Title: The Wizard of X
Author: dlynn
Written: 2000
Category : Humor, I hope .... Post-episode, sorta.... Parody, most definitely....
Archiving: Xemplary, yes. Do not post to Gossamer; I will submit directly. Others, just let me know so I might visit
Spoilers: Everything through season seven is fair game. Post Triangle
Rating: PG-13

Summary: Somewhere over the cornfields parodies lie. There's a land that I heard of once ... in a drug induced high.

Disclaimer: The X-Files isn't mine, and neither is The Wizard of Oz or Disney. Darn.

Author's note: After A Legacy, I needed something 'frivolous.' I think this is as far away from angsty as I can get. Just promise to not revoke my fanfic license because of one moment of insanity.

I mentioned this idea to LilliBeth, my English rose, and instead of laughing me right out of her chat, she fed my delusions, filling my mailbox with lots of ideas. She wouldn't take co-authorship [I wonder why?!], but she must at least accept one of the straight jackets reserved for the two of us. I hear the padded room accommodations are quite fine.

Sometimes ... a fic writer just needs to laugh.

My other stories can be found at http://home.mpinet.net/laster

"Mulder? Mulder, it's me." Mulder, lying on his side in a hospital bed, slowly opens his eyes. He sees Scully leaning over the bed, trying to rouse him from his slumber.

"Where am I?" Mulder says as he attempts to sit up, but thinking better of it, stiffly lays back down.

"You're in a hospital."


"Lie still."

Mulder whispers, "I feel ... like hell."

"I don't blame you. You've been through the wringer, I'd say."

"What happened to me?"

"You did something incredibly stupid."

"What did I do?"

"You went looking for a ship, Mulder. In the Bermuda Triangle."

"Say that again?"

The Lone Gunmen enter the room, filling the small space with their presence.

Frohike mutters, "Gilligan awakes."

Watching his friends who gather around his bed, Mulder whispers to Scully, "You were there."


"You were there, Scully."

Skinner enters the room at the end of Mulder's declaration.

Langly mutters to those gathered, "He's delirious."

Nodding his head at Skinner, Mulder continues. "And he was there, too."

Skinner drops a bouquet of flowers on the nightstand. "Right - me and my dog, Toto."

"No ... you were there with the Nazis."

Scully attempts to calm her partner. "Mulder, will you settle down? It's an order."

Skinner grumbles, "Not that he takes orders...."

Mulder rests the back of his hand against Scully's waist, where she's leaned up against his bed rail. He seems very happy, yet very drugged.

With a slight slur in his voice, he murmurs, "You saved the world, Scully."

Realizing she's going to get no where with her errant partner, Scully replies, "Yeah. You're right. I did."

Bemused, Frohike asks, "What kind of drugs is he on?"

"I want some." Langly replies.

"No, no, no...The Queen Anne - I found it. You were there with Thor's Hammer. I told you ... you had to turn the ship around, and then I jumped overboard."

Scully smirks at Mulder's outburst. "Yeah, I bet you did. The boat that you were on was busted into a million pieces. And as for the Queen Anne, it was nothing more than a ghost ship."

"No, no, no. You and I were on that ship, Scully. In 1939."

Skinner, frustrated with Mulder's entire explanation, grouses, "Get some rest, Mulder. 'Cause when you get out of here, I'm going to kick your butt, but good."

The Gunmen and Skinner leave the room, leaving Mulder and Scully alone.

Mulder still attempts to get Scully to listen to him. "I would've never seen you again. But you believed me."

"In your dreams," Scully whispers, bending closer and changing the tone of her voice. She sounds as though she were speaking to a very recalcitrant child. "Mulder, I want you to close your eyes, and I want you to think to yourself.'There's no place like home.'"

Mulder chuckles. "Mmmm...."

Scully starts to leave the room and Mulder calls her back. Leaning up on his elbow he asks, "Hey, Scully?"

Scully returns, humoring him as she heads back to his hospital bed. "Yes?"

There's a long pause as Mulder and Scully look into each other's eyes.

Mulder finally breaks the silence. "I love you."

With a dismissive reply, "Oh brother ...." Scully walks out of the door, leaving Mulder to contemplate the events that happened to him. As he tries to lie down, his face touches the pillow, and he pulles up slightly. He rubs his jaw, where the 1939 Scully hit him, and gazes out the empty doorway where Scully has just departed.

Mulder's head slammed into his hospital room's wall; his battered body was even more bruised after this encounter with an immovable force. He felt as though his bruises had bruises. Trying to clear his eyes, because all color seemed to have disappeared from his field of vision, Mulder struggled to his feet and grabbed onto the swaying IV rack as it slid by on screeching castors. But before he could totally right himself, the room pitched starboard like a small boat, which was riding out thunderous hurricane sized swells.

"What the hell!" he screamed, the surreal circumstances beating against him. He grabbed onto the bed, lunging forward and throwing himself across the jumping mattress, his legs dangling off the edge as he held onto the sheets and headboard for dear life. The hospital bed twisted and turned, flailing against walls, monitors, and a tacky, 'what used to be orange' vinyl reclining chair.

As another piece of equipment crashed to the floor and Mulder rocked and bucked on his bed like a cowboy riding a bucking bronco, he felt himself slipping from his precarious mount. His hands flailed wildly, and he grabbed onto the dusty, venetian blinds. His frantic hands tore the vinyl window coverings from plaster moorings as his bucking bed flung him once more to the floor. The blinds smashed into the window, shattering the glass.

Landing in an ignoble heap and covering his head with his arms to protect himself from flying debris, Mulder's eyes were drawn to the hospital window. The wind, streaming in from outside, whipped the curtains and blew across his face with a cold and terrifying chill.

The swirling gale tossed cars and hospital furniture through the air outside his window vantage, as though they weighed no more than paper dolls. More and more debris swooshed by in a deafening roar, until finally... the landscape changed. No longer were hospital items being flung willy-nilly about, but scenes were beginning to glide across the window screen like a very bad music video of his life.

In fact ... where was ** that ** music coming from? It sounded like a caustic organ rendition of Phantom of the Opera.

Episode after episode of people, events, and places filled the window's arena, affording Mulder a prime seat for "this was his life." He shook his head, trying to clear his vision ... but nothing had changed. The world was still black and white - and Andy Warhol.

Repeating his earlier comment, but now with a voice laced more with confusion instead of anger, Mulder murmured, "What the hell?"

Before he could wrap his brain around the absurd fast paced montage, he smelled smoke. Realizing there was probably a fire, Mulder tried to slide his body over to the closed hospital room door. He attempted to remove the chair that was blocking it, but to no avail. His head injury must be very severe, explaining his weakened condition and the weird hallucinations he was having.

The smell of smoke, obviously from a cigarette rather than a fire, became more overwhelming. A loud, raucous laugh - an insidious slithering cackle - drew his attention back to the window.

CGB Spender flew by his window perched upon a Hoover vacuumcleaner, a glowing cigarette clutched between his lips as more than a putrid stench seeped into Mulder's room. Over and over ... the smoking man screached above the Hoover's sounds of suction.

"Trust no one. Trust no one."

And when Mulder thought he was only seconds away from losing his lunch, Mr. Toad's wild and crazy ride stopped.


With a large bump and blessed silence, peace after the storm prevailed. It was over ... the tornado was over.

"Scully!" Mulder shouted, pushing the fallen IV cart off his chest. Scrambling up from the floor, in surprisingly good shape, Mulder reached the hospital room door. Giving the heavy impediment to his escape a solid yank, he fell backward as the door opened much easier than he expected.

He poked his head into the hallway, terrified as to what he might find. Obviously, the hospital had been decimated by the tornado if what he'd seen flying by his window was any indication.

But instead of a long white corridor as he expected, Mulder looked out into a scene straight from a 1939 Technicolor, cinematic classic - The Wizard of Oz.

Small gingerbread style homes, designed with amazingly bad architecture and clashing colors stood ungracefully against a violet sky. Color? Mulder rubbed at his eyes, realizing his color vision had been restored. He wished for a return to black and white if doing so would provide some relief from the glaring intensity of several candy colored edifices.

A light breeze tickled the air and flapped Mulder's hospital gown against his legs. He reached for the back edges, hoping to enclose his posterior before his vulnerability flashed the world. But instead of an open gown, Mulder's hands encountered poplin gingham. Looking down, his fingers smoothed a blue checkered dress against his thighs; the skirt just touched the edge of his knees.

"What the hell?" Mulder reiterated for what had to be the third or fourth time since this whole nightmare had begun. He heard whispers emanating from behind the crazy quilt houses. Before he could investigate, however, his gaze was drawn to a circular stage, where a crowd of people in white physician's coats was gathered. The crowd, of what appeared to be extremely good looking hospital residents, was focused on someone within the center of its group. As Mulder watched, the throng divided, revealing a gurney. Upon the wheeled hospital bed, Scully sat with her legs dangling over the edge and her ankles demurely crossed.



Scully snapped her fingers and one of the GQ interns dropped to his knees, providing his back as a stepping stool. Agent Scully gracefully slid her hand into the air, where another white-coated man grasped her fingers. He provided balance for her as she delicately stepped upon the fallen man's back and daintily climbed from the table.

As she reached solid ground, she released the intern's hand and shooed him and his cohorts away. With a flurry and a flounce, Scully sashayed over to Mulder.

He couldn't believe his eyes. Scully was decked out like a fairy princess. Gossamer tulle and sparkly silk graced her petite form. Her shoulders were bare as the gown draped snugly across her breasts, accentuating her curves with a deliciously plunging neckline. Mulder wasn't sure which was more startling, seeing Scully in a long, flowing fairy dress and silvery diamond tiara, or getting an up close and personal view of her ample cleavage.

