Return of the Attack of the Fan Fiction In Joke
 
 

"Rednecks, Scully. Rednecks as far as the eye can see. It's...it's awesome."

"Yeah, Mulder." Scully winced as Fordzilla roared past, wishing that she had invested in that pair of earplugs before she entered the domed sports arena. "I suppose the only place on earth that might have a higher concentration of rednecks than a monster truck rally would be...Wrestlemania. Tell me again, why are we here?"

"Well, monster trucks, X Files... Hello? You do the math."

"This is a stretch, even for you, Mulder."

"No, really. There are rumors that some of the competitors have been using...unusual technology to beef up their trucks."

"Such as?"

"Well...that one flying across the field right now without benefit of a ramp might be an example..."
 

*Several hours and many improbable situations later, in a bar...*

"Ow." Mulder gingerly rubbed the blue mark rising on his cheekbone.

"I told you not to say anything about the size of that guy's belt buckle, Mulder. It's your own fault." Scully was being less than sympathetic.

"I was just joking."

"Yeah? Well, 'Do you believe that the size of a man's belt buckle is in direct inverse proportion to the size of his dick?' is not a safe question to ask someone who looks like they're wearing a hubcap on their belt."

"I didn't think he'd understand me."

"You were wrong. Look, have fun. I'm getting out of here. If I get called 'little lady' one more time I'm going to have to go up before a board and explain why I neutered some guy with my bare hands."
 

*Scully leaves.*

"Ow."

"Whooee!"

Mulder turned around to find a man in blue jeans, a 'Wrestlemania' T-shirt, shit kicker boots, and a billed cap that said, 'Pardon me, but you've obviously mistaken me for someone who GIVES a damn' standing near by.

He grinned, and said admiringly, "You gonna have a right nice shiner there, boy."

"Um...thank you."

The man offered a hand. "Name's Bubba."

Mulder shook. "And that's short for...?"

He laughed. "Short for nothin', boy. That's what mah mama put on the cer-tificate when she squirted me." The man had a drawl thick enough to spread on corn bread.

Mulder watched him walk around the bar and pick up a bottle of golden liquid, pour himself a shot, and toss it off. Seeing Mulder's horrified look, he chuckled. "Don't worry, bo. I own this here honky tonk. Damn sure wouldn't be walkin' behind 'nuther man's bar ifn I weren't carryin' a sawed off, or had a pit bull on a slippery leash." Tipping the bottle toward Mulder,
he offered, "Want one? It's kinda sweet, but it'll kick yer ass, given half a chanst."

Mulder consulted his theocratic beliefs, and discovered that it was against his religion to turn down a free drink. "Sure." He tried to gulp it like Bubba had, and nearly choked.

Bubba nodded. "Yep. Usedta be Janis Joplin's favorite drink. Little gal could sing like nobody's bidness. Kinda skanky, though. Anyways, this is like a Southern wuman: strong, sweet, and'll knock ya flat ifn ya don't handle it with respect."

"Thanks. Ow."

"Yeah, I saw ol' Tyler whale on you. Ya got to watch them smart ass metaphors, boy. Summa us rednecks ackshully read a book 'stead of eatin' the pages. Why'nt you go sit in that there booth over yonder an' I'll get some ice for that?"

Fox went to the booth. In a minute, Bubba slid in beside him, with some ice cubes wrapped in a clean cloth. "Here we go, boy." He held them gently to Mulder's aching cheek.

Mulder sighed. "Wow, that's better. Thank you."

"Not attall."

Mulder looked around, noticing that the bar was now empty. "Um, if you're the owner, shouldn't you be ready to wait on customers?"

"Waal, I s'pose so. 'Ceptin I locked the door right after that lil' redheaded gal left."

"Oh? Is...uh...is it closing time already?"

"Naw. We got screwy liquor laws 'round these parts, but not that screwy. I jest wanted a lil' quiet time with ya."

"Uh...you did?"

Bubba was still holding the compress to Mulder's boo-boo, but his other hand was unbuttoning the FBI agent's shirt. "Sho 'nuff." A slightly cold hand slipped in, and proceeded to bring Mulder's nipples erect with a combination of chill and skill.

"You mean...um..."

"Boy, why the hell else you think I got you here in th' booth...in th' back...in th' corner...in th' dark?" The hand was working on his belt buckle now. "I gotta tell ya, I don' know if'n that lil' sayin' you got 'bout the size of a man's buckle bein' op'sit of the size of his dick is true, but I got to hope, 'cause you wearing one tiny motherfucker of a belt buckle."

His fly zipper was being lowered. Mulder felt dazed, as if the situation was somehow unreal. "What...what exactly is going on here?"

"Waall, bo, you 'member that there PWP bunny you ran into a while back?"

Mulder couldn't repress a grin. "Oh, yeah."

"Well, you done got yourself into 'nother slash fiction story type."

Mulder winced. "You don't mean...?"

"Yep." He touched Mulder's swollen cheek. "Hurt..." Then he dived for Mulder's lap, and the last few words were muffled as Mulder gave a surprised, but not displeased yelp, "...an' Southern Comfort." 
 
 
 

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