Title:  Green Rivers and a Road Trip
Author:  TJ    ISUGRADS@Prodigy.net
Category:  MSF/humor (I hope)
Rating:  PG-13  'cause of a few naughty words
Disclaimer:  Chris Carter, Fox and 1013 productions are all responsible for
Mulder and Scully.  I don't take any credit. If they were mine they'd be
getting nookie and Mulder would go to work in boxer briefs and glasses.
I'm just passing the time away with this silly little obsession for M and S.
Hickory Park is also not mine, but a real restaurant that lives up to the
claims in the story.  If you're ever in Ames, Iowa, home of the Cyclones,
try it!  The Coffee Mallow Sundae is just as great as the Green Rivers. And
by the way, this story makes fun of stereotypical Iowa.  We aren't all
farmers, you know!
Summary:  OK, this one's fluffier than a bunny's tushie, but hopefully just
as cute too.   *Too much soda and a long car ride make for an uncomfortable
Mulder and a mischievious Scully.*
Thanks:  This one is just for Jemirah, who convinced me to make this my
debut post.  It would've stayed tucked away on my computer without her
urging.  Hope it gives everyone else as big of a chuckle as it gave her!
Feedback:  You betcha!  Send to addy above, please and also let me know
where this ends up!





"Why are we pulling over?"  She asks me, looking  up from the Globe that she
had picked up at a Quik Trip earlier in the day. I'm still surprised that
she wasted her money on it.

"Look, Mulder," she had elbowed me smugly as we waited in line to pay for
chewing gum and allergy medicine, "stories more bizarre than the ones you
come up with."  Scully had been flipping through the assortment of magazines
and tabloids on a rack near the counter, as the runny nosed kid ahead of us
counted out a whole piggy bank's worth of change to buy some Dorritos and
Twinkies.  I took her interest in such trash as an indication of  sheer
boredom.  She bought the latest issues of  "Time" and the *newspaper* that
now lay on her lap.

I steer the car off to the shoulder of the road, right next to a rolling
cornfield, across from a pasture of cows.  That's  pretty much been it for
scenery on our entire trip through central Iowa.  Earlier that morning our
flight arrived at Des Moines International Airport (that's an oxymoron!),
where we then picked up our rental car and headed to Story City.  Our
investigation was brief.  As it turned out,  the subject of our inquiry was
accidently run over by a tractor only hours before our arrival at the Nibby
farmstead.  Too bad.  I was kind of looking forward to interviewing a
psychic pig.  (Guess I should give some background about our abruptly closed
case, here.) It seems that a certain pig named "Porky" (original, hugh?)
was spared from the processing plant by a farmer's little girl.  Shortly
after being given this pardon from his death sentence, the aforementioned
swine began locating long lost items for his newly adopted family.  When the
pig dug up the grandfather's missing wedding band that had fallen off in the
family's garden back in  1962, everyone just chuckled about the pig trying
to earn his keep.  Next came a box of rare coins that had been misplaced for
two generations in the back of a storage shed and a key found under the
front porch that opened a  forgotten lockbox containing $45,000 worth of
stocks and bonds.  All of these items recovered in two week's time, had been
located by Porky, who had nosed (or should I say "snouted") them out of
their hiding places.  Word had gotten out around town and soon locals from
all around were asking to "borrow" Porky in hopes that he would locate
treasures for them just as easily as other pigs exhume truffles. Whereas
everyone else in the community were true believes in Porky's mystic
abilities, Mr. Nibby was not.  He had somehow gotten my name and called me
to come out and "test" Porky.  He felt that pretty soon he was going to have
to start charging admission to all the people camped outside his home
waiting to get a glimpse of his amazing pig.  He wanted me to prove once and
for all to his neighbors that the good luck that had visited  his family was
simply that; good luck.  It was *not* because the pig possessed supernatural
abilities.

As soon as I  presented my file on this case to Scully, my ever so serious
partner practically rolled on the floor of our office with laughter.  For
much of the duration of our drive to Dulles I had to endure her sniggering,
not to mention her feined gasp of horror as I ordered a bacon and sausage
Egg McMuffin for breakfast. Fortunately  she had napped much of the flight,
so I was spared her newly acquired sense of humor. Actually, it was kind of
a nice change considering how pissy she usually gets when I drag her across
the country for something so seemingly silly. My reprieve was brief,
however.  When we picked up the rental car, Scully asked me ever so
seriously if I suspected that the pig had an accomplice.