Who would have known Scully was so well-endowed, he mused.

"Mulder ... you did this to me. You are responsible for this 'get up." With a look of disgust, Scully flipped at her skirts, rustling the layers of taffeta until they were but a swirl of sparkles. Bending forward, she attempted to see her feet. Realizing the futility of this endeavor, she gathered fistfuls of taffeta between her fingers and lifted the edges of the flowing skirt until her feet were revealed. She was wearing three inch, sexy, open-toed sandals.

"Damn, Mulder. You expect me to be able to run in these? If I don't get tangled up in my skirt," she muttered, smacking at oceans and oceans of tulle, "I'll kill myself running in sandals with this kind of heel."

Mulder squeezed his eyes tightly closed. As wild a fantasy as this might be, Scully dressed as Miss Teenage America just made no sense.

Opening his eyes, he still beheld a disgruntled Scully, who was beckoning people to come out from behind the cartoonish homes.

"Nice legs, Mulder." Scully laughed as she pointed to Mulder's hairy limbs peaking out beneath his homespun dress. "If you'd like I can recommend a good razor, or even better yet ... there's a salon, which does the most amazing waxing. Peeling your legs would probably be a challenge, but if you're going to wear dresses, Mulder, I really feel you should give it a try."

"Scully, as much as I'm finding this 'girl-talk' appealing, I think I should sit...."

"By the way, Mulder, why ARE you wearing a dress?"

"I'm trying to get in touch with my feminine side ... How the hell do I know! But, Scully, I could ask you the same question. Why the Fairy Godmother routine?" He warily watched those who were gathering around his 'partner', whispering in her ear.

"Ah...this ol' thing. I just threw it on. It's the uniform of my trade - official witch attire. Although, I really think I need a word with my designer. This gown is already so trendy, every witch, except Joan Rivers, has one of these."

"Um... Scully, witches wear black and have tall pointy hats." Mulder slumped against the battered remains of his hospital room, pondering the ramifications of this dream.

Scully huffed in annoyance. "Every child knows good witches wear white, Mulder; it's canon. And the writers' never mess with canon."

"Well if you're a witch, where's your wand?" Mulder decided he might as well just go with the flow; trying to make sense of all this was doing nothing but make his head hurt even more.

Scully's hands floundered against her sides, until they finally dove beneath the folds of her dress and pulled out her wand, which she waved in the air with a victorious thrust of her hand.

"That's a patella hammer, Scully, not a wand."

"You seem to forget, Mulder, that I am also a medical doctor. This serves me quite well."

One of the gorgeous intern hunks took the hammer from her hand as Mulder glared daggers in his direction. "What's with all the Dr. Doug Ross wannabe's, Scully?"

Smiling as a second sexy intern kissed her hand, Scully shrugged her shoulders. "Beats me, Mulder; it's your dream. But as I haven't had a date in years, I think I'm going to enjoy the attention."

"Scully ... this is ridi...."

Mulder's attention was suddenly drawn to the sight of two legs, clad in candy cane striped stockings, sticking out from underneath the floor of his collapsed hospital room.

"Don't tell me; it's the Wicked Witch of the East?"

"Mulder, I don't work in supposition and innuendo. Let's just say I need additional proof before I believe anything, but at first glance I'd say it was one of the nasty witches that live here."

Mulder bent down next to the languishing legs. He picked up a prosthetic arm, from where it lay beneath a red and white striped thigh, and waved it in front of Scully. "Scully, those legs belong to Alex Krycek."

"Really? Who knew ...? I never would have suspected he was a witch. He was always so difficult to pin down. But I've got to tell you, Mulder, your gingham dress is a lot more tasteful than his striped hose. Are you a good witch, Mr. Gayle, or a bad witch?"

"That's Hale, Scully. And I'm one sorry son-of-a-witch, but that's as close as I come to the Title," Mulder murmured, swearing that the man sidling up to Scully looked like Strughold.

"Scully, you need to do a post mortem. We need to know what killed Krycek."

"Mulder your house fell on him!"

"No it didn't; I was in a hospital," he said, turning once more to examine the remains of his room. But instead of seeing the familiar antiseptic hospital corridors, Mulder beheld the Hoover building's brick facade.

"Scully, it's the FBI building."

"The Fairy Bureau of Initiations?" Scully queried as she reached into her taffeta folds. "I hadn't realized they'd moved ... and such a staid and boring structure."

As Mulder watched, Good Witch Scully rummaged around between the folds of her skirt. His gaze must have shown his curiosity because she winked at him and asked, "Mulder, I need some latex. You wouldn't happen to be packing, would you?"

Before Mulder could answer, one of the svelte and randy 'interns' bent and whispered in her ear. With a satisfied smirk in Mulder's direction, Scully's medical paramour drew a soft-petaled rose against her lips. Laughing she took the red flower from the young intern's hands and seductively patted his cheek.

"Right ... as I was just reminded, any latex you might carry would be interminably old and likely to break at any time. Besides, I don't believe you have your wallet on you, do you?"

Delving back under her skirts, Scully began to remove items as she searched for a pair of latex gloves. First to emerge from the voluminous robe was a cell phone.

"I need to keep in touch with my mom," Scully offered by way of explanation. "At my mom's request last week, I put a spell on my brother, Bill. She hoped I might turn him into an all around nice person. For the most part it's done the trick. Except ... when he still tells the occasional lie, his nose grows longer. I've just got to find the right adaptation for the incantation, and everything will be fine. That's what I get swapping trade secrets with a cricket who's dressed in tails and top hat."

Mulder was amused as he watched Scully pull a variety of other household items from her flashy petticoats. A large, black flashlight, a handful of evidence bags, a potted plant, a small overnight bag, and a tape measure followed the cell phone.

Stopping in her pursuit of latex gloves, Scully held the tape measure up before her and measured her height.

"Hm... I thought so," she whispered, looking insufferably smug as she dared Mulder to contradict her. "Dana Scully, practically perfect in every way!"

Mulder never had a chance to mention that Scully was mixing her musical metaphors. She yanked out a wadded up pair of white examination gloves, which she snapped on like an expert. Mulder couldn't help but notice the white and sparkling sequins that criss-crossed the gloves.

"Just because I'm a physician, Mulder, doesn't mean I can't accessorize with the best of them."

Scully flounced her way to Krycek's body, then daintily knelt to take a closer look. Mulder joined her, bending over as well. Scully looked over her shoulder and smirked. She tapped Mulder on the shoulder.

"Mulder, really ... If you are going to wear skirts, you must learn to bend properly. You are startling the natives." Scully motioned to the tittering group behind them.

With a disgusted swipe at his poplin, Mulder squatted next to her. It still wasn't kneeling with proper skirt etiquette, but at least he wasn't providing a peep show for those around them.

"Mulder, Krycek's wearing the magic red shoes. They are so potent that a famous cable TV show was created to spotlight their powers. All the witches watch it, although we never own up ... it's... well, it's a tad risque."

Mulder examined the shoes; they appeared to be basketball shoes ... glittery, ruby red Reeboks.

"Put them on, Mulder. I believe they will help you on your quest."

"Excuse me, but I don't believe I've been notified of this quest. Has there been a DDR-13 placed on my desk?"

Mulder turned, seeing Skinner push his way between the rugged interns. With much disdain the tall man flicked them away with barely a finger's touch.

"No one's going anywhere until the proper paper work's been processed."

"Skinner?" Mulder breathed.

"That's AWD Skinner to you, Dorothy," Skinner growled, looking contemptuously at Mulder's gingham attire. "Make a note, Good witch Scully; costuming really needs to get more original around here."

"Yes, Sir," Scully answered, holding up the ruby red Reeboks by their sparkly shoestrings. "Here, Mulder, slip these on."

Mulder sat down on the ground and pulled on the tennis shoes, all the while doing his best to not give the crowd any additional looks up his dress.

"Have those shoes been signed out? Kim....? Where's Kim?" AWD Skinner eyeballed the crowd behind him, intimidating the hell out of the group, with only the steely glare of his gaze.

"Sir. I'm here, Sir. I've got the ruby red shoe requisition forms." Kim approached Mulder and handed him a clipboard. Pointing to the various lines, she gave him a pen for his signature. "Make sure you sign this in triplicate, Mr. Mulder; you know how anal procurement can be. And don't forget to initial the double indemnity clause ... in the event of any unforeseen 'accidents,' we need to make sure the bureau is protected."

Mulder hastily scrawled his signature. "The Bureau?"

"The Fairy Bureau of Initiations ... remember."

"Right ... the Fairy Bureau of Initiations, and the skinman is the AWD?" Mulder looked even more perplexed if such were possible.

"Assistant Witch Director Skinner to you, Miss Priss," Skinner intoned. "And you really need to do something about those hairy legs, Mulder. It ruins the whole effect."

Skinner grabbed the clipboard and headed off stage right with his secretary in tow. Mulder was sure he saw quite the salacious look pass between them, but with all he'd seen today, who could be sure?

"Scully ... I really need..."

Walking non-chalantly across the center stage was Strughold, the Well-Manicured Man and Kersch. Mulder reached behind his back, searching for his weapon. Damn dress ... where do women carry their guns?

"Scully, look out!"

Scully turned in the direction of the fearsome threesome. Strughold and Kersch were dressed in short, colorful knickers, suspenders, and striped socks. Kersch even sported a beanie cap upon his head. The Well- Manicured Man also wore knickers and suspenders, but his were well tailored and color coordinated, down to the tiny handkerchief that poked out from his shirt pocket.

