Have Yourself a Ball!

by dossier

Notes & Warnings

The office security was a joke. Keeping to the shadows he had breezed past the Rent-a-Cop at the entrance to the studio without notice. Lazy bastards, but then they weren't expecting the Spanish Inquisition. (Reply in unison here.)

The rabbit warren was easily navigated and there it was, the target of his mission of the moment. An earlier attack on the victim's house had been conducted with rotten eggs and toilet paper, after making sure he was not at home. It was childish he knew, though it hab been goog to let off a little steam, and besides-- who would suspect him of such a juvenile prank? Not his style, but then again it was good change your tactics on occasion.

A strip of light glowed under the door. Perfect.

He tried the handle; it was unlocked.

The man checked his pocket, the ultra sharp Rappala filleting knife he'd obtained at the sporting goods store was sheathed and at the ready in his pocket. A fierce grin split his face, it wasn't often you got the chance to come back to life and perform some exacting revenge.

He'd have to thank his stalwart fans in an appropriate manner; maybe this would be a start.

He opened the door, and the man at the desk looked up startled. No one else was supposed to be at 1013 at this time of night, they'd all gone home hours ago.

"Lea! What are you doing here, I thought you were in Toronto filming some stupid Angel crap."

"Think again, Chris. I might not be who you think I am."

The older man's eyes widened in shock, which was to be expected, actually. When would you expect one of your characters to spring to life, and appear before your desk in the dead of night?

Ooops. Poor choice of words, dead.

He stuttered, "Alex?"

"That's right, *Alex*. I bet you thought you were done with me, hmmm?" He purred as he slid towards the desk.

Chris Carter obviously had never studied real spy techniques; the desk was shoved against the wall, not facing the door, with cluttered bulletin boards (the cork kind, you ninny) and papers thumb tacked to the walls themselves.

"You know, Alex, uhm, I mean Mr. Krycek, I was only doing what the plot line called for-- you were at the end of your usefulness, what with Duchovny, I mean Mulder leaving. What's the use of a foil with no target?" His quarry was backing up to the wall in his rolling swivel chair.

A sly smile parted his lips, as he replied to the lame excuses. "And you didn't think that I could carry on that role with Doggett? That Skinner needed the Sword of Damocles hanging over his head one more season?"

"But, but that was old stuff, I mean really! We need to explore new territory and open up new avenues!"

"Don't you mean disappoint the fans with another ridiculous rehashing of Season 2 with *Doggett*?" Alex was now standing in front of Chris, so close he had to look up, as if in supplication. Like he would relent to the "poor pitiful pearl" act.

"I had to introduce the character, get him familiar with the context of the show, let fans see how he reacted to the horrors and mystery!" Chris was really pleading now, and tears were crowding together in the corners of his eyes.

"You mean you were too distracted with that phony rip off "The Lone Gunman" to pay any attention."

Alex paused a moment and stared down at the man quivering in his chair. This was really too rich. "I was under used, under estimated, never given enough credit *or* screen time.

"But the ultimate ignominy, being put down like a rabid dog, left on the concrete to bleed to death with no last words or comfort. Not even I, rat-bastard-traitor-assassin, whose moral dipstick was bone dry deserved that treatment."

Old CC was really shaking in his boots now. Alex leaned down, his face mere inches away. "I think I need a little retribution. Whaddaya say Chris, a little just desserts for my trouble? Did you realize that desserts is an anagram for stressed? I'm feeling a little stressed right now, I need dessert."

Alex grabbed the man and yanked him by the shirtfront up out of the chair, and shoved him up the wall, kicking the chair out of the way. It rolled across the room, and bumped to a halt against the wall across the room.

Alex growled into the quaking ear of the Executive Producer. "You need a little reminder of the consequences for not playing nicely with your toys, Chris."

He reached into the inside pocket of the worn leather jacket, and pulled the Rappala out of its tan leather sheath.

"Yes, I think this will be a lesson that you will remember for a long, long time."

Chris had no reply to that; he kept his pale eyes trained on the trained assassin he had unwittingly unleashed on the fanfic world all those years ago.

The knife went through the drawstring on the surfer shorts like a hot knife through flesh, without the horrible smell of burning human flesh.

"I would have worked so hard for you; I would have done anything, but you left me lying in the wings, except to pull me out at your convenience."

"But, but..." The impotent protest fell on deaf ears. How apropos.

The cotton surf shorts fell to the tops of the work boots, and Alex smiled, a nasty smile. "Commando, huh, Chris? How very daring of you."

