Title: Death and Sex and Banana Creme Pie
Author: GoldX
Category: Vignette, angst
Spoilers: "Clyde Bruckman's Final Repose"
Rating: PG, language, sexual reflections
Disclaimer: No, I do not have a right to use these characters
in any, way, shape or form. Mulder, Scully, Clyde Bruckman, and
the Puppet all belong to Chris Carter, 1013, and FOX. I
trust to their generosity to accept the ramblings of this X-Phile.
Summary: Clyde Bruckman reflects on his last days.
Feedback: GoldXnChain@aol.com  Love it if you would. Replies
are probable.
Thanks so much to Jaime SN. for her support and feedback. She
really helped me tighten up the story and give it better tone.
Archive: Church of X of course. Anywhere else, fine, too. I'd love
to know where. Please write.
 
 
Death and Sex and Banana Creme Pie
 
 
I toss down the scotch with another four pills. My room looks
as I've always known it. Sad and gray and lost in shadows. Sort
of like myself. No fond farewells here. The plastic bag is by
my side. There's time enough.  Yeah. Time is narrowing down to
a point.
 
Christ! These last few days. Hadn't realized there was that much
fire left in my old gut. I'd thought my vision in red hair
would be some sort of farewell gift of my fading brain. The reality
was a real surprise. And I'm never surprised.
 
Death and sex and banana creme pie. Who'd have thought?
 
Death. That wasn't exactly new. For a while there, actually for
years, it's just played over everything. There are prospects
and cold calls and their fates roll over their faces like an
ancient newsreel. Or like those flickering religious pictures:
Jesus alive, Jesus dead. Alive. Dead. Car accidents, cancer,
heart disease. It's all there. Just look in their faces.
 
Some people have a *real* need for my services. They have no
idea- the poor, dumb sheep. Life insurance. Ha! Great name.
Insure. Life. Life is here today. Life is always gone tomorrow.
Can't insure life, but death is a gimme. Death keeps trampling
over everything. That big, old newsreel just keeps rolling.
 
Knew that my time was coming fast. I mean, Jesus, I've known
the date for forty years. It was just a little surprising to
pick up that sleazy rag and have that date pop out under my nose.
Predictions: Madonna and bungalow boy hook up, Buddy Holly walks
the earth again, Bruckman bags his face in plastic. That's playing
the odds.
 
I'd been mildly curious about the why of my demise. I mean why
now? Hadn't really given a damn about anything for years. Oh,
yeah, I'd take a flier on the Lotto on occasion just to torture
myself. Some nights the liquor bottle would be deeper than on
others. My young, anal boss would give me occasional crap. Nothing
to lose sleep over. But I'd reached some sort of equilibrium
that could have gone on for years. But, no. I was going to buy
the farm on Sept. 18, 1997. Why? How the hell would I know?
That's what I would have said three days ago. It didn't make
any particular sense. That didn't worry me. I hardly even thought
about it. I could just feel the pillowing red tulips under my
rotting back. Real nice. Really.
 
Pills in hand, drink. Ah.
 
I can smell the cigarette smoke in my jacket. Lung cancer.
Like that was that poor detective's biggest worry. I welcomed
in his murderer. Really welcomed him. I felt events driving us
forward and I mindlessly opened that door. That hotel kitchen
had gotten me spoiled. Ummm, room service. Funny how my senses
caught on fire the last few days. Just in time for the big send
off. That chocolate torte! Chicken Kiev! I hadn't tasted food
like that in years. I know poor Agent Mulder showed enormous
control by not biting my head off when I fixated on that banana
creme pie. Here he was listening to himself being hunted down
like an animal and I couldn't take my mind's eye off that
disintegrating goo under his shoe. A sad loss.
 
I wanted that lunch. My mouth was alive. Something was alive.
Oh, boy!
 
I recognized the smell of the sad bastard's mind about two
seconds after I handed him his tip. He looked like a big goofy
kid who just arrived at the county fair. Absolutely delighted.
Great. He expected *me* to have his answers. Please. Me? Explain
it to me in small words.
 
You ask why do you do these unspeakable murders, son? You tell
me. He doesn't know. None of us knows. As if there could be a
good answer to that one. "Homicidal maniac." He actually thought
that was an explanation. Of course, he also bought the fact that
he wouldn't kill me- then. So he killed the detective instead.
Sorry, cancer cop.
 
I'm sick of death. This real, in-your-face kind. Visions
of distant ends still gently sadden me. Talking to Agent
Mulder, a handsome, intelligent young man full of ideals and
good intentions, seeing blood gushing from his throat- that was
raw pain. I like the guy. He is full of crap but he's real.
And a smartass. And his partner likes him. A lot. Even though
she knows he's full of it, too. Like he'd really want my "gift".
He is young but I can tell he's seen a lot; still he wouldn't
want to see through my eyes. His ideals would go up in smoke.
That would have been worse than bleeding his life's blood out
the throat. We all die but we should all be able to live with
some hope. Except me, I guess.
 
So why is today the big day? Sex.
 
