MJ

The Actual Script for "Rain King" (TV Station Hallway scene)

As rescued by MJ

"Uh, Agent Mulder, I thought you'd have more…experience."

"We're not talking about me, Homer—er, Hubert—uh, Hunt." Mulder placed a hand comfortingly on the weatherman's shoulder. "Just go in and tell Sheila, buddy."

"How'd a guy like you—smart, good-looking, well dressed, good job—wind up like that?"

"There's experience and experience, Henry—um, Hurley. Just because I haven't been involved with a lot of different women doesn't mean I haven't got…uh…experience."

The meteorologist stopped in his tracks. "Well, if you don't get around and you're not doing that cute Agent Scully, Agent Mulder, what's your secret?"

Mulder jammed his hands into his jacket pockets. "Look, Howie—duh, Hank. My experience isn't exactly, uh, relevant to your problem. In fact, it's sort of the opposite."

The forecaster brightened. "Oh, Agent Mulder, of course. I'm sure you have to beat the ladies off with a stick. It must get on your nerves after a while."

"Not THAT opposite, Huey—uh, Horace. The OTHER opposite. I hope this won't offend your wholesome, inoffensive Kansan sensibilities, my friend, but I like guys."

His confidant looked bewildered, a furrow on his bland features showing the thinking process coming to a logjam. "I have friends, too, Agent Mulder, but I—OH. You don't mean you like guys…you mean you like GUYS. As opposed to—uh—girls. Er, on dates and that stuff." Honore—er, Hootie—nodded sagely, figuring that this must be some Eastern big-city thing. The last guy like that he knew of in Kroner had gone to hairdressing school and moved to Tulsa. He'd never heard of big, strong, macho law enforcement types being like—hmmm—"that", just hairdressers and the occasional Scoutmaster. But things were different out on the East Coast—maybe it was in the water? "And that sort of thing. Right. Yep, gotcha," he continued glibly, hoping to hell he wasn't babbling in consternation (which, of course, he was).

Mulder took pity on the small-town midwestern WASP. "Don't worry, Harcourt -um, Humpty. I'm not after you. I have a boyfriend already."

"Oh, uh…really? Is he…uh…also in law enforcement? Or government work of some kind?"

Mulder nodded. "Yeah. He's an FBI Assistant Director. Ex-Marine. Used to do undercover Mafia busting., but now he's a desk jockey." Howell—um, Humbert—was shocked beyond words. This guy sounded even more macho and all-American than Agent Mulder. What was going to happen to America if those types all gave up hairdressing and interior decorating for law enforcement? Next thing you knew, Richard Simmons would be running military basic training. And Colin Powell would be designing Sheila's makeup at the department store in Topeka. "And you, Hubbell, have to go in there and tell Sheila how you feel."

The best laid plans of mice (or rat bastards) and Mulders can be fucked up. And if there was one thing—ONE THING—that had never entered Mulder's plans, it was Sheila's hormones. Admittedly she kept aiming them at that ludicrous Rain King idiot, rather than a nice, if neurotic and weather-fucking, guy like Hennigan—uh, Halberd, but the concept that her hormones would possibly direct themselves towards Mulder had never entered his mind. To the best of his knowledge, his lush lower lip, his shoulders, his long, slender fingers, his brooding hazel eyes, his perpetually tousled hair, his boyish grin, and his firm, tight ass were under the exclusive notice of one Walter Skinner. The thought that his tall, elegant Armani-clad frame, his beautiful features, his Oxford degree, and an income over three times that of the average Kroner resident would put any woman in Kroner, Kansas into a cold sweat in comparison with the local louts, was something that had failed to enter his equation.

"I love you, Huxtable—duh, Howdy—but I'm IN love with Agent Mulder." The weatherman gave Mulder a look that would kill the dead all over again.

"Uh, Harvey—no, Humpty, sorry—I'm not after Sheila! If I'm not gonna go after Dana Scully, you KNOW I'm not interested in your girl. Walter would kill me!"

The forecaster stopped. "Oh, you're right. Sorry, Agent Mulder, I nearly forgot you told me you're kind of light in the loafers." Had they been able to look outside, the weatherman's momentary mirth at Mulder's plight had made an interesting and decorative rainbow pattern outside which Mulder would have loved for a bumper sticker on his Taurus. Walter would be furious, but he really wanted a rainbow decal. And a pink triangle tie tack. He'd have given anything to have had a Gay Pride teeshirt on the other night when the motel owner tried forcing Scully's "boyfriend" into the motel room with her after Clarabelle's crash-landing on his bed.

