An X-Files Fairytale

Once upon a time, there were two FBI agents who were deeply in love, even though no one (not even the Almighty ChrisGod who created them) really knew it... and they lived in an enchanted kingdom filled with conspiracy-beasts -- one of them in a suburb of the enchanted kingdom, and the other one a ridiculous commute away.

In the enchanted world known as DeeCee, there were many Great and Powerful forces who sought to distract the FBI agents from their destiny. Unfortunately, it was nearly impossible to tell which Forces were Good, and which were Evil.

Only the ChrisGod knew for sure, and he was apt to change his mind at any time, and for any reason.

So these two FBI agents were forced to struggle for the cause of Truth, without ever really knowing what that Truth might be, or if it might change and become Untruth once they'd found it.

And all this searching for Truth was interfering with their destiny, namely, realizing and declaring their unending love for one another, stripping off their clothing and rolling around together like two happy little bunnies, and producing a concordant number of itsy-bitsy-baby FBI agent offspring.

One day, while our two heroes were searching for the Truth, they found a flat tire instead.

And while they were occupied with changing the tire, a mighty tornado came along US 50 and swept them off their feet and into a deeeeeep rabbit hole; they fell and fell and fell and finally landed on something very soft and fluffy.

It turned out to be a rabbit, who got up, brushed himself off, and immediately declared that he was going to sue the U.S. Government for harassment.

But before he could call his attorney, a deep and powerful voice rang down from above. "Hark," it said.

"Hark," it said again.

And again it said "Hark," and that was when the FBI agents realized that the deep and powerful voice was in fact clearing its throat.

The deep and powerful voice choked one more time, and then began to speak. 'Behold,' it rang out with authority, 'Look unto me with gratitude, for I am the Anti-Chris, and I shall grant you your fondest wish.

"But first," it continued, "you must prove to me that you are Worthy of the Sacred Trust of the Relationshippers."

"Thou shalt go forth," said the Anti-Chris, "and bring me three things; and in the procurement of these three things, you shall earn the right to wallow naked in the Exalted Featherbed of Resolved Sexual Tension and Unrestrained Lust."

"These three things shall be as follows:"

"First, you must venture to the hazy lands beyond the mountains, and brave the lair of the Cigarette-Smoking Beast, and bring me the Morley Cylinder of Doom."

"Then you must locate the Domain of the Trio of Comic Relief, and fetch the Ramones T-Shirt of Extreme Pain."

"Finally, you must dive to the depths of the Gutter, and retrieve the Holy Wet Red Speedo."

"Bring me these three things," said the Anti-Chris, "and yea, verily you shall roll in the sack freely, and without interference by the naxis."

The FBI agents looked at each other dubiously for a moment, because the entire situation was just too weird for words; but the prospect of achieving actual sexual activity was a strong lure, and so they agreed to the terms of the Anti- Chris.

So they set off across the enchanted lands at the Bottom of the Rabbit-Hole, dressed in skimpy clothing that served no purpose other than to tantalize the readers of the story; and they walked towards the mountains. They walked and they walked and they walked until finally they could walk no more, and just as they began to despair of reaching their goal, the rabbit (remember the rabbit? the one who's gonna sue 'em?) pulled up beside them in a powder-blue Ford Taurus and asked if they wanted a ride.

Naturally, the Agent of Angst insisted on driving.

From there, the trip proceeded smoothly, and at the base of the mountains they bade farewell to their companion in adventure and litigation, and headed for the lair of the Cigarette Smoking Beast, which was a cave near the top of the highest mountain.

They could tell which mountain, because it was encircled by a giant smoke ring, and carried a proud advertising billboard for a popular cigarette company near its summit.

So they began to hike up said mountain, panting and puffing and dislodging their skimpy clothing into glorious disarray, and somewhere near the end of the trail they looked at each other and seriously considered ditching the skimpy clothing and the dictates of the Anti-Chris, and skipping straight to the end of the story.

But the ground was hard and rocky and nowhere near as appealing as the Sacred Featherbed, so instead they hugged each other and exchanged sardonic yet affectionate banter, and continued along their way.

