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All right. I'll try to explain this one as completely and briefly as
possible. There is a certain variety of food that I am fond of, but
everybody else in my dorm gags at the thought of. I got sick and tired
of their bugging me about it, so I took my agressions out here.
Completely confused by now? Good.
It's not an X-File, a romance, or anything else. Just a (hopefully)
humorous confrontation between Our Heros on the subject of food.
DISCLAIMER: Mulder and Scully belong to the all-powerful and otherwise
omniscient Chris Carter, who probably wouldn't want my coffee mugs and
River Ranch sweatshirts anyway. Zeke's belongs to itself and is actually
in Gold Bar, Washington, not Washington, D.C., but that's poetic license
for you. The "Marlyn Apperson" case referred to is entirely made up;
there is no reference to it anywhere else. I hereby give anybody who
wants it permission to write a story for it.
That's all.
PEAS OR BEANS?
by Sneakers
<jhadden@willamette.edu>
He leaned around the door on his way out, more as an afterthought
and concession to politeness than anything else. "Hey, I'm going down .
. . I mean up, to Zeke's. Want anything?"
"Mulder, the food there is *saturated* in fat. It *drips* grease!
Are you out of your mind? . . . besides, I brought my own lunch."
Scully shook her head, recalling with terror her one venture into
Mulder's beloved greasy-spoon two blocks away from the Hoover building.
"Just though I'd be polite, *okay*?" he concluded, retreating out
the door.
She sighed, then waited until he had been gone long enough to hit
the elevators. The coast was clear. She pulled the Rubbermaid box out
of her desk drawer, where she'd stashed it, and headed for the microwave
on Mulder's side of the office. He'd be annoyed as hell if he found out
what she was using his microwave to heat, but what he didn't know
couldn't hurt him, right?
Ten minutes later, when it had *finally* heated up, she stuck the
box on her desk and produced a fork out of her briefcase.
Real food. She scooped up a bite of it and watched the steam curl
around in the air. She could imagine it, the way it would taste . . .
"SCULLY!"
The door slammed behind her partner and she dropped the fork,
scattering tomato pieces across the fortunately clean desk top. "What?"
she asked, replacing the fork. "What happened to Zeke's?"
He waved his hands around in the classic 'forget that' gesture.
"Remember the Marlyn Apperson case?"
"How could I forget?" Marlyn Apperson was a woman that claimed
aliens had been adding drugs to her food, thereby inducing her, against
her will, to kill her neighbors' children.
"Skinner gave me *this*," he revealed, with a great deal more
fanfare than necessary.
She glanced at the pictures. "So? She's drinking a diet shake.
Maybe she thinks the aliens will leave her alone if she loses weight."
Scully picked up the fork again and scooped up a slightly smaller bite.
"Don't you get it?" he asked, stepping up to her and extending his
arm until the photograph was literally under her chin, preventing her
from eating.
She shoved his arm out of the way and attempted to regroup up the
food, which had fallen off the fork and back into the dish. "Well, she
could be polite and use a glass, I suppose."
"She could, but she's not. She's drinking it directly from the
can. I don't think even *aliens* could get inside tin cans without
leaving some sort of mark." He paced a circle around her desk, bumping
into the desk chair because he wasn't looking.
The fork was suddenly empty again.
"So, why did she kill, if the aliens couldn't get into her food?"
He stopped at the front of the desk, and leaned over it, his excited
face inches from his partner's annoyed one. "Think, Scully."
"I think I'd like to eat my lunch."
He dropped his elbows on either side of the dish, and looked
across at her. "Think about something besides food."
She was fed up. "Mulder?"
"Yeah?"
"Could you please leave me the hell alone and let me eat my
lunch?"
"Well, if it's that all-fired important to you, you may indeed."
He backed away and stood up in one smooth move, heading for his half of
the office. Then he paused. "Just what *is* this ambrosia, this nectar
of the gods?"
She looked slightly sheepish, an odd expression for Dana Scully.
"Rice and peas."
In a split second, he was back at her desk, examining her meal.
"Those are not *peas*," he protested. "Those are *beans*."
"They're black-eyed peas, Mulder, and you agreed to let me eat."
"Beans."
"Peas, and does it really matter?"
"Beans, and no, because it's not edible anyway."
"Not *edible*!" She looked up, enraged again. "What do you mean,
not edible? It's more edible than your . . . your buffalo burger, or
whatever they call those things."
"He-Man Burgers."
"He-Man Burgers, whatever." She reached out with her left hand
and grabbed his tie, forcing him to lean over the desk top.
"Hey, what are you doing?" he protested.
She stuck a forkful of the mixture into his mouth.
She was right; his fear of getting his suit dirty was greater than
his fear of unknown foods. He chewed, the disgust on his face lessening
to indifference. "I've had worse, I guess . . ." he concluded
reluctantly.
She let go of his tie, and he jerked back, apparently not so fond
of it that he was willing to risk another bite. "Now, will you leave me
alone for ten minutes?"
He was happy to comply.
THE END
Did I warn you in advance, it was stupid?
. . . sneakers . . .
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. . . sneakers . . . People in cities don't understand
<jhadden@willamette.edu> Falling in love with the land.
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