Date: Thu, 18 Jun 1998 22:54:30 -0400 Subject: All the Children are Insane 1/1 NC17 From: mustangsally78@juno.com (MustangSally Seventy-Eight) TITLE: All the Children are Insane 1/1 AUTHOR: MustangSally Who *is* crazy enough to post the night before the movie opens CLASSIFICATION: MSR Hurt/Comfort/First Time Cliche CONTENT WARNING: NC17 for sex and alcohol, first person present tense narrative and cruelty. Elements of satire. Did I miss anything? SUMMARY: The Fan-Fiction Writer's Union (NJ Local #527) required post 'End' vignette. SPOILER WARNING: The End DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Gossamer. All others by permission. THE DISCLAIMER: Apologies to The Doors and anyone who thought I had any credibility whatsoever. This is the end Beautiful friend This is the end My only friend, the end Of our elaborate plans, the end Of everything that stands the end No safety or surprise, the end I'll never look into your eyes...again I swear to God, if he puts another three dollars in the jukebox and sets the Doors on eternal loop again, I'm going to fucking punch him in the mouth. I feel like I'm back in 'Nam, or at least sitting through a Coppola movie. I wonder when Marlon Brando is going to show up. Nah, too late for Brando, the Happy Hour bar food buffet is long over. Buffet. I could go for some Jimmy Buffet right now. I wouldn't classify myself as a Parrothead, but I do know all the words to "Cheeseburger in Paradise". I could go for a cheeseburger right now, a big greasy burger with cheese fries, Cholesterol City, a heart attack on a plate, and then a chocolate sundae. But I'll have another vodka tonic instead, heavy on the limes. I need the vitamin C. Good stuff prevents rickets. Better than Jim fucking druggie Morrison groaning in the background. Food. Would have been a good idea at some point. So I'm drinking heavily with nothing in my stomach but half a cheese sandwich that I ate before the phone rang. My body is going to hate me tomorrow. But the next drink comes and I stab the cocktail straw into the lime slice and start mashing it into the bottom of the glass, it's better that way. I look over at the line of glasses in front of us on the sweaty surface of the bar and realize that I am totally and completely drunk. At this point, Mulder is three drinks ahead of me, which is fine, since he's about twice my weight and mass so he can drink more than I can. We're having a wake, an exclusive wake, by invitation only, and it's a half-assed wake at best sine there isn't any body, the body's already been cremated. Well, I'm having a wake and Mulder is sitting shiva. We're having an invitation-only, alcohol-lubricated, politically correct, multi-denominational post-death ceremony for something that was never alive. Well, a bunch of papers, filing cabinets, and office furniture were transformed into charcoal following an application of combustible fluid. It was either that or spontaneous filing cabinet combustion, but that's something that even Mulder "King of the Strange" has never heard of. Imagine that. Well, I wouldn't have believed it myself if I didn't have the soot and crap all over my hands and the smell of fire in my hair. Can you picture what will be So limitless and free Desperately in need...of some...stranger's hand In a...desperate land "There's a truck driving school outside Fairfax. We could sign up there." Mulder offers and empties yet another shot glass of Scotch between his lips, the thinner upper one and the lower one that always looks a little swollen. Swollen like he'd been kissing someone. Someone other than me. "I'm going to sign up at a beauty academy, learn how to do nails. There's a lot of money in nails." "Isn't that pushing your luck? The chemicals are all carcinogens." "I laugh at cancer," I say in a voice that has many shades of not-laughter in it and go hunting for the squished lime at the bottom of my glass with my lips. The ice is cold. It's nice to know that there are some laws of the universe that are still operating as normally expected. "What are we going to do?" I ask and the question heats up my cold lips. "Beats the shit out of me." This is as close to an admission of defeat that I was ever going to get to from him. He better not start crying, I don't think that I can handle a six-foot crying hunk - I mean - drunk tonight. Who was I kidding? I couldn't handle much of anything right now. I didn't even want to be in this bar in Alexandria working on liver damage. I wanted to be home with my favorite afghan and a whole container of Ben & Jerry's and a soupspoon. When I woke up from the sugar coma it would all be over. But the problem is that when I woke up it was all going to be the same, the happiness fairy was not going to come along and sprinkle happy-ending dust all over everything and make it all go away. Instead, I was going to get a visit from the hangover fairy. Bastard. I knew he had something to do with it. That fucking RJ Reynolds poster boy. All forensics needed was to find a Morley butt somewhere. Then I'd know. Suspicion cleared to certainty. The next time I saw him I was going to waste his skinny, wrinkled, dried up, hemorrhoid-ridden, incontinent old ass. I was going to make