The Cigarette Smoking Beast met them at the doorway to its lair: it was a big beast, eighteen gazillion feet high with slimy green reptilian scales (even though reptiles generally aren't slimy; this one was) and it exhaled fire and smoke through its terrible fanged jaws and hissed, "Luuuuuke, I am your father..."

And the Agent of Angst raised his lightsaber briefly before realizing that this was in fact the wrong story, and that he would have to find another way to defeat the beast.

It reached out one giant clawed paw and snatched away the Agent of Reason and hid her behind its back. "I like her," it growled gleefully. "I like you, too. That's why I'm going to take her away from you, and stomp you both into little bitty pieces."

The Agent of Angst tried to shoot the Beast, but discovered that he had lost his gun -- the Agent of Reason had dropped hers, and so he tried to shoot the Beast; but the Beast said to him, "If I die, I'll be dead, and then who will you play with?" and he found that he couldn't pull the trigger.

Just as the Agent of Angst began to despair of ever regaining his beloved Agent of Reason, the rabbit appeared behind him. "Here, take this," the rabbit said, and handed him an Almighty Carrot.

It was a truly spectacular carrot. It gleamed and shone bright orange-gold in the glare of the Beast's fiery breath, and when the Agent of Angst lifted it aloft, it emitted a bright beam -- and all at once, the Beast was engulfed, wholly consumed, in a massive pile of forms and carbons and computer printouts... literally, buried in paperwork.

The Agent of Angst raced to rescue the Agent of Reason, but she emerged from the mound of papers of her own accord, insisting that she didn't need his help...

"And the Agent of Angst turned to the rabbit and said, "Cool carrot. Where'd you get it?"

"Unofficial channels," said the rabbit, taking out a pair of round wire-rimmed spectacles and placing them on his face.

A quick search of the lair turned up the Morley Cylinder of Doom, which was wrapped in a piece of paper that appeared to have a code written on it. Closer examination revealed that the code was in fact anagrammed words; even closer examination revealed that the anagrammed words worked out to form a shopping list, which Mommy Agent of Angst had apparently left for the Cigarette Smoking Beast -- in an extreme fit of 'let's not go there', the Agents and the Skinner-Rabbit carried the Cylinder of Doom out to the car and locked it in the trunk of the powder-blue Ford Taurus.

Exhilarated by their success, the Agents embraced without really embracing, traded more sardonic yet affectionate banter and gazed at each other longingly, while the Skinner-Rabbit glanced repeatedly at his pocketwatch and muttered something about "against workplace policy" under his breath... and finally, they set out on the second part of their quest.

The Domain of the Trio of Comic Relief (located, naturally, at www.lonegunmen.com) was surrounded by the most formidable barrier imaginable: a thick layer of punk-rock music, louder than any earthly subwoofer could produce. It forced the Agents of Angst and Reason and the Skinner- Rabbit to come to a dead halt at their borders, holding their hands over their ears.

For the Skinner-Rabbit, this took some doing, since he had much bigger ears than the others.

As they pondered their dilemma, a Frisbee-shaped object painted to resemble the Partridge Family schoolbus zipped along and hovered overhead.

And as they watched, a little emerald-skinned being stuck its head out the window and tossed something out. "Here, take these," it said. "Oh, and by the way, we are TOO green!" and with that, the flying saucer zoomed away.

Bending over to display his scantily-clad posterior for the benefit of the contingent of readers most likely to drool, the Agent of Angst picked up the alien litter, and discovered three sets of cozy earmuffs, each labeled "Made In Reticula. Do Not Dry-Clean."

Donning the alien earmuffs, the trio ventured through the punk-rock barrier, and were delighted to discover that they could hear no more than the faintest occasional snatch of banal lyrics; though it took some time before the Agent of Angst was able to stop humming "Sheena Is A Punk Rocker" under his breath.

The Trio of Comic Relief was busily occupied, simultaneously working on their computers and doing an eye- poking hair-pulling routine reminiscent of the Three Stooges; but as the trio of adventurers approached, all of this came to a screeching halt.

"Look," said the First. "It's a woman."

"A real live one," said the Second. "Not like that babe we bagged last week in the morgue."

"She's hot," said the Third, with a sickening leer.