As the three men began to sway together in time with only an internal melody they all heard, Scully laughed.

"Mulder, don't worry about them. They represent the Lollipop consortium."

"Isn't that the Lollipop guild?"

"Guild ... consortium. It's all semantics, Mulder. They are a lovely group of men who gather together to better all our lots. Surely you understand that. In fact, there are a lot of others who live here whose only purpose in life is the pursuit of happiness, Mulder."

Scully turned and began motioning those hiding behind bushes and houses to step out into the light.

"Scully, you aren't going to sing, are you?" Mulder shuddered remembering the last time he'd been privy to her musical monotone.

"Nah...Mulder, that's what I have the interns for. Hit it boys!"


Mulder, with what could only be described as a pained expression on his face, beheld the dancing doctors dallying across the stage.

Suddenly, a huge spotlight shone from above, pinning Mulder against the FBI building. The crowd waited expectantly ... as Mulder realized they believe he would sing. Remembering what came next in the Wizard of Oz, Mulder held out his hands, waving back the assemblage.

"You can forget it, folks. This son-of-a-witch doesn't sing, unless he's under the influence of Vampire doped pizza. This is my dream, and you will just have to adjust."

As grumbling began among the captive audience, Mulder was knocked to the ground by an explosive force. Looking up he beheld the Cigarette Smoking Man standing upon the center stage. Copious amounts of dirty smoke swirled around him as his gaze captured Mulder's.

"I see we meet again, Agent Mulder. And as usual, you've managed to acquire a rather bizarre assortment of individuals around you. Where are the three LoneGeeks?"

Mulder stood tall, proudly smoothing his skirt against his legs. "I imagine I'll run into them shortly. What do you want Old Man?"

"As if you didn't know, Mulder. You may be thick headed, but even you aren't that obtuse. I want the ruby red Reeboks."

Scully slid closer to Mulder and whispered in his ear. "Don't take them off, Mulder, if you do you will be at his mercy. For as long as you wear them you are protected; they will help you find the love you are searching for."

"Love? I'm searching for my sister, Scully."

"Hmm.... I thought you were searching for the MSR; at least that's what I gathered after your declaration of adoration."

"Scully ... that was drug induced," Mulder whispered back, noticing the entirety was leaning in to eavesdrop upon their conversation.

"Oh brother...." Scully murmured. Her facial expression was an exact replica of the last time she'd said those words.

"You'll never find the MSR, Mulder, you might as well give it up. You are doomed to live with unrequited sexual tension for the rest of your natural born life, or at least the continuing run of the X-Files, which probably won't run more than eight years, give or take a year. I don't know why you'd think you'd be allowed anything different. You and Agent Scully are just partners and friends ... nothing more." The cigarette smoking man puffed and paled on his extra-large Morley. "After all, it's canon."

"Hey wait a minute!" Mulder and Scully answered together.

Scully bent her head, her cascade of auburn hair hiding the colored cheeks she tried to hide. Mulder smoothed the tendrils back behind her ear and grasped her hand within his.

"You may think you've figured us out, you black lunged SOB, but the Deep Abiding Love that we feel for each other can not be easily referenced or categorized. In spite of the writers and their original intent, the sexual chemistry between Scully and me has always been there, smoldering just beneath the surface. And you and your noromos friends can do nothing to circumvent that."

Mulder looked over at Scully, who could hardly contain herself. "Hells bells, Scully, who writes this crap. I'd never say 'smoldering beneath the surface.' That sounds like a Harlequin Romance."

"We'll see what you've got in you, Mulder, as I will get those shoes." In a deep baritone voice, the smoking man growled, "I'll get you my pretty...." Stopping in mid-pronouncement, CGB called out, "AWD Skinner?"

Skinner stepped out from behind one of the small houses. Sprinkled over the top of his bald plate were dozens of smudged lipstick prints; his shirt was untucked and his glasses were askance upon his face.

"Yes," Skinner muttered, definitely not pleased with the interruption.

"Look AWD Skinner, when you talk with costuming make sure you also speak with the writers. They really need to pay greater attention to detail. Mulder's dialogue is being poorly written and out of character for him, and I can't say 'I'll get you, my pretty, and your little dog, too.' Obviously, Mulder's not pretty, and he doesn't have a dog." The smoking man attempted to intimidate Skinner, but finding he was unable to do so ... had the good graces to just request, "please...."

Mulder looked down at his feet, where he beheld a handled bedpan from his hospital room. Perched in the center, sat a little dog.

"QueeQueg!" Scully yelled as she raced forward, precariously balancing on her stiletto heels.

She reached into the bedpan and pulled out the pooch. Disgustedly, she turned and held the poor mutt out for all to see.

"AWD Skinner, props need to hear from you, too. This dog is stuffed, and not very well, either." Scully admonished, examining the plastic eyes that looked like they'd been pulled from a killer doll. "You think the least they could do would be provide an actual dog."

Skinner strode in the direction from which he'd just come. Under his breath he muttered and mumbled, "Do =I= have to do everything around here. They expect me to come in, fill out incomplete plot holes, chew people out, and look gruff and mean. But I'm really an old softie, who would much rather have some continuity in his performance. That's it ... use and abuse me. I'm used to it."

Before Skinner had totally disappeared off stage, another explosion knocked Mulder and Scully to the ground. This time, as CGB disappeared in a haze of smoke and fire, Scully was knocked off kilter and into Mulder's lap. He found himself buried beneath yards of organdy. Spitting ruffles from his mouth, Mulder lifted Scully and placed her firmly on the ground beside him.

It was time to get this show on the road.

"Ok folks ... I think this is the point where you direct me to the yellow brick road so that I might find the Emerald City and locate the Wizard of Oz."

Scully, grasping on to two young hunks who'd rushed quickly to her rescue when Mulder dumped her butt on the ground, huffed. "What movie have you been watching, Mulder. There is no yellow brick road, or Emerald City, and the Wizard's name is X."

"Fine...whatever... Direct me, Good Witch Scully, in the direction I should go to find this X."

Mulder could see the wheels turning inside her pretty head as Scully recounted the numerous times he'd been injured and hospitalized because he'd been out of her sight. He knew what she would say even before it past her lips.

"Nope, no ditches, Mulder. We go together or not at all."

"Scully that's not the way the story goes." Mulder was peeved. Who did she think she was impugning his ability to carry through with this fractured fairy tale?

"Yeah, well as I'm the one who will most likely have to go after you and pull your butt from another scorching cauldron of 'toil and trouble', I'd just as soon save my heart the trouble and go along now."

"Fine ... Where's the damn road?" Mulder muttered, irritated both with himself and her. He still couldn't get the idea out of his head that she hadn't taken his 'I love you' seriously. He was a grown man - albeit one dressed in a gingham shift - but that was beside the point. He and his ruby red Reeboks would be just fine.

"Follow the salty seed road...."

"Follow the salty seed road...."

Mulder looked up to see the inhabitants of ... what? Munchkinland... nah, more like badficland, huddled over a curving path.

"Follow the salty seed road!"

Looking at Scully, her right toe poised and pointed forward beneath her bouncy gown, Mulder raised his eyebrows. Surely, she wasn't suggesting =they= skip.

"If the shoe fits, Mulder." Scully smirked, holding her arm out to him so that they might link up together. "And watch out for my toes; your size eleven's would do great damage."

"Scully ..." Mulder whined. "Wearing the dress is bad enough; now you want me to tiptoe through the tulips with you."

"Not the tulips, Mulder. Sunflowers." Scully motioned to their feet, where spread across the winding path were millions and millions of sunflower seeds. "Ok... Partner, let's hit the long and winding road!"

With severe dirty looks and awkward missteps and starts, Mulder and Scully began skipping through Badficland, until they reached the edge of town. With a jaunty 'hey- ho', they were off - prancing down the salty seed road, with the cool breeze whipping at their skirts and a violet sky backdrop illuminating their scene. Eventually, they even had a song at their lips:


[small time out: dlynn, hangs her head in shame, but she's not stopping. She's having waaaay too much fun! Sometimes it feels good to write bad.]

Mulder and Scully, with as much decorum as can be reached prancing down a salty seed road dressed in gingham and taffeta, slowed down at a three-way fork in the road. Scully felt it was all too eerily familiar; it reminded her of Texas and tanker trucks and Mulder's unending belief that he's always correct.

"Mulder ... I think we should go that way." Scully pointed to the fork to the left.

Without skipping a beat, Mulder worried with the front of his dress, reaching his hand inside as he wiggled and shimmied. Noting Scully's perplexed look, he muttered, "My bra... Scully. The strap's sliding down my arm, and I hate that."

"Well at least your dress allows for a bra," Scully groused, her eyes perusing her own exposed chest. She'd been jiggling along for the last half-hour, or so. Every skip and prance caused her breasts to bobble much more than she'd ever previously noticed. In fact, if she were to examine the situation logically ... she'd have to believe that Mulder had 'enhanced' her natural form. She figured she was bobbing along with at least a 'C cup' and not her normal 'B'. Leave it to Mulder to try and improve on God's design.

"Well, Scully, as much as I'd like to agree with you, I feel as though we should go that way." Mulder wiped the sweat from his brow as he pointed to the right fork in the road.

"Well, you are both wrong!"

Stumbling over themselves, Mulder and Scully looked for a scarecrow. According to the script, this is the fork in the road where the straw man should make an appearance. But looking high above them, they couldn't find hide nor straw of him.

