Justification (1/2)
by Karen Rasch krasch@earthlink.net
What exactly is this, you ask? This is what happens when you get together a group of bored fanfic writers. Awhile back, some of us had decided that in an effort to liven up the Never-Ending Summer we were each going to do a story which parodied our own established style. The only requirement was that song lyrics had to be involved. I got elected to do erotica. Please know I'm well aware that neither Moose nor Squirrel are behaving in character. I'm also fairly certain that the NC-17 segments of this piece (double entendre?) are anatomically impossible. That's why they call it fiction. ;) Now, I won't tattle as to who precisely was involved in our little game. However, you should be made aware that a couple of these have already been posted. With no one the wiser. So, is it real? Or is it a parody? Inquiring minds want to know. And remember . . . . . . . I can be bought.
Summary: Mulder and Scully at last consummate their relationship. The catalyst is nothing any of us had ever considered. Category: SRH Rating: NC-17 (for sex & language)
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Please don't show CC. He'll have my head!! None of this is mine (music nor characters). I'm simply running amuck. 1013 owns Mulder and Scully, and would never let them behave in such a manner. I don't *think*. . . . . And yet, . . . does anyone know what the rating is for the movie . . . . ? Madonna undoubtedly owns most of the free world by now, and probably doesn't even care that I'm gleefully using her stuff without permission. After all, it =is= in the pursuit of smut. Enjoy. *********************************************************
"The =chandelier=?" Mulder squeaked, the part of his body that had begun swelling when moments before his partner had placed her hand atop it, shrinking like his voice.
"Come on, Mulder," Scully purred, massaging back to life that fickle bit of muscle at the juncture of his thighs with all the skill of a trained health care professional. Which, of course, she was.
"Haven't you ever wanted to have honest-to-God-hanging-from-the- rafters sex?"
Groaning, he shut his eyes and pressed his hips forward shamelessly into her palm, his face contorted in a grimace of lust. Or maybe distress. For as teeny as she was, Scully had one hell of a grip.
"Sure, Scully. I'm as much a sucker for that sort of thing as the next guy."
"Ooh, *sucker*," the diminutive redhead crooned as she leaned in a tad closer and lapped teasingly at his ear. "I think I like the sound of that."
"I'm glad you're glad," he mumbled shakily, his fingers finding her slender waist and holding on tight.
"You scream, I scream?" she whispered, nibbling lightly now on his lobe.
"Something like that," he whimpered, her hands boldly going where they had never gone before, his clenching in reaction around her middle. This was nuts. Just plain loco. It wasn't only that he and his partner were standing in each others' arms, groping and petting like a couple of teenagers. Nor that they were both apparently contemplating taking that fondling to its next logical step. . . . . . . . But then again, what was so terribly logical about Scully's sudden fervent desire to at last consummate their painfully platonic relationship? In a motel room in the middle of nowhere. A motel room with a chandelier. Yeah. =That= was likely. Sure, Motel 6 had done wonders the past couple of years with renovations. . . . . But, =come on=. Much as he hated to succumb to his paranoia, Fox Mulder couldn't help but think that he was being set up. That they both were. But why? And by whom?
"Scully," he said, tilting his neck out of the way while she turned her attention to his tie, her nimble fingers slipping and sliding the silk, maneuvering it with all the steely-nerved concentration of a Boy Scout in search of a merit badge. "What's gotten into you?"
"Nothing yet," she mumbled, her eyes trained on his neckwear. "But I have high hopes."
"Scully, wait," Mulder implored, grabbing her wrists just as his tie fluttered to the ground, flapping like a paisley tongue. "Just hang on a minute." Scully's lashes dipped coquettishly as, stretching on tiptoe, she slowly and persuasively ran her lips down his throat's corded muscles, kissing and nipping; sucking ever so gently on his fevered flesh.
"Hmm . . . . Mulder. I've never seen you quite so . . *forceful* before. I think I like it."