him look down the barrel of my Smith & Wesson and inhale lead. Then I was going to make a notch in the side of my Coty 24-Hour Classic Auburn lipstick. That's what you do when you don't have a gun belt. I think. They don't brief you on the etiquette of female macho when you join up with the Bureau. Maybe I could write a book about it and retire to a nice inbred, paranoid, provincial town in Maine with killer dolls or something. I could write mysteries like Patricia Cornwall, only I'd get the science right and there would be more instances of mind-melting sex. Hey, you have to get it where you can. "Last call," the bartender says and I look at my watch to protest, but I realize that it is after two in the morning. How time flies when one is thoroughly enjoying oneself. "Mulder," I say and he fails to look at me. I give him a sharp kick to the shin and this shocks him out of his daze. "Yeah?" "These nice people want to go home." The bartender and the waitress look mournful. I guess it must not be fun watching a pair of morose drunks get drunker and moroser. Maybe I could wait tables; I could get those ever so stylish white shoes and work at a diner. I think I can tease my hair and I ought to be able to get green eye shadow somewhere. I realize with a small shudder of horror that I am probably not going to be able to afford my Body Shop addiction anymore. "Right," he agrees and gets to his feet like a tree falling in reverse. "Come home with me, Scully." He says. Naturally, I am in no shape to drive. Lost in a Roman...wilderness of pain And all the children are insane All the children are insane Waiting for the summer rain, yeah She's going to walk right out of my life the same way that she walked in, with bright eyes and impeccable posture, which I know she does to make herself seem more imposing. She doesn't need back the help. I feel like someone has ripped out half of my heart and run it through a cuisinart before nuking it in a microwave for ten minutes on high. Mulder Aorta souffle anyone? You see, now that the files are all gone, now that there is no need to monitor me, they'll send her away somewhere. I'll be sent to ISU and that will be the end of it. Just a momentary lapse of reason. I'm going to have to get a lobotomy to deal with this; anti-depressants are just not going to do the job. On the other hand, I'm thinking that I could drive into the wilds of Virginia and find a gun store where they think that the Brady Bill has something to do with their constitutional rights to watch re-runs, and get myself an AK47. Then I could go into the next Bureau management meeting and start downsizing. I hate to think that Skinner either knew it was coming from one of his unsavory contacts or has been given the gift of prophecy. Either way it fills me with dread. The latter more than the former. Skinner as oracle is not a comfortable idea. Skinner as Oscar is more appropriate. Oblivious to my dark thoughts, Scully taps along next to me, playing Ganymede to my Cassio. Or whoever. The 12th Night brain cells are not responding to anything coming from the server. The storefronts are all dark, only the odd light here and there illuminating the blank stare of a sculptured head of a classical statue. I realize that I am weaving down the genteel streets of Olde Town Alexandria with the unsteady waver of the woefully drunk. Scully is not doing much better, but her height makes it less obvious. Christ she's tiny. I forget that since she takes up such a large part of my consciousness. Half the time I don't realize that I really ought to get down on my knees to look her in the eye because her eyes pull me in like blue magnetized titanium. She's going to leave me. I know it. The Masonic Temple pierces the cloudy sky like the cock of yet another secret organization raping the country. I stop and stare up at it for a moment, through a thin mist and the mist thickens into rain. A hot little hand grabs mine through the cold rain. "It's raining." "Yeah." I let her lead me back to my apartment building where you can still see the tape marks on my unwashed window. My key doesn't want to fit the lock anymore, and I have to cajole it like a cranky virgin. You can't break through a doorframe that many times and not have lingering lock issues. She leans flat up against the wall next to my door, her hair sticking wet to her face, mascara running black tears down the sides of her thin face and shuts her eyes. She sighs. She sighs a lot. I can't remember the last time I saw her smile. Maybe she can't smile anymore, maybe they took that away from her too. They took her future, and now they've taken mine, but you can't weigh oocytes with paper files - it isn't a fair trade. The weight of her breasts against her soaked cotton sweater is a false facade, secondary sex characteristics designed, among other things, to attract the male of the species with a promise of ripe fertility and the pleasures of the task of being fruitful and multiplying. Deceptive advertising, since I would have better luck trying to reproduce with a brown paper bag, at least the bag might grow mold. A brown paper bag wouldn't be so soft and warm with parted lips leaning with her head back and her shoulders