By CiCi Lean (aka syn)
dbkate@yahoo.com
 

Date: 22 Jan 1998 19:14:14 GMT

Category/Rating:  SRH, MSR/PG-13 (language and adult themes)
Disclaimer:  These characters belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and Fox
Television.  No copyright infringement is intended and no money may be made
from this story.
Spoilers:  None.
Archive:  Anywhere, but please keep my name and E-mail attached.

Summary:  An evening with Mulder & Scully from a -different- point of view.

THE ROAD TO CUCAMUNGA
Author:  by syn
Feedback:  Any type is welcome.
dbkate@yahoo.com
++++++++++++++

Before I tells you my story, there's a couple of things that we're gonna get
straight right off the bat.  Number one, I would sincerely appreciate it if you
would refrain from referring to me as a con, felon, repeater or convict.

Number two, don't -ever- call me a jailbird.

I prefer the title "License Plate Engineer," if you don't mind.  Thank you.

Look, it's hard enough doing time and whatnot, when you got a bunch of people
looking down on you for the simple act of trying to earn a living wage through
"alternative" methods.  I gotta have a little dignity, even if I am in the
joint. Of course, I wouldn't -be- in the joint if it weren't for my
brain-damaged "co-workers" and a pair of FBI agents who were in an apartment at
three a.m. in the morning doing...

Okay, wait.  Hold on.

I'm getting ahead of myself here.  Let's start over and go to the beginning.
Shall we?

You see, it all started out when me, Weasel, Crumpet and Coat Rack decided on
investing in a small business venture together.  Now, as we figured it, most
people got way too much stuff, but they just don't know it, you see? And this
is the source of all sorts of problems for these good folks.

So, as our civic duty, we would take it upon ourselves to quietly enter the
abodes of said persons and relieve them of some of the more burdensome items
they owned, thus removing from them the stigma of materialism which was no
doubt contributing to their unhealthy lifestyles and probably giving them
backaches and headaches and constipation and whatnot.

Hey.  For our fellow man, it was the least we could do.

So, after a couple of weeks of successful "charity" work, Weasel calls us all
together to assist another poor soul suffering from an overload of material
possessions. .

Some guy at 2360 Hegal Place, Apartment 42.

"All right, landlady says the guy usually leaves for a week at a time and he
headed out last night.  Okay, Pie-Eyes. We'll be waiting in the hallway, you
break open through the fire escape and then let us in the front door," said
Weasel, pointing at me.

"Got it, Weasel," I says, even though I really, -really- hated fire escape
duty.

I'm agriculturalphobic...acrobatpho...acridaph....I got fear of heights, you
know?

"Take care," said Coat Rack, which is what Coat Rack always says for some
reason.

"Don't screw up, ya stupid broad," said Crumpet, all mean-like, which figured.
Me and Crumpet didn't get along, but that was his fault.  Seems like he took
some stupid aversion to me suggesting he'd look a lot better with a dye job.
Go figure.

But, without delay, I heads up to Hegal Place, and one, two, three, I'm up the
fire escape before you could say "The Widow Anna Nicole Smith".  Then, like
Frankie says, I was doing it My Way, until...

I hears the apartment lock jingling.

Now, first thing I thinks is that Crumpet's being a show-off again, trying to
pick the door with just a screwdriver and his hairy paws, but no, it's an
honest-to-God key that actually fits in the lock that was makin' that noise.

"Uh, oh" I says, right out there on the fire escape.  That key-in-the-lock
business is a bad sound, especially if you're in the charity business like I
am.  See, people don't like being helped by people like me, because it goes
against their electronic device, jewelry and silverware addictions, you know.

Right?

Anyways, there I was standin', freezing and freaking, outside the window of a
fourth floor apartment, on a rickety fire escape, hoping that whoever was
coming in the door was either blind, deaf or as stupid as Kate Moss with a
lobotomy, but I had no such luck.  As I peeked in through the window, it was
obvious that the guy who walked in had all his ten senses and more.

He also had green eyes, a nice lookin' face, a real sharp suit...

And one big, bad-ass gun.

Now, I never carried one, but I sure knew a mean piece of heat when I saw it.
That was a Sig Sauer dangling from Green Eyes' hip, and it was the latest
model, shining all nice and hanging from a tip-top regulation leather holster.
It became more than a little obvious that Green Eyes was no ordinary flatfoot
and when I saw the badge dangling from his belt, I knew for sure.

