This work of fiction is owned by the author, and may not be reproduced without the author’s express written permission. The A-Team is owned by NBC and Stephen J. Cannell. The X-Files is owned by Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and Fox Television. No copyright infringement is intended by this work of fiction. Copyright February 1998.
Ideas have been taken from Neil Postman’s Amusing Ourselves to Death. Apologies to the Rolling Stones and Pink Floyd.
This work of fiction appeared in The Dwight Papers from Sockii Press in September 1999.
Slant
What am I doing here, thought Agent Mulder with some discomfort. He had been more or less wandering through the halls of the V.A Hospital’s psychiatric ward for several minutes now, and while he’d spotted several ill people, he hadn’t spotted the particular one in which he was especially interested.
Mulder sighed, wondering absently whether the nurse who had pointed him in this direction had actually been a patient in disguise. Let’s review . . . Murdock, H.M., Captain, United States Air Force. Lots of interesting things in his file . . . and the things it doesn’t say are nearly as interesting as the things it does say. Special Projects, sure, right. C.I.A. written all over it, Air America maybe, and on top of all that, he’s got a psychological disorder being named after him . . . . Odd noises coming from a room near the end of the hallway caught his attention.
Stopping at the door and reading its metal nameplate, Mulder discovered he’d found his quarry, and knocked sharply on the hard wood. And then knocked several more times, without answer. But the music -- which was being more or less musically sung along with -- was old Rolling Stones, and Mulder immediately revised upward his impression of the man. One of the best things I’ve learned so far about Captain Murdock . . . assuming this is in fact he, and the patients haven’t been playing musical rooms. Cautiously, he pushed open the door, and peeked inside the small room.
What he saw explained why there had been no reply. Mulder recognized Captain Murdock from his photos. The object of his trip to California sat Indian-style on the floor, playing with a video game set -- one with Super-Ultra-Fast-Fire buttons and a dual player control -- while wearing headphones and with a Rolling Stones tape playing full blast. Twitching like a cat on speed, his eyes darting back and forth to follow the game’s action, Murdock was totally oblivious to anything other than Mick Jagger and the protection of the gentle lovely maiden from the evil attacking zombies.
Although, thought Mulder wryly, looking at the blank tv screen, it would be way more useful if the system was actually turned on. Somewhat hesitantly, he tapped the man’s shoulder while at the same time calling his name, trying to get his attention.
The tactic worked . . . a little too well. Within a few seconds, the lanky pilot had leaped up, spinning around like a top, his arms outstretched, and came to rest crouched atop a file cabinet in the corner of the room.
“Captain Murdock?”
Murdock peered down at his visitor, slewed his jaw to one side and squinted from one eye. “Who be ye, aarrrrr?”
So Captain Murdock is now Captain Ahab. “I be Agent Mulder, from the F.B.I.” Mulder held up his identification to the older man, and just as quickly put it away. “I’m wondering whether or not you can help me --”
“Aye, maybe.” Murdock stroked imaginary sideburns, thoughtfully, keeping his one open eye firmly upon the agent. “It do depend on whut ye be seeking now.”
Scully would love this. “I be seeking the A-Team.” His eyes go right through you, look right into your soul, searching ruthlessly through its depths, looking for falsehoods and for lies.
“Arrrrr.” But aside from that growled response, Murdock made no other comment. Nor did he move from his perch, but merely remained still, watching intently.
Mulder decided to continue and hope for the best. “I’m not particularly interested in capturing them, Captain. My intent is to leave that to the Military Police.” Remembering what he’d read in their file about the many attempts and escapes, he smiled again. And the Military Police hasn’t been doing a very good job of it, either. How long has it been now? “My business involves a report they filed in 1970.” Wondering how the insane pilot would react, Mulder plunged forward, choosing his words carefully. “A report in which they claimed to have seen an unidentified object in the sky over their position.”
“Shoot, podner, we don’t need no steeking positions.”
It seems Captain Ahab has given way to Matt Dillon.