"Down here."

Finally, Mulder and Scully looked down. Leaning back against several cornstalks, sat a very disgusted Frohike. He had his left leg drawn up, and was leaning upon it as he picked bits of straw from his collar and hair. His fingerless gloves smoothed at his paunchy straw belly, and he finally picked a flaxen toothpick and shoved into his mouth, where he voraciously picked at his teeth.

"Damn corn kernels; they always get stuck in my teeth."

"Well, Dude, what are you doing lazing on the ground beneath the cornstalks. What good are you doing down here?" Mulder asked, not quite believing he was still trying to make logical sense out of any of this.

"Helicopters," Frohike spit out along with his discarded toothpick. "Big black, Apache 'copters were buzzing overhead, and I figured I'd be better off down here. Besides, what do I care if the crows eat the corn. It's not like the field is mine anyway."

"A man of distinction, you are, Frohike... getting right to the matter at hand." Mulder reached down, offering his friend a hand up, even as he felt laid bare under Frohike's perplexed grin.

"Please ... spare me the sexy hairy leg jokes; I've heard enough, Hickey. Let's just get this show on the road."

"Forget your sexless, hairy legs, Mulder; I'm more interested in this enchanting vision standing beside you." Frohike gracefully bowed before Scully. It was all Mulder could do not to throw up on the little man.

"Frohike," Scully acknowledged, enjoying Frohike's attention way too much. Mulder was really beginning to worry at how much she seemed to enjoy any masculine attention.

"Ok...isn't this the part where you jive your way through a cheesy dance number, singing about your lack of brains?" Mulder fought the urge to editorialize about how very true he found Frohike's characterization to be.

"Actually, Mr. 'I'm never wrong,' I have oodles of brains. Nope, that's not my dilemma. I just have difficulty being taken seriously because I'm so small... That's in 'height', Mulder; get your mind out of the gutter. So... if it's all the same to you, Ms. Dorothy Mulder, I'd like to go with you to ask the Wizard for greater stature."

Scully signaled Scarecrow Frohike over to her side and extended her arm to him. She signified that he should clasp arms with her.

"Oh. And Mulder," Frohike smirked, linking arms with Scully. "The correct direction is straight ahead. You were wrong, Dude."

And with that pronouncement, they were off. Frohike, Scully, and a reluctant Mulder attempted to skip in unison. Frohike was surprisingly light on his feet, and Scully realized she'd have to ask the little man to dance some day.

With a whistle and a wave, they sang:


As they moved farther into a very dark and dismal forest, Frohike could be heard complaining. "Who writes your lyrics, Man; there isn't a crapper big enough to hold them."


"Frohike, are you sure this is the correct way?" Scully asked, after reading the signs dotting the edge of the woods.

"The truth is out there, Scully; I can feel it," Mulder replied in Frohike's stead. "I'm sure this is the way."

"Well this place gives me the creeps. Aren't there aliens in Area 51, Mulder?" Scully looked nervously around the darkened woods, wishing that she'd thought to put a gun inside the many folds of her gown.

"Yep, Scully ... there are aliens, bad guys, and rogues."

"Oh my..." Frohike breathed, his eyes darting among the trees, with great trepidation.

Mulder and Scully slowly walked down the salty seed road. Mulder occasionally bent to pick up a handful of seeds and pop them into his mouth. Seeing Scully's disgusted look, he whined, "Whaaaat? I'm hungry. It's been a long time since ... well, whenever it was I last ate."

"Mulder, do you realize how filthy this ground is? Who knows what sort of things you are going to pick up from the soil by placing those seeds into your mouth."

Mulder murmured low enough for only Frohike to hear. "This admonishment from a woman who swallowed a cricket."

"Yeah, well ... entomologists have been eating bugs for years, Mulder. I'm not sure how many soil geologists have been digesting the terra firma." Frohike stopped dead in his tracks. "Uh... guys, what happened to the woods?"

Mulder and Scully looked in the direction of Frohike's pointing finger. There, before them, were row after row of green goo alien cryo tanks. Within each tank floated an alien, in various stages of development. And within the grasp of each alien was a large, swirly, colorful candy lollipop ... the calling card of the lollipop consortium.


"What was that." Frohike jerked around, really wishing he were tall enough to look over the tops of the chambers.

"It came from over here," Scully said, tottering her way over to the other side of the room. She was actually getting used to the shoes; it was the long full skirts that were giving her fits. Noticing a cabinet with lots and lots of drawers, she yanked open one of the cupboards. She reached within and drew out a sharp pair of scissors. Bending low, she began to cut at her dress with surgical precision. Before Frohike could whistle leering appreciation, she'd removed several yards of taffeta and could find her legs again.

Looking up from her sewing surgery, Scully met =three= pairs of appreciative masculine eyes. Three pairs? Ah...right, the next in their Merry band had been found. Byers was dressed in a shiny silver striped zoot suit. He even had a sparkling silver bowler perched jauntily on top of his head and clutched tightly in his hands was a devilishly dapper silver-plated briefcase.

"Don't tell me ... you're looking for a heart?" Mulder bit his lip as he tried his best not to laugh at Byers, whose tie blinked on and off in perfect SOS Morse code frequency.

"Actually, more accurately ... I've lost my heart-"

"-In San Francisco?" Frohike made no attempt to hide his amused face. It figured that Byers would find some way to wear a three-piece suit.

Byers blinked rapidly, finally assessing the attire of his three friends. "I...uh... No, I'm not sure where I lost it, but it's wherever Suzanne Modeski is. And I think I've finally tracked her down, but for the life of me, I can't remember the access code I created to enter this computer. I can't get the information released."

Scully tugged Byers hand, drawing him over to her side. "Ok...Tin Man, let's get your aluminum booty in gear. We have a Wizard to find."

Finally, after winding their way through row after row of frozen, lime green alien Popsicles, our intrepid adventurers made it out the other side and reconnected with the salty seed trail. By now Mulder's stomach was making increasingly obscene noises as his gastric juices were beginning to stage a coup.

With all the dirty looks Scully was giving him, he'd even started apologizing for the loudest digestive grumblings. He hadn't realized how hungry he'd be getting; after all, if thing's had gone according to the original script, they should have run into vindictive and stupid trees that would lob apples in their direction. Again ... the writing team was falling down on its responsibilities. It was just one more thing AWD Skinner needed to straighten out with the head honchos. If this kept up, Mulder wasn't sure he'd come back for next season.

Mulder noticed the tiny white specks he'd been seeing periodically alongside the trail were getting much bigger. If his eyes weren't playing tricks on him, creating a gastric mirage of monumentally cruel proportions, Mulder believed the small white specks were becoming even larger white pastries. He reached to pick up one icing-creamed cake from a large rock where it perched, beckoning to him like a glistening sea mermaid seducing ships to violent deaths upon the rocks.

Scully smacked his fingers just as he placed the confection to his mouth. If looks could kill, Mulder figured he'd just nuked Scully as he watched his tasty treat hit the ground and crumble to bits.

"Mulder, what are you doing? You don't know what that is, or where it came from." Scully had her hands placed upon her tiny waist, her bosom heaving - just because the script called for it to do so - as she reprimanded her wayward partner.

"Look, Scully, if I don't eat something soon, I'm not going to be held accountable for my actions. I'm going to make Eugene Tooms look as though he was just trying to obtain a little liver to eat with his Chianti.

"Man...this is so good," Frohike mumbled. He was busy licking white icing and crumbs off his fingertips. He'd even got to the point of scrambling and snarfing around in his little straw pieces looking for crumbs. It reminded Mulder of a cat, who'd just come upon catnip.

There was one more cake left and Byers, Frohike and Mulder eyed it with territorial savageness. There would be no three-way, kindergarten-sharing going on; the biggest man would win, even if he were wearing a gingham dress and red sequined shoes. Mulder refused to be beat by a scarecrow and tinman.

Just as Mulder grabbed for the cake, Byers whacked him in the stomach with his briefcase, knocking Mulder off- kilter. Frohike was so stunned at the quiet man's audacity that he doubled over in a laughing fit, and Byers grabbed the cupcake, quickly shoving it into his mouth.

Before the three survivor facsimiles did bodily harm to each other and set about forming tribes and encampments, Scully alerted them to chimney smoke that was emanating from a small cottage situated straight ahead. She had just finished uttering the words, "chimney and smoke" when the three famished malcontents hoofed it down the road like Derby Roses were just across the finish line, or at the very least ... an all you could eat seafood night at the local Shoneys.

Scully finally reached the clearing where the cottage stood, but she encountered an immovable force. Mulder, Byers and Frohike stood shoulder to shoulder - or in Frohike's case - shoulder to chest, blocking her vision.

"Guys, what's going on ... let me through." Scully tried to push her way through their human wall like red rover being called over in a child's schoolyard game. However, the impenetrable obstruction wouldn't budge.

She smelled something * fowl * in the air, and it wasn't the stench of three masculine, unwashed, sweaty bodies, although ... to be honest, their collective he-man odors were getting rather ripe. The Fowl-One was behind the manly fortress; she was sure of it. And she was going to get to that particular witch if she had to scale Mount Stooges to do so.

Apparently, the enticement of food was far greater than her three companions desire to protect Witch Fowley from Scully's wrath. Like three zombies, lured under a mysterious spell, Mulder and his cohorts marched forward to the front of a very dark and dreary cabin. There, Diana Fowley stood, dressed in designer black.

