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Rise and shine, Mulder!
Bang.
Ouch!
Bang.
Ouch! Same player, shoot again. The third time's the charm, Mulder!
Bang.
DAMMIT!! Close, but no cigar! Yay, three cheers for Mulder! Where's your damn flashlight when you need it? There you are.
Click.
Okay, allow me to set the stage. Knock knock knock? Sarah Connor? No, I'm the one who knocks! (Try making sense of that) That was my head you've just heard banging three times. Three strikes and you're out. But no, unfortunately, I'm not. I'm lying on my back in a dingy wooden box and, if I weren't so paranoid, I'd indubitably say it looks like a coffin. Tilt your head and you'll see me lying there, straight as an I, like a soldier standing to attention, like a foot too big for its shoe. Hand me a multicolor clown hat with ox horns and small bells, draw me a gigantic smiley face and I'm Jack in the Box, ready to pop out. Wait a minute ... Holy cow! I'm lying inside a coffin! I actually knew that, but it still makes me wanna quote Hamlet (act III, scene III, line 92): "No!" Being buried alive in a coffin is one thing, but it's not even close to being the worse part. Because, believe it or not, I'm not alone. And the guy I'm sharing the bed with (yes, bummer, it's a guy) ... how can I put it? The guy is dead. Has been for several days.
I made my bed and I now must lie in it.
Wait, maybe I should start over.
Remember the last time you forgot to think? I mean, I'm not stupid, right? Even smart people do stupid things. Well, let me tell you, this whole story is as stupid as it gets; it's restriction-less stupid, gormless, asterisk-less and even airless stupid. If there are varieties of dumb ways to push up daisies, this must me one of them. Well, no, I hope not.
Let me get back to my story. Two days ago, Scully and I went rogue, one quick side trip from our mind-numbing Domestic Terrorism assignment. Yeah, you know we're on Domestic Terrorism now; the time for them, the bevy of self-righteous people, to finally re-open the X-Files. Scully's like "Zip your lip, Mulder; a job is a job." Fiddledeedee, Scully! It takes two to tango. This is much hullabaloo about nothing. Not going to lie, if you ask me ... my eyes glaze over, my mind wanders, my brain goes cantankerous. I'd simply tell her "Please just wake me when it's over" ... and I'd just nod off.
So there we were, doing background checks and about to grab a cup of coffee before heading back to D.C. when I witnessed a young woman exiting a funeral services store, obviously upset. She was cute, all right. But it's not the (main) reason why I wanted to know what had upset her ... no matter what Scully will allege!
"Give it a rest, Mulder," Scully told me. "Let's have a strong coffee and get out of here."
"I'm sick of this rat race job, I need a break."
She stopped walking and stared at me, lackadaisical (Yes! Lackadaisical, I swear!). "Mulder, you're not going to ask this chick on a date while you're on duty and with me."
"What?" I chuckled. "I really don't see what you— Just go, I'll catch up."
Oh boy, when she left me rapidly, Scully had that face and mood and attitude that I had only seen twice upon two opposite situations: once with Detective White and the second time with Sheriff Hartwell. I was so gobsmacked I expected nothing less from her than "Sure. Fine. Whatever." But she didn't even bother. She was mad. She was very snarky with me. Irritating Scully is usually rather simple: Bring up injustice, and/or introduce her to a couple of arrogant assholes, and/or lock her up in a room filled with sulfur dioxides gas. I did neither of these things, I didn't know what was with her, but I clearly hit a raw nerve. My girl was being a bitch that day. Forizzle. Well, let her be! There are plenty more fish in the sea, plenty of pebbles on the beach, plenty of upset women on this planet ...
"Easy on the coffee, Scully!" I yelled at her. She whipped around, acrid ... ballistic even I should say! If her eyes could have held up a gun, they'd had shot me without batting (an eye). I instantly raised both my hands in a self-preservation instinct. But she'd have killed me anyway.
When she whipped around back the other way and resumed walking toward the coffee shop, I turned back to the other upset woman. You should have seen Scully though; when she was this mad, she would stomp and walk like a fury straight in the middle of the sidewalk, causing people to have to move around her. You didn't want to mess with Scully badassing around in five-inch heels, but it was totally worth watching!
