The Sex Files

The truth is really out there...

Feb. 2 • 11:27 p.m. • Lexington, KY

The camera pans away from an extreme close up of an Alien Conspiracy bumper sticker on the bumper of a stretch limo. The mysterious intelligence operative known only as CIGARETTE-SMOKING MAN is, as usual, sucking on a Marlboro. He looks across a fence where MARGARET THATCHER is riding a horse, which is also smoking a cigarette. The CIGARETTE-SMOKING MAN's eyes narrow. We see something flying through the air—impossibly fast—hear a sound like a knife hacking into a watermelon. Cut to: close up of the ground where CM's cigarette falls into the grass.

Feb. 10 • 8:15 a.m. • Naval Research Hospital, Bethesda, MD

(INT, hospital suite. CIGARETTE-SMOKING MAN is in bed, wired up. He seems to be in a kind of daze. MULDER and SCULLY are standing over him, questioning him.)

CIGARETTE-SMOKING MAN: And it hit me—just like that.

MULDER: What do you mean it "hit" you?

CM: It hit me, I tell you. You don’t know what you’re dealing with here...something hit me.

SCULLY: Nothing hit you.

CSM: I know it.

SCULLY: You know what I know? We’ve X-rayed you, done an MRI—there’s no entry wound, no exit wound.

CSM: I felt it, don’t you see? Right here—stabbing me.

SCULLY: Where did you feel this?

CM: (pounding chest) In my heart—right here.

MULDER: A pain. Like a sort of stabbing pain?

CSM: Exactly.

MULDER: (pointing to a pack of cigs by the bed) Maybe you should cut down.

CSM: It’s not the cigarettes, damn it, it’s not my angina—

SCULLY makes a dubious look.

CM: I know something hit me, and you want to know why I know that?

SCULLY: Why?

CM: Because it hurt, but it also felt good....ahahaha...REAL GOOD.

CIGARETTE-SMOKING MAN collapses and the machinery starts beeping. A nurse skitters in and starts fussing over him, casting accusing glances at the two FBI agents. A cell-phone rings. CIGARETTE-SMOKING MAN picks it up, waves MULDER and SCULLY away and begins talking in chummy tones to someone on the other end about the Falklands engagement.

EXT: Hospital hallway. Two-shot—MULDER and SCULLY walking.

MULDER: I don’t understand it, Scully.

SCULLY: What exactly don’t you understand?

MULDER: You know he said it got him right there—right in his heart?

SCULLY: Yeah.

MULDER: I never thought he had a heart.

SCULLY: It’s not funny, Mulder. This is happening all over—and it’s always the same pattern. The stabbing pain, the disorientation, the infatuation. I think this could be some sort of pattern killer...

MULDER: But the symptoms usually aren’t fatal.

SCULLY: Maybe whoever it is we’re dealing with is inexperienced. Maybe the killer’s just starting out....

MULDER: I don’t think so, Scully. We’re not talking Murder 101—we’re talking exobiological.

SCULLY: On what basis?

MULDER: On the basis of your medical report. (quoting) "Victims repeatedly reported the presence of a winged, babylike creature that apparently fired arrows in their hearts—though no wound could later be found."

SCULLY: It...it could be a mass hallucination.

MULDER: How? It’s always the same hallucination—the victims all managed to get their stories straight, even though powerful chocolate and floral delivery companies have succeeding in keeping these incidents out of the press. How can you explain that?

SCULLY: I can’t.

MULDER: I can. It goes back to Roswell, Bigfoot, the grassy knoll...

EXT: Hospital. Day. MULDER and SCULLY emerge into parking lot—MULDER still talking.

MULDER: It’s all connected, Scully. The truth is out there, not to mention a little naked guy with wings on his back, a bow and arrow, and a sick sense of humor.

SCULLY: (pointing up at the sky) You mean like...like that guy?

SOUND: THWWWWAKKK!

They collapse. Fade to black.

Feb. 14 • 7 p.m. • Earth orbit.

Open on the interior of a flying saucer. MULDER and SCULLY are strapped onto two medical tables positioned next to each other. Small, chubby, pink, babylike figures with wings growing out of their backs are marching around them, twiddling the dials of strange machinery and chomping cigars. MULDER and SCULLY turn to look at each other. Exchange glances.

MULDER: Agent Scully?

SCULLY: What is it, Agent Mulder?

MULDER: Anybody ever tell you you’ve got beautiful eyes?

Originally published Sarasota Arts & Entertainment, Feb. 2000

© February 2000, Jack Getz/Marty Fugate. All rights reserved.