Alex grabbed the man by genitals and squeezed until he squeaked in a most unmanly way. It warmed the cockles of his cold, dead heart to hear it.

"So, Chris, are you ready?"

The old man shook his head until the gray hairs flew into a halo (how inappropriate), and began to jabber senselessly. "No No Nnononoooo..."

The knife went between the pearly whites, clasped by the perfect bow shaped lips he'd been gifted with by another more generous soul.

He looked down at the desk momentarily to locate the object he needed. Ah, yes. A rubber. (Not the condom kind, the elastic band kind!) Snatching it off the desk, he began to wind it round and round, forming a tourniquet. Alex didn't want him to bleed to death; he just wanted him to suffer, ALOT. If he died of blood loss, where was the fun in that?

The testes were squeezed tight, tight, tighter, until they bulged and puffed up, red and swollen.

This was going to make a mess, but sometime you had to spill a little blood to make a good haggis.

Krycek took the knife from his mouth, and wiped the saliva off onto Chris's shirt, he was really struggling now, but Alex had the strength of ten righteous men on his side (you get that when you're dead, you know) and there was no escaping the fate that lay in store for his hapless victim.

He didn't *mean* to torture him, honest he really didn't, but he couldn't resist a few pokes with the extraordinarily pointed tips of the knife in the bloated balls.

Chris started screaming in terror, really loudly, shrill and high. Up until the prick on his prick he had hoped this was some sick joke being played on him by certain actors that perhaps did have some grievance with the way they had been treated in years past. But not in three lifetimes of TV production had a producer been emasculated by a *character*. A DEAD character!

Alex sighed, and with a quick upstroke with the long thin blade, sliced off the balls of the Executive Producer, who had thought himself god of his universe. Create destroy, disregard. But all heavens have a Lucifer, whether cast out on their patooties by choice or not.

The screaming ceased instantly as Carter fainted. The tourniquet held, and the empty offices echoed emptily with the last bone-chilling scream.

Alex let the inert body slide into a heap against the wall until it half fell under the desk. He put the severed organs into a Ziploc bag, along with the bloodied leather gloves. No OJ for him. He pulled out a pair of new gloves, lambskin soft and pale tan in color. As he cleaned the knife on the victims ruined shorts, and slipped it back into the case, he picked up the phone and dialed 911.

The paramedics would be here eventually, North Vancouver had a reputation for lackadaisical response time.

Plenty of time to take his trophy away as easily as he had come by it.


Alex Krycek left the studio in a borrowed car, it was a cinch that the owner wouldn't be driving out of here tonight, or any time soon. Had to give CC credit where credit was due, he did have a nice ride.

The sound of anguished cries, the feel of blood pouring over his hand made him happy. Happy Alex was a Good Alex, if you can believe *that*. He went directly to where he had stashed the video recorder and got the tape.

He stopped for a coke, then thought of his little passenger. They would be getting a little chilled by now. Maybe they needed to be really cold. He snagged a bag of ice on his way to the car, and spun out of the parking lot in a hail of gravel.

He didn't have far to go, really, crossing the bridge. The city was less busy this time of night, and he went directly to his destination (you dont have any idea what a feat of navigation that was unless youve driven around Vancouver). Alex whistled cheerfully as he locked the car, and took his bag of iced goodies into the production offices of one Dustin Yarma, at Snuff Films.

"Dusty baybee, have you got a decent Alibi for the last half hour?"

Oh. God. Damn. It. Not him *again*.

"Yes, Alex I have a decent alibi for the last half hour, why-- don't you have one?"

Krycek grinned. "I had a little unfinished business to take care of."

Dustin's eye narrowed into green slivers in the dusty lamplight. "Hey, didn't I hear rumors on the internet that bitch Carter had you shot and killed?"

"Hole in One, er, rather hole in one's head, to be more specific."

"That's gotta suck, being dead and all?"

"Has its ups and downs. I brought you a present."

Krycek tossed the wet bag on the battered desk. Dustin had started at the bottom again (such a lovely position, too) when he left LA for cooler regions, both weather and legal.

The doppelganger behind the desk stared open mouthed for a moment then remembered to shut it, although flies weren't a problem in Vancouver this time of year.

He squeaked a little as he looked at the mess. "Alex, the bag is dripping on my contracts! What the hell is it, anyway?"

Krycek opened the drawstring bag and pulled out the Ziploc bag, with the lock tight seal. "It's that bitch Carter's Nuts on Ice." (Sounds like a new Ben & Jerry's flavor to me.)