"Excuse me, miss!" I called out, running slightly after the other woman. She turned around and wiped her eyes and — Pew! — nose with her sleeve.
"What did I forget?" She waited.
"Oh no, I'm not with— You seemed upset and I was—"
"People generally are when they bury someone they love." She cut me off. "Something else?" She asked, impatient.
"I don't mean to pry. You looked more than sorrowful; you looked mad. Maybe I can be of some help?"
"Yeah, right, but you don't mean to pry, huh." She turned around, then "Mind your own business, sir."
Okay, so much for trying to be nice. I looked around discretely and made sure no one saw me getting blown off. "I'm sorry for your loss!" I yelled at her back, waving a hand.
"Okay, handsome! You wanna know what's wrong? I'll tell you what's wrong!" She said, rushing back at me. I took a step backward. Gee, what was it today with the female gender? Was it a full moon? New moon? Menstrual period? My obvious sex-appeal? "That stupid undertaker killed my fiancé. Okay?" She continued, and then she lowered her voice and checked her surroundings. "Henry was not really my fiancé, okay; he was married to someone else (for just six months or so though), but he had this plan. Perfect plan to both get rid of his wife and keep the money ..."
She grabbed me by the arm and pulled me to walk with her as she continued explaining how she and Henry had an arrangement with the undertaker who was supposed to bury the wife, how she now was sure that the wife had made a better offer, how she didn't know what she was going to do with her life because she loved Henry so much and how she wondered if I was myself married and/or engaged and/or had any savings and/or an identical twin brother. And all I could think was: "What is wrong with you, Mulder? How is it you always manage to find the craziest women? Why did you even want to talk to this one in the first place?" I don't need this kind of women in my life, thank you very much.
"Wow. That's ... quite a story you got here," I managed to say, trying to get my arm back. "But, it's your lucky day," I continued.
"You're single?" She asked, smiling like a Cheshire cat and taking my hand this time.
"No," I said, taking my hand back and sticking both of them so deep into my pockets I could pull my socks up. "But. I'm with the FBI. So, I can go ahead and ask a few questions if you'd like."
"Oh," she said, empty-handed and disappointed, "Sure, fine, whatever."
I froze and stared at her. Eventually, I noted her phone number on the back of one of my own cards. She tried to steal it from me, but I took it back, promising to keep her posted, and then I fled away, feeling caught between the devil and the deep blue Scully.
I walked toward the coffee shop, mentally strengthening myself for Scully's mood. I opened the door, looked around, spotted her, and took a deep breath. Scully's treat, round two. Pull out your greatest smile, Mulder; it's Showtime.
"Cat got your tongue," I asked her, smiling, trying to break the ice from her face, heart and what(k)not.
"I'm surprised to see you here already," she replied, coldly.
I tilted my face and narrowed my eyes. Was she actually thinking I was going to ask this woman out? Was she jealous? One says a jealous woman does better research than the FBI ... Picturing jealous Scully is bloodcurdling! She should know better; she's my one and only icon. "Scully, really, what's wrong?"
"Mulder, how much of the cough syrup did you take?"
"I finished the bottle. Why?"
"Because it contains codeine and alcohol. And you've had way too much, way too quickly ... Way to go!"
"My throat doesn't hurt anymore though."
"What was that about?
"What?"
"That girl. Outside."
"Oh!" I said, waving her question away, "She's nuts."
Scully widened her eyes and raised her eyebrows. Scully really had the most beautiful eyes, made from the fabric of the sky or out of the purest water, there were more mysteries and wonders in them than in Mona Lisa, they were the kind you could get lost in, dive right into, while stabbing you right through the heart, you could ... Bam! Scully slammed the table with her palm. "What's with you, Mulder?" She asked, annoyed.
"What's with me?" I repeated. "What's with you, Scully?"
