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Man staggers through life yapped at by his reason, pulled and shoved by his appetites, whispered to by fears, beckoned by hopes. Small wonder that what he craves most is self-forgetting. Eric Hoffer
Old Calendar: June 27, 2011
New Calendar: Day 7, Year 3 A.E.
Thanks, Garza, for pushing me to read Kierkegaard last year. I didn’t pay too much attention to philosophy in college—my mind was on other things. I majored in history and criminal justice, as planned. Everything was well planned. Planned for longer than I even realized, until Mulder helped me remember.
Okay, until Mulder fucking ripped the memories from the recesses of my brain and brought them front and center, spotlight on. It reminds me of the original Alien movie: everything’s fine, everybody’s eating dinner and suddenly the one guy starts convulsing and thrashing around, and hey, whatdya know, this ugly piece of shit monster just pops right out of his stomach. Who knew it was there all along?
On second thought, maybe that isn’t the best analogy to use, under the circumstances. But my meaning is clear, I think—we all carry monsters inside of us, in one form or another. They lurk, waiting for just the right time to erupt out. I know, I know, Garza—you say not all people have experiences like that. I don’t know if I can believe you; that’s all the reality I know. Maybe it’s just that some people’s monsters only come out deep in the night to savage their hosts, when no one else will know they exist.
But they’re there, I know they’re there. They’re always there.
After Kierkegaard, you pushed me through Heidegger, Nietzsche and Satre. I like the overall message I read: the pessimistic idea that life can’t be comprehended from any perspective except our own personal, subjective view, and in the end, life itself may be ultimately meaningless. Individual will, these guys were big on that, too: To one’s own self be true. And fuck everthing else, basically. Yeah, I think I like existentialism, it suits me. Fuck everything else.
I know, Garza, it’s not exactly what they said, and not exactly where you’ve been trying to get me to go in my head, but it’s better than before, even you have to admit that. At least once a day, I sit here and think to myself, fuck it all, I’m alive. I usually have to touch myself, touch my desk or run my hand over the hot dashboard of the car to bring me back to reality. Then, too, usually once a day, I have to deal with some asshole at work who reminds me in a thousand ways that he’s not happy dealing with me because of who I was, who I am, (not uncommon knowledge) and you know what? That has a way of grounding me better than anything else.
You’re trying to change that response in me, I know; my own Pavlovian response to abuse and pain. You want to tame the wild beast, get the mad dog to lick your hand. Personally, I think I’m not the only crazy one around here.
And let’s not forget the biggest crazy of them all—Mulder. He’s a regular freak on wheels now. I think it’s fucking hilarious how the big guys screwed themselves over but good, wanting to put him somewhere they could keep an eye on him, and then he ends up being able to see farther up their asses than they could ever have imagined in their worst nightmares.
Ah, Jesus. Mulder. You’ve always tried to get me to talk about what it feels like to know every dark, perverted thought sliding around in your head is like a flashing neon light to someone else. Someone that…someone that….fuck.
It’s pretty damn fucking hard, that’s what it is. Why, Garza? After everything, after the unavoidable truth of it all, of the reality of it, why is it still so damn hard? And don’t baffle me with bullshit. I know you really read these things…otherwise, believe me, I wouldn’t be wasting my time writing it.
Seriously, I want to know why it’s still hard. Shouldn’t it get easier? Shouldn’t there come a time when everything just settles down into "the way things are", and then life goes on from there, everything in balance? But it hasn’t happened that way; it isn’t going that way. So tell me why that is, Oh Prophet from the Temple of Psychiatry? Earn a little of that money he pays you.
I know how I feel. And he knows. Of course he knows. But in all this time, not once, not one fucking time, has he ever mentioned it by word or deed. Christ, even when we crawled into the same bed, in the pitch black like we had to sneak around—and Garza, there was never anybody else around—we never said anything. He never said anything. In all these fucking years, he never said a word about any of it. Just took care of me, as if I was his penance, his walking act of contrition.
I’d like to think it’s a side effect of his ‘new and improved’ way of thinking….that because he knows everything, it’s hard for him to remember that everybody else does not. But I don’t think so. Mulder, even before the big change, had a talent for self-absorption and focus. Yeah, he could be really sensitive and empathic—guess it came with the territory—but that was only when he wasn’t looking at the world through the lens of his own navel.
Back in the old days, he had everybody pissed off at him because of his tunnel vision. Always after The Truth, like it was some goddammed holy grail. The Truth. What fucking truth was that, I asked him once. There is no ulimate Truth. There’s only things you know, and things you don’t know. How you look at it once you know them is up to you.
Okay, Garza, I can just imagine your gimlet-eyed stare right about now, reminding me I’ve been talking about Mulder but not me. Okay. Want to hear what I did the other day? Had to play all nice with the other kiddies at the Anniversary celebration at the Capitol Complex. Mulder’s pet-on-a-leash, out for display. Only he wasn’t even going to be there. He got called away out of state to an emergency. So Scully was going to hold my chain for the day while we sat and waited to watch Superhero Skinner get plopped on a pedestal for the American public. Local boy does good, risks his life to save others. Mr. Clean.
If they only knew. People are so damn gullible, Garza. Even you, even you. You know, Garza, I thought a few years ago you looked familiar when we first met. I’ve got a pretty good memory for faces. Ever wonder why you used to have such lousy nightmares years ago? And why you couldn’t ever have any kids?