It was apparent that Halston had a new line in the Black Magic Collection. Her tailored ensemble consisted of a form fitting ebony straight skirt with a large, sexy slit up the side, which went practically to her upper thigh and revealed more leg than a Radio City Rockette. Her charcoal blouse was no more than gossamer tissue and it left nothing to the imagination, revealing an even blacker bra and Dolly Parton cleavage.

Scully looked down at her own bustline and thanked whichever script writer had refused to allow Mulder to monkey around any more with her heaving bosom. Scully would hate to have to tote DF's double D pound puppies around. She had to laugh when she saw the Fowl-Stenches shoes. Scully had thought her shoes had been nose bleeders, but Fowley had her beat, wearing five inch, black stiletto 'bleep me' sandals.

[PRODUCTION Note: Censors have bleeped the aforementioned bad language. Nice try, dlynn, but this story was listed as PG-13, and therefore, you are admonished to stick within those regulations. You may now return to regular storytelling. Just watch it in the future; sponsors might get irate.]

And as far as her witch's pointy hat was concerned, it was a dainty nothing ... hardly worth noticing. Scully at least hoped the scriptwriters' had inserted a very large, ugly, hairy wart or two ... because otherwise she couldn't be held accountable for what she was going to do to the Wicked bimbo.

The men were gobbling up delicious breads and pastries, with one eye on their filling bellies and the other down Wicked Fowley's opulent cleavage. Scully caught Mulder's gaze as he shrugged his shoulders and waggled his eyebrows with a "where do YOU expect me to look." Scully could strip naked and dance before a full moon, but it was apparent that unless she slathered herself in butter cream icing she wouldn't gather so much as a peep from her fair weathered friends.

"Wicked * Bleep* Fowley!" Scully yelled, trying to get the wanton witch's attention.

[dlynn, you've been warned, honey; that's the last time we're going to bleep. Next time you do this, sponsors will pull out.]

"Good Witch Scully, how nice of you to join us. Care for a pastry?" Diana held out a large white pastry, but before Scully's eyes ... the icing began to writhe and wiggle. The cupcake was covered with all assorted creepy crawly maggots. But the men were oblivious and kept on stuffing their faces. It was feeding time at the farm, and the hogs had bellied up to the troth.


That was it! Not only was Fowley's haute couture impeccable, but her face was Clinique smooth. Not a line, not a wrinkle existed anywhere on her flawless complexion ... she'd obviously been airbrushed within an inch of her life.

Scully drew her patella hammer wand from the one remaining small fold in her hacked up skirt. She waved the hammer and muttered a few words that should best be left UN-printed ... sponsor ire, you know? But as the tiny sparkly, white and silver stars shot from her hammer, like miniature glittery sparks from a July 4th sparkler, Frohike lunged forward for another cake.

The pixie incantation dust hit the flaxen man and his face scrunched up in pained disgust. Suddenly, Frohike was gone. Zapped! Kaput!

Scully shrugged, with an "oops" kind of gesture. Fowley snickered and reached into a gorgeous black alligator leather briefcase that was situated on the ground beside her cauldron. She began yanking out items and tossing them on the ground: a leather whip, handcuffs, an ostrich feather, a black cat ... stuffed of course ... a spell book ** DASTARDLY CONSORTIUM DEEDS - and, finally a cell phone.

However, before Wicked witch Fowley could use the phone to call in more of her dastardly minions, Scully reached down her bodice front and pulled out two com badges, which she'd conveniently squirreled away for such an emergency. After all, she didn't trust the writers to really handle getting them to the MSR. She figured she might have to help out ... just a bit.


Slapping the first badge on Fowley's, so out of fashion, padded shoulders, Scully opened a com-link with her own badge and requested immediate beam out of the dark damsel.

"DS9, lock onto the second signal and take out the garbage."

The three musketeers watched as Devious Diana disappeared in a haze of sparkling colors. Even Byers was impressed with the sound effects that accompanied her departure. Finally, the production company had done something well.

"DS9? Scully, you hate Star Trek," Mulder muttered, his eyes still focused on the spot where Diana Fowley had just been standing.

"For your information, Mulder, DS9 stands for Dana Scully's 9th office."

"You have nine offices, Scully?"

"Yes ... and each one has a desk, with a nameplate, and a door, with my name featured quite prominently in burnished gold. It's an exceptional effect, Mulder."

"Does the nameplate say, 'Good witch Dana Scully?'" Byers asked as he searched for his missing friend.

"Actually, it says 'Good Witch D. K. Scully, MD, ADFPAAAGW."


"A damn fine physician and all-around good witch."

Byers bent over and examined a small rock near Fowley's smoldering caldron. "Good Witch Scully, what kind of spell did you attempt to place on Diana?"

Scully mumbled under her breath, much too softly for anyone to hear.

"Scully, what did you say?" Mulder asked, joining Byers in front of the Caldron. It appeared they'd just found Frohike.

"I said, 'I tried to give her warts - big ol' honkin' warts with small hairs sticking out. Are you happy now?"

"That explains Frohike's condition." Mulder picked up a large wart covered, green and brown toad. The only distinguishing feature this toad had, besides the fact that he was swearing a blue streak - words which dlynn will not insert due to the sensitivities of her sponsors - Frohike had the teeniest, tiniest fingerless gloves on his little toad feet.

"Blast and damnation! I always have trouble with that incantation," Scully huffed. She walked over to Mulder and demanded the toad. "Give him to me; I'll fix up the little Toady."

Grabbing the huge squirming amphibian between her hands, Scully ignored the blasphemies that were croaking from his mouth.

"Frohike, I'm about to make YOUR dreams come true." And with that Good Witch Dana Scully puckered up and planted a positively pleasant peck upon Frohike's toady, slimy lips. [Do toad's have lips? Sorry ... just a personal aside, ignore me.]

Frohike instantly changed back into his - well, we can't exactly call it normal can we - scarecrow self. However, figuring he was owed something for his unusual ordeal, Frohike's hands reached out and held onto Scully's shoulders, and he reciprocated with one passionate pucker of his very own. Very long seconds, at least from Mulder's perspective, ticked by before he grabbed Good Witch Scully and Scarecrow Frohike and pulled them apart.

Scully appeared dazed ... and dazzled. Mulder thumped Frohike on the back of the head and snapped his fingers in front of Scully's startled face, breaking the trance she'd been in.

"DAMN! Can you kiss or what!" Scully laughed.

Having given up trying to make sense out of any of this, Mulder threw a few cakes into his handled bedpan and began searching for the salty seed road again. He wondered what was up with Langly; it appeared the cowardly lion was not only cowardly, but late as well.

Just as Mulder, Scully, Byers and Frohike had linked arms, had pointed left toes perfectly aligned for skipping - all but Byers who was determined to begin with his other left toe ** and were beginning to hit the long and winding road again, there was scurrying behind the Witch's house.

AWD Skinner arrived, shoving a reluctant Langly in front of him. Langly scuffed his feet and hung his head, refusing to look anyone in the eye. He appeared to be dressed ... well, as Langly. Although, his normal mane of blond hair seemed longer and scragglier, and his Deadhead T-shirt was even grungier than normal, there really was no significant difference in his appearance.

"Soldier, get your long haired hippie self into that skipping line. NOW!" barked Skinner, who was loaded and ready for bear. "I said move, and I don't repeat myself."

Langly looked up at the rest of the assembled party. His mouth hit the floor, literally ... you know, like one of those cartoons, where the special affects go 'cha ching' and the cartoon's mouth slaps the linoleum.

Mulder could imagine what Langly was thinking, knowing he must be quite the spectacle himself in his poplin farm dress. He perused his other colleagues and fought the urge to run screaming somewhere into the darkened woods, praying they'd find and incarcerate him in a very large padded cell ... saving him the trouble of self- commitment.

Langly turned to Skinner. "Dude, this," he pointed to Mulder and the motley mess, "is why I refuse to put on that lion suit. I have more dignity and respect for my person than to debase myself in such a degrading manner. I'm sorry, AWD Skinner, but I must claim exemption on moral and ethical grounds. This ... this costume charade violates my religious rights. I claim conscientious objector status. This is only a ploy by the network to raise ratings; the writers' are being held hostage in the creative process, being forced to bow to network's whims."

"Langly are you trying to say you won't join us on our pursuit ... that you don't feel compelled to seek out the wizard of X and right some terrible wrongs and seek the truth?" Scully queried, wishing she'd thought of the CO status for herself.

"Hey, oh most gnarly good witchliness, it's not the cause I have trouble defending; it's the wardrobe."

Skinner, who hadn't arrived at the ranks of AWD on a whim and a prayer, saw a compromise at the offing. "Ringo Langly, I will not =require= you wear the cowardly lion costume. You may stay in your =normal= attire. Will you now join the ranks of your comrades?"

Standing tall and flicking his long and silky mane across his shoulders, Langly nodded his head in agreement. "I will take my place with the others, and I will proudly go skipping into the dark and dreary night with them. And I will ask the Wizard of X for better working conditions ... on behalf of the actors, but most especially on behalf of the writers. I will represent them, the scribes ... the ones who bear their souls in the creative process, and then see that work mutilated by censors and executives. They demand their rights, or come May 9, 2001, they are striking."

Skinner waved Langly to take his place with the rest and then answered his phone.

"Kim... what's the problem? What do you mean ... they want to press charges? Damn, Kim, they're bears. Bears can't sue!... uh huh... yeah... I got that, but... Home invasion, robbery, vandalism.... Cripes!" Skinner hung up the phone.

"Sorry guys, it appears there's trouble in the other end of the woods. Apparently such chick with long goldilocks - a relative of yours perhaps, Langly? - has unlawfully entered the house of three hard working bears. They want to press charges, and they feel as though they are being discriminated against because they are only furry mammals, whose coats have traditionally draped hard wood floors. I have to attend to this."