Remember I'm in a coffin? Air should not be taken for granted! Let's fast forward here. She thought I was liquored up, I thought she was just J. She thought I was fuming, I thought she was. We get it. Anyway, she got really rancorous when I suggested we stay an extra day. Did I say acrid before? Ballistic? Never been so far away from the truth; Scully was boiling, bristling.
"WHAT!? PHAT, but no way, Mulder! Tomorrow's Sunday! You said that woman was BS!" She barked.
"Gillian." I interrupted her softly, trying not to pay attention to her excessive usage of acronyms.
"Gill—?" Yes, if eyes could kill, I'd be six feet under! "Gillian! Whatever, Mulder, I don't give a—! WTF. Don't be so persnickety! What kind of a name is that anyway?? But more important, why would you give her any credit? IVGBTTDOAS!"
I stared at her a moment, not only trying to figure out what the hell she just said but also reminding myself silence was the best response to a fool. Scully was a lost cause that day. "May I suggest something and then duck for cover?" I dared to ask, awaiting baton blows.
"BMG, go crazy," she just raised her eyebrows again as an invite.
"You could hang around at the motel, type your report while I investigate, and then take your Monday cooling down?"
What can I say, Scully? When you're upset, you're either silent as a grave — no pun intended — or talk a mile a minute the legs off an iron pot. And when you become that bit of a chatterbox over-using initials for common AND uncommon phrases like "FYU, it's NOYB", "JIT, Mulder, WTG", "IDK, SSDD", without bothering to explain them, I know I don't have your favors. BTW, I can do it too! GMTA, Scully! TBC ...
I'll skip forward further. Really no point in seeing us two love birds arguing. And to think that she actually corrects people when they use colloquial speech or mispronounce certain words. Undoubtedly. I'll spare you the vast amount of efforts and energy I had to deploy, how much I finagled to get Scully to agree on staying. I can't say that it did her mood any good; she grumbled all the way back to the motel. "Why can't I have it all like every other woman: a perfect marriage, a fulfilling career, a beautiful house, a busy social life, and a blossoming family?" I wasn't quite sure this question either really expected an answer or was intended for me. And again "We eat so bad, I feel like I gain at least five pounds each trip" or "I'm sick of this weather, my hair's all frizzy again" ... and so on. I wanted so bad to say "You frizzy-haired bitch!" but I shut my mouth for sake of peaceful household. You know how women can be so susceptible. Instead I bit my tongue and thought "Don't do or say something stupid just because she's temporarily upset ..."
It was around four when I stowed Scully in her motel room. Did I just say "stowed"? Sorry, didn't mean that. Afterward, I went straight to my room to change into something more layman-ish, unexceptional person, average Mulder. I discarded my gun and ID, traded my sunflower seeds for chewing-gum, got rid of my tie, my suit jacket and then I rolled up my shirt sleeves, beseeching the rain to stop falling. If it were any other doomed day, I'd get ready, get in the car, get a life. Keep working. Keep trying. Keep believing.
As I started to open the door, Scully darted inside, wrapped in a towel up her breast, "My shower just broke."
"I'm sorry, say again?"
"What? My shower broke!"
"Oh!"
"You're going out, dressed like this, Mulder?"
"Why, yes." Bite your tongue, Mulder, do not call her Mom. I repeat, do not call her Mom. "Why, Scully?" I said, swallowing laughter and taking the hands-on-hips pose.
"Because you don't wear a jacket? And your ID and your gun are on your bed?"
"Yes, I'm going incognito ... undercover, if you may."
"Becaaauuseee ...?"
"You expect me to go down there and matter-of-factly ask the guy Is it true, sir, that you murdered a guy whom first offered you money to kill his wife? Nah, Scully! I have to play it cunningly." I bent over to her ear and said softly, "As cunning as a fox."
"My personal opinion, Mulder?" She asked me. I nodded; she would spit it out anyway. Then she said: "Bad idea!"
I pressed my lips together. Shut up, Mulder. "Help yourself to the shower, Scully", I smiled and said with a high-pitched and fruity voice, "I'd rub your back, but I gotta go."
And I slammed the door in her face. I could picture her hair waving in front of her cartoon-like face and then thick-skinned Scully blowing it away.