As the Willard Scott of Kroner chuckled his way back into his office, Sheila gawked. "Agent Mulder, I can help you with that, you know."

"You'll introduce me to Tom Cruise? Maybe Brad Pitt?"

"No, silly. All you need is a good lay, and you'll know what everything's really about."

"Been there, done that, Sheila. I've gotten more good fucks from Walter than I can count and I'm still not straight. Sorry, but I'll have to pass." At that moment, the Rain King entered, convinced at the sight that Sheila was once again, as usual, being caught in flagrante with yet another male.

"Keep away from my woman, Mulder."

"No problem, King. Where's the leg?" That prompted an attack on Mulder from the medicine man wannabee. Unfortunately for the King, not only did he have only one leg, but Mulder had spent his entire life before college learning to pummel other students who'd fag-baited him as far into the ground as he possibly could. It took less than a minute to have the Rain Man down and satisfactorily cuffed for attacking a federal agent. Kroner was giving him a decided taste for B and D; he'd have to discuss that with Walter when he got home. His urges to tie all of these lunatics up were beginning to overpower him.

"Let me give you a big reward!" Damn, Sheila was stronger than she looked…and she had him pretty well pinned to the wall. As she threw herself against him, Mulder nearly choked from the overpowering odor of head-to-toe Jean Nate. Her lips were on him like so many leeches on a bloodletter's patient, and she was apparently trying to give him a vacuum tonsillectomy…Mulder closed his eyes, and tried to imagine Walter. Sheila was doing a fair imitation of Walter's attempts to do a tongue-check of Mulder's adenoids, as he always did when Mulder thought he was coming down with another alien retrovirus or two. Her groping of his Ferragamo tie was a lot like Walter's habit of grabbing Mulder by the tie on the way out of Walter's office so he could swat Mulder on his incredibly adorable ass. Despite himself, Mulder felt himself beginning to grow hard under Sheila's assault. He hoped to whatever god was up there over Kroner that she wouldn't press close enough to feel his erection.

"My God, Agent Scully, what's my almost-girlfriend doing to poor Agent Mulder?"

Scully looked over the tableau. "Well, Hobart—uh, Honodel, I think she thinks she's curing him, but unless I'm way off base, it's probably unintentional aversion therapy. I'm afraid the next time a horny female gets within a mile of Mulder, he's gonna have a Jean Nate flashback and run for his life."

Suddenly Mulder found the strength to push Sheila away from him. As he did so, grabbing her upper arms, her blonde hair fell to the floor. "A wig!" Scully gasped.

"You're a guy?" Mulder gulped at Sheila. How the hell had he missed that Adam's apple of hers? It was simple—he'd been trying to avoid looking at her.

"It's Barton!" Hailey—er, Horsham—yelped. "You went to beauty school and moved to Tulsa!"

"That's what everyone thought!" Barton Finney declaimed. "I went to Tulsa to style hair and moved in with an elderly filthy rich oilman. He died and left me his money, so I created Sheila the rich dumb blonde to get even with all you straight bastards who wouldn't give me the time of day in high school! I had you pricks eating out of my hand!"

"Barton," Mulder said calmly, "there are some aspects of this story that I think I might like to discuss with you. Privately, if you know what I mean."

"Why, I certainly do," Barton cooed as he recovered his Sheila wig.

"You can't do that to me!" Hinton—make that Hanson—yelled at Mulder. "I've been in love with Sheila for years and I'm gonna have me a Sheila. Barton, put that damn wig on. You're coming with me."

Barton clasped his beautifully manicured hands. "Oh, Horatio, I love it when you get all rugged like that. Sorry, Agent Mulder, but I hear you've got your own piece of ass at home anyway. Ciao!" He fluttered his fingers at Mulder and Scully, walking off hand in hand into the now-beautiful sunset with his very own meteorologist.

Mulder turned to his partner. "Well, Scully, you win some, you lose some."

Scully nodded. "At least there's a lesson in this one, Mulder."

"Oh?"

"Us trying to give romantic advice really is the blind leading the blind."

"I don't know, Scully; this was more like the blind leading the blonde if you ask me."

She swatted her partner playfully on a prime piece of Walter Skinner's personal real estate. "Let's get the hell out of Dodge, pardner. There's no place like home."