flat to the wall, water puddling around her shoes on the scuffed wood floor. A brown paper bag wouldn't smell like shampoo, vanilla, and an undertone of sweaty womanskin. Her throat has precisely the same arch as a well-thrown curve ball. The key is not cooperating and I let it rest for a moment, hoping that it will change its mind. One crystal eye opens. "What's the matter?" "I can't get it in." It hits me that this is perhaps the funniest thing that I have ever said in my life and I start to laugh the laugh of a drunk. Scully's disgust melts after a moment and I realize that she is grinning at me through her streaked face. "You should have taken it out to dinner first, bought it a few drinks, whispered sweet nothings in its ear." "What are sweet nothings?" Her hand grabs the arm of my sodden jacket and pulls me down so my ear is scant millimeters away from her face. Hot breath stirs the delicate cilia inside my head and sends the short hairs on the back of my neck into attack mode. "Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing," she says in a voice that would not have been out of place on a 900 number. The hairs on the back of my neck are no longer the only thing reaching for the sky as her drunkenly wavering lips graze my earlobe. Christ, I'm sporting wood like a teenager. I jerk like a man in the electric chair, but she doesn't leave go my arm. The water leaking from her hair runs into the collar of my shirt and starts running down the gooseflesh skin on my chest. She needs to stop, to stop now, before things get any worse, before anything else gets laid out on a pyre of files and ignited. You see, you can't reconstruct the thoroughly burnt offering to the pagan gods and the gods are very, very hungry tonight for another sacrifice and the metal arms of Baal reach out over the cauldron flames to drop yet another boychild into the fiery furnace below. I read too much. I think too much. I talk entirely too much. I do nothing. Almost nothing. You see the warmth of her skin in the wet wrapping of her clothes is just too much for drunk and horny old me. That curve of her neck is precisely the right size and shape for my hand, and her skin is precisely the right rasp of Shantung against my fingertips and her lips are just the right combination of hard and soft underneath mine. I am Goldilocks and I have finally found the right porridge, the right chair, and the right -if it is possible- bed. At least until the bears come home. Her mouth moves underneath mine, just hissing along, brushing and teasing. For some reason she tastes like limes, but she should taste like limes. Why didn't I realize that before she would taste like limes? And after a moment of lime-flavored lip lock, we are standing in the hallway of my apartment building, her arms tight as bungee cords around my chest, her thighs pressed against mine, the now-burning punk of my cock cradled against the softness of her stomach, and I am feeling around in her mouth for evidence of fillings. We are glued together like teenagers in the mall, my heart is slamming like a racquetball against the wall of my ribs and her breasts are muffling the sound of her heart, but her breath comes in eager little pants through her nose. I think that we need to get out of the hallway. The second time is the charm and the door bangs open like Elliott Ness and the rest of the Untouchables are barging in. And we hit the sofa like a rugby tackle, lacking only the mud. I'm not sure where my shoes go, but I start unwrapping her like a greedy child with a birthday present. Underneath it all she is a swan, white and lithe against the black water of the sofa and I feel like a baboon while I struggle with my own clothes. I feel even more like a beast when she pulls me down into the down of her skin and strokes the skin on my back like a favored pet, her teeth scoring the sides of my throat, my shoulders, and her nails nip into the jumping muscles in my ass. I'm in heaven and hell at the same time, heaven because all my midnight fantasies are turning into reality and hell because in the back of my Scotch marinated brain I know tomorrow is lurking out there somewhere like a hungry shark, smelling the blood in the water here. My fumbling, stumbling hands flounder down her body as drunkenly as my walk, her nipples are as hard as my woody prick and they taste less like limes and more like woman. Her legs churn against the dark water of the sofa, stirring eddies that I feel in my brain as much as my balls. The fur between her legs feels like a wet rabbit skin against my thigh, and I reach down between the white lines of her thighs to where she is wetter than the rain and hot as spilled blood. My fingers rush in where angels fear to tread and she closes around me in on sleek motion where she arches her back up from the blackness of the pond and cries into my ear as she starts to shudder. Jesus, who would have thought that she was wired this tight? Who would have thought that she would be so tight and wet and hot and --- "Now." She orders in a tone that makes my legs start to tremble, "Don't screw around - fuck me." And I do. This is the end Beautiful friend This is the end My only friend, the end It hurts