I don't know about the Tainted Love, but for sure "sometimes I feel I've got to run away, I've got to get away from the pain (in the B) you drive into the heart of me", Scully. No hard feelings.
Bill, the undertaker, was slightly above average in a lot of ways. One could sum it up by saying he was slightly above average ugliness (no disrespect). He was slightly taller than average, his wonky face was slightly rounder (he had the cutest little wattle) but his slicked-back brown hair was greatly not in style. His features were conspicuously impressive, but not in the widely understood definition of that term. They were rather eye-catching, eye-watering, eye-hurting. His face alone spoke for itself: L-shaped bulging forehead veins, no eyebrows but one large and low unibrow shadowing crossed (yet piercing icy-blue) eyes too close to his probably-several-times-broken hooked nose. Maybe he played football or he was into boxing or something. Hard to diagnose.
There was something really odd about him: it was garbage but you couldn't look away, it tickled your eyes but you would not blink to prevent tears from falling. Always be your unique self, but never stop mimicking the great.
"Oh no, I didn't lose anyone but I'd like to. I thought maybe you could help me?" I said as he offered me his condolences.
"What do you mean?"
"You know," I replied. What better way to imply deprive someone of life? It's all in the way you roll your eyes.
"No, I don't," he replied shyly.
"You don't?"
"No," he repeated.
"So, you've never heard of that?"
"What would that be?"
"I don't know. I've heard stories."
"What kind of stories?"
"Well, sometimes ... and I'm not talking about you ... Undertakers love their jobs so much that they ..." I rolled my eyes again.
"That they what?"
"You know," I replied calmly, burning from the inside. Oh! Come on now, boy! You can't be that dumb!
"No, sir, I'm sorry, I don't."
"Well, it is said that some undertakers don't mind, you know, squeak! taking a life ..." I hastily skidded my thumb across my throat as a blade.
"Never heard of that," he said shyly again.
"Never heard of it," I repeated, almost like a question.
"No. But I'm not really an undertaker. Just doing it as a part time job to pay the rent. And I quit at the end of the month so ..."
"Okay," I replied. And since I had no idea what to say to get him to talk to me, and because his face was really beginning to make me wanna cry, I started to turn around. "Well, never mind. It was probably a stupid idea." (Just like Scully said it would be)
"Who is it?" He asked as I was heading to the exit.
"What's that?"
"The person you'd like to see ... you know ... Squeak!"
"Oh, she's just ... she's my partner."
"How long?"
"Six years now."
"That's not very long."
"Long enough."
"Don't you think they are other ways, instead of guillotining a defenseless woman?"
"Oh believe me, she's anything but defenseless!"
"How is she?"
"How is—? What difference does it make? Can you or can you not?"
"I can not."
"So, what was that about?"
"I never had a girlfriend."
What a shocking revelation ...
I called Gillian right after I left Bill — technically, it's more right after I dealt with Scully since I left the card with Gillian's number at the motel. I didn't really want to call Crazy or Psycho but I couldn't ask Bill for the recent widow's address without blowing my cover.
I was heading toward our lovely faded ocher 1982 Subaru rental Brat when I saw Bill staring at me though his store's window. When he saw I caught him staring, he waved his hand goodbye and disappeared. Gee, that boy was a freak (too!).
The widow's name was Geraldine MacGilgrey and I couldn't say if she was in her forties or fifties. And my parents always taught me not to be rude and not to ask a woman her age. Gillian might be cute, but this woman right here, blond and luscious, was well preserved and still pretty hot for whatever her age was. Despite this, her features showed that the woman had not always had an easy life, that one way or another, she had wrestled in another life. In an unexplained way, she reminded me of Bill. Maybe it was just her pool-colored eyes. She didn't seem too upset by her recent widowing status though. And looking at their house, every piece of furniture, and every item, and how they reflected wealth, it was understandable. When Gillian said they had a plan to get rid of the wife and keep the money, I didn't measure just how much money we were talking about.
"Don't you have some identification to show to me?" She asked as I introduced myself.
"Yes, this is true. We can call my superior in Washington if it makes you more comfortable."