He was Bureau.  A G-Man.  A fibbie.

When I figured this out, I musta smacked myself so hard in the head, I bet my
brain still got a lump on it.  Whatta moron Weasel was!  Parking me outside the
apartment of an FBI agent!  And lowering that fire escape ladder now would have
been like pullin' out a tuba and playing "Workin' On A Chain Gang" just for
Green Eyes' listening pleasure.

To make matters even worse, he wasn't alone.  Nope, comin' in after Green Eyes
was a broad with a wide attitude and a big head of red hair.  She was dressed
sharp and good lookin' too, if you like your broads small and skinny and
smart-looking.

Not that I ever met a guy who -really- likes that, but I digress.

Anyways, as I'm standing there freezing to death on said fire escape, through
the window I see Red open her jacket.  Oh, look at that Einstein, I says to
myself, as the handle of a shiny Smith & Wesson waved hello to me.  Red's a
fibbie too.

Well, wasn't that a ball-bustin' riot.  Why didn't I just break into the
goddamn Justice building, kick Janet Reno in the nuts and take a whiz on old J.
Edgar's desk while I was at it?  Damn.

With rhinestone-like clarity, it dawned on me that I was dead meat.  No, I was
deader than dead meat.  I was a maggot-covered piece of bone off a dead cow's
ass.  Bureau boys aren't known for their sparkling senses of humor and from the
look on G-woman's face, I assumed she had even less of one.

But then it really dawned on me. Wait a minute.  What the heck were Green Eyes
and Red doing in his apartment at two a.m. anyhows?

Why hell, they were gonna pop open a quart of malt, turn on Barry White, aka
The Love Walrus, and do the Hot Poppin' Wild Monkey till the sun comes up,
that's what!  And once they hit the back room, two "oh baby's!" and five bed
squeaks later I'd be down the ladder and everyone will be on the road to
Cucamunga.

I was saved!

"Mulder, I don't understand what you mean by *protecting me*.  How could you
possibly keep me in the dark about such an important development in the case?
You don't have the slightest amount of confidence in my abilities, do you?  Do
you?"

Or maybe not.

"Scully, please.  I just didn't want you to get hurt.  Please try to understand
that."

"That's such bullshit, Mulder.  Goddamn it."

Oh, Jesus, here we go, I says to myself.  "Ladies and gentlemen, this evening
we bring you "As The Bureau Turns" starring Green Eyes and Red."  Damn...

"I am not some little girl that has to be protected, Mulder!  Why can't you see
that?"

"I know that you're strong, Scully, but there are some risks I can't take."

Come on guys, stop whining, I'm screaming in my head.  How about you two get
busy and start the Screaming Poodle so I can slip off your fire escape like a
nice little cat burglar.  Please?  I'm beggin' here...

"What is your risk to take?  Aren't I equal to you, Mulder?  Am I so feeble and
helpless that I can't make decisions for myself?  On my own?"

"No.  You don't understand...."

But no. They was just gonna argue and look sad and then argue some more all
damn night it seemed.  They didn't need charity, they needed therapy.  Soon, it
was getting colder outside and angrier in there, with Red lookin' like she's
about to bust a major artery, when all of a sudden it happened.

Yeah, IT happened.

"No, I don't understand, Mulder.  Why do you INSIST on refusing to let me fully
take on the same risks along with you, INSIST on protecting me against my will,
INSIST on trying to shield me from everything that YOU think will hurt me?"

"Because I love you."

Whoa.

"Excuse me?  What did you say, Mulder?"

"I said, because I love you."

Double whoa.

Now...I might be a tad jaded, but I have to admit, that even threw me, Gina
"Pie-Eyes" Shortinski, for a wide loop.  For a long time, the entire world just
seemed to stop its spinning, even out there on that cold-ass fire escape.  And
I was just standing there, staring in that window, with my mouth hangin' open
so wide I'm surprised a bat didn't fly in, unpack his luggage and stick a
mailbox number on my nose.

But that was nothing compared to Red.  Boy, the look on her face, it was
priceless.  And I couldn't tell for the life of me what she was gonna do.  Was
she gonna smack him?  Shoot him?  Leave?

Or was she gonna reach up, pull him to her and start headin' down the road to
Cucamunga, looking like she was never...ever, gonna let him go.

Which is exactly what she did.

