It's an intimate look into the mind of Skinner in a style reminiscent of the show. Granted, Skinner is a whiny little punk with tendencies towards overdramatized narrative thought and he smells like cat food, but nobody's perfect. People who don't smell like cat food are closer to perfect.
With his intent on completely banging Mulder, Skinner reveals a vital flaw to the inner workings of the FBI. It's no wonder nothing is done. "Hey you want to look into this drug deal?" "No, there are aliens about." "Wanna bang?" "I'd like that very much."
It's a celebration, a party of sorts, a time to look toward the past and wonder what specific events lead us to the current time. Based on the X-files, the show that made bad writing possible for network television, this sultry tale is a reflection piece into madness or a reflective view into pure obsession. Whichever floats your boat.
I am sitting on the porch of the house I have finally made my own. That I've made my home. I've trimmed back the bushes, painted the slats, bought a bird feeder. Life is good--right? Actually, yes. Life is good.
I'm sitting on the chair I've made my own. It's not my home, but it's an intricate part of me, a sick reflection of torn fabric and butt impressions. It's a good chair. This chair is great. Actually yes, this chair is the embodiment of all things good in this world. Not like you and these damn memories you leave behind. Thoughts of a world filled with only us, simply loving. Is that too much to ask? Do you remember how we started? No, because you were drunk, you were drunk and I was your whore.
We drank beer after beer until we were swaying--he more noticeably than I. He was eating peanuts at a mad pace, peanut after peanut.
I don't understand why this is such a big deal. Nuts are an intricate part of the beer drinking experience. I prefer pretzels, but really, it's all apples and oranges when you stop to think about it. The goal to all of this is to retain regularity in the digestive tract. Bet you didn't know that. Granted, I made that little nugget up. Nugget, get it? I've made a pooping joke and thus I'm officially six years old. Just like the six-year-old child that you abandoned. Look at his face, I SAID LOOK AT IT. He's just like you, but you know what he doesn't have? He doesn't hate. He doesn't overly simplify the world only to abolish the concept of good. He is not his father's son, but you're a runner. Lie in your bed, poorly constructed Wolf Parade reference. Lie in it.
But that night he wasn't angry. Tired, rather. Drunk and a bit teary, in a way I might have found annoying had I been totally sober myself. But I wasn't, so I rubbed his shoulderblades and half an hour later blinked to find myself lying next to Fox Mulder in his own bed, while he lay sleeping, naked and sated.
Skinner slipped Mulder a date rape drug. Good for him. When imaginary villains like aliens consume your life, it's nice to have something based in the real world. Unfortunately, this basing comes in the form of your drunken boss fondling you while you sleep. As someone who's worked management, I can attest to this never actually happening in the field. Especially on April 14, 2004, nothing bad or inappropriate happened on this date. Take that plausible deniability. I don't care what your mother says. She wasn't there. Okay, maybe she was. Sometimes people want to be tied to chairs while exotic dancers shove their pulsating bodies towards their barely conscious forms. Nobody gets hurt, numbers are exchanged, friends made. You're the one with the issues of jealously.
We sniffed each other like cat and dog, each of us doubtful of the other's domesticity, each of us contemplating our previous history. Hmm. And with good reason. I mean, some doubts were history, but this was different terrain. Goodbye Consortium, hello gay condominium? No.
Sleeping with Mulder, a man exposed to countless alien viruses and such is a good idea. Making a decent human being out of him is out of the question. Why is that? Does he snore? Maybe he forgets to put the seat down afterwards? Do you look away while he calls you "lover"? Why don't we look at each other when we make love? You seem distant. You have this look. Remember when you called me Princess and stroked my hands with your balding head, whispering to me that places we would one day go together? Those were good dreams. Those were our dreams, but you killed those dream when you whored yourself to that red head. Screw yourself, Skinner.
Racquetball, a screw--I think we're typical men, Mulder and I.
Nothing quite loosens up the muscles after racquetball or so I've heard. I don't know places. Places you never want to go to anymore. No, look at us, I'm sick of this. All we ever do is fight. What I want you to do is react. Call me a slut. Grab my hair. All you ever do is just lie there and there's a sense of pain in your eyes. Maybe it would just be better if we ended this. That's not what I want. Your eyes put the idea into my head, your cold dead emotionless eyes.
Stupid to feel this happy just to look at him? Stupid, no. It is too sweet a life. How could I be anything but happy?
Stupid question, that.
I hate you, FBI director Skinner. I hate your soul.
Your Moment of Insanity
No details, just a boozy mutual warmth which left us with requisite hangovers and a sense of dazed dismay that sparked zippily between us the next morning when we both pulled ourselves back upright with the fuzzy Neanderthal grunts of creatures forcing themselves to assume more-or-less human levels of consciousness.
Your Musical Moment Provided By ???
Take off the jeans and crawl into the new sheets you brought me and the bed may be too small for me, but it wasn't when I was seven. (Editor's Note: Really? You refrained from quoting "David Duchovny" by Bree Sharpe? I hate you so much.)
Stevehen J. Warren is a trained professional in dealing with the crap society churns out. If possible, do not attempt to engage any crap you may find. He mocks it so you don't have to.
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