TITLE: SKINNER'S COW CIRCUS AUTHOR: Alice In Wonderland (with a little help from the Yahoo messageboards) CLASSIFICATION: Rated PG for some strong language and "adult themes", whatever those might be defined as, Sk, H. SUMMARY: We learn why Skinner enlisted in the Marines so young... AUTHOR'S NOTE: Feedback appreciated. This is a piece we talked about on the messageboards early last year, and I was entrusted with writing it, which I did as part of a Consortium Mailing List challenge. (oh, that thing...) We had to include the following items: *A missing diamong drop earring *Mensa *Pillsbury Cookie Dough *Han Solo *A California Driver's Handbook (any year from about 1977 or so.) *A Stevie Wonder song *A foot massager *A Calvin and Hobbes comic strip *Lake Tahoe *the words "druthers" and "naiad" and we got extra points for the mention of a Celtic god/goddess. It may not be to everybody's taste, but whatever you think, let me know. _____________________________________________________________________ Dear Assistant Director, This job sucks. I quit. Dana Scully (Dr.) This had then been furiously crossed out and in handwriting someone had written underneath: Dear Assistant Director, I have changed my mind. I really love my job. And that partner of mine is such a hunk. I don't know what I have been thinking of - I think it must be that time of the month. Scully's signature underneath this was clearly a forgery. This all had a huge black line crossed over it, done with such force it had torn the paper slightly in the middle. And underneath that... I DO TOO resign! Look what I have to put up with! Dammit, I'm writing this again... Skinner folded the paper up back into its ball and replaced it in the basket. He took another look around the office. Neither of them were here, in fact, when he considered the matter, neither of them had been there for at least two days. He had no idea where they were. But he decided to look on the bright side. He had received no calls from irate military officials, secretive chain smokers, or whacked out conspiracy theorists either, which means that they must have either a) a handle on what they were about, or were b) dead. He decided he would leave them a little note. Just in case they weren't dead. Mulder and Scully, I will not be in the office for the next few days, as I have family matters to attend to. Notify me on my mobile when you get back into the office. Please try and go easy on the expenses this time. Walter Skinner **** He was driving along the interstate bearing him south, into deepest Virginia, and already his hands were twitching. He found himself unaccountably wishing he smoked. He used to. Used to be a time, that if he were visiting his family, he would have smoked at least eighty in the car on a two hundred mile journey. He would get out at the other end bearing his own private fog cloud. Ordinarily, of course, he'd been a ten a day man. The roadside dwellings gave way to fields, dotted occasionally with mean looking farmhouses. The sign for Dead Skunk County flitted by on his right. The cartoon skunk, with Xs for eyes, was spraying something offensive out from beneath its tail. Skinner groaned, gripped suddenly with something that was very like nostalgia but also not like it in that it was tinged with rising hysteria and low brooding dread. Every time, he thought, every time I drive by that damn thing I swear it will be the last time. Ah well. Blood, it seemed, was indeed thicker than water. To distract himself, he thought he might try catching up with Mulder and Scully. The cellphone buzzed for a long time. "Um, hello?" "Skinner." "Sir?" Scully sounded panicked and querulous. "Scully?" He squinted into the gathering darkness, following the cats eyes on the road as there was no streetlighting. "Where are you?" "Um, we're currently conducting an investigation, sir." She replied. "We were just wondering... can we call you back? Now's not a real good time..." In the background, a klaxon started to suddenly wail, and there was the distant sound of shouting voices and booted, running feet. "Scully! Run!" bellowed a voice, probably Mulder's. Skinner stared at the phone suspiciously. "Sir, we'll call you back." Insisted Scully breathlessly, and the connection was promptly severed. Skinner, sighing the sigh of a man who knows that there is trouble ahead, and while it might not involve him yet, it most certainly will do eventually, clicked off the phone and threw it into the driver's seat. After another ten miles and another two imaginary cigarettes, he turned off into the small country road that would take him to Home Farm. It was about ten when he pulled up in front of the rickety old building. A single feeble light shone in the porch, the bulb circled endlessly by addled moths. At least three skinny, scruffy dogs started barking simultaneously, running out to snarl at him from the ends of their makeshift ropes. He regarded them cautiously. Huge foaming strings of drool hung from the mouth of the third dog, whilst the first, which appeared to be some kind of mongrel/mongrel cross, was clearly in the terminal stages of an unidentifiable but nevertheless very unpleasant skin disease. "Killer! Gnasher! Tyson! Git down, I say!" yelled a voice suddenly from the window. Skinner peered through the gloom, at the small torn screen window. A hulking, menacing figure was silhouetted against it, showing a pug-nosed, square-jawed profile. A light glinted sinisterly from beneath its bushy brows. "John Jnr?" called Skinner, recognising the figure instantly. "Is that you? It's your... Uncle Walter." The figure poked its head out of the window even further, letting more of the faint light fall upon it. "Yuh." It said noncommittally, "Let me git the dawgs in." A few minutes later, John Jnr. appeared at the door bearing what at first glance seemed to be a large stick, until he suddenly cocked it, and aimed at a place in the dirt about two feet from Killer's head. He fired. All three dogs grew instantly silent, casting each other terrified looks, all that is except the drooling dog, who merely fell on the ground in a confused puddle, and wet itself. One by one they skulked off behind the buildings, except for Tyson, who limped there. John Jnr shambled out, scratching unselfconsciously at his thin fair hair, concentrating especially on where his scalp came up to a small, bullet shaped point. "Hiyah, Uncle Walter. Mom aint back from work yet." "One of your dogs looks pretty sick." Remarked Skinner. "Or at least, relatively sicker than the others." "Nah, they're okay. Just overexcited, is all." John Jnr was about fourteen years old and weighed well over 250 pounds, weight that was distributed unevenly over his six foot five frame. "Mom said I should leave dinner out for yew." Please God no, thought Skinner. He entered the house, his nose instantly assailed by the smell of cheap hamburgers and Kraft Macaroni Cheese sauce mix, which almost but not quite masked the odour of unwashed and sweaty human feet. "Come through to the kitchen." Mumbled John Jnr, dropping the shotgun casually near the door. The carpet beneath Skinner's feet was sticky