Mulder gathered his friends and they began their trek once more down the salty seed road. Surely the Wizard of X couldn't be too much farther. Because if he were, who knows what might happen. It was obvious the writer of this fractured fairy tale had a very slim hold on her sanity.


Langly paused within the twinkle toe march. "Now, Dudes, those lyrics rock the house! Who's the lyricist? Where can I get that on CD...."

When dealing with so many characters in a scene, it can become confusing for all involved. The writer wants to use a lot of pronouns instead of using names, but she discovers that no one reading has a clue as to who is being spoken to by whom. You can see the dilemma I'm sure. So if at anytime, you, the reader, should happen to get lost and feel as though a road map might be handy, keep several things in mind. AWD Skinner is ultimately in charge of everything, including lazy scriptwriters. So take up any complaints directly to the bald hunk, and he'll get right to the problem. Secondly, since the writers strike looks as though it will probably happen next year, 1013 has been trying out additional, non-unionized scab talent. Sadly ... dlynn fits into that category. She has no union label ... of any kind.

Hey, folks... it's either her or more reality based programming. Personally, she could care less who eats slugs and rats and doesn't play nicely in the sandbox with their playmates.


"Good Witch Scully, you wouldn't happen to have any Pepto Bismol or Tums in those voluptuous skirts of yours?" Frohike asked, his face a lovely shade of ashen green. "I really believe I've eaten * something * that doesn't agree with me."

Scully looked at her cohorts. Frohike was pale, Byers was wobbly, and Mulder ... well Mulder's skirts had lost their pressed pinafore look. Langly was the only one of the Merry crew who still shone like a shiny penny, but then ... he hadn't eaten any of Bad Witch Fowley's delicacies.

Mulder was breathing through his mouth - short little gasps of air - in and out, in and out. He truly believed death at this point might be better than breathing. Thankfully, there was a vast, peaceful meadow ahead. Perhaps he could get Good Witch Scully to make a "plop, plop, fizz, fizz" potion and speed up their recoveries. At least it was worth mentioning ... although, looking over at Frohike, who was currently losing his 'cookies' in a large thatch of sunflowers and remembering the 'toad incantation debacle', Mulder thought better of requesting any medical assistance from Badficland Scully.

He'd rather die human, then looking like Kermit D. Frog.

Mulder plopped himself down on his side in the clover, drew his legs up beneath his chin and rocked and moaned. Frohike and Byers were nearly in the same position, and Langly ... well Langly was more concerned about the ramifications the writers strike might have on his new series. He was so busy scribbling notes in his palm pilot that he really could care less about his cohorts' indigestion.

"Mulder ... take this."

Mulder opened one eye, figuring if he didn't open two he might only see one Scully. Nope ... it didn't work. He still saw two ... although both Scully's were beautiful; her loveliness just intensified the swaying motion present in his stomach.

"Mulder ... I want you to chew this up." Scully pushed what appeared to be a small leaf into his hand. Great, now she wanted him to chew moo food.

"Scully ... I've seen how your incantations work. I don't want warts or a bigger nose like your brother, although ... I would pay to see that. I think I'd like to just die ... in peace." Mulder flipped from his side onto his back, covering his eyes with his arm. He wished he had earplugs so he could block out the Frohike and Byers, the upchuck twins.

"Mulder ... they are mint leaves. They'll help to settle your stomach."

Scully sat on the ground beside him, placed her hands upon his forehead and trailed her fingers through his bangs, smoothing back his bangs. Just her tender ministrations were already making him feel better.

"Mint leaves? That's all?"

"Well, mostly," she said as he began to chew. "They are mint leaves, which will help remove the sour taste from your mouth. I've placed a small spell upon them to increase their potency. You should be feeling better within seconds."

Surprisingly enough, considering Scully's past track record, she was right ... Mulder was already beginning to feel better, and he noticed Byers and Frohike had fallen into a deep slumber. They were, apparently, sleeping off the insidious aftereffects of deadly Diana's poison.

Mulder could feel the warm breeze and gentle rays of the sun making him want to languish in the clover and catch his own forty winks of shuteye. But something else was in the air besides a beautiful day. Mulder turned over on his side and came face to face with Scully who was lying next to him. The way she was lying, reposed upon her side in the clover ... Mulder was getting quite the eyeful of Scully chest.

Her eyes were half shut as she rested her head upon her folded arms. There was a wistful smile upon her lips and a glow in her cheeks. Mulder liked to think he might have been the one to put both there. At least he thought so ... in his dreams.

Without analyzing or debating with himself, Mulder reached over and placed a gentle kiss upon Scully's lips. His warm minty breath tickled at her mouth as she exhaled sharply. He pulled back a minute, not really wanting a repeat performance of the cold-cock he'd received from 1939 Scully aboard the Queen Anne.

But instead of a roundhouse punch, he received a murmuring request.

"Mulder ... get back over here."

Of course he was happy to comply.

With whispered sighs and rustlings Mulder and Scully behaved like a couple of horny teenagers hiding out from their parents. When Scully's hand slipped up the back of Mulder's dress ... the computer froze. dlynn was no longer able to access her keyboard. Realizing the scene was still playing out, and she had no ability to see what was going on ... this created a dilemma for the writer, as well as the reader.

Did they or didn't they finally consummate their relationship?

Suddenly, the computer 'un-locked' itself from its frozen position, and dlynn was once again able to access the scene. Mulder and Scully were not smoking post- coital cigarettes; there was no melodious, romantic music playing in the background; Mulder was 'gasp, naked', but Scully was fully clothed, or at the very least ... mostly clothed.

Things were ambiguous. And as dlynn glanced at the characters she'd so lovingly written for all these months, they shook their heads in unison. They weren't going to tell.



THIS IS NUMBER FIVE, AND HER HAND IS REACHING HIGH." Frohike sang, actually keeping pretty much on key.

"What happened to number two?" Byers asked, his well- modulated voice, just a tad thick as he processed what he and Frohike had just walked in on.

Frohike plopped his butt down in the clover beside Mulder and Scully. Mulder was buttoning up his dress and Scully was attempting to arrange her disheveled attire.

"I'd say they skipped through two, three and four pretty quickly. That's what seven years of foreplay will do for you. Right?" Frohike asked, attempting to get some answers on his own. [Good man. dlynn will have to give Hickey more screen time.]

But Mulder and Scully refused to even tell their comrades in arms. In fact, with the silent communication Moose and Squirrel are so noted for, a pact was established to not let the audience in on the status of their relationship. And if that meant keeping the writer in the dark as well, then so be it.

At this point Langly made his way through the tall sunflowers and into their little clover slice of Heaven. In his hand he held a cell phone. "Dudes and Dudette, I've just been chatting on my Nokia with the Wizard's staff. Apparently, the Wizard of X is all tied up at the moment, something about a gnarly wave, but they've given us an errand. If we want an audience with the head honcho and an opportunity to plead our cases, we must first bring him CGB's platinum lighter. And since we know that black lunged cretin will never willingly give away his lighter, we will probably have to resort to trickery and sexy poaching."

At the completion of Langly's pronouncement, there was rustling in the sunflowers behind them. Our fabulous five turned in one accord and beheld AWD Skinner and several others dressed in white lab coats and carrying make-up samples like department store Clinique sales personnel. They tramped through the fields with decided purpose to their step.

Skinner snapped his fingers and Mulder and his friends were surrounded. Before they had time to ask what was going on, various small portable examining room screens were erected. Without even a 'by your leave' the five were stripped, buffed within an inch of their lives ... and pampered in great detail. Mulder didn't even want to know what the sweet smelling stuff he was squirted with consisted of... He just hoped it didn't draw bees.

In a bewildering frenzy of motion, the five were cleaned up and thrown back out into the clover in only a matter of minutes.

Mulder eyed his festive new party dress. At least he was clean he figured, but he had drawn the line at the little bows they'd tried to slip into his hair. Wearing a dress was one thing, but girly ribbons ... well that was something else.

"Ok... you guys, since Langly broke protocol and used his cell phone, circumventing the writers ... we had to come looking for you. I can't tell you how the unions are upset about this ad-libbing. People are threatening to go on strike early; they feel you are bypassing all their hard work."

Mulder, still wary that someone was going to try and take his boxers again and leave him with frilly, feminine undergarments, looked pained to the extreme. "Sir, if it's all the same to you ... I'd really like to get this show over. Is there anything we can do to convince the writer to expedite the process?"

[COMMERCIAL BREAK: Excuse me ... dlynn will be back in a moment. She's been called into conference with Skinman. She promises they'll be quick.]

Skinner pulled out his clipboard and checked off a variety of concessions he'd just given away: Diet cokes, with lots of crushed ice, were to be delivered, promptly, by 9am; feedback letters were to be forwarded to the appropriate mailbox, either dlynn's or the circular file, depending on whether the feedback is really good, or only so-so; and, finally ... the biggest concession of all, a meeting with the Wizard would be arranged to discuss possible story ideas for season 8 and the role of the "New Guy."

"Ok...folks, here's the compromise. Since the author is aware that the 'flying monkey scene' has been the impetus for countless years of childhood trauma, she's willing to drop the winged simians."

Skinner directed Kim to inform the "monkey extras" that they would no longer be needed.

Mulder let out a sigh of relief. He really hated those monkeys. They'd give him more nightmares over the years than all the real life monsters he'd encountered. And from a glance at his companions, he felt as though he were not the only one who was pleased with the script changes.

