Category/Rating: Humour/PG-13 Disclaimer: I don't own 'em. CC does. Spoilers: None Archive: Anywhere, please keep my name and e-mail attached. Summary: The X-File-ish Bed Of Death, A Delightful Lunch and a Letter From Our A.D. SPOTLESS by CiCi Lean, 1998 canny409@aol.com ********************** Everyone had been referring to it as "The Bed Of Death." Because every Friday, at exactly 10 a.m., a new victim would be found, stone dead, encased in its regulation, hospital-white, starched linen, Sani-Happy, Grown-Up Wee Wee Accident Prevention sheet-covered depths, staring at the ceiling above, wide-eyed, but sightless. At first, the hospital staff toyed with the nicknames, "Divan of Doom," "Crib of Mortality" and "Last Nap Hotel," but in the end, the moniker that stuck was simply . . . "The Bed of Death." Otherwise known as Bed "B," Room 142. For it was there, in the geriatric intensive care unit, that this now legendary execution chamber of Posterpedic mystery sat, and everyone became very quiet at the mere mention of it. At first, no one had paid much attention to the deaths that were occurring with unusual regularity in Bed "B," Room 142, at precisely 10 am, every Friday morning, because, well . . . It was the geriatric intensive care unit. Which meant that "The Bed of Death" was usually occupied by people far past the prime of life, completely unresponsive and hooked up to life support systems. Not exactly the folks who are sitting around fretting over their 401K plans or taking bets on next year's Superbowl. Or doing much of anything for that matter. So, when the first victim, Mr. Wayne Loukes, 93 years of age and in a coma for over two weeks, passed away at exactly 10 a.m. on one Friday morning, the staff did what they always did. They realized that he was dead at around six p.m. the next evening, yelled at the volunteers for not noticing, rolled up the "stiff wagon" and got out the Lysol. And, after one damn good spray, it was back to business. Then came the second victim, one Miss Jennifer Lud, who was 103 and had just been featured on Willard's Scott's Smucker's Jam Power Hour, and had been unconscious in her former rest home for nearly six hundred and five days. Out came the Lysol once again, this time the "Springtime Fresh" scent. But when the twenty-third victim, Mara Monture, only 87, and in almost perfect health except for her two broken hips, watery knees, persistent canker sores, died mysteriously on the same day, at the very same time as all the others had before her, the medical staff really began to take notice. By the fifty-eighth victim, it was getting kind of scary. By the one hundred and tenth victim, it was time for the F.B.I. ************ "One hundred and one." "I'm looking along the lines of paranormal anomalies, Scully," said Special Agent Fox Mulder as he and his partner Dana Scully drove at a leisurely pace toward the Silver Wings Hospital and Happy Times Rest Home. "Ninety-eight," replied his red-haired partner, not looking up from the thick file on her lap. "Oh, here's a young one. One hundred and two." "Or, possibly, a nurse with an agenda," Mulder said, his eyes narrowing, his eyebrows rising unconsciously. He'd seen "One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest" a few times. He knew about -those- sorts of nurses. "Wow. Three people over one hundred and six. It's pretty amazing, Mulder," said Scully, closing the file with a sigh. "Their deaths?" asked Mulder as they pulled into the driveway of Happy Times. "No," replied Scully, trying not to feel as though she were kicking a soccer ball into a very large, very unguarded net, but feeling that way anyway. "The fact that they were alive at ALL, Mulder, is what astonishes me." She turned to him with a grim expression. "You didn't read the paperwork, did you?" He looked wounded. "Of course I did." "Then how could you possibly think this was an X-File?" she asked incredulously, folding her arms across her chest. "Mulder, these people had both feet, both arms -and- their false teeth in the grave. I mean, come on, what could possibly be the attraction of a case that's -this- obvious?" Mulder sighed dejectedly and decided that the truth was the best option. "There's a Fuddrucker's half a mile from here. Okay?" he said, looking down. Scully's eyes widened. "Fuddrucker's?" Mulder nodded, a bright gleam growing in his eye and a large amount of saliva gathering in his mouth. "Yes, the rare and delightful Fuddrucker's, Scully. With their giant, juicy burgers, homemade potato rolls, fresh ice tea, pecan pie and big, heaping jars of homemade Mother Fuddrucker's Mustard. Say that ten times fast, Scully, and tell me what you hear." "Oh," replied his partner and her tone quickly changed from patronizing to reflective. "A honest-to-goodness Fuddrucker's, huh?" Mulder turned to her, eyes shining. "Yep." Scully raised an eyebrow thoughtfully. "Well. I guess that it -is- sort of strange they all died on the same day of the week." Mulder nodded excitedly. "Mmm, hmm." Scully licked her lips . . . daintily. "And all at the same time, and in the same bed. You know, we -are- supposed to investigate the strange and unusual." "I think I'm going for the gusto, Scully," said Mulder, with a happy, faraway look. "The Double Trouble Cheeseburger and Strawberry Rhubarb Delight." He turned to her with a sly expression. "And