Not as much as I like you're doing, he silently avowed, his hands releasing her arms to instead sweep up her back's graceful lines, then down to cup her buttocks in his palms. She moaned, her face nestled where his neck met his shoulder, her slender form molded like second skin to his own larger frame. He groaned, sorely tempted to just forget his reservations and go with the flow. But exquisite though the sensations filtering through him were, he could not allow himself to be deterred. Something odd was going on here. He knew it. Something beyond his normally restrained partner hitting on him with all the subtlety of a Mack truck.
"I need to know," he began, lifting his now trembling hands and cradling her flushed face between them, "I need to understand just what it is that's made you so . . so . . ."
"Horny?" she suggested dryly, her nose dipping to nuzzle the hollow above his collarbone.
"Scully!"
"It's just a word, Mulder. A means of expression," she chided in a husky, whiskey-soaked voice, her busy fingers now latching onto his belt buckle. "You shouldn't let it bother you so much."
"I didn't say it bothered me," he mumbled in protestation.
"Good," she murmured as she pressed a necklace of kisses just above his breast. "'Cause I know *lots* of other words. Wanna hear some?"
"No!" Mulder blurted out, even though a part of him had never wanted anything so badly as to hear that pair of lips wrapped around a few select naughty utterances. "What I want to know is why the hell I suddenly feel as if I need a whip and a chair to keep you off of me."
"A whip?" she echoed as she slipped his belt free from its loops and snapped it experimentally in the air. Mulder jumped at the resounding crack the strip of leather made. "Kinky. But why don't we start with the chandelier and see where things lead from there?"
"Scully!"
Sighing in frustration, the woman in question dropped the belt into a coiling heap at her feet. Her hands on her hips, she gazed up at her partner, her lips pursed in annoyance.
"You know something, Mulder? None of this is doing anything for my self-esteem."
"Just answer my question," he implored, not really understanding why the information even mattered to him, but needing something to cling to in the midst of this madness.
"Then can we do the chandelier thing?" she bargained, her single-mindedness manifesting in ways Mulder had never considered before. He shrugged helplessly, at the end of his rope.
"=Whatever=."
Her lips curved into the wickedest come-into-my-parlor-said- the-spider-to-the-fly smile he had ever seen.
"Good answer."
He gulped. She looked at him as if contemplating eating him whole. Forget the 'as if'.
"It was the music," she drawled at long last, honey dripping off each and every word.
"Huh?" he grunted, that whole eating issue still monopolizing his thoughts.
"The =music=," she reiterated as she slowly prowled towards him, her gait slinky and rolling. "The song we heard on the radio on our way back to the motel." Rapidly, he replayed in his head all they had listened to during the short drive between the local police station and their lodgings.
"'Sexual Healing'?"
"No." She had returned to stand inches away from him.
"'Slave to Love'?"
"Uh-uh."
One by one, the buttons on his dress shirt were slipped free from their holes.
"'Run, Joey, Run'?"
It had been an Oldies Weekend.
"Mulder!" She took her hands and shoved him hard, right in the center of his chest. He fell back a step or two against the onslaught.
"Well, how the hell should I know!" he cried, his arms flailing uselessly at his side, flapping as if he had suddenly metamorphosed into a penguin determined to take flight. Scully took no pity on his confusion. Instead she lifted her chin and lowered her voice, her fists planted firmly once more on her hips.
"All right. If that's the way you're going to be about it, I guess I'm going to have to spell it out for you." He waited. "I was referring to 'Like a Prayer.'" Mulder scrolled through his internal encyclopedia of useless knowledge, his brow wrinkling with the effort.
"Madonna?!"
She nodded, one brow arched for effect.
"=Madonna=?" he repeated mindlessly, unable to reconcile this information with what he thought he knew of his partner. She bowed her head in acknowledgment, her lips flattening at his incredulity.
"That's right. I find Madonna's music . . . . arousing. Why are you so surprised by that?" He was having a difficult time combining Madonna, Scully, and the word 'arousing' into one cohesive thought.
"I don't know. It's just . . . . . you never seemed like the type--"
"And what type would that be?" she challenged instantly. "I mean . . . when you come right down to it, she and I are each a lot alike. We're both single, in our thirties, Catholic, we both work in professions that are traditionally tough on women, we each have a father fixation--"
"=A father fixation=?!" he yelped, shaking his head in dismay. She shrugged.