against his Italian leather shoes and through a door up ahead he could hear the low drone of a TV. "Through here." Mumbled John Jnr. The kitchen was a largish room floored in cheap yellow linoleum. Five people sat around a table, and he had the momentary and strange impression that they were staring at him in rapt and hypnotic concentration. A second later his gaze dropped to the television resting on the table with its back to him. "...And for your chance to win the foot massager, Loretta, you just have to answer one more question..." "Uncle Walter's here." Announced John Jnr. into thin air. There was no movement amongst the people at the table. They may well have been dead, except Cousin Linda Sue was smoking rhythmically, her eyes squinting slightly with each inhale. Linda Sue, however, was the fattest woman in Dead Skunk County and had trouble preventing herself from squinting - sometimes her forehead was simply too heavy for her face to carry and it simply had to drop it. Also there was his youngest sister, Patricia, or Patrick as she preferred to be known, Lucy Anya, his paternal aunt and Linda Sue's mother, who was notable for possessing the largest collection of hand guns in the neighbourhood, his fifteen year old niece Sicily van Boolok, daughter of his eldest sister Mary Sue, and Mabel Irina, his other sister, who merely sat and stared ahead dully. After the incident in 1976 where she had attacked a Jehovah's Witness with a barbecue fork she had never spoken another word and instead knitted socks like a thing possessed while she stared at the television. She had never attacked anyone else, but there was something in the threatening way her knitting needles clacked together that suggested she probably would do if given the right encouragement. "Yew want some noodles, Uncle Walter?" called John dispiritedly. "Uh, no thanks, I ate already." Lied Skinner diplomatically. "You git here?" asked a voice suddenly. Since no-one else in the room had moved or acknowledged him, it took him a little while to realise that the voice was coming from a dark, TV-unlighted corner of the kitchen. "Hi, Uncle Hannibal. Yeah, I got here." He approached the rickety, filthy old rocking chair which had been placed, perversely, facing the wall. Uncle Hannibal nestled within, looking hardly more decrepit than the chair. He was dressed, after a fashion, in the most filthy, holey pair of longjohns the Assistant Director had ever seen, including the ones he'd seen on exhumed murder victims. "Ah'm glad you got here. He woulda wanted it that way." Declared Uncle Hannibal to the wall. He paused for a second, his tongue searching rhythmically through his dentures like a cow chewing cud. "Yew're sister's a whore." He remarked after a few minutes. Skinner sighed. He had been having this conversation with Uncle Hannibal all of his adult life - or at least the bits of his adult life where he was actually at Home Farm, which in total, wasn't very long at all, when the matter was considered. "She's just artistic." He said, which was the standard family response. "Came in last night, with nothing on her titties but little gold tassels and some damn bit of string disappearing up her fat ass." Remarked Uncle Hannibal to the wall. "Drunk, too." Skinner desperately didn't want to go down this road. "So, how are you?" There was a long pause. "I'm fine. I don't complain. My trouble with my waterworks is back, yew know. And I aint had a bowel movement in over a week. Course nobody cares." His jaw revolved around his loose false teeth. "She's got a tattoo of a dragon on her ass, of all things." "I'd better say hello to the others." Said Skinner, turning on his heel, and rubbed briefly at a blood vessel in his forehead that normally only bothered him when he had Mulder or Scully in his office. "Hmm." Said Uncle Hannibal. Skinner turned around to find John Jnr looming behind him, like a large and sullen looking brick wall. "I'll show yew to your room, if you like, Uncle Walter. Mom made you up a bed." It was night, so he was trying to sleep. Downstairs, he could still hear the television droning away, but since it was unlikely that it would be switched off during any point in the evening, he was trying, desperately, to tune it out. Suddenly, however, he heard a strange noise. It was a low mooing from the cows in the barn out back. But something was wrong. After a second he realised what it was. They were mooing the tune of "Let's Go On With The Show". He got up. Pulling on his dressing gown, he tripped down the rickety steps and out the front door. Turning left, he passed the place where the dogs would ordinarily be, and was surprised to see that they weren't there. He crept to the barn, and peered through the crack in the door. The twelve Skinner cows were stood within, in a rough line, and were indeed mooing "Let's Go On With The Show" while doing a syncopated dance routine whilst dressed in pink tutus. Skinner rubbed his eyes. When he took his hands down, the cows were still there, performing creditable high kicks and reaching a mooing crescendo. John Jnr stood in front of them, arms folded, as they subsided. "Nah, nah, nah, ladies, let's take it from the top. And this time with more feeling. Daisy Mae, you're out of synch again with the dancing. If yew aint gonna work, darlin', then just get back to yer byre..." Skinner pushed open the door and entered, absolutely non-plussed. John Junior looked at him, and the cows threw each other worried looks. Skinner stood, surveying the scene for a long moment. He glanced over in the corner, at the three dogs, all of whom appeared to be holding musical instruments. The dogs looked back at him. Tyson gave him a happy grin and a hyena like laugh, which sounded rather gurgly what with all the foam around his mouth. "I'm dreaming this, right?" asked Skinner after a moment. John Jnr, the cows, and the dogs all exchanged looks. "Yeah." Said Killer suddenly, dropping the drumstick he was holding in his mouth. "Go back to bed." Skinner looked gravely at Killer, nodded, said, "Oh, that's okay then." and then turned around, shuffling out of the door. On the way back to the house, he also dreamed of a flash of bright lights, three small grey aliens running past him (one holding a particularly vicious looking probe), and also a strange tugging at his dressing gown at the back. When he looked around it was Gnasher, holding something in his mouth. He dropped it. "Yew dropped the cord to your dressing gown." Said the dog. "Oh, thanks." Said Skinner absently, picking up the cord from the manure mired dirt. "It's okay." Said the dog, and toddled off back to the barn. Within, the sounds of cows mooing "I Just Called To Say I Love You" by Stevie Wonder were now clearly audible. Skinner took the cord and wrapped it around the gown again, only a little perturbed by the dog saliva wetting one end of it. He went back up to his room and fell fast asleep. The next morning he woke, feeling singularly unrefreshed. He got up, stretching his muscles, and moved to the window. Beyond it lay the vista of Home Farm and Dead Skunk County - a rolling sea of grass - admittedly