to set you free But you'll never follow me The end of laughter and soft lies The end of nights we tried to die Despite the fact that this ranks very high in the list of things that I should not do, I open my legs for Mulder. One of my feet is banging against the back of the sofa and the other is dragging helplessly on the carpet, and the pain in my back is numbed with vodka and lust. I feel like my entire pelvis is full of hot champagne, bubbling, hot and effervescent. I need to have him inside me without any more delay. I need this the way that a fire needs oxygen, I need this to keep burning. He teases me for a moment, or maybe his aim is impaired, because he slides around the outside of my cunt for a moment, rubbing the head of his prick against the aggravated peak of my clit and I lose it. Good old Dana Scully, who can usually only come after a climb as long as the ascent to Everest, screech in surprise after this barely-existent touch and come like an avalanche that would wipe out an entire ascent team and a village of Sherpa Guides. My fingers reach for his spine through his ribcage and my head smacks the arm of the sofa. I am shaking like a paint mixer at Home Depot when he seals my mouth shut with his. God, he tastes wonderful, smells wonderful, and his skin is like the buttery leather of the sofa, which smells of his body and his body smells of the sofa. And before I can make another sound or think another thought he is pushing into me carefully, slowly, and deliberately, like a drilling rig taking core samples. I haven't had sex in so long that the sensation of a man inside me is as strange and foreign as if it were the first time ever. Finally, the tip of his prick is pressing against the entrance of my cervix and I feel that I will split in half like a log driven by a wedge. Amazed, I look up into his face, under the tousled mess of his hair and find that the mint juleps of his eyes are as stunned as mine must be. "Oh God," he mutters somewhere in his throat and buries his hot face into my shoulder. In my life, I have never felt as thoroughly possessed as this. I am ready to swoon like a character on a romance novel. Against my face, his lips are hot and hard, peppering me with buckshot kisses as he starts to pull out with tantalizing slowness, and once his cock has nearly sprung free, drive back in again with the same slow-motion pornography. I am beating on his back, whimpering, demanding to have him back inside, to fuck me properly, and his dick feels like it has grown bigger and harder with every stroke. I try to pull him inside by grabbing his ass, but all he does is snatch my wrists and hold them over my head. Back and forth, in and out, slow and hard. I bury my face into the cold skin of my arm and moan. It's starting to hurt, only because the blood has all run between my legs and the tissues are engorged to the point of bursting with arousal. God please, now. Right now. I can't believe that I'm doing this and I can't believe that I've waited six years for this. And I can't believe that he is finally speeding up as his cock shuts down his brain, breathing into my face, sucking the air from my lungs, stealing my soul and pounding down into the flesh well of my cunt and- ohmigodohmigodohmigodohmigod And the great ship split in half and sank into the North Atlantic. I howl into his hair, his teeth clamp down on my neck and shake me like a cat killing a mouse, I free my arms and hold him tightly against me as he grunts a non-word and slams into me one last time before flooding my shuddering cunt with come. He moans like a corpse with the air pressed from its lungs and collapses on top of me, hot and heavy and solid at last. I think he might be crying but I can't tell his hair is still wet and cold. I think I might be crying but my hair is wet and cold as well. I start to doze off underneath him, but he moves off me, leaving me cold and naked in the dark room. I realize that he is locking the door. He comes over to the couch and says nothing, instead he brushed hair away from my face and I see that his lower lip has developed a more sensual swell than usual. I am sticky and sore, but not about to complain. The sheets on the bed are cold and not particularly clean, but I don't mind as he slides in next to me and begins to generate his own brand of insane heat. In bed we twine together and I find myself praying that morning never comes. I'm not ready. This is the end Beautiful friend This is the end My only friend, the end *************************************************** DEDICATION: This dubious distinction goes to Art Sharon, who made a whole class of hormone-crazed high school honors/AP English students actually read James Joyce's "Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" and Joseph Conrad's "Heart of Darkness" AND LIKE THEM. He also made us watch Apocalypse Now, but that was a long time ago, in a high school far, far away. _____________________________________________________________________ You don't need to buy Internet access to use free Internet e-mail. Get completely free e-mail from Juno at http://www.juno.com Or call Juno at (800) 654-JUNO [654-5866]
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