Fandom: XF Category: Humor Rating: PG-13 Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Chris Carter does. Archive: Nowhere, thank you. Summary: A typical evening in the house of a belabored slash author. =============== INSPIRATION by DBKate, 1998 dbkate@yahoo.com ================ As was usually the case, the characters were refusing to cooperate. It wasn't -completely- their fault, they'd been under a certain amount of stress the past few weeks to say the least. Maybe it was the overwhelming angst. The terrifying situations. Maybe it was that last character death scene, the one with the wood-chipper. Or, maybe it was that pairing with a herd of woolly goats that did it -- who could tell? The slash author stared at her monitor, the familiar flush of too much coffee coloring her normally sallow, sunken cheeks. Look, she wasn't asking -that- much of them, was she? All she wanted was for them to cooperate with her muse, adhere to her vision, maybe even write the goddamn story themselves and allow her the posting rights. That's not too much to ask, now -is- it? But they were steadfastly refusing to do any of the above. In no uncertain terms. The blank page was blinding, terrifying, in the same way that a storage closet is, after a few decades of neglect. Stubborn little jerks. I'm going to slash all of you with the Teletubbies if you keep pissing me off like this, she threatened silently. Wait a minute. Hey... Teletubbies. Why, that's an idea, she thought, hope springing eternal throughout the clouds of stale cigarette smoke that surrounded her. Teletubbies. They're sort of X-File'ish. They have antennas, they're ugly, and they *might* be gay...who the hell knows? The slash author leaned back in her chair and thought carefully. On one hand, it -was- a novel idea: imaginative, gutsy -- avant garde to say the least. On the other hand, straight jackets look really bad with most pants. Hitting the delete key with a sigh, the author heard the voice of her better, or at the very least, her -other- half, float in from the kitchen. "I put ketchup in the pasta sauce by accident, Katie. Will that ruin it?" "I'm sure it's delectable, my angel food crumpet," replied the author distractedly, not really thinking about food at that moment. "I don't know. If I put hot sauce in it, think that will balance it out? "Sounds like a plan, my only babboo." "Right. Now where -is- that hot sauce?" Oh, *why* do they do this to me, thought the author miserably, as the sound of cabinets slamming and bottles falling echoed throughout the apartment. All I want is a story. Preferably something that will win me acclaim from here to the South Pole, with readers and other authors alike bowing before me like Ewoks scraping before C3P0 in that really crappy last installment of "Star Wars." Carried around on a wicker throne, kudos and salutations thrown at me like so many cigarettes in an all-girl prison flick. That's not too much to ask, -is- it? But, the blank monitor stared back at her. Relentlessly. Okay, fine. I'll settle for something coherent, something I can take personal pride in, praise be damned, she insisted silently. A fic that I can read happily, months, nay, years from now, with the satisfaction of creation glowing through my soul, and say to myself -- "I Made This." That's really all I wannt. The blank screen flickered slightly, but a swift slap on the monitor's side fixed it. Her husband's voice floated in from the kitchen once more. "Do I put the spaghetti in before or after the water boils, Katie?" "Afterwards, my love dingo," replied the author, staring hard at her monitor, wondering if tossing it out the window might just not help more than it would hurt. "Ooops. Katie? I think we should order a pizza." "Whatever you say, my darling Snuffleupagus," she replied with a sigh. Maybe I should just stick to my old standby, she thought. Take out the usual suspects and let them run wild. The slash author mentally unlocked the cage where she kept her favorite character and shook her head at his predictable reaction. Yep, there he goes, running like the wind. Labcoat flapping, screaming loudly...such a shame. You'd have figured that a dead character couldn't run that fast, but he's surprising to the last. Luckily, it doesn't take much more than a gentle reprimand and a couple of rounds from the old tranquilizer gun to bring him back to his senses. Sheesh. You figured he'd have learned by now. I mean, to think, after all this time, he -still- runs. Even after all those funny little conversations you had with him. "Duct tape *doesn't* hurt," you'd reassure him. "Well, not -that- much." "LEMME GO! HELP!" "Besides, after all this time, I'm sure you don't have a single wrist hair left." "WON'T ANYONE HELP ME?!" "I figured you'd be grateful that I didn't forget you." "MMPHGLEPH! HMPHGURGHA!" Yeah, he sure gets testy. Silly bastard. You know, maybe you don't want to deal with all of that today. How about Mulder for a change, the author thought. "Honey, do you want meatballs, mushrooms or pineapple on the pizza?" "Surprise me, my sweetest anchovy." God, Mulder, thought the author, dragging him from his cage. He sure looks tired. Erk, no not tired, he looks AWFUL. The author mentally plucked a goat hair out from behind his ear and quietly put him back. Best to let him rest for a few -- oh, decades maybe? She heard the kitchen phone hang up with a click. "Katie, are you going to use the computer all night? I wanted to check out some sites later." "I'm almost done, Cuddles." "Yeah, right. I've heard -that- before." Well, there's always Krycek, she thought. Good old Krycek. Faithful, one-armed slash hussy, tireless Russian love puppet. God of All Things That Practically Write Themselves. The author gleefully pulled him from his cage. Put him back in swiftly when Blevins came out behind him. Wow... he IS a hussy, she thought with horror, trying shove Blevin's oversized rump back into its holding pen. "Oh, honey? I was going to ask you something about your writing." "My writing, my own Beanie Baby?" she asked, pulling out Scully from her cage with a desperate look at the blank screen, and pushing her back in quickly when the dreaded Original Character ran out and demanded 500K worth of back story. Oh, no, no, no. "Yeah, I saw the intro on a work you left open the other day. It looked interesting, but I was confused by the category. What does "slash" mean?" //Uh, oh.// The author quickly shut down the computer, ignoring the flashing lights and screaming warnings that insisted in no uncertain terms that hard-booting a computer without following proper procedure was A Very Bad Thing. "Uh, what does slash mean, my dearest Gummi Bear?" she gulped, stuffing first drafts and outlines of her NC-17 slash fics into her mouth, chewing desperately, and hoping she had enough beer left in the can beside her to wash them down with. "Yeah. The category said "slash." What does that mean?" "Mmmphgle, gramphlemg, mrghm," she replied, finally spitting out the now illegible wad, wincing as a few pieces of gooey pulp hit her sleeping cat right between the eyes. She took a deep breath before replying, as the now wide-awake feline glared at her malevolently. "It's, uh, a story about, uh, slashing. With a big knife. Like "Friday the Thirteenth," or, "The Brooklyn Beer Bottle Massacre." Her husband came out from the kitchen, an intrigued look lining his features. "Really? That sounds interesting. You should let me read some of them." The author nodded, smiling brightly at her husband. "Uh...uh...yes. Of course, I will. You betcha. Any time you want." He smiled back. "How about tonight? After dinner." The author's eyes widened. "Tonight? Sure... that's fine. Uh, sure, that's fine." "Good," he said, going back into the kitchen. The author sat for a long moment, breathing hard. With a determined look, she re-booted the computer, and watched as the blank screen slowly came back to life. And, taking yet another deep breath... She wrote like she never wrote before. ========== The End! If you giggled, how about letting me know? :-) dbkate@yahoo.com