remember who's paying for it." "Our *uncle*?" she asked drily. "Yep. Good old Uncle Sam," he replied, opening the car door. Scully got out and followed him and they both walked with sprightly steps toward the Happy Times Rest Home, forging fearlessly onward to investigate the mysterious . . . the fatal . . . the rubber-sheeted . . . "Bed of Death." ************ Two hours and nine cans of Lysol later, Dana Scully had had enough. "Mulder," she sighed to her partner who was examining vents for elongated fingerprints, but only finding dust-bunnies of large, but non-lethal size. "This is hopeless. There's no case here. I think we have to face the fact that all these people died of old age." "Don't say that, Scully," replied Mulder ominously. "Or my free burger is going right out the window." Scully nodded sadly. "I hear you. But I have a bad feeling it's heading that way anyway." Mulder snorted. "Never." With fierce determination, Mulder headed out the door to question the nurses. With a sigh, Scully sat next to Mr. Mel Baker, one-hundred and two years old and at that very moment, occupying the deadly bed of mystery. As she was sitting, listening to the respirator inflate, a cleaning lady, bearing the name tag of "Anita", entered the room, lugging behind her a monstrous waxer, of huge size and ancient design. Scully sighed again, as Anita grunted and groaned her way into the room with the waxer. She huffed to a stop, bent down and began to unwind the machine's endless electrical cord, whistling a tune from the old country. Not finding Anita, her waxer, or Mr. Baker particularly interesting, Scully glanced at her watch with a bored expression. And she noticed something very odd. According to her watch, it was exactly two minutes to ten in the morning. Friday morning. Scully's eyes widened and she whirled to look at Mr. Baker. Nothing. The respirator bag inflated and deflated with a steady rhythm and Scully relaxed. Until she felt a finger poking her on the shoulder. "Scuse' me," said Anita, in a thick accent of unknown origin. "Scuse, me. I gotter plugger in here. Can't do zee waxing without the plugger inna here." "Oh," said Scully, as she rose up and pulled her chair away from the wall. "Sorry." "No problem, no problem," said Anita, reaching down for the plug. The big, red plug. The big, red plug that powered the life support system. "Wait!" Scully screamed, gaping like a fresh fish tossed into the desert. "Miss! What are you doing?!" Anita jumped up, startled. "Waz? Waz?! I clean zee room. Zat's all. I do waxing!" "Using THAT outlet?" Scully gasped. Anita looked puzzled. "Yez, zis outlet." Scully's eyes bulged. "How often do you do THAT?" "Once a week," replied Anita. "Every week, I do waxing, right in this room." "Wait a minute," said Scully, slowly...carefully, taking deep steadying breaths. "You say you do this waxing every week..." "Yez, every week, Friday in the morning. Rain or shine, zun or znow." "And every week, you unplug -this- plug over here...." "Yes, zis plug zhere." "This electrical plug, the one with the big, bright red, "Do Not Touch" sign over it..." "Is zat what zat sez? My eyesight...not so good." "...and you then plug in this waxer and wax the floor?." "Oh, yez. Every Friday morning. Yez, mam', that iz how we do it," said Anita, smiling. "That is why it is so shineey...so clean." "MUUUUULLLLDEEER!" screamed Special Agent Dana Scully, as her years of investigative training bore the fruits of its labor. "See, thes floor. Very clean," continued Anita happily. "Is spotless." "MUUUUULLLDDDEER!" *********** With heavy hearts, Mulder and Scully drove homeward, talking about the case. "Oh, my God," said Scully, still hearing the whirl of the waxer in her mind. "Oh, my God," said Mulder, thinking of the expense reports -and- the explanation he'd be forced to give to Skinner on Monday morning. "Oh, my God," they both said in unison as the car passed a familiar sign. They turned toward each other, mouths hanging wide open. "Fuddrucker's!" they cried together, and the car did a single, screeching, one hundred and eighty degree turn straight toward heaven. ********* [Saturated fat turns into muscle in the male body at four times the rate of the female's.] "And I'll take bacon on that," said Mulder casually, to the Fuddrucker's counter girl. "What dressing would you like with your salad, Miss?" the cashier asked Scully. "Blue cheese?" [Blue cheese dressing is 5,000% saturated fat.] "Balsamic vinaigrette," replied Scully, without blinking. "Extra mayo for me and my burger, if you don't mind," interjected Mulder. [To exercise off one-half a teaspoonful of mayonnaise, you would have to run the length of fourteen football fields at a rate of twelve miles per hour while reciting "Hints From Heloise"...in Yiddish.] "We don't have wheat rolls, Miss. We can give you the burger without a bun," said the cashier, hopefully. "Yes, that would be fine," replied Scully. "Hey, it says up there that it's Double Cheese Week," said Mulder indignantly. "You haven't been holding out the double cheese on me, have you?" The cashier giggled. "Oh, no sir. And just for you, we'll triple it." [If you put one slice of American Cheese in Richard Simmon's mouth, his head will do five, three hundred and sixty degree turns and he will tell you that he is a "Pawn of Asteroth".] "Thank you," replied Mulder