"She's MINE," growled the Agent of Angst, and was about to pull out the lightsaber that he really wasn't supposed to possess (since this was in fact the wrong story for that sort of thing) and start decapitating heads (again, wrong fandom) when the Agent of Reason stopped him with an enigmatic smile and a pair of handcuffs.

Stepping closer to the Trio of Comic Relief, she favored them with her most sultry smile. "Hello, boys," she said.

Astonished by this evidence of actual attention from a person with concave-type anatomy, they drooled and leered and quivered and hung spellbound on her every word...

...while the Agent of Reason gave them her sweetest come- hither smile; and the Agent of Angst, who has been securely handcuffed to a tree, growls and foams at the mouth...

"Well, boys," said the Agent of Reason, "you certainly seem to be healthy specimens of manhood... let me see some skin."

Needing no further encouragement, the Trio rushed to strip off their clothing, among which was the Ramones T-Shirt of Extreme Pain; and the Agent of Reason snatched up the garment and tossed it to the Agent of Angst, who'd cut away the handcuffs with that damned lightsaber that just won't go away, and was waiting nearby to offer backup and kick the butt of anyone who dared lay a finger on 'his' Agent of Reason.

"Here, catch," she yelled at the Agent of Angst, who caught the Ramones T-Shirt of Extreme Pain, and held it distastefully between two fingers, as the garment was smelly and covered with pizza stains.

The Trio of Comic Relief, rendered senseless by the prospect of actually 'getting some', tried to pursue the Agent of Reason as she hurried back toward the Ford Taurus; but the Skinner-Rabbit had thoughtfully tied their shoelaces together while they were busy ogling the redhead, and so they fell over their own feet and elbowed each other in the groin, producing high-pitched squeaks of pain.

"Now that was a girly scream," said the Agent of Angst, as they ran back to the car to seek the Holy Wet Red Speedo from the bottom of the gutter.

But before they could go any further, the Agents of Angst and Reason felt the need to stop off by the side of a lake and wade out to a giant rock and have a deep and meaningful conversation about life while trading significant glances and secretly pining for each other's naked bodies, while the Skinner-Rabbit leaned on the edge of the car, chewing on Unofficial Carrots and trying to pick up stray lady-rabbits that wandered by, since (because they hadn't yet gotten to 3X21) the ChrisGod had not yet revealed to him that he was in fact married to a Mrs. Skinner-Rabbit... and secretly wishing that the Agent of Reason had longer ears and a fluffy cotton-tail that he might pinch... while at the bottom of the lake, the Spike-O-Saurus giggled to itself and ate cheesecake. "Silly humans," it said to itself.

After a suitable interval of 'shippiness, the Agents reminded themselves that there was in fact an Exalted Featherbed of Resolved Sexual Tension and Unrestrained Lust waiting for them at the end of the story, and headed back to the powder-blue Ford Taurus, where they found the Skinner-Rabbit rolling around in the back-seat with a lady-rabbit who'd fallen prey to his charms. "Hey," said the Skinner-Rabbit, "you're the only ones who ever get any in these sorts of stories; when is it my turn?"

"3X21," said the Agent of Angst, impatiently.

"But I didn't get to do my head-spinning trick," pouted the lady-rabbit, as the Agents prepared to continue their journey.

"I think I'm glad I missed that one," said the Skinner- Rabbit thoughtfully, once they were on the road again. "Wait for 3X21," said the Agent of Reason.

There was a narrow stream that wended its way through the forest, a tiny burbling brook whose waters were crystal- clear, though unusually warm.

Following the brook upstream, the Agents and the Rabbit soon found themselves at the Gutter, which was packed with dozens and hundreds of writhing female bodies, all searching desperately for the Holy Wet Red Speedo.

"Hmmm," said the Agent of Angst, smiling ever so slightly, "this looks like a job for me," and prepared to dive in.

"Excuse me," said the Agent of Reason, bringing out the handcuffs...

...and shortly thereafter, the Agent of Angst was once again securely strapped to a tree. "The only one who's getting their hands on you in this story is ME," said the Agent of Reason, heading for the Gutter.

She was braced to receive hostility, but instead the inhabitants of the gutter welcomed her with open arms. "A kindred spirit!" they cried. "Come, swim in the Gutter with us!"