"What--you've never heard 'Papa Don't Preach'?" This was really turning out to be way more information about his partner than he actually needed to know.
"Scully, I just don't see how listening to one of that woman's songs could get you so . . . . worked up."
"Oh, and I suppose you don't find Madonna attractive?"
"I'm not the one I'm concerned with," he countered heatedly.
"Huh?" she queried, apparently now as muddled as he was. He grimaced.
"It's not me . . . . it's you! . . . You're the one getting turned on by a woman known for latex, leather, and cone brassieres!!" She chuckled, the sound rich and raw.
"Oh, for heaven's sake! It's the nineties. She hasn't worn those cone things in years." Seemingly confident she had made her point, she turned away from him and, glancing over her shoulder, sauntered to the nearby bedside table. Keeping him pinned with her gaze, she reached down and twisted one of the clock radio's little black knobs. Instantly, the room was filled with a slow yet insistent drumbeat, with a synthesizer's low plaintive wail as it followed that percussion's lead. Mulder half-expected a glitter ball to drop from the ceiling. But no. All that hung overhead was that damned chandelier.
"So what do you say, Mulder?" Scully whispered like the deepest, darkest sin imaginable. Her eyes glittered with arousal; her lips beckoned like temptation itself. "Wanna live a little?"
* * * * * * * * * Continued in Part II "Justification" (2/2)
by Karen Rasch krasch@earthlink.net Picking up where we left off . . . . **********************************************************
And with that, the Material Girl herself began to sing. You were expecting Sarah McLachlan? Holding him captive with her eyes, she returned to stand inches from him. Slipping her small, cool hands beneath his open shirt, she pushed it from his shoulders. Licking her lips, she popped open the button on his trousers. Taking care only to excite him, not wound him, she inched the zipper over his throbbing groin. He moaned, his eyelashes fluttering shut, his lips sucking in air as if through a straw.
"Feels good, doesn't it?" she cooed, easing her dainty hand inside his pants and rubbing gently against his hot, turgid cock. It was heaven on earth. It was sparklers blazing atop his nerve endings. It was the best kind of ache. Slow and tight and heavy. And good. So good. So very, very good. Until she pulled back. Began peeling away her own clothes. And then things got even better. Off slipped her blazer, slithering to the floor to puddle at her feet. He reached for her. Eyes alight with fire and flirtation, she shook her head. Even *considering* that was a guaranteed stint on Dr. Freud's couch. Now, that was more like it. As was Scully's rapidly opening silk blouse. Ah. Back to vaguely worrisome. . . .
But all fears were forgotten when at last she shrugged that curtain of cloth from her shoulders. And stood opposite him clad in a slim black skirt and delightfully coordinating ebony bra. What a relief. Not a cone in sight. Needing no more coaxing from the former Mrs. Penn, Mulder pulled Scully into his arms and did just that. Tongues tangling; lips rubbing and gliding, sucking and sipping. His fingers finding the tiny hooks on the back of her lace covered lingerie and pulling them loose from their constraints so that her breasts tumbled free. Somehow, some way the rest of their clothes fell away as well; Mulder's pants, boxers, shoes and socks, Scully's skirt, slip, panties, hose, and heels. All of it littered the floor of that once tidy motel room, like leaves that had dropped from a tree.
Finally, as they embraced, nothing came between them. Not modesty. And certainly not fabric. Rather, nipple met rib, teeth tasted shoulder, hand caressed flank. They tugged and clawed at each other in their desperation to draw closer; hair and skin, muscle and bone. All were used as handholds. Each would later wear the marks of their passion. Proudly, like a medals of honor. Mulder's silken erection prodded insistently against Scully's hip, ripe and ready, like a child begging his mother for attention. Now, there's a disturbing if telling simile. He had to be inside her soon or die.
"Now, Scully," he murmured into her tousled auburn hair. "I need you . . . . I have to . . ."