winningly. "Don't forget to Ultra-size my FuddShake." "I think I'll have the small apple juice, or does it come only in one size?" asked Scully, squinting at the menu. "One size, Miss, but I can drain half of it out for you," replied the cashier helpfully. "Please. Thank you," replied Scully with a smile. "Hey, look!" cried Mulder happily. "The Idaho County Fair Fifteen Pound Bag of Taters Fry Bag! Gimme, gimme!" The cashier was charmed. "You got it, you got it!" she laughed back. [A quarter slice of a medium potato fried in ordinary vegetable oil is over 2,000,000 calories.] "Do you have baked potatoes?" asked Scully, biting her thumb thoughtfully. The cashier shook her head sympathetically. "No, Miss. Would you like a small, tiny, teeny weeny order of fries? I can ditch most of it for you." [Therefore, if you eat one fry, your ass will explode.] "Heavens, no," replied Scully indignantly. "Give me hers," interrupted Mulder. "She gets that with the burger anyway,right?" "Yes, indeedy," smiled the cashier. "Gravy?" "Pile it on!" cried Mulder happily. The cashier laughed as she handed them their receipts. "Just step over to the pick-up window and take your orders." With a light heart, a watering mouth and a quick step Mulder walked over the pick-up counter, and his eyes became misty at the sight of his heaping tray of Fuddrucker's finest. Oh, the dark, rich brown of the gravy! Oh, the carcinogenic grill smoke rising from the giant burger! Oh, the airborne grease particles of the fries! Oh, the sight of his partner snatching -his- tray and taking off with it. "Hey, but.." said Mulder confused, as Scully wordlessly lunged past him, food in hand. "Um, Scully? I think you might have taken the wrong... " called Mulder after her, but Scully ignored him and headed straight for a table, not turning around, no, not even once. Without bothering to take off her trench coat, she shook the salt, squirted the ketchup, grabbed the mayo, slathered it over everything in sight and began to eat. Ravenously. With his mouth hanging wide open, Mulder picked up Scully's nearly empty tray and walked over to the table with it, shaking his head in confusion. "But...but, Scully," stuttered Mulder, as he watched his partner mindlessly devour -his- burger, bacon, triple-cheese, gravy-covered fries and super-sized chocolate Fuddshake, not unlike an African Night Shrike with a particularly fresh and tasty mammal. "That was my lunch." But Scully didn't look up from her ferocious feasting. "Comefth and geth it, Mulderfth" she dared, her mouth stuffed with enough saturated fat to grease Dom DeLuise out the porthole of a submarine. She bared her teeth at him for effect. He looked at her for a long...frightened, moment. "Can I have your salad?" he asked plaintively. "No," was the answer. "And don't touch my apple juice either." ********* To: SA F. Mulder and SA D. Scully From: Walter S. Skinner, AD Re: Case X28273-4 and Expense Reports EXR 9283-98 Thank you for your timely submission of your last case file and related expense reports. I've carefully gone over all the submitted paperwork and while I always appreciate Agent Scully's creative use of rhetoric, the following paragraph is a prime example of something that could certainly be simplified, if only the slightest amount of effort would be taken in this direction. As an example, I quote... "It appears that the power-generating source of the victim's respirator had been unwittingly disconnected by a foreign force, one that was unusually incoherent and unthinking. The pattern of this disconnection was consistent within the time frame outlined, and it may be noted that this foreign force (please see appendix below entitled, "Anita, The Cleaning Lady"), was unwitting of the consequences of said disconnection, which had resulted weekly in the untimely death of each occupant." Now, at first glance this would seem to be a most impressive case, one worthy of the Bureau's undivided attention, but, if I may be so bold, upon careful examination, this case appears to boil down to the following... "A janitor accidentally unplugged the life support system behind a certain bed every week and the person in it died." End of story. Now, is this sad? Yes. Tragic? Undoubtably. A case for the FBI? I don't think so. Therefore let me inform you, using language you will understand, what I would like from both of you. "Please be advised that your combined presences are required to occupy my workstation at precisely 1530 hours, so that I, the Assistant Director of your unit, may fully explore with both of you, the exact and precise nature of the consequences of your handling of said pointless and wasteful investigation. I can assure you that these consequences will be painful, particularly to your respective posteriors, and that there will be a certain amount of clamoring, on both your parts, as result of said consequences." Or, if I may, let me put this in layman's terms. I want you, Special Agents Mulder and Scully in my office, at precisely 5:30 pm this afternoon because... I'm going to kick both your asses until you scream. Sincerely, W.S. Skinner Assistant Director *********** Hey! Gimme back my burger! (or you could just send me a little letter instead...) CiCi Lean canny409@aol.com The X-Anarchy Pen Fanfiction Mailing List http://members.aol.com/xapen/index.html xapen@aol.com