And noting that the Gutter was also occupied by many many mirror-likenesses of the Agent of Angst, some of whom were younger with deliciously long hair, the Agent of Reason was happy to comply.

Some time later, a plaintive whimper from the location of the tree roused her from a delightful interlude with one of the clones, and she checked the Skinner-Rabbit's watch and noticed that several hours had passed... so, reluctantly, and reminding herself of the Exalted Featherbed of Resolved Sexual Tension and Unrestrained Lust ('this had better be a damned good featherbed,' she muttered to herself) the Agent of Reason let go of the clone and dove deep to the bottom of the gutter.

At the very bottom, she spied a flash of something red, which seemed to be lodged into a narrow orifice; and she pulled, and pulled, and finally it came free -- and she held the Holy Wet Red Speedo in her hands.

Unfortunately, the narrow orifice turned out to be the drain, and the water in the Gutter began to gurgle and drain away.

Deprived of their swimming ground, the Gutter-Nymphs turned their attention to the adjacent woods, where they spotted the Agent of Angst, neatly pinned to a tree for their convenience. "Dogpile on Mulder!" came the mighty shout, as they headed toward him in a great swarm.

Faced with the sheer volume of their numbers and the overwhelming aura of lust which they exuded, the Agent of Angst was less exultant than terrified. "Oh, help," he whimpered.

For he knew that once they'd finished with him, there would not be a scrap of Unresolved Sexual Tension or a stray hormone left anywhere in the vicinity.

And he was not anxious to finally attain the Exalted Featherbed of Resolved Sexual Tension and Unrestrained Lust, only to find himself with another bullet wound courtesy of the Agent of Reason.

Therefore, he was greatly relieved when the Skinner-Rabbit sidled up beside him and unlocked the handcuffs, just before the ravening hordes of Gutter-Nymphs could engulf him with their wandering hands and overactive libidos.

They raced toward the powder-blue Ford Taurus, where the Agent of Reason met them, bearing the Holy Wet Red Speedo; but she had lost the car-keys while fondling someone's Jake-clone, and helplessly the trio stood by the car whilst the Ravening Hordes of Gutter-Nymphs rampaged across the hillside toward them.

All at once, there was a brilliant light, blinding everyone; and when it faded, a figure clad in a lacy white dress and little gossamer wings.

And the figure that hovered before them spoke: "I'm the Good Witch Samantha, and I've come to save you."

The Agent of Angst rushed toward her, tried to embrace her, but his arms went right through her insubstantial form. "Samantha!" he cried. "I've been looking for you for so long... you must return to me, and rid me of my Angst!"

She smiled at him, but her face was sad. "But without Angst," she said, "you would be useless to the fandom as a whole; and your Unresolved Sexual Tension would lose its poignant charm."

"However," said the Good Witch Samantha, "I can do something to help," and she waved her magic wand, and presto! the Gutter filled with water once more, and above it appeared a massive effigy of the Agent of Angst, anatomically correct of course; and the Gutter-Nymphs were thoroughly distracted by this sight, and headed back to their Gutter at once.

She turned back to the Agent of Angst, and waved her wand once more. "You'll need this," she said, and a smallish object appeared in his hand; he tucked it away in his pocket. "Now go. Go forth, my brother, and use the power of the Force for good..."

"Wrong story," said the Skinner-Rabbit patiently.

"Oh, yeah, right," said the Good Witch.

"Okay," said the Good Witch, "in that case, go forth, my brother, and get laid, vigorously and with enthusiasm."

"And remember," she added, "that as long as little x-philes believe in me, and clap their hands three times, I shall always be Out There, somewhere."

So they got into the car, and headed back to the Great Temple of the AntiChris, bearing their sacred cargo: the Morley Cylinder of Doom, still locked up in the trunk; the Ramones T-Shirt of Extreme Pain, sealed in an air-tight Ziploc baggie so that none need suffer its acrid smell, shut away in the glove compartment; and the Holy Wet Red Speedo, cradled lovingly in the Agent of Reason's hands.