"Yes . . . yes," she mumbled in reply, her mouth dragging open and scorching across his chest, sliding down to anoint his belly. "Grab hold," she whispered, her nails digging into the meaty curve of his ass. "Tight. Hold tight." Roughly, he pulled her against him once more and ground his penis against her softness, the pressure of his fingers, bruising. Instantly, she fought him, pulling away, her expression nearly feral in the motel room's shadowed light. "Not =me=! The chandelier."
"You're not serious?!" he mewled, his hands and . . . other extremities extended towards her beseechingly. She nodded, her color high, lips red and wet. Swallowing hard, Mulder tipped back his head and saw above him the object that so obsessed Scully. A simple brass chandelier. Plainly made. Sturdy in construction. Or so it seemed. He'd know for certain in just a second. Taking a deep breath, he bent over into a crouched position. Then, springing upwards, he launched himself towards his target. <I'm not afraid of who you are. Success. His hands locked around two of the chandelier's delicately curved arms. And hung there. Like a side of beef in a meat locker. Wasting no time, Scully scrambled onto the bed. Weaving drunkenly upon the shifting mattress, she tromped to just before the headboard. Then, turning around, she looked him in the eye. And tearing full tilt, raced down the length of the bed as if it were a runway. Reaching the foot, she pushed off, flying through the air like a gymnast off the vault. Mulder thought for a moment he might actually be able to identify the trick. But, the only term that came to mind was the "Gaylord."
Not a word he particularly wanted to contemplate just then. And letting out a cry like an avenging Valkyrie, Scully landed, impaling herself upon him. Her legs wrapped tight around his waist, her arms twined in tandem about his neck. Mulder answered her call, screaming in response. Unfortunately, his outburst sounded decidedly more girlish than that of his female partner. And as if spurred on by the bottle blonde singer, Scully attempted to do just that. Apparently feeling no ill effects as a result of her rather speedy docking, she pushed herself upwards on him using her thighs for leverage, then slowly slid down him once more. All Mulder could think of was that the Thighmaster she enjoyed bringing with her on the road had certainly earned its airfare. Of course, such musing did indicate a certain lack of involvement on his part. But he couldn't help it. He had so many other things on his mind. Not the least of which was trying to decide which calamity would undoubtedly befall him first--his arms ripping out of their sockets, or the chandelier ripping out of the plaster ceiling. And, in the end, those fears alone were enough to urge him into the moment.
With a groan of surrender, he bent his head to Scully's and made it his goal to bring his mouth in contact with whatever parts of her anatomy he could reach. She seemed to have no objection to the plan. She clenched and moaned against him. Which suited Mulder just fine. Because the sooner they brought this bizarre spectacle to an end, the sooner he could let go of the Goddamn chandelier. <I'm open and ready. She was. And so was he. Just a little bit more . . . . . And as the song slowly faded away into nothingness, it happened. Scully bellowed out his name, spasming and bucking against him as she came. He tumbled into the abyss right after her, not wanting to be left behind. The ceiling cracked. And with a joint cry that might have been ecstasy but given the situation was most likely terror, Fox Mulder learned the true meaning of bringing down the house. Body still shuddering in the midst of his climax, he could just make out the faint sound of the plaster canopy above them giving way.
Wasting no time, he let go of the flying candelabra threatening at any moment to crush those stupid enough to use it as a trapeze, wrapped his arms around the orgasmic woman atop him, dropped and rolled. Just as he and his partner cleared the area directly beneath the chandelier, it tore free of its brace. Raining bits of wood and paint and other building materials, the brass octopus came crashing to the floor. Thankfully, the monstrosity hadn't been on during their little Flying Wallendas routine. With the way his luck was going, such a calamity would have undoubtedly resulted in he and Scully burning down the motel around them. And yet, perhaps ending up as a real live Cinderfella would have been preferable, Mulder mused moments later from his place on the floor, his face buried in Scully's hair, his upper body shielding her from falling debris. His lower body still sheathed where it had been since all hell had broken loose. Because the way things had worked out, he was going to have to explain why one motel chandelier had wound up being listed on this trip's expense report. He laid there, composing in his head persuasive arguments for the unexpected cost, when all at once a funky r & b groove reminded him that the radio was still on. God. It would have to be more dance music, he silently grumbled. Terrific. Just what he needed. Man. Doesn't anyone play the classics anymore? Clapton. The Doors. Pink Floyd. Where were they when you needed them? <Can't touch this. =Hammer?!= Shit.