"No, I trust you."
"You don't even know me."
"You have a delicious voice and soothing body, or the other way around. What did you say your name was again?"
"Mulder, Fox Mulder."
"You can't be serious!"
I smiled softly. "Spooky Mulder sound better?"
She gasped and covered her mouth with a delicate hand to hide a smile, then said "I'm sorry."
"Don't be! You're not the first and certainly not the last either."
"To answer your question, my dear Henry died of an heart attack."
"Really? How old was he?"
"He was 62, that's not uncommon. We might have only been married six months, but I loved Henry. Dearly, mister Mulder. But he had a weakness. I'm 49, I'm not blind. I know he was cheating on me with everything that moved and that had big breasts."
One should have both eyes open before marriage, and one eye shut after marriage. Geraldine got that right. That gorgeous Gillian could have told me she lost her purse on the moon and I would have hitchhiked with the next NASA team. I'd been misled, I'd been blinded, I'd been stupid. And I had screwed Scully's Sunday. She was right, Gillian was nothing but BS. Did men really have no self-respect, no self-control, or no self-consciousness when confronted to a beautiful woman? Didn't I?
"Hey, it's me," I said over the phone when Scully picked up.
It was nearly eight o'clock and the sun was just setting. "Where are you, Mulder?"
"On my way back. Can I take you to dinner?" I asked, figuring that would be a good way to discredit her fast food and junk food complaint and yet hoping she wouldn't take it the wrong way.
"I'm gonna skip dinner, Mulder. But thank you." Her voice was more soft-spoken, fruitier, lower-pitched. The shower must have done her good. "Did you learn something?"
Uh oh, trouble. "Ahem. No, I don't think there's a case here, Scully." I listened, brows knitted in a frown, waiting for her to reprimand me. Nothing came. "Scully, are you there?"
"I heard you," she said.
Although she was not in front of me, I could definitely see her face right now: she was looking straight ahead but not really looking at something, her eyebrows were raised so high it was wrinkling her forehead in a way it only needed a treble clef and a few notes to look like a good sheet music, and her mouth was slightly open.
"No kidding, Mulder," she said, toneless.
"So, I'll see you in the morning and we can head back to DC first thing tomorrow, Scully."
"You owe me breakfast, Mulder. And it'd better be good: strawberries and kiwis kind of stuff."
"And real cream cheese bagel. You got it, Scully."
The next morning, I was up bright and early to satisfy Scully's need for fruit and health. Took a quick shower, took my wallet, took the bad habit to leave my gun behind (you'll understand why in a short while).
It was pouring down rain; the ground was all soaked. As I was getting to our FBI-mobile, a car stopped nearby.
"Hey sir!" The driver said, opening his window.
I leaned down and said, "Oh! Hey!" as I recognized Bill.
"I thought of something."
"Good for you."
"No, something for you. Get in, I'll explain at the store. Have to get there anyway; people are coming to pick up a body."
"Actually, I'm leaving today, I'm going to try and get some breakfast."
"Hop in," he insisted, "I know just the place to buy breakfast. I'll take you there, then to my store and drive you right back."
I looked toward the motel. I had no phone, no gun, and Scully (although she might assume I went out to get food) didn't know I left. Oh! What the hell! What could happen anyway? Who follows their very own fundamental axiom nowadays? Where did that all "Trust no one" come from again? I was the donkey chasing the carrot Bill was holding before me. Remove all warning labels and let the problem sort itself out.
Are you beginning to picture where my stupidity was leading me? Because, currently speaking, the depletion of oxygen is a good reminder.
"Okay, Bill," I said, getting in his car. "Let's see what you got first and then your breakfast place, so my coffees don't get cold."
"As you wish," he replied.
We passed the sign "Goobertown" (I kid you not, it's a real place!) and it was only a ten-ish minute drive to the closest civilization. He parked the car in front of his store. Before following him inside, I looked around; the village was a ghost town on Sunday morning. Not a living soul. If only I had brought my gun to shout "Howdy kiddo! Now I want ya outta town by sundown!"
I had only stepped one foot inside when ...
