Title: "INVENTORY"
Author: Janet F. Caires-Lesgold
e-mail: jfc@freeshell.org
Feedback: Please, to the above address!
Archive: By permission only
Rating: Probably around PG for a little bad language - yeah, it's really
me
Category: VH
Spoilers: Not very many
Timeframe: Not very important
Keywords: Krycek POV
Summary: Ratboy takes inventory.
DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and the whole X-Files gang, not to me. This story is just for the entertainment of my online friends and myself, not for any profit.
COPYRIGHT: (C) April 11, 1999, Janet F. Caires-Lesgold, jfc@freeshell.org
Please don't redistribute or alter this story in any way without the express permission of the author. Thank you very much.
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God, I hate waiting! Driving is fine - it's the part of my job I enjoy. But this "Wait for me here, Alex" stuff gets old *really* fast. I can't bring a book or anything: gotta be ever-vigilant. I never know how long Old Smokey is going to be, so I can't even turn on the bloody radio. It *would* serve the old fart right, though. "Sorry, sir. I can't start the car. The battery seems to be dead. Oh, dear, there's an angry mob wanting your ass on a platter. Too damned bad..."
What in the hell was in that omelet? I told them to leave out the onions, but I think they must have snuck some garlic in there. Lovely. Just how I want my mouth to taste first thing in the morning. Please, let me have some gum in one of these pockets...
Man, I think I understand why women carry purses. Look at all of the crap I've got in here! Time to sort it out and decide if I can throw any of it away. Oh, well. It's *something* to do...
Where the hell are my keys? Duh. In the ignition. Who gave me that damned green alien-head keytag? I think it was supposed to be a joke. Strange: I'm not laughing. I don't even know what half of those keys are *for* anymore! It's a wonder I don't rattle when I walk. So skip the keys. Back to the pockets...
Lockpick set.
Swiss army knife, with tweezers and toothpick intact, scissors, nail file, screwdriver, bottle opener, stupid little thing to scale fish. I don't think I'd know how to go about getting a fish to scale it. Sure, I'm gonna go into the supermarket: "Gimme a fish. Doesn't matter what kind, just as long as it's got scales. Gotta see if this thing on my knife works." If I ever get that bored, I'm shooting myself.
Retractable ballpoint pen.
Another retractable ballpoint pen.
Address book. Guard *that* with my life!
Zippo lighter with those 'Love and Rockets' girls on the side.
Extra clip for weapon.
One red cat's-eye marble.
Two lunch receipts.
Gum *wrapper*. (Hey, we're getting close!)
A shoelace? With boots that zip and nice dress loafers, don't need *that* anymore!
Hmmm... nothing left in that pocket but change. Let's see. Forty-seven cents American, a Canadian quarter,... and a CTA token? When's the last time I was in Chicago?
Okay, toss the receipts and the gum wrapper, and put everything else back in. I might *need* a shoelace someday. *Other* pocket.
Holy Jesus! One, two, three... Why am I carrying *seventeen* condoms in my jacket? Oh, yeah: 'cause I used one.
Handcuffs.
Small plastic zippy bag containing three tightly-rolled joints. Was that a cop car? Wait a minute--what am I: twenty years old?
Yet *another* retractable ballpoint pen. Where do I keep stealing these things?
Half-tube of lubricant.
*Full* tube of lubricant.
One el cheapo adhesive bandage.
Single small gold hoop earring. Shut up.
One roll of antacid tablets.
A safety pin.
A wingnut.
Chapstick.
A wingnut?
Aspirin.
*Real* painkillers.
Small plastic zippy bag containing sunflower seeds. SHUT. UP.
Folding travel toothbrush. Well, I guess if I get desperate...
Okay, that all can go back in. *Inside* pocket.
Cassette tape. "Queen's Greatest Hits"? I could have sworn it was something else when I put it in there...
Metro Pass.
3.5 inch floppy disk. Yeah, it's the novel I'm working on. Right.
Two *more* retractable ballpoint pens.
Bingo! Gum! I *knew* I had some. Much better.
"Okay, Alex. Let's go."
Shit! Where did *he* come from? Back to work. "Yes, sir. Where to?"
"Back to the office. And spit out that gum. It doesn't look professional."
Like hell. "Yes, sir." I'll park it over there until we arrive and I get to wait some more. Oh, joy...
THE END
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