And let me tell you, THAT was a bout of tongue hockey you don't see every day.

Now I sees you looking at the page goin' "jeez, what are you, a sicko lookin'
at two people like that?"  Well, it wasn't like I could change the channels,
all right? Besides, I was going to *rob the guy's house*, remember?

Not exactly a great measure of my moral
integrition...interrog...integro...character.

Anyhows, by this time they seems to be getting just to the point where we was
all headin' down that fabled road, them to the back room, me down the ladder,
when suddenly, I sees Red break it off and look straight in my direction.

"Mulder, is your window fogging up?"

The jig was up.

And before you knows it, I'm being yanked, none too gently mind you, off the
fire escape, through the window and shoved onto a couch that looked and smelled
like it needed to apply for either Social Security or a plot down at the
furniture cemetery.

"Who are you?" screams Green Eyes, so pissed-off looking, I honestly thought
I'd be playing 20 Questions with St. Paul in about a minute. "Who do you work
for?!"

"I works for nobody, well, maybe I..." I tries to say, but the words were
sticking like I had a mouth fulla Legos.

"Do you work for Cancerman?  Tell me!  Or I swear I'll kill you!"

Cancerman?  Now, why I was suddenly picturing a guy in a bright green Kools
cape and Joe Camel stamped on his chest, flying over the city with a butt
hanging from his mouth, I couldn't tell you.  All in all, I had to admit, it
was a cool nickname.  But that wasn't something I was gonna bring up right
there and then.  This guy didn't seem to be a very big fan of Mr. Cancerman.

"No," I says, or screams...I forget.  "I works for Weasel!"

Red's eyes turned huge and curious-like.  "Weasel?  Who's Weasel?"

"Weasel Polenski!  From Bayonne!"

"Weasel Polenski...from Bayonne,"  Red turned and said to Green Eyes with a
weird look.  For a long time they stares at each other, as if someone just
robbin' the apartment was the weirdest thing they'd ever heard of.

"Why...you're just an ordinary burglar," says Green Eyes so astonished-like,
you figured he appreciated my efforts.  He starts to laugh. "I can't believe
it.  That's hilarious."

Red starts to laugh with him.  "Oh, my God. She was actually trying to ROB your
apartment," she shrieks.  "From the FIRE-ESCAPE!"

They were both nearly doubled over with laughter, so I sort of figures it might
be a good idea to join in.

"Yeah," I says, laughin' with them.  "Ain't that a corker!"

"YEAH!" they both yell back at me.  And there we was, laughing and laughing and
laughing.  Jeez, we was howling with laughing, until Red whips out her gun and
trains it on me.

"ON THE FLOOR!" she screams, not laughing no more.

"What?" I says, thinking she's probably speaking to somebody else.

"You heard her," says Green Eyes, not laughin' neither no more, with his
big-ass Sig Sauer suddenly pointed at my head.

"Jeez, you two really run hot and cold, " I says, as I lay down and kissed the
carpet.

So, on go the bracelets and its down to the station house for poor, innocent
me, with Green Eyes dragging me up to the head flatfoot's desk, mumbling
something about "some half-baked reject from the Bowery Boys".  I was just
doing a little charity work I'm trying to explain, till Red throws me a look
that would have roasted a whole side of beef in a flash.

I decide shutting up might be a bright idea.

Soon, before you know it, in come Weasel, Coat Rack and Crumpet, all wearing
bracelets and lookin' none too happy.  They drag 'em past me down to central
booking, with Crumpet screaming about prison haircuts and dye-jobs and whatnot,
and then, before you could say "Robert Downy Jr.", we's all doing three to five
for breaking and entering.

But then, two weeks into my stay at the Iron Bar Hotel, I gets a package.  It's
a book for a correspondence course in Creative Writing, already signed up and
paid for.  The note insides says...

"We thought you needed a new profession.  Regards, Mulder and Scully, FBI."

And that course is what I'm writing this story for.  And that's what's gonna
help me take my first step in a new direction, down my own road to Cucamunga.
Because while being a two-bit, convicted criminal has its own rewards, I think
that being a writer might be a small step up the social ladder.

Or...then again, maybe not.

+++++++++++++
Fini.

Comments, send 'em along!
synnerX@aol.com
synnerX@yahoo.com

"Kramar's Mystery Appetizer.  THAT'S what we'll call it!"

Syn's Place:  http://www.geocities.com/dbkate/xfiles.html