Boom! I blacked out.
I don't know how long I was out. When I regained consciousness, my feet were tied to a chair with ropes and my hands tied together behind my back. Bill was talking with three other guys, shaped just like him, probably from the same football or boxing team.
"What now?" One asked.
"What do you mean what now? You know what now!" Another one replied.
"You said last time was the last time," the first one complained.
"Why did you bother to come, scaredy-cat?" The third replied.
"Ahem! Excuse me? Guys?" I called out.
They turned tail simultaneously, the four of them.
"Like I always say, boys, don't do something stupid that you're going to regret afterward."
"You mean like killing your girl?" Bill asked.
"Oh! That's what this is about! Let me explain ..."
"There's nothing to explain," the second said.
"No reason good enough to harm a woman."
"You're from the violence against women organization or something?"
"Exactly," the third said.
"That's good! I mean, you act awfully, but that's good. Look guys, I would never hurt a woman."
"No, you'd just kill them."
"Do I look like that kind of guy?"
"You'd be surprised."
"Come on; untie me now, when it comes to jokes, keep it short and sweet. Brevity is the soul of wit'."
"It wasn't funny in the first place."
"Exactly! Guys seriously, I'm a federal agent."
They looked at each other as if agreeing on laughing, and laughed. Then the second one darted toward, closed fist and aimed at my cheek and ...
Bam! I blacked out.
This. Was really becoming annoying.
"Guys, just because you can't date doesn't mean you can harm guys who can."
"You're awake again!" Bill said.
"Are you willing to confess?" The second bully asked me.
"I'll confess I'm a federal agent with the FBI and you're gonna get yourselves in a lot of trouble if you don't let me go like right now."
"Cut the crap!"
"I'm not gonna press charges but loosen the ropes now."
"If he's really with the FBI, we should let him go," the first one said.
"Shut up! You're such a chicken, Matt! We searched his pockets. Did you see an ID? A gun? What kind of FBI agent wanders around without either of these?"
"Ahem! There are some," I argued, "when they're not on duty. Listen to Matt there."
"Great! Now, he knows my name!"
"Greater reason to end this now!" Bill said. "He's not gonna admit anything!"
"Yeah, let's get this over with," the second said.
"Now, boys, be reasonable. You're not actually thinking of killing a federal agent, now, are you?"
"Yeah! Why not, you woman-hunter?"
"If you can't dazzle them with brilliance, riddle them with bullets."
"What's that?"
"Get educated and meanwhile let me go!"
Bam! (again)
So, here we are. Right back where I started, in the box with Jack Skellington. As you can see, the blame is not all on me. Bad luck always comes in threes. Nothing so mathematical except if you want to build a mathematical model of life's misfortune. Which, by the way, would have been a great alternative to Scully's twin paradox.
There is a general rule in life though, one that should be added to the rules of expectations: people named "Bill" should never be trusted; the power of suggestion should warn us to beware of them. That kid conned me, bamboozled me, hornswoggled me big time! And maybe it is 'cause I've seen the movie, but I feel like saying "When I arrive at my destination, I am gonna kill Bill!"
But, first, let's find a way to get out of here. How did Beatrix Kiddo (you know, the bride from Kill Bill) do it again? She just hit the wood with her hand, right? Gee, if I'd had any gumption at this point in this story, I wouldn't be lying here. Gasp.
Beatrix's recipe for escape came down to this:
- bend your right arm perpendicularly (if you are right handed, of course, otherwise use your left arm),
- lay your hand flat in the continuity of your forearm, such as a bayonet at the end of an old gun,
- aim with the middle finger,
- just before hitting the wooden board, close your wrist tight unless you want to break your finger,
- hit as strong as you can,
- repeat steps 1-5 until crack of the wood, preferably with powder of martial arts skills and rage.
That'll just get you out of the coffin, and then you still have to pray that it's not buried too deep ...
The first fisticuff hurts like hell. The second fisticuff hurts even more. At the third fisticuff, the number of bones in your hand has doubled. You know when they say sticks and stones may break your bones but words will never hurt you? Forget about words, but you might wanna add "wooden boards" to the sticks and stones part. I wish "break a hand" meant good luck too. Inasmuch as mine unquestionably is. If you were boxing, starting to see blood on your opponent would be a good sign. It's not in my case.
