--Moot Point #2: By Any Other Name--(1/1)
Posted:  25. September 1997

Disclaimer:  The guy with the name isn't mine.  The non-smoking
guy without a name is mine, but the smoking guy without a name
isn't.  The guys who aren't mine belong to Chris Carter, 10-13
Productions, and Fox (noinfringementintended).  If for some odd
reason you have fallen in love with my nameless guy and want to
use him to fulfill your own deviant needs, ask first.

Rating:  PG with some gratuitous and continual swearing

Classification:  V, H

Keywords:  nope

Spoilers:  not unless I've uncovered the 5th season myth arc by
accident

Summary:  The phone rings.  Someone picks it up.  A conversation. 
Denouement.

Punk Notes:  Mulder's really stunted in the swearing department. 
Can't he come up with something better to call CSM?  This B-L
SOB business is getting old.

I've been feeling parodistic lately.  Perhaps it's the season....
punkm@teleport.com

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Moot Point #2: By Any Other Name
  by Punk Maneuverability
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The phone rang.  It was strange to hear this phone ring because no
one had its number.  Until that moment, the man who picked it up
hadn't even been sure that it *had* a number.  "Hello," he said
neutrally, wondering if he were being tested somehow.  There was
also the possibility that it was just a wrong number.  Best not to
give anything away.

"I want ANSWERS, you BLACK-LUNGED SON-OF-A-BITCH!"
said a hoarse voice on the other end.

The man who had answered the phone fingered the spiral bound
note pad that rested on the desk in front of him.  Its crisp white and
pink pages had the legend "While You Were Away" cheerfully
printed across the top.  The sheets gave off the unmistakable smell
of NCR paper.  Someone had doodled a small rat on the cover.

"I'm sorry," he said, wondering what the procedure was for this. 
"The son-of-a-bitch is busy at the moment."  He paused.  Would his
boss want him to take a message?  He was just there to sign for the
package when it came.  A nice generic name scrawled on the UPS
clipboard.  He could do it.  It would probably get him killed later,
but later was better than sooner.

"I want to talk to the black-lunged son-of-a-bitch who was
responsible for the death of my father," the voice demanded.

The man played with a short paperclip chain and didn't answer.  In
truth, he wasn't sure which son-of-a-bitch the voice on the phone
wanted to talk to.  The men he worked for were all very powerful,
all very capable of killing someone's father.  He believed they were
even capable of killing their own fathers...if they had anything as
human as a father.

"Sir," said the man at the desk, adopting a firm tone.  "I'm not
entirely clear on whom you wish to talk to.  You have reached the
offices of four highly regarded and successful sons-of-bitches, so
you will need to be more specific in which one you would like to
speak to."  The man fiddled with a stapler remover.  Was that
correct?  Was it "sons-of-bitches"?  It was "fathers-in-law."  Or
should it have been "sons-of-a-bitch"?  Now that just sounded silly. 
He realized he had missed everything the voice had just said.

"Could you please repeat yourself, sir?" he asked, officiously.  He
was getting worried, perhaps he shouldn't have answered the phone. 
No one had gone over this with him, and he knew he wasn't getting
paid to think.

"Stop playing games with me.  I want to speak to that
cigarette-smoking SOB who's always lurking in the shadows," the
voice said, obviously believing that this would simplify matters.

The man at the desk frowned.  These men were like vampires; they
never ventured out into daylight, never let the sun touch their
wrinkled faces.  The light of the sun made them older, weaker. 
Only in the shadows did they have any strength.  And they all
smoked.  They had been very pleased to hear at the conclusion of
the congressional hearings with the tobacco industry that nicotine
was not addictive, and that there was no evidence linking cigarettes
to cancer.  They seemed to forget they had spent a lot of someone
else's good money in order for that decision to be reached.  He
sighed.  There was no one there right now except for him anyway,
so it really didn't matter.

"I'm sorry, sir, but you'll have to leave a message."   He eyed the
notepad in front of him.  It had never been used.  Was he about to
do something very stupid?

"A message?" the voice repeated, doubt and bewilderment
momentarily replacing the anger.  

This wasn't standard procedure, then.  Well, he didn't know what
else to do.  "You could call back later," he suggested.

"He's not there?" the voice said faintly, as if this possibility had not
been considered even in the wildest of dreams.

"Yes, sir, the black-lunged SOB is currently away from his desk." 
And they said he couldn't inveigle.

"Well, all right," the voice said, becoming decidedly less certain as
time wore on.  "I suppose I could leave a message."

"May I have your name, please?" he asked, uncapping his pen.  The
voice grudgingly gave it to him.  The man at the desk suppressed a
giggle at the caller's name but asked him to spell it and carefully
wrote it down, applying even pressure so that the second copy
would come through clear.  

He noted the time and the date of the call and checked the box next
to "called."  He asked for the message and the caller's phone
number.  He wrote it all down and even remembered to put his
initials in the corner.  

He was giving his handiwork one last look when the expected
knock fell on the door.  

For good measure he checked the "urgent" box as well.  He hoped
his boss had a sense of humor.  

While You Were Away
For:	Black-lunged son-of-a-bitch
From:	Fox Mulder
Msg:	I want answers, dammit.
	(return call)

.............

Thanks - Lock the door on your way out
Punk M
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