rather brown and sparse grass - glittering water - clearly people were still dumping their old diesel in it- and dotted here and there with small stunted trees and depressed looking livestock. How often, as a boy, he had stood at this very window, surveyed this very panorama, and thought, with the ardency of youth - "If I don't get out of this place soon, I'm going to kill myself." His thoughts ran along very similar lines at the moment. He did a series of sit-ups, push-ups, and stretches, to try and clear his mind, but it could be put off no longer. It was time to go downstairs and discuss the arrangements for Uncle Thomas' funeral with the family. But first, to find out what Mulder and Scully were up to. The phone was answered immediately. "Hello?" said the voice. "Hel... who is this?" "It's Krycek. Is this Skinner?" "What are you doing with Mulder's phone?" demanded Skinner. "Mulder can't come to the phone right now. I've tied him to a chair and I'm holding him at gunpoint." There was a long pause. "Want me to take a message?" "What, you can't hand him the phone when he's only at arm's length?" "Look, I'm differently abled, and his hands are tied. I mean, think about it logistically. How's that supposed to work?" "Krycek, if he's tied up and can't run away, try putting the gun away, and then handing the phone to Mulder." "Well, you know, I've only got the use of one arm, and Mulder can't use either arm - since, as I've indicated, I've tied him up. So I don't know how you expect him to hold the phone." "Well, how are you holding the phone now?" "I've kind of got it under my chin at the moment." "Why don't you put the gun away, and hold the phone to Mulder's mouth, and then he can talk into it to me." "Oh, I get it... this is a trick, right? To get me to drop the gun, right? Oh, very clever. Nice try, Skinner..." "Look, Krycek." Snarled Skinner. "It's very simple. You don't have to be in Mensa to work this out. You just told me you've tied him up. He's not going anywhere." "Yeah, but he could still bite me, though. Did you know that the human bite is the most potentially infectious bite you can be afflicted with? I mean, my Consortium medical insurance isn't going to cover me if anything else goes wrong - I've just about cleaned it out already as it is." Skinner sighed, rubbing restlessly at the vein throbbing in his temple. "Well, can you give him a message?" Krycek seemed to consider this. "Okay. But only so long as I don't have to write it down. My hand is kind of full at the moment." "Tell him to ring me the minute he escapes." Krycek sighed. "Sure. But it could be a while." "Well, whenever... will you do that?" "Sure. See ya." Krycek hung up. Skinner stared at the phone, shaking his head. "Boys will be boys." He muttered to himself, clicking the cover shut. With a weary sigh, he trudged down the stairs. The kitchen was much as he had left it, even down to the five identical people transfixed to the television, and Uncle Hannibal sat in his rickety chair, facing the wall. "Good morning." He said, not surprised he got no answer. There was however a stranger in the kitchen - a young boy, or at least a person that superficially resembled one. His pale eyes rested on Skinner, and he stopped wrestling with the can of Pilsbury Cookie Dough he was holding. "Hiyuh, Uncle Walter. My Mom said yew got here last night. Yew here for the fun'ral?" "I am. I have to speak to you all about the arrangements." "Shure. Yew still work for the FBI?" The boy asked, his eyes lighting up with brilliant interest. "I would love to work for the FBI." Skinner paused, non-plussed. The last time he had seen Trotworthy Karel Dilbit, Cousin Linda Sue's son, he had come to the conclusion that he was an annoying, ignorant little shit. Skinner's abiding memory was of chasing the weedy but surprisingly swift Trotworthy around the house, about to beat the living daylights out of him with a copy of the California Driver's Handbook (1983) which his sister had brought back from her "Cabaret Tour" of San Francisco. Could it be now that within the Skinner household there was yet another soul like his own, drawn by the great world outside Home Farm to the noble task of law enforcement? Dare he hope so? "You would?" he asked, his mouth dry. "Shurely would. Yew git given a gun and everythin', right? I mean, how cool is that, a free gun? When I asked to join the Klan, they said I had to bring my own. And Aunt Mary-Sue said that yew look after the department that does aliens. And yew git to do cool things like conspire against the people and carry on secret experiments with taxpayer dollars and talk with aliens and stuff. Yew think if I talked with aliens they'd, like, give me one of those ray-guns? Like Han Solo out of Star Wars?" Trotworthy's face creased up into a scary grimace that might have been an ingratiating smile, while Skinner gazed down at him in horror. "Have yew got a ray-gun, Uncle Walter?" "No." he said eventually, fighting down his disappointment, "I haven't got a ray-gun." "Oh yeah!" grinned Trotworthy, nodding and winking in a pantomime manner, "Yew haven't got a ray-gun." He giggled. "I git it. It's all secret like. It's a conspirna... a comspiro....a connerspricy!" "Trotworthy, you have to go to school for many years to be an FBI agent..." "Yeah, but I could lie and say I've been." Continued the boy cheerfully. "I mean, yer like a big boss in it and you'd stick up for me, say I've been to Harvard and stuff. That's like college, isn't it?" "Where is Mary-Sue?" he asked impatiently. "She's still in bed. She don't git up till one. Cos she works late at night." Skinner nodded, wearily. He was about to attempt to snatch the last remaining Pop Tart off the kitchen table before it vanished, untoasted, into cousin Linda Sue's gaping maw, when suddenly there was a development. A hoarse screaming started to issue from the barn. *** "She's DEAD!" screamed John Jnr, clutching at his straw-like hair. "She's been murdered!" Skinner, gun in hand, rushed into the barn, the rest of the family following in hot pursuit, some more slowly than others. "John!" yelled Skinner. "Who? Who's been murdered?" John Jnr paused in his self-mutilation to cast horrified eyes at his uncle. "Daisy Mae! She's been and got murdered! She's been... evincer... evissit... eviscerated!" Something in Skinner's mind flickered uncertainly - the memory of an astounding dream... John Jnr, however, was inconsolable - sitting down on the straw and burying his face in a flood of tears. Skinner scratched his head, catching Gnasher throw Tyson a look, and he could have sworn he heard the dog mutter under his doggy breath, "Bummer." "Eeewww." Said Sicily, her lips smacking noisily around her cinnamon flavoured gum. Skinner approached the cow. She was laying on her side, in a pool of blood. A cursory examination showed that her internal organs appeared to have been burned out with some kind of laser. He picked up the phone and dialled again. It was answered once again almost instantly. "Hello?" came the melodious, if rather cigarette-hoarsened voice. "Mulder?" "No. Mr. Skinner? What can I do for you?" "I need to talk to