By ML
Email: msnsc21@aol.com

Feedback: always welcome
Distribution: Ephemeral, Gossamer, Enigmatic Dr., or if
you've archived me before, yes; if you haven't, please
just let me know and leave headers, email addy, etc.
attached. Thanks!
Spoilers: Everything
Rating: PG-13 (language, gentlemen!)
Classification: Vignette
Keywords: Frohike POV
Summary:  A diverse group of people with a common interest
meet under unusual circumstances.

Disclaimer:  These characters aren't mine.  They mostly belong
to the actors who portray them, but Chris Carter created them,
and Ten Thirteen and FOX own the rights.  I mean no infringement,
and I'm not making any profit from them.  The music used in this
story is likewise borrowed without permission, but with great
respect.  Apologies to Douglas Adams.

This is my answer to the IWTB 2002 Birthday Challenge. Elements
and a few notes at the end.

=====

The Bar at the End of the Universe
by ML

Lately it occurs to me
What a long strange trip it's been...
-Grateful Dead

Frohike entered first, blinking in the dimness.  He looked
around, took off his glasses, and rubbed them on his vest.
He looked around again and repeated the actions.

"Guys," he said.  "Are you seeing what I'm seeing?"

"Dunno," Langly said.  "What are you seeing?"

Frohike saw a pool table with a fake Tiffany light over it.
He saw leatherette booths and a few tables.  He saw a bar.  He
heard Janis Joplin wailing about trading all her tomorrows for
a single yesterday.  He could smell the grease of the burgers.

"The Last Call, outside of Camp LeJeune," he said.  "I haven't
set foot inside there since...well, it's been a long time.  How'd
we get here?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, man," Langly said.
"It's Cruddy's Pizza, outside of Philly.  Lousy pizza, great
cheesesteaks."

"I thought the place was called `Buddy's,'" said Byers.

"Well, yeah, but we renamed it," Langly said.  "Have you been
there, too?"

Byers shook his head.  "You told us about it when they tore it
down," he said.  "Besides, this looks more like..."

"You're all three correct," came a voice from a booth nearby.
The three friends turned as one to look at the stranger.

He was an older man, neatly dressed in a three-piece suit.  He
had mostly gray hair crinkling back from a receding hairline.
His eyes appeared hooded above his sharp nose, but they had a
twinkle in them and he wore a slight smile.

"It takes a little getting used to," he said.  "Now, to me,
it looks like the Club Bar in Boston," he said.  "I have my
own private stock of single malt in the cabinet behind the
bar."  He took a sip and waved his hand.  "Cuban cigars, too.
Every comfort."

Frohike looked around.  It still looked like the Last Call to
him, but out of the corner of his eye he had a sense of things
shifting, just out of his view.  He nudged Langly.  "What did
you say you see?"

"Cruddy's Pizza," Langly repeated.  He wrinkled his nose.  God,
I can even smell it."

"Byers?"

Byers blushed.  "The Jungle Room.  It was a karaoke bar I used
to go to in college."  He seemed to feel the need to explain.
"I don't -- didn't go to bars much."

The mysterious man nodded.  "Everybody has a favorite `hangout,'
if you will," he explained, crinkling his face in a rueful grin.
"I've been here long enough that I can imagine my surroundings to
be what I like, and even take others with me.  I don't have your
memories or experiences," he said, and he looked grateful,  "so
I can't see what you see here.  Perhaps, in time, I will.  But we
can occupy this same space and be as comfortable as such different
people can be."

"And who might you be?"  Frohike asked.

"My name isn't important," the man said.  "But some have called
me `Deep Throat.'"

Byers gasped.  "Not --"

The man smiled.  "Not the one you're thinking of, though we were
poker buddies," he said.  "Look around.  No doubt you'll see a
few familiar faces before long."

They looked around.  The edges of the room seemed to move in and
out depending on where they looked.  Frohike tried to sneak up on
the room by whirling around suddenly, but all it did was make him
dizzy.