“And just who are these A-Team varmints? No matter, even if they shot it out with Manny Pintos and his gang, me and my trusty horse Thunder will get ‘em!! Ma’ dog Billy can follow trails a year old!!”
Mulder held the the man’s eyes with his own, feeling that he was somehow being tested, as if there lay spread in front of him an invisible obstacle course. And Captain Murdock -- and his menagerie -- is the first barrier to cross. “Actually, I think they’re the ones wearing the white hats.”
Murdock jumped down from his lofty perch, landing lightly on the floor beside him, and swaggered forward to look him in the eye. Mulder could almost hear the clicking of spur points on the wood floor. “Do ya now? And what brought ya to that there conclusion, podner?”
“The fact that the Army doesn’t want to talk about anything regarding their case, and, most interestingly, that if it had been anyone else, the matter would have been dealt with differently. A settlement of some kind, perhaps.” Mulder paused to let Murdock absorb his words. “I think maybe the Team -- as a whole or maybe just one of them -- saw something they weren’t supposed to, heard something they weren’t supposed to. He, or they, may not even remember what it is he or they saw. The Government, by way of the Army, is trying to prevent that memory, whatever it is, from ever being made public.”
“Now, see here, Mister Agent Mulder,” grinned Murdock, one eyebrow quirked at an appealing angle, shooting a quirky look that seemed to speak volumes with a single glance. “You wouldn’t be in-sin-you-atin’ that the Government of this here great country of ours, the U.S. of A., would deeelibrately hide certain important facts from its citizens, are youah?”
Mulder couldn’t tell whether or not the dark eyes were serious, but felt it absolutely necessary to lay all his cards out on the table right here and now. “Yes, I do,” he said softly.
There was the quirky look again. What on earth is the man thinking about?
“And just how, Mister Agent Mulder,” the pilot continued, “do you believe that this great Government of ours would be doing such a thing?” He held the agent’s eyes firmly in his gaze. “And, for that matter, podner, why?”
Shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other, Mulder tried to put the facts he had, the facts he knew to be true, into some sort of order that Murdock would comprehend. Although, considering how long he’s been a patient here, maybe comprehension or logical order isn’t high on his list of priorities. “I know that there is a government within a government at work -- a Consortium plotting against the interests of the citizens, if you will -- and they are hiding the truth from us.”
“Are they? Are you sure?” Waving the other man to a chair, Murdock bounced on an invisible pogo stick -- or maybe he’s riding his invisible horse, it’s hard to tell -- over to where he sprawled happily on the bed and faced his guest.
“Of course they are --”
Murdock grinned and cheerfully interrupted him. “Maybe the truth really is out there, it’s just that the bits and pieces of the truth are swallowed up by the hundreds of millions of nonsense and mistruths and half-truths.”
Mulder wasn’t convinced. “So you think that we are being told everything and that the problem is that we can’t see it?”
“We can’t see it because we’re trying to look at everything at once. The truth is drowned in a sea of irrelevance, as a certain author has said.” Murdock grinned again, then added a bashful glance downwards toward the floor. “Shucks, podner, you know how it is. So busy watching Geraldo and Ricki Lake and reading the The New York Times that there ain’t no time left to check out Bonanza and CNN.” This speech was accompanied by much frenzied waving of arms. “And I’m not even going to discuss the revelations to be found inside of Star Trek.”
Scully would love this, Mulder thought again. “So you think that the government is giving us the information we want, but that no one’s paying any attention to it?” The agent simply couldn’t believe that anyone could believe that, considering all the things he’d seen already.
With an air of resignation, Murdock sighed and tipped his head back to rest against the wall, looking up and sideways toward the open window. “Mister Agent Mulder, you gotta understand somethin’.” Reaching one arm up to play with a model plane hanging over the bed, he moved to face the agent again, directing his gaze through to the heart of the matter. “Look at all the nifty-neato new techie stuff comin’ out that makes it easier to do stuff -- stuff that before we did with our little gray cells. We’re not thinking anymore as a society, we’re not questioning what people in authority say to us.” The dark-haired pilot paused for a moment, lost in memories. “Maybe that was part of the whole thing . . . .”
