--Our Kryceks--(1/1)
by Punk Maneuverability
Posted: 13. December 2001

Distribution: Hey, spread it on your toast if you like, just let me
know how it tastes. Good for Gossamer and 2002 Spookys.

Disclaimer: All this time and I still don't own them. I might want to
think about a career change.

Rating: R for guns and sex and bad words
Classification: V for "very hard to classify" but also for "vignette"

Summary: Oh Krycek! How we knew ye!

Punk Notes: Hey, check it out. I made a trilogy. Visit the
trailblazing "Our Mulders" and "Our Scullys" at my website,
somewhere near here: http://home.teleport.com/~punkm/xfiles.html

And then send me some e-mail, because it's the neighborly thing 
to do: punkm@teleport.com

Thanks of course to Sabine, who makes everything better. And
probably to Dawn. Just because.

+++++++++++++++++++

Our Kryceks
 by Punk Maneuverability

+++++++++++++++++++

He was betrayed with a kiss, he passed it on.

He was a traitor, a spy, an agent with no agency.

Whatever he was, he made no excuses. He let us do that for him. 

We said he was misunderstood. We said he was a product of his
environment. We said he couldn't help himself. He said nothing.

We gave him leather. We gave him guns. We gave him a cold
Russian childhood. We gave him a cold cold war. We gave him
back his arm. He slipped out the back and disappeared. 

He never called. We had no idea if he was even still alive.

We waited up for him. We peered out our windows and whispered
his name. We would have put out saucers of milk if we thought it
might help. We were desperate. He hated that about us.

We tried to make him save the world. He kept switching sides.

We wouldn't give up.

We pieced together enough Russian to call him "lover" and "friend."
He laughed at us. We said, "Moj drug." We said, "Moya droog."
We had no idea what we were saying.

We tried to teach him about loyalty. We tried to teach him about
love. He sucked Mulder off against his apartment door but refused
to get sentimental about it. We tried again.

We tried to teach him to trust no one. We tried to teach him to read
the classics and quote from memory. We tried to teach him chess
and poker and blackjack, and he beat us anyway. We introduced
him to our friends. He killed them.

He disappeared again.

We found him in Tunisia, in San Francisco, in Hong Kong, in St.
Petersburg. We bought him a drink in New Orleans and he told us a
story about the end of the world.

We stole it.

We used him. We made him sell his secrets, kill our mistakes, fuck
our enemies, destroy the evidence and set the place on fire.

He was everything we weren't. We owed him.

We paid him in vodka, in women, in men. But we had nothing he
wanted.

He didn't care. We were starting to annoy him.

We got scared. We couldn't control him so we killed him. He died
quietly. He died with remorse. He died angry. He died with a gun in
his hand.

We killed him so we could sleep at night. He only pretended to die.

++++++

Thanks - Lock the door on your way out
Punk M

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all feedback to:
punkm@teleport.com
The Underground means never having to say you're sorry: 
http://home.teleport.com/~punkm/index.html