"Huh?  What do you mean?"  I asked her tiredly, knowing that she wasn't
taking this thing seriously.   I'm not used to Scully being such a wise ass.
I guess I finally got a tiny idea of how she must feel about me some days.

"Don't you suspect that the pig has been getting some kind of help with all
of his good finds?"  She asked me, trying as hard as she could not to smirk.

"It's a possiblity I haven't really considered.  Why?  Did you discover
something that I might have missed?"  I replied, just waiting to see how
clever she would be.

"Well,"  she paused, flipping through the folder in her hands and removing a
lovely picture of  Porky (dressed up in doll clothes, I should add)
"someone could be in on all this in order to keep the pig from eventually
being made into an Easter ham."

"What kind of someone might you be talking about?"  I went along, trying to
lighten up a little and enjoy this silly side of Scully that I rarely get to
see.

"Mmm,  let's see how well I can profile here... this accomplice would most
likely be female, a nuturing type, very sympathetic, yet one to take charge
of a situation  .  She would be the one responsible for all of these
*amazing* feats, just making it appear that the pig was gifted, so no one
would even dare think about butchering him."

"Is that all?"  I asked,  knowing that she was up to something.

The left side of Scully's mouth had turned upward as she tried to supress
her smile.  Oh, yes.  She thought she was being smart.
"No, she would also have a hearty appetite for flies."

"Cute, Scully.  Really cute.  Didn't know you read E.B. White as a kid."  I
laughed.  I should have known right away that she was refering to
"Charolette's Web".

"Wasn't sure you had either,"  she laughed back.  "Seriously, Mulder.  Do
you really think that there's anything to this case?  I mean, don't you find
this stranger than fiction?"

 "Isn't that what they often say about the truth?  Besides, I don't think
this case is any weirder than that,"  I said pointing to the tabloid
headline, 'Attack of the Giant Mushrooms'.

Anyway, with a dead pig we had no more X- file, so we headed back to Des
Moines to get an earlier flight home.  After Scully did a brief post mortem
on poor old Porky and found nothing obviously unnatural about his annatomy
(given her limited knowledge about hog innards), we decided to take the
ever-so apologetic Nibbys up on their offer to join them for dinner at a
nearby restaurant. They promised that we would find Hickory Park to have the
best bar-b-que anywhere around and ice cream sundaes to die for.  They  were
absolutely right, and in addition, I also discovered how good its Green
Rivers are.  A Green River is  a soda concoction that's pretty hard  to find
anymore.  Not many people know what it is,  but I remember them well from
the times that I went with my grandparents to the soda and ice cream parlor
during summer vacations.  This particular restaurant's tasted just like the
kind I drank as a kid.  So I had four of them, which brings me back to
Scully's question.

"Why are we pulling over?" she asks,  "Is something wrong with the car?"
Obviously she had been too engrossed in the celebrity gossip page to notice
what my mother had refered to as my "pee pee dance".  I had been jiggling my
left leg and shifting my weight back and forth in the seat for at least the
last 15 miles.

"Uugh... gotta go drain the vein.  Be right back,"  I say opening my door
and stepping out before I barely have the car in park.  By now my eyes are
watering and I almost have to cross my legs.  There is no worse feeling in a
man's nether regions than the need to pee a lake and the absence of a
urinal.  Well, take that back, there is, but I won't go there about *that*
kind of unreleased pressure.

"Drain the vein?" Scully asks, rolling down her car window and leaning out
as I make my way to the passenger side of the car.   She's staring right at
me as I fumble with my zipper like a high school virgin on his first attempt
to get a home run.

"Scully,  do you mind?"  I plead, gritting my teeth.  I stop unzipping my
pants and turn to look over my shoulder at her.  Even though my back's to
her and I doubt she can see my half undone fly, I know I won't be able to
urinate in front of her.  Yeah, yeah.  I know.  Scully's seen my dick
before, but not when something's been coming out of it.  (Never mind the
other thought that this brought to my mind, which made it even more
difficult to relax and take a piss.)

"Drain the vein,"  she repeats slowly, as if she's deciphering some cryptic
ancient language.  I start working on the zipper again, but I can tell she's
not looking away.

"Yeah Scully, walk the weasel,, shake the dew off the lilly.  Take a piss,
for Christ's sake.  I thought you had brothers, Scully?  Haven't you ever
heard them say that before?"  I ask her, becoming more and more impatient
with her shitty timing for being her old analytical self again.

"No, Mulder, at least I've never heard them refer to it in that way.  Mom
would have killed them if they did.  We were raised in a proper family, even
if we were military,"  she answers, enjoying herself a little too much in
recognizing my discomfort, I must note.