Well, not really. Like I've laid anyone in years. Everyone
is having sex but me. Time was I was a fixture in singles bars.
Before that beat coffee houses with the hippie chicks. This
old fart? Yeah, sad but true. Remember the seventies? Long
Island ice tea, discos and leggy women in slinky wrap dresses
and platforms. I could be charming when I wanted. I am a
salesman and in those days my game was good. Boy, sex and booze
were a potent combo in my war against death. There never seemed
to be as much life in anything as a hard-on and a good buzz.
Those soft warm bodies, my nose between their breasts, and my
hazy brain sealed out the newsreel. But then I got old, somewhere
in there. I lost my game. Occasional blow jobs by hookers who
looked about as miserable as I felt didn't cut it. And too
expensive even at twenty bucks a pop. My seduction game wasn't
the only thing that was slipping.
 
So what does sex offer today?
 
I just met my angel of death and she's anything but ethereal.
 
In fact she's got eyes like blue lasers, and a sharp tongue
to match. She's even got a name: Agent Scully. Dana Scully.
But no one seems to dare call her Dana. Even Agent Mulder,
whose eyes followed her like a fox kit's. She'll always be
Miss Scully to me. My angel of death.
 
She was a total shock to me. Honestly, my vision of her at my
death bed I took for some sort of hallucination. She didn't
have the one quality I expect in the living: an overlay of
death. No death- none. Therefore not real. Then lo and behold
she shows up right on schedule. Sunset red hair, a trim little
waist, soft hips, lips like dessert and a husky voice that
can slice and dice you in a moment. And no dusky slide show
of death. A miracle.
 
I swear my bodily voltage started flowing. And no, it wasn't
just arousal, though I was glad to have my back to her in that
doll collector's house. All my senses were charged up. Not
just my taste for chocolate, or appreciation for a lush ass.
Street sounds, neon signs, the floral scent from her hair.
Everything vivid. My visions made me puke. What the hell was
that about? That hasn't happened since my twenties. My psyche
wrestled with grief and elation. I was on overload. I really
didn't want this flood of sensation. Let me crawl into my
safe little hole; let me die the way I lived.
 
Mulder, kid, don't you get it? I don't need this shit and
it won't help you anyway; it never has. What you think I've
got I can't give you.
 
Agent Mulder wouldn't take no for an answer. He must drive
her nuts. But she and I ended up on the same ride with Mulder and
the bellhop from hell. When I settled into the situation I
relaxed. I was on the same ride I'd been on for years. Why not
finish it off with style?
 
I pop a few more pills. I don't even feel the liquor let alone
the downers. So I think of her.
 
Miss Scully is such a mix of brains and body. Ramrod straight
with a wonderful roll to her walk. Don't-give-me-that! talk
from a tender, sensual mouth. Authoritative walk on fine calves
perched on sexy pumps. We sat playing cards even though she was
itching to dig into her files. The feds are getting their
money's worth with her. She thought I was some old psycho geek
or a lonely fart desperate for attention. But I think she
softened up to me. I was just content to soak up the view. Her
increasing friendliness was a bonus. I even got up the nerve
to flirt with her. A little. I don't think I smiled so much
over the whole of last year. She even took the description
of my deathbed scenario with a secret, little smile of her
own, although I knew it sounded like the crudest of come-ons.
Miss Scully is just so clean and bright. I just lay there like
an old dog in the sun, glad for one more summer day.
 
Wish she would have shared that dessert. Not that you could tell
from her figure but I think she's a chocolate kind of gal.
 
I wanted to tell her. I was like a little kid who couldn't
keep a birthday, surprise party secret. Agent Mulder had been
wavering on it. Did he or didn't he? Want to know? He more
than half believed and it sobered him a bit. I didn't think
he really wanted it. Do people ever really want to know how
and when they'll die? When it came down to it, I couldn't
tell him.  Leaving behind a woman like sunlight. No. Give him
few more years of hope and ideals. Blood and banana creme
pie on a kitchen floor. There *are* few dignified ways to go.
 
But Miss Scully. I couldn't help grinning like a Cheshire cat.
Still don't know what it means but there she sat, the only
person on the planet unshadowed by death. "Don't you want to
ask me?" <Here kitty, kitty> No. Then a rueful look: okay.
"All right. So how do I die?" "You don't". For a moment there
her eyes widened a little in surprise. I think for a split
second she believed me. Then that rational mind clicked on.
Mr. Bruckman's nuts. He's deluded. He's kind. He's just trying
to make me feel good. He's full of crap. But that's all right.
The truth's out there.
 
So here I am downing the last of the pills and another big
glass of scotch. Yeah, the fingers are getting numb, the eyes
unfocused. This is working.
 
So why is this going down now?
 
Well, because it happens today. I know it does and I've known
it for forty years.
 
And I've finally had one, last, sunny day. Maybe this will
be her last for a while. I'm the chickenshit who doesn't want
to cloud the day by seeing her pain. It is still hard to
imagine she'll be at my side with her partner lying wounded
possibly struggling for his life. But she must see it as her
duty. The woman knows what's right. I'm not going to argue.
I can practically feel those soft hands over mine, see those
blue eyes suddenly soft and suspiciously bright. Remembered
always.
 
I hope the dog's a comfort.
 
I slip the bag over my head. My last vision widens and I see
behind her. He stands concerned at her shoulder. I smile. She's
still in the sunlight.
 
 
END
 
Author's note: I took the tack that Bruckman believed the Puppet's
vision of the attack in the kitchen. The psychic visions Clyde
got from him must have matched up with what Clyde had seen of
the deaths. I also think that he knew Mulder wouldn't die. I
trust Clyde's sight more than the Puppet's intentions. He'd know.
Some readers may not agree. I'd like to hear what you think.
GoldXnChain@aol.com