Mulder." "What about?" Skinner could hear the man on the other end take a long drag on his cigarette. "About cattle mutilations." "Well, Mr. Mulder is tied up. Is there anything I can help you with?" "Certainly not..." Skinner thought about this for a second. "Hmm... well, actually, maybe you can. What do you know about cattle mutilations?" "What about them?" "Well, one of our cattle has been eviscerated by some kind of burning device, possibly a laser." "Have the ovaries and uterus been removed?" asked Cancerman. Skinner wrinkled his nose and peered at the mess. "Now you mention it, they have." He stepped away from the carcass. "Is this part of some kind of hideous breeding experiment?" "No." replied Cancerman. "They just like the uterus and ovaries. It's more popular than liver and onions with them. Apparently they like to bake them in tomato sauce and serve it with some sort of pasta accompaniment." "What? They can't come here and murder our cows with impunity! The little transgalactic rustlers! This is outrageous! My family demand compensation!" "Well, you're welcome to try and pursue them through the small claims court." Replied Cancerman smugly. "And while I have you on the phone, and I own your soul and all, I need you to do something for me." "What?" barked Skinner suspiciously. "Tell Mulder that he has to give back the Doomsday Weapon that he and Agent Scully stole from one of our secret bases yesterday evening." Skinner sighed, and rubbed at his temple again. The family all gazed on, fascinated, while John Jnr's sobs retreated into distraught whimpers. "Put him on." Said Skinner wearily. There was the sound of some kind of adhesive gag being ripped off someone else's stubbled chin. "Sir!" came Mulder's voice, sounding slightly breathless. "We..." "Where's the Doomsday device, Agent Mulder?" asked Skinner wearily. "I don't know what you're talking about." "Where?" "I don't have it." "You have it, don't you?" "No." "Yes you do." "No!" "You DO have it, don't you?" "No." "Where is it?" "I don't know." "Mulder, you took it, didn't you?" "No." "You did." "Um... yes." "Where is it?" "It was in the back of my car." Muttered Mulder sulkily. "Put me back on to the Cigarette-Smoking Man." The phone clattered slightly and Mulder could be heard mumbling, "He wants to talk to you." "Mr. Skinner?" "It's in the back of his car." "No it isn't. We searched it already. Ask him again." "Why? We both know what's happened. Krycek has probably stolen it to use as a gambling chip in his own amoral attempts to gain global power and prestige." There was a pause, followed by a sound of smoke being inhaled. "Alex?" "Yeah?" chimed in Krycek's voice. "You stole the Doomsday device from Agent Mulder, didn't you?" asked Cancerman, sounding patient but just a little angry. "No! Mulder stole it!" "You stole it off Mulder, now, didn't you?" "No." "You did. You stole it off Mulder." "NO!" "Yes you did." "No I didn't." "Yes, you stole it off Agent Mulder." "No..." "You stole it." Silence. "Didn't you?" "Yes." Answered Krycek shamefacedly. "But Mulder stole it first!" "I will deal with you and Mulder later, young man." Said Cancerman, breaking the connection. Skinner stared at the phone. "U - Uncle Walter? Did yew find anything out?" John Jnr blinked his weepy blue eyes. He turned, distracted, to where his nephew was shuffling up from the straw. "Um, it's possible that Daisy Mae was murdered by aliens." "Aliens? Like, illegal aliens?" demanded his sister Patricia, who nowadays preferred to be known as Patrick. By trade she was a small order chef but lately had begun to carve a promising career out of appearing on the likes of Rikki Lake and Jerry Springer, and existed by selling towels, soaps, and complimentary tea and coffee packets she and her wife Linzee Tallulah (who had been born one John Anderson) stole from hotels that television studios rented her rooms in. Her ambition in life was to one day have her own talk show with even more outrageously screwed up people appearing on it and even more savage fisticuffs happening live than any of the people whose shows she had appeared on. She was toying with a pitch she was currently trying to sell to Fox in which the guests on her show would be armed beforehand with knives and screwdrivers. As far as Skinner knew, or dared to inquire, Fox hadn't written back. "No." said Skinner. "Aliens, as in outer space, as in invading, as in "Take me to your leader" aliens." They suddenly turned, startled by a strange noise in the driveway - an approaching car. "Bark now," hissed Gnasher at Tyson quietly. Skinner stared at them, and in answer they merely pretended they hadn't noticed him noticing them and started to bark in the enthusiastic, foolish manner of dogs everywhere once a stranger comes to the door. John Jnr stood up. "Is that them?" he whispered. "Um, not unless aliens have taken to driving around in Ford Tauruses." Replied Skinner. "But stranger things have happened." "Damn straight." Muttered Killer. Skinner whirled to look at him, but the dog merely clamped its jaws and gave him a look as if to say - "A talking dog? Are you on drugs?" Shaking his head, Skinner turned away. "It's a girl." Declared Trotworthy, who had reached the barn door first. "A really hot girl." Skinner sighed. "Hello, Agent Scully." Scully had just entered the barn, somewhat cautiously because of the aggressively barking dogs. "They give you any trouble, just fire over their heads." Said John Jnr. "Hello miss. I am sorry yew have found us during a time of great personal tragedy." He announced lugubriously. "Oh... yes." Said Scully, "I was sorry to hear about your Uncle Thomas Mikhail." John Jnr merely blinked at her. "Oh yeah," he said, a light suddenly dawning in his small, bullet-shaped skull. "He died too, didn't he? No, Ah meant Daisy Mae." He gestured at the fallen cow. Scully regarded the dead animal calmly. "I see." She said. "Scully, what are you doing here?" asked Skinner. She turned falsely innocent eyes to Skinner. Her voice, when she spoke, was a couple of octaves too high and larded with an insincere cheerfulness. "I just dropped by to see if... if you needed anything." She said. Skinner merely stared at her. "You know. And you said you wanted to speak to me..." "Hmm." Said Skinner. "You wouldn't by any chance have been driving all night, would you, Agent Scully?" "Umm." She said. "I was very concerned..." "... from a secret base..." "Ah, um, what secret base would that be?" asked Scully, who to be fair was being somewhat distracted by the frank way that Trotworthy was staring at her breasts. "The secret base where you stole the Doomsday weapon back off Krycek and drove out here with it in the trunk of your Taurus? That secret base? Where they captured your partner, Mulder? Remember him at all?" "I... I don't know what you're talking about, sir." She said, and as a tension-breaker she reached out rather deftly and slapped Trotworthy hard across the face. He yelped, but it didn't break his concentration. "I just came out to... you know... lend assistance." "Very thoughtful. You can start by doing an autopsy." Said Skinner, frankly too exhausted to