The Truth About Blow Jobs
Chapter Two -- How It All Began
E-mail: clueseek@swbell.net
Rating: This chapter is very clean, but the entire series is
certainly NC-17.
Category: Smutty sex, threesome, bondage, discipline, all that happy
stuff.
Summary: The Untold Story of Mulder's Abduction
Archive: Absolutely. Just let me know where.
Comments: Thanks as always to Leelee beta extraordinary, and the
only other writer as twisted and kinky as I am.
Feedback: Always welcome with a glass of ice tea.
The Basement Office of the X-files
Thursday Afternoon
"Scully, relax, would you? I'm going to be fine." Scully lifted one
skeptical eyebrow and stared at me like I was getting ready to do
something stupid. I could tell she was beginning to have doubts about
being away from the office next week. I hadn't lost a cell phone,
been kidnapped or wound up in the hospital in over two months. The
raised eyebrow was a dead give away that she thought it was too good
to last.
"Look, you've planned to visit Bill and his family next week. Go
ahead and take tomorrow off too. We've got nothing pending in the X-
files. I promise I'll stay out of trouble." Scully's response was a
very unladylike snort. "Hey, all I'm going to do is some research on
an old dairy entry from this journal." I waved the book under her
nose.
Scully reached across my desk and picked it up to read the title,
Collected Letters and Diaries of Marybelle Carr Wilkerson: A Personal
View of the War of Northern Aggression. "Now I think you're the one
who needs a vacation, Mulder. What could you possibly find in here?"
she asked.
I grinned at my partner's usual 'prove it to me' tone as I propped my
legs up on the corner of the desk. "Scully, she reports some kind of
stone monolith deep in the Mississippi woods. Strange lights. People
dying who were near it. It could be a translator fragment like they
found in Africa."
"Oh God, Mulder, that was 150 years ago and in the middle of a war..."
she immediately started.
"Look, all I'm going to do is talk with the author, a Dr. Shurleen
Wilkerson, from the University of Mississippi. She's in town for a
meeting of the Southern Historical Society. What trouble can I get
into with a bunch of little old blue haired tabbies in orthopedic
shoes?"
The 82nd Annual Meeting of the Southern History Society
Four Seasons Hotel
Washington, D.C.
The cocktail reception was in full swing, if you can say that about a
historical society meeting where the average age was probably sixty-
five. I had asked at the door about Dr. Wilkerson and sure enough,
she was described as a petite little white haired lady about 5'2".
As if that didn't fit the description of half the people in the
ballroom.
I heard an outburst of hearty laughter from one little white haired
lady and several men. Might as well start somewhere I thought as I
decided to try that group first.
"Excuse me, uh Dr. Wilkerson?
Bingo I thought, reading her badge as I saw a pair of bright blue
eyes glancing up at me. "I'm Shurl Wilkerson, Mr. er?"
I pulled out my ID and explained, "Special Agent Fox Mulder, with the
FBI. I need to ask you a few questions. Is there somewhere we can
talk?"
Now the average innocent citizen when confront by law enforcement and
the classic phrase of "asking you a few questions," will hesitate,
become flustered and embarrassed, or start asking you questions.
Shurl Wilkerson smiled at me and said lightly, "Well if it's about my
family's smuggling habits, I can promise you we gave that all up
after the War Between the States."
OK, a spunky little old lady. "No ma'am. It's about something in
your latest book."
She cocked her head at me and seemed to debate for a moment. "Well,
Mr. Mulder for the past two days I have had an excess of white wine
and bland convention food. If I'm to be interrogated about my family
history, I want a glass of good bourbon, something fried and some
decent iced tea. The only thing fresh and green on the table better
be the tablecloth."
"I think I know just the place," I confirmed. She nodded in
agreement and we began to work our way towards the door. She was so
small it seemed natural to place my hand in the small of her back
just like I do with Scully.