Something about the tone of the other man’s voice, something about the shadows in those shuttered eyes bothered Mulder. Like he’s been touched by the darkness, just as I’ve been. Just as quickly as it appeared, the look was gone, and Murdock leaped off the bed into action, seizing Mulder around the waist and whisking him around the room in a kind of improvised, erratic waltz. Startled, Mulder danced for a few moments, deciding to go along with the bizarre pilot’s whim, before disengaging and returning to the chair.
Murdock followed at his heels, talking to the dog that wasn’t there in a soft, earnest voice. After man and invisible dog were again comfortable on the bed, Mulder cleared his throat and asked, “So how do you define the truth?”
The answer came immediately. “Truth depends, in part, on the character of the media by which it’s communicated.”
“Written or oral . . . .”
“People believe that speech alone carries the truth, but the belief in the authority of the printed word is a lot stronger.” Murdock cocked his head sideways as he spoke, giving the odd impression of a inquisitive cocker spaniel. “The written word endures while the spoken word disappears in time, and that is why writing is closer to the truth than speaking.” A sad smile appeared on his face, while he petted the invisible dog. “And that’s why, Mister Agent Mulder, no one will believe you about your little green men until you’re doing more than talking.”
“Gray,” corrected Mulder, with a straight face.
His interest perked, Murdock sat up. “Really?”
The agent nodded. “Really.”
“That explains it, then.” Excited and grinning manically, the pilot grabbed at a battered green notebook and began scribbling something down in his large scrawling handwriting smack in the middle of the third page. “That could explain everything, change the face of the universe as we know it.”
Too bad we don’t know the universe that well, though, isn’t it?
“Ya see, G-man, the truth has to come the way people expect it to come -- with lots of fanfare and parades and speeches and keys to the city, or people don’t pay it any attention.” He spoke as he wrote, his eyes flicking between the lined-paper-page and his official companion. “And the defination of what truth is gets fuzzier and fuzzier as you try to unveil it to more and more people around the globe.” Apparently finished with his essay on whatever-would-change-the-face-of-the-universe-as-we-know-it, Murdock carefully stowed the notebook away under his bed and faced Mulder again.
“After all, G-man, information gets more and more useless the farther away it gets from its point of origin,” he continued. “What information you get is always more than then the possibilities of acting on that information -- it’s called the Information-Action ratio, ya know -- and that’s what’s doin’ it to you.” He looked knowingly at Mulder from under the brim of his battered baseball cap. “Besides, what are you planning to do that would reduce the conflict in the Middle East?”
“Nothing at all,” admitted Mulder. “But I would think that having all this information at our disposal would exacerbate the public into finding out the truth.” I’m not sure what it is, but the good Captain eerily reminds me of one of my old professors from Oxford . . . Whately-Hughes . . . though I doubt that white-haired robed gentleman would be flattered by the comparison.
Murdock smiled as he turned the problem over in what some laughingly described as his mind. “Having a ‘global village’ populated by strangers who know only the most superficial facts about their neighbors doesn’t do much to will out the truth. But it does force facts in and out of our tired little brains so fast we can’t evaluate them even if our lives depend on it.” Again, his statements were punctuated by a frantic waving of arms. “We get bits and pieces of information from everywhere, but we can’t put any of them into any kind of context -- unless they directly and immediately relate to us.”
“Making the world look more confused and more terrifying than it really is.”
The captain nodded, encouragingly. “Just because we know the basic facts of a situation far removed from us doesn’t mean that we really know the facts. The background, implications, and connections aren’t provided in the course of a five-line newsflash on CNN. And sometimes,” he confided, “those make all the difference.”
Mulder agreed. “All the difference in the world.”
“So, basically, G-man,” Murdock continued his lecture. “Where before people wanted more and more information to make sense out of their lives, now,” he emphasized, drumming his fingers nervously on the bedcovers. “Now, people have to invent reasons and contexts for otherwise useless information to be put to some kind of use. Building castles in the air, and such.” He winked at the agent.