"Before you all get terribly excited about these changing events, I must remind you that we still must get Mulder into a perilous situation so that he might be rescued. Therefore...." Skinner snapped his fingers and the 'lab coats' parted, revealing several small alien Grays standing in their midst. "Mulder if you will go quietly with these... um ... aliens, dlynn's willing to change the script to accommodate time constraints."

Mulder looked at Langly who was tapping his palm pilot and looking pointedly at his watch. "Mulder, my man, it's not as though I don't feel this quest is important, but I really need to meet with Fox executives and discuss this writers strike. So ... if you don't mind, get your frilly fanny in gear and go with the Grays."

Wanting out of this nightmare as quickly as the others, Mulder looked longingly at Scully, who reached around her neck to remove a small gold chain.

"You're going to give me your cross, aren't you, Scully? To remind me that we'll always be together, that you go with me even as I head into possible danger, and ... just because we like messing with the heads of the viewing audience?" Mulder asked, reaching his hand forward to take the chain.

Skinner reached between them, taking the cross into his large hands. He handed the golden jewelry thread to Kim and asked her to return it to the prop department.

"Look ... the Wizard hasn't decided what he wants to do about that. He'd prefer that you two not begin wild speculation and get little shipper hearts fluttering, or undermine the continuity of the series, especially since he spends a great deal of time ensuring constancy. So for now ... we'll keep the cross."

And with those directives Mulder was led off through the sunflower seed stalks to meet his destiny with the Cigarette Smoking warlock.

Scully softly smiled, remembering their passion within the clover. "I'll find him; I have to...."

~ ** fade out to black~ **

Mulder paced back and forth, wishing he had his basketball to dribble or bounce sharply against a wall. Anything was better than this waiting ... waiting for the 'cavalry?' to show up. He'd gone with the Grays as requested in order to speed up the proceedings, but now he was in a hurry up and wait mode. Hardly seemed as though the writer knew where things were going.

He hoped Scully and the Wonder Boys had figured out that Wicked Warlock Spender would not be holed up in some dark and dreary castle. That was way too cliche for the man. He preferred a luxurious penthouse condominium, with all the amenities - hot and cold running nymphettes, bubbly always on ice, stockpiles of Morleys and the Star Wars movies on DVD [Mulder, I am your father; hardly original, huh?] - everything a Wicked Warlock might need.

"Mulder, you really believe Scully and her ragtag mission impossible team will be able to get to you before the November sweeps? Really ... they might catch a glimpse of you, but I don't think you really have any hope of being 'rescued' until at least February, and even then I'm not sure it'll be the outcome the world wants."

Warlock Spender puffed on his Morley. He offered one to Mulder, just as a hospitable gesture ... he'd hate to be accused of being a poor host.

"You black lunged son of a [oops, almost slipped up with the sponsors], I will escape this gilded cage, and Scully and I will meet with the Wizard. We will find the MSR." Mulder accepted a glass of champagne from a little witch who reminded him vaguely of someone he once knew ... ah yes, Phoebe Green.

Spender shrugged his shoulders as Mulder's gaze questioned the choice in help the Warlock had hired.

"Eating more of my leftovers, Spender?" Mulder mocked. "If I hadn't thought you pathetic before, I truly pity you now."

"Save your pity, Mulder, the only thing pitiable about this situation is the writing [hey, dlynn resembles that remark!], and the fact that your first roll in the clover with Scully will be your last." With that cyrptic pronouncement, Warlock Spender tossed Mulder a large clear ball and left the room.

"Perhaps, after viewing your future, Agent Mulder, you might be more willing to give up your Ruby Red Reebocks. Doing so might get your home more quickly."

For a man who hated cliches, Mulder thought, this had to take the cake. He held in his hand a crystal ball, or at the very least a gargantuan paperweight and wondered about CGB's latest cryptic comments. Looking around the room, Mulder saw a small stand, covered with black velvet. He placed the ball upon its perch and waited ... and waited ... and waited.

Ok...maybe it was only a paperweight.

Glancing out of the corner of his eye to see if he were alone, then realizing ... he was never alone, Mulder shrugged. His captors were probably all gathered around a view screen watching him and snickering.

"What the hell. Abbra Cadabbra!" Mulder waved his fingers across the crystal ball. And darned ... if it didn't work. Really, I'm serious ... haze began to fill the ball and Mulder found himself gazing down on Scully and him, writhing around in a bed of clover. And let's just say this left nothing to the imagination. Costuming probably never realized that putting them both in dresses would facilitate love making in quite ingenious ways.

It was the much anticipated flashback, an NC-17 worthy frolic.

Realizing what the world was now privy to, and feeling that he should at least attempt to keep the PG rating on this story and protect Scully's privacy, Mulder found an afghan to throw over the top of the crystal ball. All images were obliterated from the viewing public.

A collective "DARN!" was heard from the viewing public. They'd waited a very long time for this flashback, and to be cheated out of their voyeuristic desires now ... well, it just wasn't fair.

[small editorial note: please understand dlynn wishes to see said flashback just as much as the rest of the viewing audience. Please don't flame her for poking a little fun ... she's a diehard shipper! And more than a little worried about the MSR.]

"Oh, Mulder, ... yes, YES, YES!!!" swelled Scully's voice.

"Scully, you are so beautiful. Let me...." Mulder begged.

"Damn!" Mulder began singing loudly! ... very, very loudly, when he realized that his blanket of deception did nothing to stop the sounds coming from the crystal ball. He wasn't sure if he could pass these vocalizations off as just another National Geographic special. The viewing audience was just too sharp for that ploy.

Eventually, Mulder stopped his singing. [Camera three panned to the lollipop consortium gathered around the surveillance monitor. WMM had his hands covering his mouth, Strughold had his hands covering his ears (smart Strughold}, and Kersh had his hands covering his eyes ... {However, he was peeking through the fingers.}]

Mulder didn't hear any more mating sounds. Perhaps it was all over. Picking up the edge of the afghan, he peeked at the crystal ball, then promptly fell on his butt, pulling the covering down to the floor with him. He sat ... stunned, looking at the scene unfolding in the globe.

Scully stood in profile before a window and looked out into an inky black night. She wore a long cotton nightgown that hugged her curves and accentuated her engorged breasts and the pregnant swell of her abdomen, where she rested her arms. Even though she was obviously with child, she seemed unhappy, wistful ... as though she were looking for something ... someone.

Scully pregnant?

Before Mulder could contemplate the ramifications of this - what, premonition? Wishful thinking? Warlock joke? - his door creaked open and Scully slipped quietly inside. With her finger at her lips, she beckoned Mulder to the door.

"Hurry," she whispered into his ear as he stepped out into the hall. Scully grabbed his hand and began tugging him towards the elevator. Just as they reached the buttons, ready to signal down, they noticed the changing numbers at the top. The elevator was already headed up; it would be here in seconds.

Scrambling backwards, Scully and Mulder began looking around for another way down. There had to be an emergency exit. But this was the penthouse, and Mulder doubted that Warlock Spender had kept fire codes in mind when he built his lair.

Mulder broke the silence. After all, what was the point, they were about to be caught ... rescue interruptus.

"Scully, in case I never get to say this, in case we never have the chance in the future...." Mulder grabbed her around her waist, tugging Scully into his embrace. "I love you." And with his declaration he swept her up in an enthusiastic kiss.

It was beautiful ... truly! The lighting was perfect, not too dark and not too harsh. Their faces were visible as they leapt into the moment with stunning passion. Scully reciprocated as though there was no tomorrow, or at the very least, no looming Mulderless season nine.

[Wait! Is that a silver lining for the possible writers strike? Hmmm...now this will take consideration.]

This was a kiss that made the body of shippers everywhere heave a collective sigh .... "AAAAaaahhhh!"

Just then the elevator doors swished open, revealing the Alien Bounty Hunter and several Grays. This was soooo not good!

Mulder looked wistfully at Scully, knowing they had probably met their end. What slipping ratings, the Sopranos, and contract negotiations had been unable to do, scab badfic writing was going to tear asunder.


Good Witch Scully pulled several pink sheets from her skirts. She handed one to Mulder and kept one for herself. They were the mornings rewrites, provided kindly by the readers who were taking this story into their own hands. Now, seeing as this episode is still PG, [I know ... that irks some of you...LOL], not all suggestions can be implemented. Sponsors, remember?

Mulder perused his rewrites, frankly not sure if the additions were going to help or not, but hey ... he was a professional; he'd give it a shot.

"Mulder. Good Witch Scully, how nice of you to drop in," The Wicked Warlock snarled. I should have figured you'd find a way to get past my security monitors ... the lone geeks, right? But where are they now ... they can't save you or this poorly written story."

"Warlock ... your evil reign is over," Mulder replied, then turned and looked at Scully. "Honestly, Scully ... it says so right here. I didn't ad lib those lines."

Scully looked over the re-writes and had to concur; that is exactly what it said. The fact that it had been written by an eleven-year-old boy was inconsequential. The author did say anyone could help with this scene, including her children.

She grabbed a large styrofoam cup from her skirt. Scully handed it to Mulder, and he took the lid off the take- out cup and held it in his hands. He took a sip and his face revealed such a tender expression as he mouthed, "iced tea, you remembered."

Scully then grabbed a bucket that she'd hidden behind a potted plant when she'd entered the building earlier. She spilled the noxious looking liquid gunk out on the floor in front of the dastardly Denizons of Badficland. It was even more vile than the bile Mulder had stuck his fingers into during season one.


