Subject: NEW: Meditations in the Sewer (1/1) by Dragan Antulov
Date: Sat, 13 Feb 1999 16:01:44 +0100
From: "Dragan Antulov" 
Organization: HiNet
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative

TITLE: MEDITATIONS IN THE SEWER
AUTHOR: Dragan Antulov
E-MAIL: dragan.antulov@st.tel.hr
CATEGORY: V
KEYWORDS: Pre-XF
RATING: R (for language)
SPOILERS: Musings of a Cigarette Smoking Man
SUMMARY: We all know what went through JFK's head. What went
through CSM's?
ARCHIVE: yes to Gossamer; to others, with permission
DISCLAIMER: The following story is based on characters
created by Chris Carter, Fox Network and Ten Thirteen
Productions. The characters named are the property of those
entities and are used without permission. No copyright
infringement is intended.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: Special thanks to Haphazard Method for the
swift beta-editing and many useful suggestions.
Author's notes are available at the end.

MEDITATIONS IN THE SEWER

X-Files Fan Fiction Story

Dallas, November 22nd 1963

I'm in the sewer. Waiting for hours. Outside is a lovely,
sunny day. Inside is cold and wet and my clothes are covered
with shit. Somehow I think that this assignment is a perfect
metaphor for my entire career.

Yes. I'm the one that always does the dirty work. The others
like to pretend it's noble and clean. Of course, they don't
spend half of their time travelling to God-forsaken
hellholes in the middle of nowhere only to witness horrors
that would give nightmares to grown men. They don't have to
spend hours, days and weeks trying to dig information out of
some poor captured soul. They don't encounter rotting
corpses or attend autopsies on a regular basis. Or confront
monsters horrible beyond imagination. They don't have to
supervise experiments personally, and impersonally write
reports, often distracted by screaming test subjects. But
when the time for taking credits comes, they know whom to
give medals, decorations and promotions. For people like me,
a tap on the shoulder is enough.

I see him through the telescope. He is driving in the
motorcade, with the roof open, just like they told me.
Waving to the crowds. He has a great smile on his face. It's
no wonder the crowds love him.

Of course, I do those things because they don't like it.
They don't want their precious, manicured hands to get
dirty. They don't like their expensive, tailor-made suits
covered with someone's blood and entrails. They don't want
to stash corpses in the trunks of the Bugattis and Rolls
Royces they like so much. When they spend their days at
exclusive golf courses, they don't think about their clubs
as something with the potential for breaking someone's
skull. They simply can't imagine themselves hiding in cheap
motels, frequenting seedy bars and meeting junkies,
homosexual perverts, hookers, gangsters and other creatures
of the underworld. Of course, I'm the one who is forced to
do it for them. Always me.

I look at him again. He's still smiling. The smile on his
face is so big. I'm not surprised. Not surprised at all...

Men like him. Ivy League. Family connections. Wealth and
power. Born with the silver spoon in their mouths and
convinced that they can get away with anything. They are not
like me. Never liked me and never liked my kind. They are
the ones who write the briefings, and present in front of
more people like themselves. They are the ones who receive
the applause at the end. Who will receive invitations to
exclusive yacht, golf and country clubs. Men who can expect
to show off their sultry women on the society balls. And men
like me... never get invited.

Men like me are forced to sit in holes like this one and
clean all their shit. For days, weeks, months, years. Never
receiving proper reward and never earning their trust and
respect. Yes, they think that I'm useful, but they don't
like me. I'm not good enough for them. Too raw, too brutal.
Too much blood on my hands. Not enough of the proper blood
in my veins. Blue blood. Blood of the people who can track
their ancestors back to the Mayflower or some castle in
Europe...

Europe. Yes, they have their own Europe. Ski resorts in the
Alps, while I sweat my ass off in the jungles of Congo.
Sunbathing at the French Riviera while my piss turns to ice
in the Arctic. Drinking champagne in Tuscanian villas while
I'm dying of thirst in the middle of Sahara...

Such thoughts depress me, but right now, they are
distracting me from my job. I concentrate on the motorcade
again. I watch Jackie. She's with her husband. In a lovely
pink dress. So beautiful, so radiant. Reminds me of another
beautiful woman with dark hair...

No. No, no and no. I can't think about it. Well, I can, but
definitely not now. I can't allow myself to screw this up.
I'm a grown man and professional, not some romantic
teenager...

Oh, no. I shouldn't think about that word. Teena. I must
think about another woman. Jackie. She reminds me of
Teena... Okay. There are a lot of similarities. Think,
think. Don't let yourself slip. Better to think about Jackie
than about Teena.

Yes. Jackie. Beautiful woman. She smiles, same as her
husband. But I know that her smile is phony. That she's as
unhappy as...

Once in awhile, Ronald and Bill call me to their houses and
make me meet their families. They don't treat me as an
equal. I know that. They pretend that they know my pain.
Unlike them, I have no family. No roots. Nothing. No place I
could call my home. And I know that for them and for all of
them I'm nothing more than a curiosity. A freak. A twisted
version of themselves. Unworthy. Untouchable. Worthy only of
shitty jobs like this one...

I see Jackie. She's waving to the crowd. If only she knew...

Teena knew. She was different. Or at least, I try not to
think otherwise. Her beautiful, caring, angelic face. Drops
of seawater glittering in the sun on her nude body...

Concentrate on the job. Jackie. Yes. She doesn't know. She
knows something, but not everything...

They can afford to enjoy movie stars in their private
projection rooms. They can enjoy specially made stag films.
They can even fuck movie stars if they are powerful or
charismatic enough. But people like me can meet movie stars
only when such movie stars become an unnecessary liability.
To all the men in the world she was a goddess. And I killed
her. After that, she was only another pretty corpse to me.
For them...