I can't punch to save my life, but I'll have to keep doing it. I'm stubborn as a mule chasing a carrot. So I punch and I punch and I punch again. And it hurts and it hurts and it even hurts in a fi(s)t of pique.
I wonder if Scully's at all worried about me, or if she's still asleep, or if she thinks I'm with this Gillian again.
"Scullllaaaaaaaaay!"
What? Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Don't judge. You've never been entombed alive in a coffin (yet). Okay, shouting is to no avail; who could hear me? Who knows where I am buried? Besides Bill and the Bully Boys. Sounds pretty neat, but believe me, it's not. They're not.
Bam! (That's the sound made when I punch the wood.)
Crack! (And that's the sound my fingers ... or what's left of them ... make.)
Owie!
Bam! (The wood again ...)
Crack! (My fingers, or hand, or whatever, I can't even tell anymore ...)
Awk!
Bam! (Wood)
Crack! (Me ...)
Ouch ow yow yowl ...! Uggh!
I'm truly sorry for all the violence but it's not as easy as Beatrix fraudulently showed off. Let me turn the flashlight off. It's even better for me; I don't get to see all my blood competing with the Lascaux caves' pigmented paintings. I'll try to be quiet as well. Just keep in mind I'm still punching this goddamned sarcophagus! The flashlight! Why do I keep kicking it out of my hand? Mini Maglite 2-cell AAA may be small but it's still pretty good stuff!
Clang! Bam!
Crack!
Clang! Bam!
Crack!
Clang! Bam!
Crack!
Crunch!
Oh, shit! I think I finally crushed the wood! How do I light my flashlight? Shit!
Rumble!
Splash!
It definitely came down in buckets today. Ever watched the Survivor reality show? Nah, me either. But still, can you picture the mud challenge? I know it's a struggle, but challenge yourself, will you? I'm sure that's how I'd look like if I had participated in that mud challenge. If Scully was here, this mud would be as good as her bright-green face-mask ... Speaking of which ... As I am digging my way out of my box, I think I can hear her. I can't breathe in this sludge. I'm holding my breath. Am I hallucinating? I hear her scream my name. I dig faster, I excavate, I route out to the surface. The earth is relatively loose and fresh. And although one could think the slipperiness of the wet dust could be an advantage, that one would or should remember exiting from their mother's wet vagina, it's not an advantage. No umbilical cord, for one. I'm so out of breath now, I think I gonna drown. And two, the slipperiness tends to pull you downward ... I'm choking. And I hear my name louder and louder. The end is close. It grabs my wrist. I feel it. My eyes are closed but I feel the light through my eyelids. It takes my other wrist. I don't know whether I'm conscious or dead. Or in between. It pulls me out. It lays me on my back. It wipes my face.
"Mulder!" I hear Scully again.
Slap!
Ow! Awk!
"Scully?" I say as I open my eyes and see her panicked. "Did you just slap my cheek?"
"Oh my God!" She breathes, lowering her shoulders in relief, both smiling and crying. But then instantly, she gets over it: "What is the matter with you??" and slaps my shoulder.
"How did you know how to find me?"
Her hands on my chest, knees in the mud (and the rain and the mud and the rain and the mud ...), she bends her body to the side and Matt, the first of the Bully Boys, appears behind her.
"ooOOoo ..." I was getting out of oxygen in my tomb, chronicling my story, so I skipped a part. "Right!" Sorry about that.
I'll resume now. I was at the moment when that big guy punched me for the second time (or the third if you count the one I didn't see coming when I entered the store). I woke when Matt shook my shoulders. The kid covered my mouth with his hand and whispered he was gonna let me out. He untied the ropes and I was free. He was pushing my back toward the exit when the little bell ring above the door rang. He then pulled me backward, and opened a coffin.
"Hide here, hurry!"
"I'm not going in there, there's a dead man there!"
