Dirty Laundry

by Amber M. Howard

My eyes are as bloodshot as hell and my head is thudding, but I reach into the brown paper sack at my feet and take out the squeeze bottle of generic vodka and the videotape anyway.  I unscrew the white cap and spoon the frozen orange juice into it, then put the cap back on and shake it up.  I shove the tape into the VCR, and sit down on the pile of dirty laundry on the bedroom floor.  The rational side of me used to try to order me to clean this pigsty up, but I suppose I have lost even that part of my mind in the bewilderment I feel.

It all started two weeks ago when I found a note on the floor in Scully's car.  Meet me in the coffee shop down the block after work.  Love, A.  At first I thought, "Oh, nice, Scully's found someone."  Then as the day wore on, I began to worry.  What if this guy isn't treating her right?  It wouldn't hurt to follow her and make sure, would it?

So I followed her to the little coffee shop and slipped into a booth not far from where she sat, and watched her while she sipped a cappuccino and waited.  Suddenly a tall young man approached her table bearing a dozen red roses.  I smiled at the sweet gesture, then took another look at his face.  It was Alex Krycek!!  He held out a hand to Scully.  "Ready to go?"  he asked.  I was so shocked I stayed rooted to the spot as they left, chatting.  My mind was a soup of emotions, disgust, anger, and mind-numbing horror.  How dare he?  How could she?

Now.  Outside couples stroll down the sidewalk in the morning light.  A.D.  Skinner is at his desk, organizing his papers, planning his schedule for the day, while Cancer Man sits in the corner, lighting one of the sixty Morley cigarettes he smokes each and every day.  The spirits of the dead float around us unseen and flutter off into eternity on angel's wings.  And I am stuck in this particular charnel pit of hell, hating Alex Krycek.  Hate has replaced paranoia as the single unifying emotion of my mind and spirit, the thin rope that keeps me from falling into the abyss of insanity.

Krycek kissing Scully, his tongue running in and out of her mouth.  Her head tilting up to meet his, her eyes slow and dreamy with arousal.

My mind keeps dwelling on those red roses, the exact color my father's blood had stained the bathroom floor, come to think of it.

Scully unbuttoning his shirt, running it slowly down his shoulders while he slowly caresses her breasts, encased in a pink bra, outlined with gold glittering softly in the lamplight.

I followed Scully and Krycek around for a week, watching through binoculars as they went together to the best clubs and restaurants in town, and finally her apartment.  I wonder how he's paying for it.  Selling more government secrets, perhaps?

Krycek and Scully slowly moving toward the bedroom, leaving articles of clothing in their wake.  Her beautiful bra lands near the coffee table, sitting there sadly discarded on the sidelines of their passion.  Like me.

I had the Lone Gunmen put video cameras through the apartment yesterday while she was at work, telling them Scully might be in danger that night.  What did I think, that they would just set the recorders and not watch?  That they wouldn't know who Krycek was?  When I arrived for the videotape Frohike was in tears.  Great.  Guilt on top of everything else.  And they say misery loves company.

Now the view shifts to the bedroom.  Both of them naked on the bed, not even bothering to get under the covers.  Scully moaning in ecstasy, Krycek spreading open her labia, running his tongue over her clitoris and in and out of her vagina.  Scully's moans turn to gasps and little yelps.  I barely realize I am flinching with every sound.

Ah, but new technology.  Zoom in, zoom out.  For the past week I have lain on my couch every night, not sleeping a wink, but only wondering if they were together.  And I thought and acted out each part, sometimes him, sometimes her.

Scully sliding off his Calvin Klein briefs and running her lovely little hands up and down his penis, running her neatly manicured fingernails lightly over his testicles.  Krycek letting out a growl, baring his teeth like a wild animal.

Alex Krycek, I hope the faceless alien rebels come to whatever rat hole you call home and roast you alive and you die horribly screaming 100 sweet decibels of pain and terror.

Scully wrapping her arms around his chest as he drives powerfully into her, the muscles in his back rippling under her fingers.  Her shriek of pleasure cuts into my heart like a knife's blade.

I reported to Skinner's office yesterday morning, and as I passed Cancer Man, he gave me an evil little smirk.  Oh, he knew.  Gloat on, you black-lunged son of a bitch.  I swear I will live to piss on your unmarked grave.

Even in my long history of watching porn videos, I have never heard so many variations on the word oh.  The S.O.B.  is yodeling.  In Russian, by God.  I didn't even know that was possible.  Then suddenly it is over, Scully sinking back from him into the bed.

I stop the tape, and grey snow goes across the screen.  I dig through the closet, get out kit, and start cleaning my gun.

The End

Like what you've read?  Send feedback

Main Page