discuss it anymore. Her blue eyes widened. "You think your Uncle Thomas was murdered, sir?" "No, not on him." Snapped Skinner. "On the cow. Daylight's wasting, Agent." And with that, he stalked out of the barn. *** It was dinner time at Home Farm. Skinner's sister had joined them at about six, when John Jnr had hollered up to her that the dinner was ready. He was still a little teary but prepared to be philosophical about his loss, to the extent that after Scully had finished the autopsy he had had the corpse carried off and had offered no explanation as to where it had gone. "Something smells nice." Said Mary Sue. She had ushered a gentleman caller down out of her bedroom and out the front door before joining the family at the table. She was clad in a thin satin dressing gown Skinner smiled as she seated herself next to him, as she was the one member of his family that he had the time of day for. Scully smiled politely at her. "Walter, yew gonna introduce us?" Mary Sue drawled, putting a cigarette in her mouth. "Momma." Said John Jnr, "Dinner is just ready. Yew don't need to smoke." "I know, but it'll be at least three minutes before you put it out." She said, lighting the cigarette and sucking deeply. "I wanna know who Walter's friend is." "She's in the FBI." Said Sicily, who true to form, was still chewing her gum, while one hand played with a lock of her blonde, crimped hair. "She chases aliens and cuts up dead people." Sicily had been unexpectedly fascinated with this notion. "She cuts them up to see how they died." Sicily beamed at Scully, in what Skinner privately thought was a most unhealthy way. "Agent Scully does not chase aliens." Said Skinner. No, he privately thought, aliens chase her. "But she definitely cuts up dead people." Chimed in Sicily happily, as John Jnr stuck a plate in front of her. "Oh, is it a special occasion?" she beamed. "We're having steak." John Jnr turned away, and wiped a tear from his eye. "Daisy Mae would have wanted it that... that... excuse me, I think I have something in my eye." And he rushed from the room. "Now who's going to serve dinner?" demanded Linda Sue angrily. A few minutes went by, and nobody moved. Skinner sighed, and got up, waving Scully down. "Walter, Trotty came up to me before and said a whole load of stuff about aliens molesting our cattle." Said Mary Sue. "He said yew told him that." "It looks that way." Scully was staring very hard at the fork she was holding in her hand, and a closer examination might have revealed she was gripping it tightly around the neck. "That's bad. There's aliens everywhere. A body can't move any more but they're being chased by lights in the sky, being abducted and having probes shoved up their ass, having their cattle interfered with... it's a sign of the moral decline of this nation. I don't know why we tolerate it." Said Mary Sue in her slightly breathy, hoarse, smoker's voice. "You managed to catch any of the little bastards yet?" she asked, turning to Scully, dropping a cylinder of ash on to her empty side plate. "I'm sorry, Mary Sue." Said Scully. "But I'm afraid the death of your cow had nothing to do with aliens." Everybody looked shocked, and it has to be said, slightly disappointed. "What?" "No, I'm afraid that the animal was killed by being drugged and then attacked using a soldering iron." "Whah?" said John Jnr, re-entering the room, his face red and his eyes puffy. Scully was about to speak, but suddenly her mobile rang. She answered it. "Mulder! Where the hell... Uh-huh... Yeah, I've got it..." Long pause. "I'm not to sure that that's such a good idea... Uh-huh. Dammit Mulder... I'm at Skinner's place. Yeah, I'm fine, how are you...? Did they torture you? Well, you know Mulder, being spoken to harshly doesn't really qualify as torture... Okay." She hung up. "I've got to go." She said, standing up. "I've... I've got to do some paperwork." And then she ran at full tilt out of the door. Seconds later, the Ford Taurus could be heard screeching out of the drive. "Do you think she's gone to cut up more dead people?" asked Sicily, sawing into her steak. Skinner merely buried his face in his hands. "I don't know..." he said. "I don't want to know." *** After dinner, he made some headway. He got the family to stop watching the TV set and talk sensibly about Uncle Thomas' funeral. Well, this perhaps was a bit of an overstatement. What actually happened, was that he was going up to his room to try and phone Mulder, and possibly to lie on his bed for a little while with his face buried in his pillow in a fit of family-induced existential angst. On the landing, he noticed Trotworthy kneeling on the floor near the skirting board, his face pressed up to the wall. Trotty was so engrossed in what he was doing that Skinner was able to reach down and yank him up with ease. "Ow!" yelled the creature, depending a good foot off the floor, suspended by his earlobe. This cry of pain soothed something in Skinner's heart, and he felt almost cheerful. "What are you doing?" "N-nothin'..." Skinner dropped him, and then leant down to where Trotworthy had been kneeling. There was a small hole gouged out of the cheap plywood. Looking through it, he gasped. It led to the bathroom, and within, like a blonde naiad in all her steaming glory, was Sicily, la-la-laing in a nonsense fashion while she shaved her legs in the bath. Skinner stood up slowly. "It aint what yew think, Uncle Walter..." There was an excresence somewhere in the region of Trotworthy's groinal area that seemed to suggest it was EXACTLY what "Uncle Walter" thought. "Trotworthy," he said, laying a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder. "You are just a young boy, living in a primitive, natural state, your life dictated by the change and fall of the seasons, and full of strange, unexplored urges. Plus you have no father figure in your life. I can understand that. But listen to me very carefully. If I catch you leching after your half sister again, I'm going to tear you a new asshole. Are we clear?" Trotworthy swallowed. The inappropriate lump was now rapidly starting to assume more respectable dimensions. "Yes, Uncle Walter." "And if that doesn't work, you know what I'm going to do after that?" "No, Uncle Walter." "*I'm going to tell your mom.