TITLE -     I in Time Will Come (1/1)
AUTHOR -    campylobacter
EMAIL -     camps@LikeIGiveAFuck.com
RATING -    R (undead sexual situations)
CATEGORY -  V, H (Vignette, Humor)
SPOILERS -  The Truth
KEYWORDS -  CSM/Satan
SUMMARY -   CSM's afterlife proves unsatisfactory.

DATE -          16 April 2004
SIZE -          4k / 447 words
DISCLAIMER -    CSM owns Satan, who owns Chris Carter.
DEDICATED TO -  Logan supplied the rather sinister lyrics.
AUTHOR'S NOTE - Lyric Wheel "Beginnings" Challenge 
ARCHIVE -       For non-commercial purposes only.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  

I IN TIME WILL COME
by campylobacter


Ever since my arrival, I have enjoyed romantic dinners with The 
Prince of Darkness.  He woos me with a Cabernet of startling 
vintage, a bouilliabase of extraordinary creaminess, and a beef 
tartar of exceeding bloodiness.  The music is furnished by 
Nicolo Paganini himself -- and a guitarist -- within a dining 
hall decorated in Italian Rococo.  Not a speck of ash or 
particle of soot mars the gleam of the ornate gilt armrests, 
despite my unending supply of cigarettes.  

With the blink of an eye, Lucifer transfigures Himself into 
forms I find pleasing, and we disport ourselves in view of 
mirrors that reflect every angle and moment of our innocent 
gambols.

In the mirror at the headboard, I, with the supple skin of 
youth, receive the mouth of Teena, also in her youth.

In the mirror at the footboard, Dana admits me into her hindmost 
orifice.

In the mirror at my right, Alex smiles as he is crossed in ropes 
of my pearly seed.

In the mirror at my left, Samantha.

As with all activities repeated throughout a millennium, I grow 
bored, and ask a boon of my Beloved:  May I return to the World 
anew, on the promise of returning once more to this unhallowed 
demesne?

His handsome features fall in despair.  "Ask not this of me!  
You would leave me alone, bereft, undone!  What surety have I 
that you will return to me?  Colors change for no good reason, 
and words will go from poetry to prose."

I cajole, wheedle, assure Him that He will keep my soul, that 
never shall I be within hope of redemption, while I tend to 
unfinished business.

He relents, perhaps too quickly.  "The womb of either Dana, who 
was called barren, or of Marita, will quicken -- choose but 
one."

"If Marita, then who the sire?"

"Alex, undoubtedly."

"But how?  He dwells here, two-armed."

"Nay; I granted his return to the moment of his death.  He 
thrives now, one-armed, to harry Mulder, as ever."

I choose to re-enter the World through Marita, for Dana too 
readily surrenders her offspring to strangers.  As for my fickle 
Beloved, I beseech Him to attend my return, to recognize me in 
whatever flesh I assume, to enfold me once more into His infernal
arms after my next lifetime.

No sooner have I pledged Him to me, than I find myself suspended 
in liquid, then compressed, then slapped upon the rump to once 
more expand my lungs with the empty fullness of air.  Naked, I lie 
at Marita's breast, and suckle her warmth in mammalian ecstasy.

I begin to realize that although I sup with the Devil, Alex Krycek
has breakfast with Him.  

[end]


. . . 
"Not Myself"
by John Mayer
 
Suppose I said I am on my best behavior
And there are times I lose my worried mind 
 
   Would you want me when I'm not myself?
   Wait it out while I am someone else? 
 
Suppose I said [colors change for no good reason
And words will go from poetry to prose]
 
   Would you want me when I'm not myself?
   Wait it out while I am someone else? 
 
And [I, in time, will come] around
I always do for you 
 
Suppose I said you're my saving grace?
. . .
camps@LikeIGiveAFuck.com
http://campylobactr.signmyguestbook.com/
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http://home.uid.onemain.com/~jr1008310/