Mulder began to step forward as if in a hypnotic auto-pilot trance, his fingertips already at the ready ... to put his ungloved digits into another unidentified substance. Scully halted his motion with the merest, most gentle touch on his arm.

"Wait," she whispered. "And watch."

Before their very eyes, Warlock Spender, his glowing ciggy cinched between his gums, bent over and placed his fingertips into the globby gloop. He curiously swirled it around, mesmerized by something he didn't understand.

"See. Mulder, like son, like father."

As Evil Spender, brought his fingers to his nose, giving the repulsive substance a subtle sniff, Scully yelled, "Now!" and Mulder threw his cup of iced tea upon the blackened soul.

A chain reaction began.

First, the liquid doused the cigarette, leaving ol' Smokey flameless for the first time in years. Then the tannin and the sugar from the 'sweetened' tea, interacted with the mysteriously enchanted substance staining the Warlock's fingers. [With me so far?]

Spender's eyes glazed over ... his head shook from side to side as he moaned over and over again, "NOOOOOO! Don't make me watch Teso Dos Bichos again! Not the killer kitties, anything but the killer kitties."

Then Poof! Smoke filled the corridor and everyone covered their eyes and noses, trying to keep away the stinging fumes. And as quickly as it had begun, it was all over. The smoke was gone.

And on the floor, where Warlock CGB Spender had once stood, was a great glop of green goo that was eating its way through the carpet in the tradition of every mytharc episode.

Mulder and Scully made their way forward as Spender's minions backed up toward the open elevator doors. Too bad the lollipop consortium hadn't checked to see if the elevator were there. Oh well, that first step's always a doozy, ya know?

Mulder reached into the smoldering remains of Spender's apparel - after first snapping on latex gloves because he'd learned his lesson about sticking fingers where they don't belong - and pulled out the platinum lighter.

"I think it's time to pay the Wizard a call, don't you, Scully," he said, holding the lighter high.

"Yep ... high time, Mulder."

Before Mulder could consider how they might quickly get to the Wizard's chambers, Scully clicked her 'bleep-me' sandals together three times and whisked them downstairs into the lobby, where she collected the Scarecrow, Zoot-suited man, and the conscientious objectionable lion and delivered them all to the Fox lot in Hollywood, CA, USA.

"Damn, if you could have done that all along Good Witch Scully, why did you wait until now?" Mulder groused as he hid behind a large dumpster hoping that no one he knew might see his knobby knees.

"Payback's a bitch, isn't it, Mulder?" Scully laughed, jutting out her heaving bosoms to remind him of the fix he'd put her in.

Mulder slid out behind the dumpster and rang the doorbell on the 1013 studio door. He heard the loud buzzing within, so he knew they had heard him. Frank Spotnitz came to the door ... and then promptly lost it, laughing so hard Mulder felt FS might burst a vessel.

"Alright ... enough of that. We demand to see the Wizard!" Frohike grimaced. The straw was really beginning to itch.

Langly, who still had writers and unions on the mind, pushed through the huddle and shoved his way inside. Several men were seated around a long conference table, staring at a large board, with various storyboards, blocking sheets, call sheets, locations shoots, first and second unit shoot times ... everything and anything related to the X-Files surrounded the writing and directing team.

Kim Manners, Vince Gilligan, and John Shiban all had their feet on top of the table and large lollipops in their mouths. Frank Spotnitz joined them, grabbing his own sugary confection and popping it into his puss.

Mulder's eyes tracked the surroundings, realizing someone ... the most important someone, was still missing. There ... behind one of the partitions was a silhouetted figure, hunched over.

Frank spoke, "Pay no attention to that man hunched over the desk."

Frohike took umbrage at the remark. He skipped his way, only because he'd discovered he kind of like doing that, into CC's office and yanked the long haired hippie surfer by his locks into the common area with the rest of them.

"The Wizard I presume," Frohike muttered as he released Chris Carter and shoved him toward the table with the other writers.

Mulder and contingency each pulled chairs up to the table and delicately, seeing as several of them were still in dresses, sat down. It was time to talk.

Just as they began to air their grievances and make their requests before those who held their ultimate fates with the swipe of a red pen, the outer door slammed open and Skinner barreled in. He looked like a man who was taking no hostages. No more time for compromise, AWD Skinner was a man on a mission.

He grabbed a chair, slammed it in front of the table, straddled the seat, leaned his palms flat on the conference table's wood surface, looked at the intimidated assemblage and commanded, "Now. Let's get down to business!"

Chris Carter rose from his seat, although with a clear look at the emergency exits and wondering if he could still run faster than this motley crew if the need should arise, and began.

"Frohike, I understand you are unhappy with your size, is that correct?"

"Well, when the only person who doesn't look down on me is Scully ... yeah, it can become quite difficult at times." Frohike agreed.

"In the words of a very wise writer, 'You are a redwood among sprouts, my man.' And don't let anyone tell you differently. You are a man of stature, which in this business, means a great deal more than size."

Frohike beamed ... of course he'd thought so all along.

"Byers, you feel the need to find Suzanne Modeski. Well, I'd love to be able to say we were bringing her back this season ...." Carter looked at the other writers who just shrugged their shoulders, "but I'm not sure yet. In the meantime, the code to your briefcase is 1013, duh!"

Byers was so excited about the retrieval of his code, he missed the snide remark. But Langly caught it.

"Hey, I believe we need to discuss this writers strike," Langly began before he was motioned over to a window. There he saw several gathered with poster board and paint, already preparing picket signs for next season. Langly bid adieu to his friends and joined the cause.

"Ok...before you get to Mulder and Scully - who by the way I bear no ill will, but it's always about Mulder and Scully - I want to get some things off my chest." Skinner growled, raising himself up to his full imposing height. "I don't know what this whole "new guy" thing means for the series this year, but I believe it's time for Skinner's role to be expanded. The man has paid his dues for seven years, and it's time!"

A roaring standing ovation was heard through cyber screens everywhere as a large and vocal Skinner contingency supported their handsome hunk.

"We hear you, AWD Skinner, and plans, as of this moment, are to increase your presence this season, tremendously. Right guys?" Carter asked, pointing to the other writers.

"Oh yeah ... most definitely. We couldn't have said it better," they all agreed.

Placated for the moment, Skinner sat down. "I'm keeping my eye on you...."

With that Mulder smoothed his skirt and stood. "My turn I guess ... and Scully's, too. We go together."

Scully stood and walked to Mulder's side, slipping her fingers into his. The writers around the table shifted in their seats as though they were uncomfortable with this overtly demonstrative sign of affection between their leading players.

"The deal is, guys, you can do what you want with me this season. You can make me disappear, you can make me ill, make me forget ... whatever your warped little minds choose to do, but you may not mess with the progression of the MSR. And you must show the flashback scene at some point, even if you have to heave-ho the sponsors, and one last thing ... Scully's baby is mine. You_got_that," Mulder commanded, his voice soft, but firm in its resolve.

"Baby?" Scully whispered.

"I'll explain it later," he assured her as he stared intently at the Wizard of X.

"You've created, Mr. Carter, perhaps the greatest love story ever shown on television. It's time to embrace that fact instead of denying its existence. Do we understand each other?"

"Perfectly..." The Wizard of X murmured, motioning for his writing team to tear up episode 8x9.


Mulder turned to Scully, ignoring those around him. "You must believe, Scully. You_are_my_home."

And with those words ... the dream ended.

Mulder felt himself waking up. He was warm; in fact, he was hot. He felt as though he were sleeping with a hot water bottle on his chest.

Opening his eyes slowly because he was frankly afraid of what he might find, Mulder beheld a small, diapered toddler splayed out across his bare chest. The boy was sound asleep. With her arm curled protectively across her son's back, to keep him from scooting off his father, Scully was leaned over on her side, just watching the two of the sleep.

"Must have been a really weird dream, Mulder," she murmured, as she slipped a Wizard of Oz book out from under the covers and set it on the nightstand table.

"Scully, we must never ever read that book again to our son before bedtime. Please... promise me." Mulder laughed, enchanted with the way this dream had turned out.

"I promise ... no Wizard of Oz before bed and no flying monkeys ... ever."

And is the way with all fairy tales, even the fractured badfic ones ... Mulder and Scully kissed and lived happily ever after ... somewhere over the rainbow where blue birds fly....


Oh? You want to know what happened to the Ruby Red Reebocks? Well ... Showtime did another series, starring aging basketball players. I understand the shoes figured prominently. I wouldn't know; I don't watch.

Author's Notes: Obviously, I had fun with this. I hope this was read in the spirit in which it was intended ... a means to poke a little fun at myself, writing, the series, our concerns ... all of the above.

And to those poor, wigged out souls who sent in "suggestions" for the last chapter. I used the first five I received, much as a challenge ... I guess.

And they were:

1. Put out the cigarette so he can dissolve into the pre-requisite goo. 2. It should be some kind of pseudo-death, where we see him "die", but we don't really see him "die," ... know what I'm saying. 3. Mulder throws iced tea all over him, the tannin in the tea and one of Good Witch Scully's spells causes an instant meltdown. And like Good fairy tales Dorothy Mulder and GW Scully kiss and live happily ever after. 4. He melts from the heat of watching the aforementioned outtake [I changed this to killer kitty episode, since I can't show the outtake with the rating folks want.] 5. CGB decides to touch some slimy goopy without the use of a latex glove or pen and pays for it dearly. Maybe the message will get to Mulder to STOP DOING THAT.

Finally, for all those who wanted the NC-17 version of the outtake, you'll have to get someone else to write that story for you.

~~~~~~ dlynn 9/15/00

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