Aunt Sally's Dinner
K Street
Washington, DC
Miss Shurl, as she insisted I call her, was delighted with my choice
of restaurants. It probably helped that the waitress called us
both "honey", but the fried chicken would have earned an immediate
Scully condemnation for cholesterol value, much less the fat calories
from thick gravy that almost covered the mashed potatoes.
"Well, Special Agent Fox Mulder, you have completed my prerequisites,
including a much needed Jack Daniels on the rocks. Now what did you
want to ask me about?" Shurl said as she finished her third glass of
ice tea.
"Just Mulder, please ma'am. It's about a passage in Marybelle Carr
Wilkerson's diary. I've marked the place." I said as I handed her
the book.
She put on half frame reading glass and carefully reviewed the
paragraphs about the stone pillar with the strange cravings. A
slight frown creased her brows. "I'm afraid I don't understand."
"Do you know any thing more about this monument? Where it might be
located?"
"From what I remember, my Great Granddaddy said something about it
being down in the swamps near a spring on the old home place," she
replied.
"Did you ever see it yourself? Could you take me there?" I
reassessed that as I looked at her fragile appearance again. "Or
perhaps someone in your family?"
"Why on earth do you want to try and find that thing? If it's of
interest to anyone, maybe an anthropologist, but. . ."
"Marybelle Wilkerson describes some sort of light around the stone
and people dying from being near it," I repeated.
Shurl took off her glasses and stared at me. "Where are you from,
Mulder?" I was bewildered by the question and it showed. "Not from
the South are you?" I shook my head.
"Mulder, let me explain," she said softly. "Southerners were, and to
some extend still are, a society that loved tall stories, laughter
and a good joke. I remember when I was a little girl sitting,
rocking on the front porch at night, listening to the men spin
yarns. It's a part of our cultural identity, who we are, just like
saying y'all." She could see I was still lost. "What I'm trying to
say is, we don't let the truth of something stand in the way of a
good story. What is probably a piece of rock with maybe some
petroglyphs on it, became the stone tower with lights coming from
it. In 1855, it was most likely it was just some poor Yankee
deserter's campfire and people died from yellow fever, malnutrition
or malaria from the mosquitoes in the swamp. It just makes a better
story, so it sort of grew with the telling."
God, she was starting to sound like Scully the Ever Skeptical. "I
still need to see it," I repeated.
"All right," she sighed in agreement. "It's Thursday. I'm flying
home tomorrow. If you still want to try and find it, let me know
your flight number. I can meet you at the Jackson airport and we'll
go down the Natchez trace to the old home place."
I gave her a smile as the waitress refilled her ice tea again. Now
all I had to do was to convince Skinner to sign the 302.
Assistant Director Skinner's Office
Hoover Building
Friday Morning
"You want me to approve WHAT?" I caught the glare from the wire rim
glasses and knew I had to move quickly to avoid the inevitable
lecture about proper use of taxpayers' money.
"Sir, from the description, there are significant similarities
between this artifact and the one in Africa. Only this time, no one
else seems to be on the trail ahead of us."
Skinner pushed his glasses up to rub between his eyebrows. "And your
only evidence is a reprint of some unknown woman's diary from the
Civil War?"
"War Between the States." I'd gotten a thorough lecture on that
topic from Shurl the night before. She had said, 'It was dark and
bloody time, Mulder. Tore families apart and brother killed
brother. Nothing "civil" about it.'
From his glare, Skinner didn't appreciate the distinction or the
correction. "There are no other accounts of it that I can find
anywhere, sir. No evidence on any geological survey, state or county
map. But Dr. Wilkerson does remember hearing about it as a child."
"And that was what, sixty plus years ago?" Damn it, he was a
skeptical as everybody else.
"Sir, if there is any chance that this is another artifact, we have
to investigate."
"So you just want to head off in the field, without back up, with a
civilian, a little old female history professor no less, on a chance
entry in a 150 year old diary?"
Well that's pretty much it, so I just nodded. I'd have my cell phone
and weapon. It wasn't like I was infiltrating a secure military
area. How much trouble could I get in to?
End of Part 2