"I need a drink," he said, and sat at the bar.  Langly and Byers
joined him.

"What'll it be, boys?"  The bartender asked.

"Beer," Frohike said.

"Beer," Langly said.

"Vodka, straight up," Byers said.  The other two stared at him.
Byers stared back.

"Gimme a shot of whisky too," Frohike said.

"Tequila," added Langly.

Their drinks arrived swiftly and they knocked back their shots
simultaneously.  Langly started to choke and Byers and Frohike
thumped his back until he recovered.

They stared into their glasses as Elvis replaced Janis on the
jukebox.

"So where the hell are we?" Langly asked no one in particular.

"Damned if I know," muttered Frohike.  Unasked, the bartender
brought the three friends another round.  He looked around for
the familiar faces the other man suggested they'd see.

No one else sat at the bar except one man at the far end, who
appeared to be playing liar's dice against himself.

"You don't suppose it's hell, do you?"  asked Byers.  "We did
die, didn't we?"

Perhaps made bolder by drink, Langly shouted over to the man who
called himself Deep Throat.  "Hey, are you dead?"

The man looked up from his conversation with another very well-
dressed older man and smiled.  "Either that, or I'm very relaxed,"
he said with another half-smile.

"Why would hell look like a place we have good memories of?"
asked Langly.

Byers shrugged.  "Maybe it's to remind us of what we've lost."

Langly snorted.  "I didn't like Cruddy's *that* much."

"So for you, hell is yearning for days gone by?" the man at the
end of the bar asked.  He finished his drink and gestured for
another one.  "Not so much olive juice this time," he instructed
the bartender.  "I like a dirty martini, but not *that* dirty."

His drink arrived and he turned to face them, saluting them with
the glass.

"There are some who say hell is other people," he added.  "And
the Eskimos think it's a cold place.  Hell is what you make it,
either here, or back on Earth."  He took a sip of his drink.
"That's more like it.  Though I'm kind of surprised to see you
clowns here."

"It's mutual, I'm sure," said Frohike.  "But it must be hell if
you're here, Krycek."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," Krycek said.  "I'm not the
Devil, though some people thought I was."

"You sure gave a good imitation of him," said Frohike.

"I did what I had to do.  Under the circumstances, you'd have
done the same."

Langly blew a raspberry into his beer and Frohike said, "I don't
think so.  We didn't betray anyone, and we didn't kill anyone.
We didn't switch sides as often as we changed our socks."

"That's probably not saying much," said Krycek.  "Not that I want
to get into personal hygiene with you.  You don't know the whole
story.  Mulder didn't know the whole story."

"No one knew the whole story," said Frohike.  "Except maybe that
smoking bastard, and he took it to his grave, no doubt."  He
looked around.  "I don't see him here."

"Not everyone comes here," said Krycek.  "I don't know the guest
list.  But maybe he's not dead, either."

"I thought you killed him,"  Byers asked.

"Maybe I did, and maybe I didn't,"  Krycek said.

Frohike was scrutinizing all the corners of the room, looking for
anyone else they knew.  He breathed an unconscious sigh of relief
when he didn't.

"Looking for Mulder?"  Krycek asked knowingly.  "No, he's not
dead.  Not yet, anyway.  But it could happen.  I'm not the only
one who tried to kill him, you know.  I was only following
orders."

"Spoken like the nazi you are," Langly said.

"Hey, Goldilocks, mind your own business," Krycek said.  "Do you
think I wanted the world taken over by aliens?  What I said to
Mulder is true.  They follow their own imperatives, and they have
nothing to do with humans.  Those who are left, who throw their
lot in with the aliens, they're in for a rude awakening.  I
thought that killing Mulder would delay their plans, but now I
don't think so.  I'd probably help him now if I could."

"Easy to say now, isn't it?"  said Frohike.  "Now that you can't
do anything."

"Who's to say he can't?"  Another man approached the bar.  Like
the first, he was older and well-dressed, sprinklings of white
in his short black hair.