And they drove along the endless highways of the Enchanted Land Beyond the Rabbit Hole, trading sardonic yet affectionate banter and leaning against each other without actually hugging each other, and trading significant looks, while the Skinner-Rabbit sat in the back seat and sorted through the phone numbers of lady-rabbits that he'd procured along the way, occasionally making disparaging comments about the Agent of Angst's driving...

...until finally they reached the Realm of the AntiChris, who stood on the front steps waiting for them.

And lo, his voice did issue forth mightily: "Didja bring me presents?"

Gleefully, and motivated by extreme horniness, the Agents brought forth their offerings, and the AntiChris examined them carefully. "Very good," he said.

"You have earned," he declared, "the right to wallow in Exalted Featherbed of Resolved Sexual Tension and Unrestrained Lust. Behold!" And at his behest, a gigantic curtain opened, revealing a massive Bed.

It was a great and glorious Bed, adorned in luxurious furs and satin, piled high with pillows that might enable its users to contort their bodies into any number of unusual sexual positions; and within easy reach of the sacred Mattress was a refrigerator, microwave, wet bar, and sunflower-seed dispenser. In short, it was the type of Bed into which one might fall, along with suitable company, and not have to emerge except for occasional trips to the Bathroom, which (let's face it) you would want to leave the Bed for anyway.

The Agents gasped, and gaped at the glorious Bed that lay before them, and prepared to tear off their clothing and dive between the sheets. "Wait!" said the AntiChris imperiously. "There is one final requirement."

"Before I will allow you access to the Exalted Featherbed," the AntiChris told them, "you must supply one last missing factor. And you must figure it out for yourselves."

The Agents gazed at each other in confusion, taking advantage of the opportunity to cast more deeply meaningful glances into each other's eyes. "I know!" said the Agent of Reason, at last.

"The missing factor is the Power of our Love, and the Power of Relationshippers everywhere to bring this destiny to fruition!" she cried triumphantly.

"Wrong," said the AntiChris.

"I know!" said the Agent of Angst, happily.

He pulled from his pocket the tiny magical object that the Good Witch Samantha had bestowed upon him; he ripped open one side of the glittery foil packet and pulled out the Latex Object of Pregnancy and Disease Prevention. "Safe sex!" he cried triumphantly.

"Wrong," said the AntiChris. Despairing, the Agents fell into each other's arms and clung to each other in a sardonic yet affectionate way. "Alas, but we shall never be together!" they moaned. "We will never be able to roll triumphantly in the Exalted Featherbed of Resolved Sexual Tension and Unrestrained Lust!"

But just as they had given up all hope, the Skinner-Rabbit stepped forward.

He held up a digital tape in one furry paw. "Welcome to the age of high technology," he said.

The AntiChris smiled. "Right," he said.

The AntiChris removed the Ramones T-Shirt of Extreme Pain and put it on. He took the Holy Wet Red Speedo and donned that, too, much to the distress of everyone watching. He took the Morley Cylinder of Doom and set it upright, standing atop its mighty height; and he took the digital tape, and slid it into his digital tape player. He pressed the "play" key, and the strains of Bob Seger's "Old-Time Rock'N'Roll" began to issue forth at top volume. "I always wanted to do this," said the AntiChris, and began to dance around in his underwear.

"Go on, go play," he added as an afterthought, as he boogeyed off into the sunset.

Before the Agents of Angst and Reason could begin ripping their clothes off, the Skinner-Rabbit cleared his throat noisily. "I'm still suing you," he warned them, as he hopped off in search of that lady-rabbit he'd left behind at the Spike-O-Saurus Swamp.

And without further ado, the Agents of Angst and Reason gazed adoringly at each other in a sardonic yet affectionate way, uttered pledges of undying love and loyalty to each other, and began doing the wild thing.

The Agents writhed and wriggled and stroked and caressed and moaned and groaned and made the bedsprings creak louder than a Concorde on take-off; and far away, in a very distant realm, the being known as the ChrisGod gnashed his teeth at his inability to Prevent the Inevitable.

And safely ensconced in the Exalted Featherbed of Resolved Sexual Tension and Unrestrained Lust, the Agents of Angst and Reason happily indulged the wildest fantasies of Romantics everywhere; and they lived happily ever after.

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