"Scully."  I say tersely, hoping she will shut up and roll up her window.  I
don't want her to see me peeing but I also do not want her to *hear* me
peeing.  Why do I have to have such a shy bladder? I breathe a sigh of
relief and start to take the big boy out of my boxers as I hear the electric
car window begin to go up.  I'm just begining to relax whatever that muscle
is that lets you stop and start your urine flow (and also makes the boy do
nice little jumps when he's frisky)  when I hear the motorized window stop
and Scully clear her throat.

"Mulder?"  she asks, trying to sound innocent when she knows damn well I'm
about to ruin a perfectly good pair of suit pants and some damn expensive
shoes.

"What?!"  I almost yell.  I  feel it about to happen.  Just like it did the
time I was four and waited too long at the circus to go use the bathroom
because I didn't want to miss out on the Stupendous Stanley being shot out
of the cannon.  I ended up missing out on it anyway, because I couldn't hold
myself any longer and ending up going all over myself just as I got to the
restroom door.  I was too embarrased to let my mom know, so I ran and hid
under the bleachers until security pulled me out and took me back to my mom
who was frantically searching all over for me.

"Why didn't you just use the restroom back at the restaurant when I asked
you if we should take a bathroom break?"

"Because,  I didn't have to go then!"  I yell this time.  At this point I
don't care if the whole damned world sees me take a leak.  I have to go and
I have to go- right- fucking -now.

It's a good thing that I have such an uninhibited attitude now as I stand
next to that two lane highway pissing my kidneys out, because the next sound
I hear is the car driving away.  Looking over my shoulder I turn just in
time to see Scully waving at me in the rearview mirror as she pulls the car
forward down the shoulder of the road, leaving me standing there with my
yank in my hand, (as someone so poetically once described it).  Any cover
that our rental car had given me from passing vehicles is now gone and as my
luck would have it, what should happen to come right up over the hill at
this very moment?  A bus.  Not just any bus, but a church bus, carrying
senior citizens.  Know that muscle that I mentioned earlier?  Well, I must
not be exercising it enough lately because for the life of me I can't stop
peeing.  Nope, can't even get it down to a trickle so I can close my pants
back up at least partway.  Instead I have to just turn slightly to the side
and hope that one of those old ladies won't  have a cellphone to call the
police with and have me hauled away for indecent exposure and public
urination (at least I think that the later is probably illegal in Iowa).

As the bus approaches I can hear faint yelling from inside it.  Oh god.
They're all having heart attacks and strokes.  I can just see the headine in
the local paper 'FBI Agent Kills Entire Hope Lutheran Bingo Club'.  Imagine
my shock when I realize that the screams are not ones of distress, but of
cat calls and whoops.  I can't help but spin around almost entirely to face
the road as I distinctly hear one blue haired woman  leaning out of a back
window yell,  "Hey!  Now there's the beef!"

Now, I am not the type to blush, and in the past I haven't been know for
being a modest kind of guy, but right here and now I must be as red as the
sunburn Scully got last summer.  Realizing that my bladder has returned to
its normal size and I had indeed, drained the vein, I zip my pants and walk
up the road to where the car with my ever faithful and trustworthy partner
wait for me.  Traitor.

"Nice, Scully.  So very nice,"  I nod as I open the door and get in the
driver's seat.  She's already slid back over to the passenger side and's as
quiet as can be.  I half expected her to be near hysterics at my expense,
but nope.  Not my Scully.  She's still as stone.  Her face etched in
seriousness.

"What?"  she asks with so much innocence I almost believe there has to be
some paranormal explanation for what just occurred.  Demon possession
perhaps?  I'm not ruling anything out just yet.

"Ha. Ha. Ha.  You'll get yours someday, just wait."

"Oh Mulder,"  she sighs,  "like I haven't had my share in the past six years
that we've worked together.  Get real."

Touche,  I think to myself.

"Scully,"  I say suddenly as I maneuver the car back onto the highway.

"Yes,"  she responds, still just as composed as before, looking straight
ahead, because she's not willing to give me the satisfaction of seeing the
glint that I know is in her eyes.

"Next time we take an extended car ride,  remind me to bring a jar and sit
in the back seat."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The last line of this story is dedicated to the memory of my husband's
wonderful grandparents, who on road trips with the grandsons, brought along
a mayo jar for emergencies such as Mulder's.  As Grandpa would say, "I'm off
like a dirty shirt!"