His eyes were cold and as black as his hair.  His lips curled
just a little as he surveyed the group.  "You Johnny-come-latelys
sit here and speculate, but do you do anything?  No, you'd rather
insult each other, and spout theories.  There are still people
fighting for the cause down there.  Mulder's still down there.
You," he said, pointing at Krycek.  "You want to put your money
where you mouth is?"

"Yeah, Krycek," sneered Langly.  "I double-dog dare you."

Krycek looked at the other man.  "Who are you?"

"Call me `X'," he said.  "That's how Mulder knew me."

"What do you expect me to do?" Krycek asked.

"Come with me," said X.  "We've got an ass to save.  Again."

X and Krycek were there, and then suddenly, they weren't.

"Where'd they go?"  Byers asked.

Deep Throat spoke up again.  "They went back to help Mulder," he
said.  "Those of us who are here have one thing in common.  I
think you can figure out what it is."

"Are you sure Krycek will help Mulder?  He's pretended to before,"
said Frohike.

"You can see for yourself," said Deep Throat.  He pointed to a
TV set mounted near the bar.  Sure enough, Mulder was there on
the screen, doing something he shouldn't.  Even with no sound,
they could see he was in danger of getting himself trapped.

Then, out of nowhere, Krycek appeared and pulled him to safety.
The safety, however, was short-lived.  Within minutes, Mulder
had been handcuffed and led away.

Frohike just looked at the other man.  "You were saying?"

x-x-x-x

Langly was amusing himself by trying to order something that
the kitchen couldn't conjure up.  He started with his favorites,
and then went for any kind of food he'd ever heard of, whether
he'd ever eaten it or not.

"What are you trying to do, Langly?"  asked Byers, who'd decided
he rather liked dirty martinis.  He sang softly along with the
jukebox, "she was gonna be an actress, and I was gonna learn to
fly..."

"I'm trying to figure out if I can only get foods I've eaten
before, or if they can make up anything I can imagine," Langly
said.  An array of dishes were scattered along the counter, from
a half-eaten cheesesteak to Louisiana hot wings to calamari
rings.   "I've got it.  Salmon mousse," he said to the bartender.

Before long, a tray appeared with a creamy pink gelatinous
substance on it, molded into the silhouette of a moose.

"Have you ever had salmon mousse?"  asked Byers.

"Nope," said Langly.  "But that's what I thought it would look
like.  These guys are good."

Krycek reappeared.

"Way to go, Krycek," said Langly.  "Knew you'd screw it up."

"Can I help it if Mulder won't follow directions?"  he said
defensively.  "Anyway, I'm not done yet.  I'm going back.  X
is still there."

"You'll just make things worse," Langly said.  "Your help is
like a one-way ticket to the Pearly Gates."

"Think you could do better?"  Krycek said.  "Be my guest.  I'll
bet you anything you like you can't."

"I didn't think you were a betting man, Krycek."

Krycek grimaced.  "Everything's a gamble.  Some things just have
better odds."

Langly said, "Okay, Krycek, if you succeed, I'll do anything you
like.  Whatever you say."

"Anything, huh?"  Krycek grinned.  "Does that include parading
around in a leather thong?"

Langly blanched, but recovered quickly.  "Anything," he repeated
firmly.  His eyes looked a little wild behind his thick glasses.
"I mean it."

"I doubt that Mulder would appreciate the sacrifice you're
making," said Krycek.  "But you've certainly raised the stakes
for me."  He stopped and listened for a moment.  "Sorry boys,
gotta go," and he was gone.

x-x-x-x

The case wasn't going well for their side.  Witness after
witness appeared and was shot down, or the testimony was
disallowed.  Skinner looked apoplectic, and even the opposing
attorney looked uncomfortable with the proceedings.  Once or
twice it looked like a witness might have scored a point in
Mulder's favor, but when the verdict was delivered, no one in
the bar was surprised.

"It looks as though we'll have to resort to more extreme
measures," said the man with the English accent.  "Whom
should we send?"

"Krycek and X are still there," said Deep Throat.

