Title: Nowhere Man Author: Rainee Scott E-Mail: lgwoman1013@aol.com Rating: PG Category: VH Spoilers: none Keywords: Gunmanfic Summary: A sleepless night in the life of one Ringo Langly leads to contemplation on life, his place in it, and his compadres' sleeping habits. Archiving: Anywhere; just send email telling me so. Author's Notes: Insomnia-induced. There's nothing much to this little rambling but a peek inside the mind of a character whose mind does not get peeked inside much. What can I say, I just like Langs. He couldn't sleep at the time and I couldn't sleep when I wrote it, so I think it works. Disclaimer: As much as I may want these guys (not like THAT, get your mind out of the gutter) they all belong to Chris Carter, so foo. ********** he's a real nowhere man sitting in his nowhere land making all his nowhere plans for nobody doesn't have a point of view knows not where he's going to isn't he a bit like you and me?... -- the beatles -- -- "nowhere man" -- I can't sleep. That might have something to do with the two boxes of Twinkies I had today. Or the six-pack of Jolt. Or the glow of the flat- screen Cinema Display plugged into the new G4 that I'm too proud of to turn off. Or the fact that Frohike is snoring next to me. Oh, get your mind out of the *gutter* already. There's heavy insulation on the outside of this place, but the interior walls are pretty thin. Seeing as our beds are pushed up on opposite sides of one of these walls, I can hear him snoring. Just like he always does. My bed used to be on the other side of the room, but Byers talks in his sleep. I can put up with the snoring, but you wouldn't believe the kind of stuff Mr. Dry-Clean-Only there yaps about when nobody's listening but me. I remember when my old high school buds would get simultaneously drunk and stoned and they'd make more sense than this. I think he just said something about a big panda. I got an email from one of those old high school buds yesterday. He's married. Has two kids. And is taking a second honeymoon to the Bahamas. While good ol' wild-and-crazy Ringo lives in a literal hole in the wall writing an underground newsletter with two guys almost as weird as he is. Strange how life goes. What knocks me out is -- I was the better student. I got straight As, if you don't mind me gloating. I remember this guy buying the answers to more than one test. So he's Mr. Big Happy Successful Law Grad and I'm... I'm... what? What am I anyway? A Lone Gunman, correct? But then what is that? Frohike once said it's a lot like Daoism -- those who know it do not speak of it, and those who speak of it do not know it. I'd kind of like to understand it for the sake of knowing what it is myself. This is confusing. My head hurts. I need a Twinkie. Luckily I have a stash under the bed. Look at me. I barely survived college. I look like some sort of crossbreeding accident between Woodstock and Defcon. I've got three trustable friends in my entire existence -- a short bald guy at least ten years older than me, a scrawny excuse for a federal agent, and... Byers. That's odd. Usually I'm the one no one can find a description for. I'm not saying I don't like my life. I just don't entirely understand it. Of all people, I should be able to, but I'm just not sure where I'm supposed to be going or what I'm supposed to do when I get there or what I should be doing to bide the time now. I wish life came with a road map. Now I'm left to look at what my life consists of. Which is... these guys. Who are they anyway? A stuffy anal retentive ex-businessman that can't stand jelly beans on pizza? A less-than-aesthetic little dweeb that insists on making fun of me and has an obsessive-compulsive crush on a friend's coworker? The guys who hauled my rear to the doctor when I refused to get a flu shot, thus saving me from Mulder's infection. The guys who don't complain about my music being too loud, even when the neighbors two floors up do. The guys who let me put jelly beans on my third of the pizza and don't make a big deal out of it if I get some on theirs. The guys who step on my Twinkie wrappers all day and throw them away themselves, rather than griping at me to do it. The guys who pinched and saved a hundred and forty bucks to get me that Pink Floyd box set for Christmas when we all knew I had all the CDs already. The guys who've held me up through thick and thin and back again. And it wouldn't take me half a second to do the same for them. They're my comrades, my compadres, my amigos... my friends. And I wouldn't trade them for the world. I'm getting tired. I think the caffeine and sugar are wearing off at last. Frohike's still snoring but at this point it doesn't matter. I think I can manage to fit one more thought into my head before I crash... My life rules. ********** Send feedback to lgwoman1013@aol.com.