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Chapter 3-Leave “It’s amazing
Around teatime, he found a half pint of pistachio ice cream that he’d forgotten buying in the freezer. Spoon and tub in hand, he sat down on the couch, turned on CNN, and paid more attention to the sweet dessert than to the news of deserted cars in North Dakota and tornadoes touching down in Southern Saskatchewan. When late afternoon turned into evening, he nonchalantly, he hoped, left the house and went for a long rambling walk. He thought he might be being followed, but he was either mistaken, or the aliens were buying way better help these days. His meandering path eventually brought him to a tiny cyber café buried in a strip mall less than a quarter mile from his house. Once there, he ordered one of those espresso thingies that Mulder favored from the pimply-faced clerk, and asked to use one of the computers. The clerk gave him his coffee and a patented “you’re too old for the internet” look, and showed him where to sit. He tried the Americano, found it bitter and hot, and dumped sugar and cream into it, then dismissed it completely and turned to the computer. He didn’t see the clerk’s eyebrows shoot up in amazement—he was too busy letting his fingers fly over the keyboard, searching for the site that Mulder had given him, using three different methods to get there. Once he’d found it, setting up his address and password was easy. ‘Only Mulder’, he thought with a smile, as both were accepted, and his new mailbox opened. He took a moment to send a ‘get the fuck Outta Dodge’ message to the guys, not sure if they would get the note he’d mailed them. Then he spent the remainder of the hour he’d bought cruising porn sites, the filthier the better, figuring that if any of his surveillance goons had managed to get this far, he might as well give them a thrill. Just before his time was about to expire, he returned to his new mailbox and discovered one new message. Quelling the sudden urge his hands had to shake, he opened the note: To: bearded_clam@spankthedonkey.com
Subject: Mad Season They can’t see this. Let me rephrase—I don’t think they can see this. God, I hope they can’t. I hope you got to the guys. It just might save their lives. The virgin says he wants his Joey Ramone disc back. Squirrel’s just fine. Worried, but that’s nothing new. No matter how many times I say to her, “hey Rocky, watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat,” she refuses to buy into it. That trick never works, she says. Well, it’s worked so far. I mean, we’re both still drawing air. And the game is definitely no longer tied. I think we’ve actually scored a few for the good guys. And we plan on more…soon. Okay, point to this, and I do have one: Truthfully, aside from being able to “talk” to you, there is no point. I don’t mean to wax melodramatic on your ass, Walter, but I just wanted to say that I don’t think I could have done the things I did, or could continue to do them in this way, without you. The Powers That Be think you’re broken; curbed; a bitch brought to heel. Little do they know. The strength they don’t see, that cowboy it up, balls of steel, fuck ‘em all spine that they’re not seeing---it’s 'cos you’ve given it to me. And believe me when I say that I’m looking forward to another round of kick the super soldier’s ass! It wouldn’t be, though, if not for you. I once told S. that she was the only person who ever believed in me. I have NEVER been so happy to be proved wrong. Thank you for that. I only meant to dash off a quick ILY, big guy, but as usual, I’ve gone off on a rant. Suffice to say, I do, you know—maybe even more than you know. Well, I should get some sleep before I digress into something horribly cutesy and nauseating, and we both know that would be just sick and wrong. Aw, the hell with it! {{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{Walter}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}} I’ll deny it, I swear! The redhead says hi. M.
He read it twice, and deleted it, then erased it, then shut down the computer. He paid the counter boy and left, and the clerk wondered what had been on the computer to make the old man cry like that. By the time Skinner had gotten to the late night donut shop at the end of the block, he had wiped away all evidence of emotion, and he was even able to muster up a smile for the sales girl as he bought half a dozen sticky buns and a large steaming cup of unsweetened oolong tea, which he sipped as he made his way home. He spent the rest of the night listening to tinny AM gold on a portable radio on the porch, thinking about Mulder. Only when the stars began to fade at the approach of dawn did he finally find himself in a place where he thought he might be able to sleep. He slept long and hard, had uneasy dreams full of paperwork and death that made him cry out loud, and woke feeling wholly un-refreshed with tears drying on his cheeks. A long hot shower didn’t help. Neither did coffee, tea, or the overlarge lunch he spent too long preparing, and then found himself unable to eat. One hot day followed another. When he could eat, he did so lightly, mostly unaware of what he was putting in his body. He went through pitchers of tea, pots of coffee, and a flat of bottled water, and painted the spare bedroom. Joey Ramone kept him company for most of it. He thought briefly about putting in bedding plants, but opted instead to get a full tune up for the Blazer. He hadn’t driven it much at all lately, didn’t have any specific plans to. But he did it just the same, letting some unformed worry guide his actions. He found himself checking the contents of the tiny kitchen safe repeatedly, and when some poor shmuck came to his door with an offer for life insurance, he bought the premium package and made Fox Mulder his sole beneficiary, with a codicil stating that should he be unavailable to collect, the entire thing would got to the national MUFON Society. How Mulder would love that, he thought. No more emails came that week.
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