*" Hissed Skinner quietly. He glared down at the boy, who was so frightened at this turn in the conversation that he promptly ran away, tearing down the stairs. Skinner stood straight, watching him go. He took in a long hard sigh. He definitely needed to go into his room and sulk now. He was now too depressed to call Mulder and listen to things that he absolutely didn't want to hear. But as he breathed in, he noticed a certain, horrible, unbelievable smell... *** "WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE'S BEEN LYING IN THERE FOR A WEEK?" The gathered family members stared in horror and grief at the television which Skinner had ripped the plug off, and its only answer was darkness and stillness. Patrick swallowed nervously... "Well, Walter, you know, we didn't know what to do..." "You phone the DAMN FUNERAL HOME, that's what you do!!!" yelled Skinner. The vein in his temple was throbbing so badly it felt like it wanted to jump off his skull and set up an independent existence for itself far away from Home Farm. Skinner could sympathise. "But we kinda thought it would be nice to bury him in the back yard." Said Linda Sue meekly. "He would've wanted it that way..." "Really?" snarled the AD, "So that's why he said he wanted to be cremated and have his ashes scattered at sea in his will?" "Well... yeah." Said Linda Sue, looking to the others for assistance. They were all studiously avoiding her gaze, either embarassed or mourning the TV still. "I mean, he wrote the will two whole months ago... he could've changed his mind..." "Please tell me that he "could've changed his mind" before you got the quote from the undertakers and found out how much cremation cost, and not afterwards." All present had the good grace to look sheepish. *** It was eleven o'clock. All was quiet. John Jnr had fixed the television for them, and then crept out on business of his own. Trotworthy was hiding in his room. The undertakers had eventually appeared, and taken Uncle Thomas Mikhail away, remarking to Skinner that an open topped casket might not be such a good idea now. Skinner merely nodded. At ten, Mary Sue Natalya had gone out to work, dressed in a red vinyl microdress and a pair of thigh high boots. Uncle Hannibal spat the word "whore" out at her as she walked past, and she flipped him the bird. Her dragon tattoo crept out of one boot-top and snaked up back of the red skirt like a pervert. Seeing it, Skinner merely sighed. Then there was an incident in which Mary Sue lost a diamond drop earring, and discovered that it had fallen down into her boot. Various attempts were made to retrieve it without Mary Sue actually having to take the half hour it would have took to undo the boot, culminating finally in John Jnr shaking his mother upside down until the offending earring fell out. This manoevre brought her crotchless panties to the display of all present. Skinner watched this all, curiously unmoved. It was becoming... Almost normal. Skinner made himself a sandwich out of some of the leftover beef in the fridge, of which there was a copious amount, bleeding slowly onto the butter, eggs, and vegetables in the bottom of the fridge. He made himself a cup of coffee in the hideous Lake Tahoe souvenir mug that Mary Sue had brought back from one of her many honeymoons. It was filthy, but still the cleanest item in the kitchen, after he'd rinsed the dead spider out of it. "Walter." Said Hannibal suddenly. Skinner turned to the old chair, where Great Uncle Hannibal was facing the wall. "Yeah?" It was starting to occur to Skinner that something was happening to him. He wasn't normally at home for this long. And something was wrong. He was starting to talk with the kind of listless, sing-song intonation as the others. When he'd found Trotty spying on his sister, he'd been angry but not surprised. And now, incredibly, brewing within him, was an overpowering desire to go and sit at the kitchen table and watch "The Young and the Restless" on cable with the rest of the family. He had to get out of here, and soon. Or else, he might never leave. "I know yew don't reckon much to us here in Home Farm," said the old man, chewing thoughtfully on his own dentures, "And Ah know yew think you're better than us, going off to shoot foreign people in the marines and all, and then getting made chief nark of that FBI place, and getting all involved with these high and mighty conspiracies against the people and all..." "Dammit, I am NOT involved in conspiracies against the American people..." Hannibal gave him the pantomime wink Trotworthy had given him earlier in the day. "*Sure* yer not, Walter. It's okay. I can keep a secret. But we need to talk. Yew can't turn your back on us. We need yew now. John Jnr needs yew." At the mention of John Jnr in trouble, Skinner felt a vague unease. Bullet-headed and thunderously dim as John Jnr was, he was still the closest thing approximating a reasonable human being about the place, next to his sister Mary Sue, who, though she earned a questionable living, at least tried to keep her kids clothed and fed and had been known to use words of up to three syllables whilst in conversation. "Yew turned your back on the Gift." Said Hannibal, "But John Jnr hasn't, and it's gonna make him a reasonably famous man one day. But only if his cows survive to make their debut." Skinner's mouth moved about for a bit, thrown. "Excuse me?" he asked eventually. "What Gift? What about the cows?" "The Gift, you damned cityslicking moron." Snarled Hannibal. "Why don't you ask the dogs yew were talking to today about it?" He sighed. "It's time yew heard the story..." "Many years ago, when I was just a little kid, I realised I had the gift. All the Skinner boys had it. And God knows, it brought them nothing but grief all their lives. If we'd our druthers, we would never have had anything to do with it. But we had it and that was that. Legend has it that whilst out one day, our great grandaddy, the horse theif, came upon a man lost on the highway. "Excuse me." Said the man, stopping him. And the weird thing was, the stolen horse great grandaddy was riding stopped too, and seemed to be talking to the man, like in horse language." Skinner set down the sandwich. "And this man said to my great grandaddy, "Excuse me, good sir," (cos people talked like that then) "Do you know the way to Pismo Beach?" "And my great grandaddy pointed down the road aways, and said, "It's over there." "And then the man said, "Thank you, and now, for assisting me, you shall have a boon. For behold, I am Beoliboligetorix, the Celtic God of Barnyard Animals and Small Domesticated Pets, and I shall grant you the power to speak to the animals within my sphere of influence, yeah verily, unto nine generations." "And my great grandaddy said, "Gee, that's mighty fine of yew, Mr. Celtic God with the Unpronounceable Name." "So, the Celtic God went off with himself, and then the minute he was gone, sure enough, the horse turns to great grandaddy and says, "You mean old bastard, you deliberately sent him the wrong way. And you use them damn spurs on your feet like they was roller-skates. Guess who's going to be giving the biggest damn horse laugh ever when they lynch your sorry hide for stealing me?" "So, he knew it was true, cos he'd only had one bottle of moonshine that morning on account of the fact he had to stay relatively sober since he was working that day. So anyway, the horse bitches to him all the way up the road. And when he got home he found my grandaddy sat there, and my grandaddy told him that he'd had a conversation with the goat in the back yard about how the goat was tired of eating trash and how they should get around to feeding it some proper stuff that was green. So he knew it was all as Beoliboligetorix had foretold." "But I reckon that that Celtic God never did get to Pismo Beach, and held it against us Skinners ever since. Because they all came to bad ends. Your Great Aunt Agrippina Sasha, now, she was the only girl that ever had the Gift. Leastways, we thought