“And trying to live in them.”
“You got it, G-man. We’re getting sillier by the minute.”
Mulder stifled a laugh, but the thought escaped his lips anyway. “Some of us sillier than others.”
Wolf-howling wildly at the top of his lungs, Murdock fell to his knees in front of the agent and began salamming frantically, throwing books and magazines and clothing out of his way. “Great G-man, heir to the secrets of the universe,” he cried out, his arms outstretched and raising his eyes to the sky beyond the ceiling of his room.
Mulder chuckled, and shook his head over the pilot’s antics. A few minutes later, the short religious service for the devout and crazy with a parish of one ended on a three-note song, with the deliriously joyful pilot on his knees, his eyes shut in religious esctasy, and his arms outstretched to the skies.
“Ahh-may-ennn!!” Scrambling to his feet, the older man hopped about for a few moments, flailing his arms about in some sort of demented movements. I wonder what he’s thinking, what his life is like every day. Am I just another ‘G-man’ to scam out of the way, or will he let me through, as the gatekeeper to the A-Team’s garden of stone and hedges? Mulder watched his companion for a moment, marveling at the wisdom and intelligence behind those dark eyes. Did I ace or flunk the test, teach?
“Well,” began Murdock, with regret heavy in his voice. “Sorry to tell ya, G-man, but I can’t remember ennathing about any day back there, now that I’m back in the World.” He chuckled, but the smile didn’t quite meet his eyes. “At least I think I’m back in the World.” Murdock gave him a quizzical look, quirking an eyebrow and screwing up his face in deep thought. “Hell, that’s why I landed in this place, gotta figure out why the monsters in the ventilation system keep coming to afternoon tea, ya know whut I mean?” Murdock undid the neon yellow laces on his sneakers, and carefully placed them under his pillow. Patting the pillow comfortingly and crooning soft noises to the puffy bedcover, he looked cheerfully up at the agent.
He looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world . . . but looking at his record . . . and the little glimpse of the pain eating away at him . . . that’s just a facade he’s putting up, what’s going on behind those eyes? Mulder just nodded, unable to think of anything to say, and turned to leave. What would Scully think about Captain Murdock?
“If you look for unexplained stuff . . .” Murdock trailed off hesitantly.
Mulder made a interrogative and encouraging noise, wondering what had jumped into what passed for the pilot’s mind.
“Have you found Bigfoot?” Every fiber of the man’s body shouted out in anxiety and exhilaration. “‘Cause I’m sure he’s out there, somewhere, just rootin’ in them there bushes, searchin’ out pancakes and bacon.”
Mulder thought for a moment before answering. “Well, several pieces of evidence have crossed my desk, and some of them -- I believe -- are incontrovertible proof of the existence of Bigfoot.”
Murdock nodded so hard and so fast that his companion irrationally wondered whether or not his head would tumble off his shoulders from the strain. “And then if you add in all the evidence from Tibet and China . . . .”
“Yes.”
Satisfied, Murdock trundled back over to his unplugged Nintendo set and inserted a new cartridge, one which Mulder recognized as a World War II flying ace versus the Red Baron game. He still hasn’t turned that set on . . . but maybe he sees the game better that way . . . .
“Captain Murdock?”
The wise eyes were turned on him again.
“Why are those who believe in the existence of extraterrestrial life on this earth not dissuaded by all the evidence to the contrary?”
The pilot’s dark eyes changed instantly from sombre and omniscient to childlike and full of sparkling energy. “Because all the evidence to the contrary is not entirely dissuasive.”
Agent Mulder nodded, not certain he believed his ears. “Precisely.” He had just put his hand on the doorknob when a compelling shout stopped him in his tracks, and turned back to face the other man. The intense searching look Murdock bestowed again threatened to send him reeling.
Murdock smiled what seemed to be a very knowing smile as he delivered his parting words. “I’ll see you on the dark side of the moon.”
“Tell all the Truth but tell it slant --
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth’s superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind --”
~ Emily Dickinson
Don't forget to feed the Muses!
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