"Mulder?" Beneath him, Scully stirred. Pressing up so that he balanced on his forearms, he peered down at the woman who had quite literally rocked his world. She blinked up at him, clearly befuddled. Instantly, Mulder became concerned. With the way they had been rolling around, she might have hit her head on something. Possibly even, his elbow.
"Scully?" he whispered, running his hand over her tousled hair, soothing her while at the same time checking for injury. <Can't touch this.
"Mulder?" she murmured again, looking everywhere it seemed but in his eyes.
"Yeah," he said quietly, pushing back a few wayward strands of hair from her brow.
"It's me. You okay?" She closed her eyes for a moment and swallowed hard.
"Yeah. I think so. It's just . . . . I feel so . . . ." She opened her eyes once more, at last meeting his. Their gazes clung, each it seemed searching for something from the other. <Can't touch this. Then all at once, the fog clouding Scully's baby blues lifted. Her pupils dilated like saucers. And she screamed, the sound strangled and chagrin-filled.
"Oh my God, Mulder! What are you doing!?" With a strength which belied her petite size, the auburn-haired woman heaved the man both above and within her away from her, his body exiting hers with a soft, almost apologetic pop. <Can't touch this.
"Scully, for crying out loud--"
"I don't know what you think you're doing, Mulder. But keep the hell away from me," she growled as she crawled towards the plaster speckled bed. Yanking the covers down and off, she quickly covered her now trembling form and sat, wrapped like a mummy, her back against the bed frame, her eyes firing lasers in Mulder's direction. He lay on his side like a Playgirl centerfold, his mouth opening and closing as if he were in hopes of catching flies.
"=I=?! . . . You want =me= . . . . .?"
"No, I don't want you," she said in a wounded tone, her bottom lip quivering. "That's the point."
"You *don't* want me?" Mulder echoed with as much sarcasm as he could cram into the four innocent words. "Really, Agent Scully? Well, you coulda fooled me!"
"What are you talking about?" she shot back, crumpling the bedspread in her tiny fists, crushing it as if she wished it was his throat. "And for God's sake, before you say =anything= more, put some clothes on!!" <Can't touch this. Taking a deep breath or two to get himself under control, Mulder levered himself to his feet and retrieved his boxers and pants. Moving deliberately, he dressed his lower half, then turned and crossed to the clock radio. Reaching down, he gripped the small device by its cord and yanked it from the wall socket.
"There," he murmured with no slight degree of satisfaction. "I feel better already."
"Well, that makes one of us," mumbled the woman cocooned at his feet.
"Scully--" he sighed, tossing the clock radio to the other side of the room.
"Mulder, explain to me why you and I were laying together in an obviously post-coital state in a room that looks as if a bomb was dropped into it from directly overhead," she demanded, her words clipped and quick. More than a trifle stunned by her request, he circled around to face his partner.
"What do you mean, explain it to you? You don't know how we got there?" Gaze shadowed, she nibbled a moment on her lower lip before admitting,
"No. No, I don't."
"Scully--" he began softly as he hunkered down before her.
"Just . . . just stay over there. Okay?" she entreated with a calm not reflected in her expression. He ignored her plea.
"Scully, do you honestly think I would do =anything= to hurt you? Do you?" She hesitated only an instant.
"No. No, I guess not." He nodded, relieved. "But, why did you . . . did we . . .?" He moistened his lips before explaining as gently as he could,
"Scully, it was all your idea."
"=Mine=?!" she squealed, her eyes looking as if they were auditioning for a special effects role in "The Mask." Grimacing with sympathy, he nodded once more.
"'Fraid so. You were the aggressor. I swear. You came on to me, big-time." Brows raised in disbelief, she stuttered,
"But, . . . but I don't understand. How . . . ? Why . . . ?"
"It was Madonna."
"Who?"