I don't want to think about her. It's better to think about
Teena. Thoughts of her magnificent body kept me going
through years. Thoughts of those lovely eyes. Of a boy I
could have...

No. I couldn't. She was way out of my league. Ivy League.
Prestigious families. Boarding schools in Europe. Not for
the orphan whose father was nobody. Men like me couldn't
approach women like Teena with the proverbial ten-foot pole.
If we tried... I know what they all think about me... They
are probably too subtle to act like those rednecks in the
South when they accuse some poor Negro of looking at white
women. I probably wouldn't end up castrated and burned
alive, but in the end the result would be the same...

Subtlety. Somehow I could live with this job, if only this
was done with subtlety. But, no, they decided that they want
spectacle and drama. Some of them probably had some
doubts... I know that Ronald told me that he didn't like it
either, but...

I watch Jackie again. And her husband. She's smiling because
of the crowd... Inside, she is a lonely, unhappy woman,
always humiliated...

Like Teena. Bill's bimbos calling his home and Teena picking
up. But it's all right for Bill. It was always all right for
Bill and people like Bill. Someone like Bill probably did
the same to my grandmother. She was a serving maid or
something. Made pregnant by her wealthy, arrogant employer.
Fired and thrown out at the street. It's no wonder my
father, raised in poverty and humiliation, hated the rich.
Which led him to Bolshevism. And his own reputation led me
to this shitty sewer.

Reputation... I'm looking at all those cheering fools and
they disgust me. Who do you cheer for? For some spoiled rich
brat. For someone whose bigwig papa bought the nomination.
To someone who even became President against your will...
Yes, all those Mob votes in Chicago... Nixon should have
become President. He is the man who would be like us...
Someone who had to work his way to the top. Someone who
knows the hunger, misery and humiliation...

But, no, they wanted some new, fresh energetic face. Some
poster boy who would cover for their failed policies. No
matter how stupid and irresponsible he is. So precious to
our Project, that they even called me to solve this little
problem...

Teena would never do the things Jackie did... With me and
her it was love. Pure and simple. Not this silly revenge
thing Jackie did. Is it really possible that she fell for
that fat ugly Greek faggot? No, she did it to hurt him. But,
that is something that couldn't be tolerated. No, sir. If
she divorced him, or word got out to the public, that would
be it. He could kiss next year's campaign goodbye. Him and
his brother, and everyone around him. So, they call me.

I couldn't believe it. I've seen and done things... Some
stuff normal people wouldn't... But this. This would be
ridiculous... If not tragic... Yes, Ronald was against it.
Perhaps even Bill. But they lacked guts to stand against
some of their own...

I may have second thoughts. But orders are orders and now
I'm sitting in this shithole, ready to blow the brains out
of the woman... Woman who reminds me of Teena? What if, by
any chance, Bill asks me to do the same thing to Teena?
Could I do it?

Would I do it? They are in my line of fire. They'll be out
of there in a few seconds... No time to think.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Oops.

That's all I can say. Did I say it aloud? It doesn't matter.
I don't think that anybody would hear me. Even if they were
right inside this sewer.

I watch all those people scrambling for cover. Shocked.
Disbelief. But I don't care. Right now, I'm concerned with
my own survival. I fucked up. I fucked up. Fucked up.

Greatest fuck up in the history of the world. I know a few
people who might be able to make sense of what happened. Men
in elegant offices and smoke-filled chambers, suddenly
forced to make decisions they didn't plan.

Heads will roll. Would mine be one of them? Of course. I was
in charge. I fucked up.

Or, perhaps... How many people knew all the details?

I don't know. This is getting above me. The only time I did
something that would enter history books and...

I can't even write about it in my novels... It's over. My
writing would be destroyed...

No. It won't. I know what to do.

The cover-up plan. Instead of the investigation, I'll cover
my traces. I already have the patsy. He can take the fall.
He flipped. Something went wrong in his head. He fired those
shots from book depository... Wrong target terminated. Yes.
There would be some problems... Angry faces demanding
answers. But it would blow over. I've seen it before.

I know them... If I tell the story, they'll believe... They
can't grasp that they are responsible for this... Same as
the public, they'll buy it... It's simply easier. More
simple. Plausible deniability...

Heh, finally I realize there is one good thing about doing
this work... When you are in the shit long enough, you learn
how to swim in it... People like Ronald and Bill would
probably drown...

If they ask me to clean up the mess, I'll be happy. For the
first time in a long time, I'm proud of my work.

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

I'm aware that this story might stir some controversy,
because it covers the real historical tragedy that, in many
ways, re-shaped the entire nation. When you deal with such
subjects, set between the realms of history, myth and
speculations, it is possible that some people, either with
strong opinions or familiar with details, might be offended.
To them, I apologize. This story is simply the work of
fiction, that speculates what might have happened, and whose
characters are the work of fiction too. Besides, CC himself
opened this can of worms, thus legitimizing the use of real
history as an inspiration for the X-Files fan fiction.

Another that I must address is the terminology. Members of
certain social groups might be offended by the slurs used in
the story. However, the story takes places in a certain
historical period, when some of the terms were not as
offensive as they are now, and certain lifestyles not
accepted nor tolerated as they are now. The character that
uses those terms is simply the product of its time, and, as
most of the readers should know, isn't someone who should be
taken as a role model. So, his words, including his
terminology, should be taken with the grain of salt.

Finally, just to avoid any confusion, I must state that
"Ronald" and "Bill" just happen to share the same first
names with two of JFK's future colleagues. Those who are
familiar with XF mythology arc will recognize the characters
easily. The coincidence is spooky, though.

Comments are welcome at dragan.antulov@st.tel.hr

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