she was a girl. She wore dresses. Nobody ever checked up on that stuff back then. They was more innocent times. Anyhow, there was a terrible drought, and folks were dyin', but then one day the Skinner cows told her that there was an underground stream running right here under this very property. And she told the people in the town, and they were all saved." "And this was bad because...?" fished Skinner. "Hell, talking to her own cows? They burned her as a witch. And quite right too. Folk don't hold with that kind of thing around here. She'd a beard too, which didn't sit well with everybody. You add it all up, and it was more than enough to make folk uncomfortable. "And then there was the case of your Great Uncle Justinian Nikolai, who got et by his own hunting dogs. Said something about their mother to them, as far as I can make out. Got a real short fuse, a good coon dog does. Highly bred. Very proud of their pedigrees. Course he always was a mean drunk. Real fond of your Grandaddy's still. The whole family was. I was surprised he ever had any left to sell out of it, think he must've kept some of the bottles hid real well in that underground well Agrippina found." Hannibal squinted at the memory. "Course, we were using it as a septic tank by then, so we hardly ever went rooting around in there. But to get back to the story. Since your grandaddy Honarius Gregori was the only one that lived to be old enough to have kids, except for Thomas Mikhail, but no-one in their right minds would have wanted to have sex with him, except maybe that whore of a sister of yours, and since I was a raving homosexual and still am, it so happened that it was your Daddy, Nephew Clyde Anatoly, that inherited the gift in that generation." "My Dad could talk to animals?" asked Skinner incredulously, his coffee going cold in his hand. "And you're gay?" "Well, to barnyard animals and small domesticated pets, he could talk to them, yeah. But he never spoke about it or owned up to it. A little bird told him your ma was cheating on him with a Fuller Brush salesman - parakeet, I think, or it might have been a budgerigar, and after that he wouldn't listen to animals no more." "My dad could talk to barnyard animals, you're gay, and my mom was cheating with a Fuller Brush salesman?" stammered Skinner. "Amongst others, but hell, let the dead rest in peace. If the Big Guy with the pitchfork lets 'em, that is." Hannibal cackled mightily at this. "But yeah. And then it was yew, and yer brother Jeremiah Ivan." "Oh yeah, Jerry..." said Skinner, wonderingly. "Yeah, went off and got that job travelling about, calming down traumatised horses and getting all into the affections of lonely career-minded single mothers." Reflected Hannibal, scratching his bottom vigorously. "Hippy loser that he turned out to be." "I guess." Said Skinner. A lot of strange, repressed memories were starting to seep back. Like his memories of Hobbes, his ginger cat, and his mother Venusia Dogwhippett-Skinner standing over him saying, "Dammit, you're like Calvin, you talk to that damn thing like it was your own best friend... oops, that's the doorbell. Mommy's going into the bedroom now for an hour or so to buy some brushes. You be good now, Walter..." He shook his head, rubbed at his eyes. He was going insane. It occurred to him that this must be how Mulder felt all the time. "And now John Jnr has got it. Trotworthy too, probably, but hell, he's so like a little junkyard dog himself, it would surprise folk if he couldn't talk to them." Said Hannibal. "Uncle Hannibal," asked Skinner, who seemed to be unable to get off of this point of Hannibal's sexual orientation, "Please tell me that your unreasonable hatred of my sister doesn't stem from the fact that she gets to wear exotic outfits and strip in front of crowds of drunk, cheering men." Silence greeted this remark. "She's got no style." Muttered Hannibal furiously, after a minute or two of furtively sucking on his dentures. "No grace, no sense of irony. No class. I would've done a much better job. But I was stuck in my time and place in history, unable to reach out into the glorious new world beyond. I never had my place in the sun. Stonewall never really got to Dead Skunk County. Oh, but if I'd've been allowed to strut my stuff, I'd've shown that little strumpet what a REAL performer was like..." Skinner looked down at the scum now forming on top of the mug of coffee. "Uncle Hannibal, I have to go to bed... and frankly, I don't want to know anymore about my family." "It's where you come from." Snapped Hannibal. "I know, and that's why I'm afraid of hearing it. I have to go on living after tonight, and frankly, this conversation is going to make that difficult." "Yew can't go to bed. You've got to save this family." Said Hannibal, poking him hard in the pecs. "The farm's going belly-up - only John Jnr does any work around here. We're in debt up to our asses. The only thing going for us is John Jnr's Cow Circus, and some little green bastards are killing our star performers. Yew have to help us. You're a Skinner, never mind your high-falutin' city ways and yer stuck-up bitch of an ex-wife." Skinner sighed, and put down the mug. It was true. He hated his family, but he was honour-bound to help them. "Okay. I'll keep watch in the barn tonight." "Good boy." Said Hannibal. "I knew we could count on yew. It's almost as if Thomas Mikhail actually did something good by choking on that fishbone like that and dying in agony, if it brought yew here in our hour of need." *** It was quiet in the barn. Skinner rested his head against a wooden post and tried not to nod off. Unexpectedly, images of the bathing Sicily kept popping into his mind, only, she was continually morphing into a petite redhead, dropping the razor to give him big come hither blue eyes. Suddenly there was a sudden low droning noise. Light started to spill through the cracks in the barn, blinding white light. Skinner glanced about... what to do, what to do... Phone Mulder. The cellphone was in his hand in an instant, the number punched. The door opened. Small, shadowy figures were silhouetted against the unholy glare. Skinner felt paralysed, unable to move, as the three figures entered the barn. They were heading for the cows, but when they saw him there, they seemed to have a short telepathic conference, glance down at the vicious looking anal probe one of them was holding, and then, after a fit of wicked giggles, began to approach him. "Hello?" came Mulder's voice out of the phone. Skinner tried to open his mouth, but nothing would move. The three small figures, casting long, looming shadows, drew close. His mouth was dry, his body numb. And then, suddenly... "Stop!" bellowed a voice. The three grey aliens turned around. Standing in the barn doorway was John Jnr, but he hadn't spoken. Instead, a huge seven foot tall man dressed as some kind of Iron Age refugee and carrying a big stick had his arm around John Jnr's shoulders. He looked like the sort of fellow that would have bellowed the bellow Skinner had just heard. He sounded a bit like Brian Blessed, and had a British accent. The aliens crossed their