"But they can't break him out of prison!"  protested the
Englishman.

Deep Throat shrugged.  "Who among us can?  We can only do so
much.  We'll have to leave it to his living colleagues."

Englishman shook his head.  "They'll get caught.  The cause is
doomed, once again."

Deep Throat shook his head.  "Oh ye of little faith," he said
with a chuckle.  "Watch and see."

It was like watching a cop show, except it was truly life or
death.  The Gunmen watched in anxious silence as Skinner and
Doggett skulked around the prison compound.  Somehow, doors
were magically unlocked and guards' attention were misdirected
as they found their way to Mulder's cell.

"Look over there," Frohike nudged Byers.  He followed Frohike's
gesture and saw a man sitting alone at a small table, a tumbler
of Scotch in front of him.  His eyes never left the screen and
he gripped his hands tightly together.  "I think that's Mulder's
dad," Frohike whispered.

Suddenly another player appeared on the screen.  Frohike heard
the hiss from somewhere in the room:  "Kershhh..."

"Who'd a thunk it?" said Krycek, appearing at Frohike's elbow.
"Guess he'll be joining us pretty soon."

They watched Mulder rejoin Scully, and head in the direction
opposite to what Kersh told them.

"Stubborn to the last," said Deep Throat resignedly.  "Do you
three want to take a shot at convincing him?"

"You mean we can go back?"  Langly squeaked.

"Only to help Mulder," said Deep Throat.  "Try to convince him
that it's in his best interests -- and the world's -- to head
north, until we can figure out the next step."

x-x-x-x

It was dark, and warm, and windy.  Frohike was surprised that
he could feel it.  He could see headlights coming down the road.
The vehicle pulled off near them and the engine was cut.  Frohike
could just see movement inside, and then the door opened.

The Gunmen stood in front of a small copse of straggly trees,
and Mulder headed right for them, though he showed no sign of
seeing them.  As he yanked at his zipper, it became obvious to
Frohike that he hadn't seen them after all.

When Frohike spoke to him, Mulder showed no surprise at all.
He listened to what the guys had to say, and then went on as
he always had, keeping his own counsel.

Frohike caught sight of Scully as Mulder got back in the
SUV.  "Goodbye, Agent Scully," he whispered into the wind.
"Godspeed."

x-x-x-x

"Well, we tried," Byers said as they reappeared at the bar.

"Yes, you did," said Deep Throat.  "And really, that's what
counts in the end.  Not the accomplishment, but the trying."

"What happens now?"  asked Frohike.

"Their need for us isn't over," he pointed out.  They watched
the events unfold before them.  On screen, Mulder and Scully
were escaping the black helicopters.  A small cheer went up as
they saw the missiles hit home and the Smoking Man finally,
irrevocably, met his fate.

"Listen, now," said Deep Throat, and they could hear Mulder's
words as he spoke to Scully:  "I want to believe that the dead
are not lost to us.  That they speak to us..."

...and Scully's reply:  "Then we believe the same thing."

"You see?"  said Deep Throat.  "There's always hope.  We haven't
seen the last of them, nor they the last of us."  He got up from
his seat.  "Gentlemen, would you like to come along with me?
I've got a box at Fenway Park."

As the edges of the room faded away, Frohike could hear John
Lennon singing, "And we all shine on..."

end.

Author's notes:  The challenge elements are as follows:
A Karaoke bar, a double dog dare, a dirty martini, a leather
thong, hot wings, salmon, and a pearl (literal or metaphorical).

This story is also dedicated to frogdoggie, who wanted to see
dead people.  He also wanted humor, but YMMV <g>.

All of the music playing on the jukebox was performed by dead
people, too (unless you're among those who believe that Elvis
lives!).  And, strictly speaking, it's only Jerry Garcia of the
Grateful Dead who's passed on, but I made an exception.  And it
wasn't playing on the jukebox, either <g>.

Thanks for coming along for the ride!  This is kind of a
departure for me, and I'd love to know what you think of it:
msnsc21@aol.com