enough.
Then Mulder was on him, taking him...enveloping him. Their bodies straining
towards each other. Alex managed to get his hand on Mulder, stroking him
once or twice before Mulder shuddered and came. Alex wanted to hold back but
it was too much and he spun away, falling back to Earth. A moment later,
Mulder lay beside him shivering in the cold. Alex brought part of the
blanket up to shield them. More kisses, Mulder's hands claiming him,
remaking him, lips tasting him, devouring him. He was afraid. Mulder was
taking him all, leaving nothing, and he was willing for it to happen. He
offered it and at that moment, if Mulder had said he had to turn himself in,
he might have done it for a kiss.
However, Mulder didn't. After a last kiss, his tongue wrapped around Alex's,
Mulder said, "We're going to freeze, beautiful; let's get up."
Cleaning up the best as they could with paper towels and more of the olive
oil, they were both silent, not looking at each other. "I should arrest you,
Alex, you know that."
"I have the guns, Mulder." Alex said. He might be in love, but he still had
his instincts. Dying wasn't on his agenda. Not for a long time. On the
whole, he'd rather be in Philadelphia.
Mulder looked at Alex and said, "Yeah, I see that. Oh, well, I'm not in a
hurry to see you in jail. Why, Alex? Why did you do it?"
"Mulder, you have no idea what it's really like..." Alex said. "Come on,
let's get out of here."
Mulder turned on the heater, tuned in the radio. Mulder locked his arms in
back of his head and closed his eyes again. Alex glanced at him. It felt
like old times. Mulder twitched, rubbed his nose. "We were good together."
"Yeah, we are," Alex said. "We are."
"Krycek, just because..." Mulder had sat up and now his eyes went round in
surprise. He asked, "How fast can this thing go?"
"Pretty damn fast," Alex replied. His eyes checked the rearview mirror,
seeing the cars moving up on them. "Oh, shit,"
"Yeah, that's my assessment too. Get us the hell out of here," Mulder
yelled.
Gravel spun from beneath the wheels. Mulder turned around and gaped back. He
said, "You know, Alex. There are cops back there. I can see the lights."
The siren squealed, but Alex kept going. There was a ton of dust and the
engine hummed. After a while, Mulder started laughing and he yelled, "Yee
haw, Alex, you got 'em. Just keep going...and don't stop."
And Alex laughed and that's what he did...
Uneasy Rider
I was takin' a trip out to LA toolin' along in my Chevrolet
Uneasy Rider
by Jennie and Ursula
Damn Harley! Alex kicked at the malingering bike and stubbed his toes.
Limping he pushed the bike up to the telephone booth he had spotted. Wet and
exhausted, he huddled in his battered leather jacket and stuffed his long
hair up beneath his baseball cap. The yellow pages were eight pages, half of
it bars, and a further quarter of it churches. However, there was one garage
listed. Alex called the place and got the usual, flatly-nasal, North Dakota
voice. "Stew's Garage, what can I do you for?"
By Charlie Daniels
tokin' on a number and diggin' on the radio
jes' as I cross the Mississippi line
I heard that highway start to whine
and I knew that left rear tire was about to go
well the spare was flat and I got uptight
'cause there wasn't a fillin' station in sight
so I jes' limped down the shoulder on the rim
I went as far as I could and when I stopped the car
it was right in front of this little bar
a kind of a redneck lookin' joint called the Dew Drop Inn
well I stuffed my hair up under my hat
and told the bartender that I had a flat
and would he be kind enough to give me change
for a one there was one thing I was sure proud
to see there wasn't a soul in the place
'cept for him an' me and he jest looked disgusted
an' pointed toward the telephone.
I called up the station down the road a ways
and he said he wasn't very busy t'day
and he could have somebody there
in jest 'bout ten minutes or so
he said now you jes' stay right where yer at
and I didn't bother tellin' the durn fool
I sure as hell didn't have anyplace else to go.
I jes ordered up a beer and sat down at the bar
when some guy walked in an'
said who owns this car with the peace sign
the mag wheels and four on the floor?
Well he looked at me and I damn near died
and I decided that I'd jus wait outside
so I layed a dollar on the bar
and headed for the door
jes' when I thought I'd get outta there
with my skin these five big dude come strollin' in
with this one old drunk chick and
some fella with green teeth an'
I was almost to the door
when the biggest one said
you tip your hat to this lady son
an' when I did all that hair fell out from underneath
now the last thing I wanted was to get
into a fight in Jackson Mississippi
on a Saturday night 'specially
when there was three of them and
only one of me well they all started laughin'
and I felt kinda sick and I knew
I'd better think of somethin' pretty quick
so I jes' reached out an' kicked ol' green-teeth
right in the knee he let out a yell
that'd curl your hair but before he could move
I grabbed me a chair and said watch him folks
'cause he's a thouroughly dangerous man.
Well you may not know it but this man's a spy.
He's an undercover agent for the FBI
and he's been sent down here
to infiltrate the Ku Klux Klan.
He was still bent over holdin' on to his knee
but everyone else was lookin' and listenin' to me
and I layed it on thicker and heavier as I went .
I said would you beleive this man
has gone as far as tearin'
Wallace stickers off the bumpers of cars
and he voted for George McGoveren
for president well he's a friend of them
long-haired hippie type pinko fags.
I betcha he's even got a Commie flag
tacked up on the wall inside of his garage.
He's a snake in the grass I tell ya guys
he may look dumb but that's jus a disguise
he's a mastermind in the ways of espionage
they all started lookin' real suspicious at him
and he jumped up an' said jes' wait a minute, jim.
you know he's lyin' I've been livin' here all of my life
I'm a faithfull follower of Brother John Burch
and I belong to the Antioch Baptist Church
and I ain't even got a garage—- you can call home and ask my wife/
Then he started sayin' somethin' 'bout the way
I was dressed but I didn't wait around to hear
the rest I was too busy movin' and
hopin' I didn't run outta luck and
when I hit the ground I was makin' tracks
and they were jes' takin' my car
down off the jacks so I threw the man a twenty
an' jumped in an' fired that mother up.
Mario Andretti woulda sure been proud of the way.
I was movin' when I passed that crowd
comin' out the door and headin' toward me
in a trot an' I guess I shoulda gone ahead
an' run but somehow I couldn't resist the fun
of chasin' them jes' once around the parkin' lot
Well they're headin' for their car
but I hit the gas and spun around and
headed them off at the pass.
Well I was slingin' gravel and puttin' a ton of dust
in the air well I had them all out there
steppin' an' a fetchin' like their heads were on fire
and their asses was catchin'
but I figured I oughta go ahead an split
before the cops got there when I hit the road
I was really wheelin' had gravel flyin'
and rubber squeelin' an' I didn't slow down
'til I was almost to Arkansas
I think I'm gonna re-route my trip.
I wonder if anybody'd think I'd flipped
if I went to LA via Omaha