"Madonna," he repeated helpfully, pleased as punch that they were actually holding a conversation again. "The singer."
"I KNOW WHO SHE IS, MULDER!!" Faced with the full measure of Scully's wrath, Mulder nearly toppled over onto his backside trying to put some space between them.
"Jesus, Scully! I'm not the one at fault here!" he insisted from a safe distance away.
"Oh, and =I= am?"
"=Yes=" Silence while Scully pouted.
"So what happened?" she asked at last from inside the quilted bedspread.
"Why are you blaming this on me?" As succinctly as possible, Mulder related what had occurred, stressing her enthusiasm for the escapade and his lack of same for the whole chandelier idea. When he was finished, she shook her head in dismay.
"I just . . . I don't get it. I mean . . . . how could this have happened? I don't even really like Madonna."
"You don't?" he queried in surprise.
"Uh-uh," she said with another little shake of her head. "Oh! Except that one song of hers . . . 'Papa Don't Preach'--"
"Anyway," Mulder said, breaking in, not wanting to consider what that particular favorite might point to. "I have a feeling your musical tastes may be beside the point here. Do you remember anything after we left the precinct?" Her lips thinned as she ran over the events in her mind.
"Well, I remember leaving the station . . . and getting in the car. . . ."
"Yeah?" Mulder prodded, leaning forward just a bit. "Then what?"
"Um, . . . you turned on the radio," she said, her eyes focused inwards as she strove to recall. "There was a bunch of stuff from the 80's. And then . . ."
"Yes?"
"Some song . . . about a prayer . . ."
"That's it!!" Mulder cried excitedly. "That's the song! 'Just Like a Prayer'. That's the song you said turned you on."
"I did?" Scully asked, her face screwed up in dismay.
"You sure as hell did," he said with an adamant nod. "That's the song that started this whole thing. And then, when you turned on the radio and 'Justify My Love' came on . . . ."
"What?" she whispered, looking as if she really didn't want to know.
"Scully, you were clinging to me like smoke does to Cancerman's suits," he said with a quick incline of his head.
"But why would I do something like that?" she wailed in frustration and embarrassment. "What would cause me to behave in that way?"
"I have a theory."
"You do?" she asked with surprise.
"Yeah. I do," he confirmed. "But, I'm warning you--it's a little far out. So just bear with me. Okay?" She nodded. "I think that someone, somewhere enhanced those songs, those two Madonna tracks that affected you, so that you and possibly others listening to them would become . . . . aroused."
"Aroused?" she echoed softly in skeptical wonder.
"Aroused, aggressive . . . " he muttered, fumbling for the proper word. "Whatever. You were acting out of character. Agreed?" She nodded again, her eyes dipping away from his. "Well, I think that was the idea," he continued reasonably. "Whoever did this wanted you to behave in a way calculated to embarrass you and discredit our work. Maybe even drive the two of us apart for good." Silence once more. "Scully, we've seen this sort of thing before. The postal employee who thought machines were urging him to kill. The video tapes we confiscated that had embedded in them signals designed to send a person's anxiety level through the roof." She gnawed on the corner of her lips while she considered his words.
"But why me? Why not you?" He shrugged a bit sheepishly.
"I'm tone deaf."
"Tone deaf?"
"Completely." She shook her head.
"Mulder, tone deaf commonly means that a person can't carry a tune."
"I can't," he admitted blithely. "And, I can't hear a tune either."
"Excuse me?" she asked in amazement.
"Well, not entirely. Not the way normal people do. Certain extremes in the sound spectrum just don't register with me." She didn't look convinced. "I guess all that boasting about the Mulder family gene pool was just empty talk after all," he said with a lop-sided smile.
"So you think that my coming on to you, that my demanding that we have sex whilst hanging from a chandelier, was a result of some nefarious plot to destroy our partnership?" she murmured thoughtfully.
"Well, I think we've pretty well established that despite all evidence to the contrary, it wasn't your idea," he said gently. She smiled wanly. "So, if that's the case," he continued, "then the impetus must have come from an outside source. And I don't know about you, but the only person I can think of who is twisted enough to put you and I through something like that is Mr. Nicotine Breath, himself."