arms in a manner that suggested that they weren't going to be intimidated easily by large men in fancy dress. "Go from here, and back to your place of origin, you scrawny grey scroungers. These cows and this man are under MY protection!" bellowed the newcomer. "Beat it, hippy." Said the first alien. "Yeah," chimed in the second alien, in a high, childish voice. "Cos we're aliens from outer space and we have sinister motives and higher technology and ray guns and stuff. And unless you want to feel one in the ass, I think you should shift it, sharpish." "Who the hell are you, anyway?" asked the third alien. "I," said the big man, "Am Beoliboligetorix, the Celtic God of Barnyard Animals and Small Domestic Pets. And you're on MY turf now, you little shits!" "Um, sir?" came Mulder's tinny voice from the phone. "Is everything okay there?" Skinner merely gazed at the phone, and the scene unfolding before him. "These cows are gonna be famous! Everybody is going to hear about Skinners' Cow Circus!" said John Jnr. "They're the most talented cows in the world! We're going to do this because we was born in Dead Skunk County, and we never had a chance in the world! We're going to do it for all the oppressed barnyard animals evrywhere! We're... we're... we're going to do it for Daisy Mae!!!" he cried, tears pouring down his face. The three aliens looked a little guilt-ridden at this speech. "Gee, we didn't know it was a singing cow." Said the first one sheepishly. "They all look alike in the dark." Said the second alien. "You guys are really putting a circus together?" asked the third one. They conferred for a little while... "Um, maybe we can come to some arrangement..." "You're the Celtic God of Barnyard Animals?" breathed Skinner. "And Small Domestic Pets." Chimed in Beoliboligetorix. "Oh yes." "Who met my great great great grandfather..." "Yes, and the bastard sent me in the wrong direction." Said the God crossly. "But I've decided to let bygones be bygones. John Jnr's a lovely lad, and devoted to the girls. I've decided to do this Deus ex Machina thing as a special favour to him." The aliens coughed slightly, and the God turned to look at them. "We have an idea." They said in unison. *** It was morning. He had been lying face down in the straw, and a cowpat now smeared his shirt. He sat up, groggily, aware of something warm and wet near his ear. "He's coming round." Said a voice. Skinner blinked his eyes. Killer, Gnasher, and Tyson stood before him. "Hey, Walter." Said Gnasher. "Yew okay?" He nodded at them. "What happened?" The dogs smirked. "What didn't happen? The circus is going ahead as scheduled. The posters should be done for this afternoon." Said Killer. "You're going to have to rush some to get changed before they plant old Thomas Mikhail." Said Gnasher. "You'd better take your phone." Said Tyson, nosing it towards him. He grinned maniacally. "I licked your ear." He said. "It tasted nice. Do you want me to do it again?" "No thank you, I'd better go in." said Skinner. "Yeah, and don't worry none." Said Gnasher. "We won't tell nobody that yew totally didn't save the family and just sat there on your ass the whole time." "Thanks guys, that's really big of you." *** The drive back to DC was long and arduous - something appeared to be interfering with the traffic. He switched across the various radio stations, but they were all very quiet as to the cause. He found this ominous. Lying next to him on the seat was a large, rolled up poster. John Jnr had presented him with it on the way out the door. "Yew'll come to our debut, won't you, Uncle Walter?" Skinner had nodded, hugged the boy, and then said goodbye to the rest of the family, feeling guilty because he felt so relieved. John Jnr had walked him to the car. "Yew know, yew ever get tired of being in the FBI, we could always use another cow talker." Said John Jnr. "Thanks John. Slap Trotworthy for me." "I surely will. Bye Uncle Walter, thanks for everything!" The boy's waving figure had been the last thing that Skinner had seen as he'd driven away. But now, as he drew near Washington, he was starting to feel anxious again. That vein in his temple was throbbing. When he drew near the headquarters, he understood why. Outside the building, in front of the doors, the road was gone, replaced instead by a giant crater. The building itself was sootstained and many of the windows boarded up. Skinner took a deep breath and mounted the steps. "Hi, Mr. Skinner." Said the guard near the door. "What the hell happened?" "Where have you been, Mars?" asked the guard, smiling. His expression soon changed as he saw Skinner's expression. "Um, there was a terrorist bombing. Apparently they fired a missile at us. Good job it fell short though, apparently it was being aimed at the basement..." Skinner swiped himself through and strolled past without replying. His face, had he known it, was now an alarming amalgam of scarlet and white. They were sat in the office, Scully fiddling with some x-rays while Mulder threw pencils at the ceiling. "AD Skinner," began Mulder, sitting back upright. "Don't even start." Hissed Skinner. "Where is the Doomsday weapon?" "Umm..." they looked at each other. "Give it to me now." They took one breif look at him, and then Scully quietly opened her briefcase and took out something roughly the size of a pocket calculator. "And in future." Snarled Skinner. "If you do anything else that causes heavy artillery to be fired at this building, I will have you censured. I have to say, getting the FBI headquarters blown up is going to look damned good on your personnel files. You're lucky it only hit the street. From now on, all secret weapons stolen from government labs have to be checked by me first. Am I understood, Agents?" "yessir" they mumbled. "Get back to work." He snapped. "And Scully, you were wrong about the cow. It was killed by aliens. I heard the confession. Next time, don't waste my time with rational explanations unless you have the facts to back them up. It's sloppy work." He turned away, missing the look that Mulder threw Scully, and then left, thus missing the paperweight that Scully threw at Mulder. Back in his office, he phoned the Cigarette Smoking Man, and told him where he could pick up the Doomsday weapon. Waiting for him to arrive, he looked down at the poster, rolled up on his desk. Ah well. Time to take a look. SKINNERS' COW CIRCUS!!! THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH!!! AND BEYOND!!! FEATURING: John Jnr and his Incredible Cow Chorus Line! The Amazing Canine Orchestra! Hannibal/Annabelle's Burlesque Spotlight! Zog, Nog, and Beepil - the Astounding Trapeze Artists from Zeta Reticula! Trotworthy the Clown and His Performing Pig! Beoliboligetorix reads "Favourite Shakespeare Monologues!" Patrick and Linzee and their attack-trained rats! Linda Sue - the Bottomless Woman! Sicily Delilah and the Wheel of Death! Also featuring exotic dancing by the famous Mary Sue Natalya Skinner! (performed upon the crowned heads of Europe!) ALL TICKETS NON-REFUNDABLE DEAD SKUNK COUNTY FAIR He looked at it a long time. Hmm. Maybe you never were too old to run away to the circus...