"Do it! I'll get you out asap!" And he pushed me in. You have to remember Matt is a big guy. So I lay atop of the poor dead old man.
"Gentlemen!" I heard someone greet apparently several men. I believe that was Bill.
It seemed to me the Bully Boys weren't with Bill anymore. I heard Bill say the body was ready. The coffin was too. Uh oh ... The next minute, I heard him nailing the wooden box, and then the dead and I were carried away. "Must be good wood," I heard, "it's quite heavy."
So Matt is a good boy after all. He had found a way to warn Scully about the situation after I was taken to my funeral.
"Don't move! Put your hands in the air where we can see them!" Someone yells behind Scully and Matt.
They both turn around while I try to lean on my elbows. I can't believe this. There are two police cars and officers shielding behind opened doors, aiming their guns at us. What's this about now?
"We're with the FBI, officers," Scully yells back, raising her hands, empty.
"And we're with you all the way," one officer yells back, "You have some kind of an ID?"
Scully turns to me with an "Oops!" expression.
"Don't look at me, Scully. If I had mine, I would never have been in that coffin. Ask the kid!" I say to her, and then I shout to the cowboys, "We're the actual victims here, officers. On what charge are you inculpating us? We're not armed!"
"Actually, I am, Mulder."
"Yeah, me too ..." Matt says.
"Grave robbing!" The policeman says, rolling me to my stomach and cuffing me in the back.
At the same time, two other officers order Scully and Matt to "Lie down!" and violently push them to bend down and lay on their front too.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding," Scully grumbles and then it's bye-bye Scully's nice pant suit and hair! At least now she gets to try this mud face-mask. As for the fourth Rambo, he's aiming his gun at us. Like we're gonna go anywhere or act stupid!
**** BONUS TRACK ****
Later, all three of us, swaddled in blankets, are sitting in an interrogation room, all covered with drying mud. I sit in the middle. Scully tries to gape and it cracks on her cheeks, dust falling off. Suddenly she looks at me and bursts out laughing. Our ridiculous condition, past tension and stress of having found me buried alive, laughter comes as an outlet.
A detective comes in and sits before us. He puts down a tray with coffee cups and slides it toward us. I take a glimpse at Matt; he looks sort of afraid. Scully can't stop giggling. I struggle to recover seriousness and cross my arms over my chest. I look straight at the detective with a curious and unrelenting gimlet-eyed stare and pucker my forehead, dust falling from my face too.
"You wanna share with the rest of the class, madam?" The detective asks.
"No," she guffaws, turning her face toward me, "it's nothing ... the whole ... I'm just ... he ..."
"Don't point down there," I say, smiling, as she points her thumb at me (a little too low in my opinion), fighting to finish her sentence. She then turns toward the detective: steady serious stare at her, gritted teeth and clinched jaw, fingers drumming on the table, stiffened body. And she laughs out louder at this sight.
"Let me just say I have no idea where it's going," I say.
"I just gotta let it out!" Scully giggles, hiding her face in her hands over my chest.
"I would finish the story if I had any idea what you're talking about ..." I say calmly, staring at the imperturbable officer and stroking Scully's hair, "But I don't."
"What about you? You got something to say, kid?" he asks a little louder to overcome Scully's laugh.
"Yeah. I'd like to make a statement," Matt replies. Scully stops laughing at once, raises her head and leans her face against my shoulder to see Matt.
"Go ahead," the detective says, throwing a sly stare at Scully and me, "at least one of you is being reasonable."
"It's not about grave robbing. We didn't do any grave robbing, detective."
"Okay."
"But you might wanna exhume a grave."
"Whose?" The detective asks, astonished.
"Henry MacGilgrey. He didn't die of a heart attack. Henry's wife was a victim of domestic violence before she met Henry, and she learned Henry was no better than her former companion, that he wanted to get rid of her to another woman, so she turned to her son. Henry was choked to death by the hands of his stepson."
"Who? Geraldine's son? Bill?" The detective asks.
"Himself. I was there."
"Bill is Geraldine's son??" Mulder asks, light bulb attached.
"Who's Geraldine?" Scully asks and then she giggles again ...