* * * * * * * * *
And somewhere in Chicago, sitting at a cluttered kitchen table, a woman typing busily away at a computer keyboard laughs lowly.
"Twisted, Mulder?" she echoes mockingly, her fingers tripping-- yes, literally tripping; it was late and she was way wired on coffee--over the keys.
"I'm not twisted. Twisted is giving one lead character cancer and then conveniently forgetting about it save for the occasional well- timed nosebleed." She ignores her cats, which are weaving like snakes between her legs and the table in their quest for attention. They've been doing that for hours. Why should she give in now? "Twisted is supposedly killing off the other lead character at the end of your fourth season, even though you'd already used that plot contrivance at the end of your second year on the air."
She is really zooming now. If it wasn't for the fact that she had to double back and correct her spelling every few words, her fingers would be a blur on the keys.
"Twisted is making the audience sit and watch these two seemingly doomed characters ooze chemistry for half a decade before supposedly throwing those fixated on said relationship a crumb in the movie to be released next summer." She grimaces and types even faster. Who cares about spellinf?
"The movie that is making this coming season three episodes shorter than the last one." The cats are now sitting on their hind legs holding little signs between their paws reading "Feed me" and "Water". She ignores their pleas and continues her diatribe. "But you want to know what's =really= twisted, Mulder? The thing that makes what I put you and Scully through look like a walk in the park?"
The biggest of the three felines chooses this moment to keel over in a Camille-esque swoon. The woman pays her no mind. Isabella is notoriously melodramatic. "Making me and the rest of the viewing public wait nearly =SIX= months for a new episode!!" The woman cackles. The kitty known as Isabella gives up on ever being noticed and retires to the living room where she'll chew on some equally neglected plants and then nap. Perhaps, if she's lucky, she'll dream of tuna. "SIX MONTHS, MULDER!!"
The other two cats look nervously at the now ranting woman and decide to follow their friend into the other room. They don't even care if tuna dreams are a possibility.
"If you want to talk 'twisted'," the woman murmurs in a menacing voice, "talk to that Chris Carter guy. Blasted surfer boy. He could teach me a thing or two. Believe you me." She's winding down now. The whole rant thing is exhausting. "But ol' CC better watch himself," she says with a glint in her bleary blue eyes. "Because I'm not alone in this." The woman is having flashbacks to "Network" and wonders how that's possible. She's never actually seen the movie. "You can't contain a rabid fan forever," she warns with a knowing nod of her head. "You can only placate them with magazine articles, and movie spoilers on the net, and Emmy nominations for so long." The nod begins to turn into a kind of nervous tic. She has =got= to cut down on the caffeine. "And then one day," she whispers, the sound coming out more like a hiss. "They *snap*." She cracks her knuckles. Nasty habit. "Beware, Chris Carter, ol' buddy. Ol' pal," she mutters into her computer screen. "Because you may think 'the truth is out there'. But take it from me . . . ." She types her last sentence with a flourish. "The Philes are." * * * * * * * * * THE END
:) Endnotes: First off, please know that it was =not= my intent in writing this tale to poke fun at anyone who writes stories based on songs. Like any genre, there are good and bad examples of such work. I (and the rest of my partners in crime) do believe, however, that this particular category of writing is tricky at best and therefore felt I (we) could have the most fun with it. I hope I (we) didn't trample on anyone's feelings. I also feel I must stress that I =love= Sarah McLachlan. I have all her CDs and believe her to be an accomplished singer/songwriter. However, as it seems to me that she is the winner in the Singer Most Responsible For Inspiring FanFic Derby, I felt the need to include a mention of her in this silly tale. I hope she and all her fans can forgive me. And finally, I apologize for only knowing one line of Hammer's "U Can't Touch This." I actually did go websurfing in search of all the song's lyrics. But to no avail. As a funny side note--that song happened to be the last one the DJ spun at my sister's wedding. Seeing as I'm now the proud aunt of Princess Emma, I'd say my brother-in- law must have touched *something" during their seven years of marriage. ;) Thanks!