Yeah, Garza, all of us have been fucked over and screwed up royally. I’m not the only one. I guess my problems are just more apparent to anyone observing. But we’ve all got them.
The big celebration turned into a private little circus. Mulder came back, after all. Surprised me, I really thought he was going to stay away. But he made it back, and just in time for Skinner to see us sitting all nice and cozy in the audience together.
Yeah, the fury in Skinner's eyes was an old, familiar thing. This is going to be interesting.
Old Calendar: June 28, 2011
New Calendar: Day 8, Year 3 A.E.
Sorry. Guess it was easy to see I was in a shitty mood the other day. It was just a culmination of so many of the things I hate: having to heel on command from Scully always puts me in a foul mood. Why is that, I can hear you asking me. Good question. Why is that? Not once since Mulder brought me back has she ever said anything derogatory to me…so why do I feel such passionate dislike for her? Is it that cool, butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth composure that I resent so much? Why, dammit? Come on, Garza, help me out a little on this one. Even her dammed fiancé is warm with me. Why the hell would they act like that, Garza, unless they pitied me? ‘Poor Krycek; humor him. Mulder scrambled his brains. He’s not what he once was.’
The other one, though, I know all about that one. There’s no love lost between Skinner and me, and if looks could kill, I’d be burned to a cinder right now. Actually, I thought it was pretty hilarious, under the circumstances. He was tethered to his own leash, one of protocol and decorum, or he’d have been all over me in a heartbeat.
He once was all over me. But that’s another story.
Old Calendar: June 29, 2011
New Calendar: Day 9, Year 3 A.E.
I’ll give you this much, Garza, you’re about as cool and unflappable as Scully. I haven’t been able to shake you up, yet, have I? I know you’re not a robot, I know there’s real emotions seething along under that cool exterior. But…it just wouldn’t be right for you to vent them in front of the patient, would it. But I do love it when I get these little e-mails back from you, after you’ve read my journal entry for the day, when I’ve piqued your interest and you just can’t help yourself from asking about something further.
Kind of pathetic when that’s my biggest thrill in a day, isn’t it. But so much better than—
Anyway, so you want to know more about Skinner. And me. Yeah, talk about an explosive situation.
Years ago, he was my boss, somewhere up the chain of command in the old FBI. Hardly knew I existed; he was too busy keeping his eyes on Mulder. Everybody was keeping their eyes on Mulder at that time; of course, it made my job that much easier. So helpful to be like wallpaper, really.
But things changed. I tipped my hand, had to kill somebody, a suspect they’d caught. He knew too much, had too many answers that Mulder and everybody else didn’t need to hear. It blew my cover, and so that was the aborted end of my career in the FBI. Just as well. I think I wouldn’ve gone crazy had I stayed there any length of time.
The Consortium took me back into their inner folds at that poin; but for the first time, I knew what it was. I understood the scope and magnitude of the project. Believe me, once I understood that, I was content to be working with them, have a chance to survive the inevitable.
So I became the big guys’ errand boy, especially Spender. But things weren’t all rosy, even within the upper eschelons. There were secrets and doubts and infighting, even among the guys in control. A few times I ended up the side-kick of the wrong guy. But I survived it, they never got me. Tried a few times. I guess they figured that, since they missed and I was still alive, why the hell not use me. Easier than training a new person.
Skinner, okay. Skinner. Once upon a time, I held his life in my hands. Literally. In a little black box. And he knew it.
Oh…Garza, you’ve never seen fury until you’ve seen Skinner hogtied. Once, I had him at my mercy, and took a few good punches to his gut just for my own satisfaction. Later on, he got me back, took my breath away with his right roundhouse. There’s been this give-and-take nature to our relationship all along.
But finally, it was I who was doing the giving. And all he could do was take it. Yeah, fury shackled, that was him. Actually, I did kill him once, then I brought him back. No, I’m not having delusions of godhood, Garza, it was the nanocyte technology that I’d introduced into his bloodstream. I controlled whether his blood worked normally, or it did not.
Hogtied, spit and roasted. Skinner on the hoof. Delicious.
But perfection never lasts, does it. Never. You wanted to know all about our relationship, didn’t you, Garza. Okay. You see, back when I was a green agent, young and spit-shined and dodging Mulder’s heels, I was also warming Skinner’s bed.
Surprised you on that one, didn’t I, Garza? Yes. Right from the start, I targetted him. Roped him in; it was pretty easy. And he didn’t get it. Guess he never got it, considering he left and stayed away for years now, leaving Mulder behind. I said before he was too busy keeping his eyes on Mulder to notice me. Yeah, even when he was buried nine inches inside me, I doubt he was aware of me.
Of course, when I had to do my disappearing act, and my
perfidy became apparent, I wonder what went through his head then, knowing he’d
been fucking a traitor?
Damn, missed opportunities. I never took pictures. They’d have come in handy over the years.
Jesus, he’s here. Talk about the devil and conjure him up,
isn’t that the way it goes? Mulder and Scully are not in the building at the
moment; I’ve instructed the receptionist to send him up to Mulder’s
office, though. I’ve got to see what the old boy wants. Wish me luck, Garza.
This is almost fun.
to be continued in part nine.....
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