Dustin said very tightly (which is a good thing for a bottom after all), "Why did you bring me Carter's Nuts on Ice?"

"Cuz, Dusty my boy, I have a plan...."


It had been quite the circus. Local celebrity brought into the ER with a wound that had the docs giggling and horrified by turns. The Fems were laughing, and the Hims were horrified, it was pretty much split down the middle. There were a few sick bastards that thought it was funny, but they were home on Sunday nights, 9 PM Pacific.

The hospital room was dark, and the patient was resting; not very comfortably, considering he had just parted with a VERY dear part of his anatomy in a most unusual fashion not so very long ago. The IV was on slow drip with a bit of painkiller, but he hadn't lost very much blood: every one agreed it was a very Professional job (wrong slash series, sorry!)

The orderly entered the room, wheeling a cart over to the bedside. He snapped on the very bright light, blinding the patient momentarily and disorienting him even more.

Ole CC looked up, feeling very unhappy and drugged up to the eyeballs, the only ones he had left. He vaguely wondered why the orderly was wearing a surgical mask, but the idea floated away on a cloud of morphine. He didnt notice the green eyes peering at him from between the mask and cap.

"Good morning Mr. Carter, Here's your breakfast." The lid on the plate was lifted, and it appeared to be scrambled eggs, toast, and a pair of very odd little grilled Snausages.

"I thought I was on liquid today-- Jell-O and crap?"

"The Doctor, er yeah that's it, the Doctor changed his mind last night and changed your charts. Aren't you hungry?"

"But my doctor was a woman doctor- damn incompetent twit, too." That voice sounded familiar, but he couldnt quite place it.

"I think they changed your doctor."

"Besides, dont you get ice cream after a tonsillectomy?" CC was really whining now. We could attribute it to the drugs, but wouldnt you really rather remember him as a whiny bastard?

"Uhm, Mr. Carter, you didnt have a tonsillectomy if we were to correlate the soothing effect of ice cream after a tonsillectomy, then I would have to--"

Patient X decided that he didnt want to follow that train of thought any farther. "All Right! All Ready! I'll eat it!"

He picked up the fork, and knife, and like a good carnivore he ate the snausages first. Hey, those were pretty good. But the orderly had waited only long enough for him to get the snausages down the gullet.

The orderly wheeled the cart down the hallway and left it as he helter-skeltered down the back staircase two at a time.

He opened the door to the car and jumped inside, barely out of breath. He'd taken up clean living after he moved to Canada. "Did we get it?"

Alex grinned at his twin. "Just see for yourself, bro."

He rewound the tape, and the entire short scene was there in vivid color.

Dustin whooped and hi-fived Alex, who grabbed Dustin and shoved his tongue down Dustin's throat as payment for cooking and delivering, said crudits. Not that Dustin resisted very much. (Token slash scene, Alex was really pestering me).

They broke the jaw lock, and went back to the Snuff Film studio to complete their filmic saga.


It was Sunday night, and FOX network had decided they simply couldnt be bothered to rerun one more X-Files episode, and instead had elected to air World's Funniest Home Videos 12. He was about to switch the channel when suddenly the scene shifted, and his office was on the TV.

It was morbid, it was like watching a car wreck on the freeway, and he couldnt change the channel. His face had been blurred, but it was very obvious the figure was he. All the employees that had been at work on Friday would recognize that as well as anyone who knew what the inside of 1013 looked like.

The shrieks ceased, and the plastic bag was displayed prominently along with its gory contents.

The scene faded to a nondescript kitchen where the bereft organs were prepared, sauted with tarragon and a dash of balsamic vinegar and placed on a standard issue hospital dinner tray.

Smash cut into the hospital room, and the man in the bed whom he knew full well to be himself, here in this room, no less than twelve hours ago. The nurse with his dinner tray had thought it was the morphine talking when he said he'd already eaten this morning.

The End, and thank god!


Fandom: X-Files

Category/Rated: Gen, H for Horrid. And G for Gruesome.

Year/Length: 2001/ ~2660 words

Spoilers: Uh, not at this point.

Disclaimer: Bwah! Thousands, but I'll go with the usual, Not Mine, Theirs.

Summary: Alex takes action because Revenge is Good.

Series: Surely, you jest! (and don't call me Shirley!)

Author's Notes: Written in a useless rage on a certain Monday Night in May, 2001. Humor is the last refuge of the truly stricken, and I blame it all on AIM chat.

Beta: *snorfle* Actually, I believe Sue really did cast her eyes upon this and said, "post if you dare".

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