...two semi-morose men in Black wound up in a bar one dark and stormy night and started doing a little buddy bonding?

[Fade up from black on a seedy bar located nowhere special. The place is deserted except for three men.]

[The first is GOATEE GUY, who scuttles away from his badly lit stool at the end of the bar feeling ticked off because he still hasn't gotten to speak a line on-camera. At the same time, he is peversely thrilled by the knowledge that scads of LFN Message Board readers are yelping "There he is! There he is!" and postulating complicated theories about his possible connection to the much-vaunted LFN mystery.]

[The second is the BARTENDER; feel free to cast him at will. Try not to dwell upon the fact that Bruce Willis once did this kind of work in New York City under the name "Bruno."]

[The third and most important individual present is MAN IN BLACK #1. MIB #1 is a drool-worthy hung who's looking a tad worse for wear after having visited numerous SB authors; survived an interlude during which all his colleagues tried to terminate him with extreme prejudice; had several sincere--albeit lame--dinner invitations blown off by a blonde whose butt he's saved on numerous occasions; and been subjected to intense speculation that he's on his boss' "merde" list because he's had a few bad days...er, weeks...er, months...on the job. MIB #1 is dressed in--well, figure it out for yourselves. His Hong Kong-style hair has been backlit to bring out the reddish undertones.]

MIB#1: (mubling, clearly irritated) ...the last time, leave me alone! (swigs down his drink, then to BARTENDER) Hit me.

BARTENDER: You've been hit enough, buddy. To tell the truth, you look like you've been caged and tortured.

MIB#1: I'm fine. (pauses as though listening to something, then turns away from bar and hisses) No! I'm in mandatory refusal! (back to BARTENDER) Hit me again.

BARTENDER: You got a designated driver?

MIB#1: In the van, in the alley. All I have to do is say "go." (pauses to listen again, then turns away from bar and growls) Don't make me come out there and cancel you, Birky! And don't take that superior attitude because you're getting more action than me at the moment! (back to BARTENDER) Now, HIT ME!

BARTENDER: (surrendering) Okay! Okay! It's your funeral.

MIB#1: (back to his customary quiet tone) No funerals necessary. I'm already a ghost.

BARTENDER: (rolling his eyes) Yeah, yeah. Whatever.

[BARTENDER mixes and serves another drink to MIB #1. MIB #1 sips at it with a brooding, soulfully wounded--or is that woundedly soulful?--expression. Enter MIB #2, dripping wet and wrestling with an umbrella. MIB #2 is attractive in an offbeat, intensely intelligent kind of way. But compared with MIB #1...]

MIB #2: (sheds black rain gear and plunks down on stool next to MIB #1) Man, what a night! It's coming down like frogs out there!

BARTENDER: El Nino.

MIB #2: Huh?

BARTENDER: The weird weather. It's El Nino.

MIB #2: (scoffing laugh) That's what they WANT you to think.

BARTENDER: Who?

MIB #2: The architects of a conspiracy that's so incredibly complex it requires a full-length feature film to flesh out some--but definitely not all--of the details.

MIB #1: (interested) Conspiracy? Right-wing or left?

MIB #2: Neither. It's run by aliens. They're beyond wings.

MIB #1: Mmm. (goes back to brooding over his alcoholic beverage)

BARTENDER: (polishes the bar, addresses MIB #2) So, what can I get you?

MIB #2: Uhh-- (looks over at MIB #1) What are you having?

MIB #1: (pause, patented blank stare) A Screaming Orgasm.

MIB #2: Oh. (blinks) You must be on cable.

MIB #1: (grimly) When I'm not being preempted by an albino blubber fest.

MIB #2: (immediately comprehending the reference as any character played by a Celebrity Jeopardy runner-up would) God, I hate two-part TV adaptations of mid-19th century classics involving allegorical symbolism!

BARTENDER: (to himself) I was just hopin' they'd quit yappin' and throw the harpoons! (to MIB #2) So? What's it gonna be, pal?

MIB #2: I'll have what he's having. Only...make it a double.

BARTENDER: One Rock the Boat with a Twin-Moon chaser comin' up.

[BARTENDER mixes and serves the drink to MIB #2 who sips, chokes violently, but gamely gives an approving thumbs up. MIB #1 tosses back his drink without flinching. The move really shows off his hair. Likewise, his virile and not remotely disproportionate jaw.]

MIB #1: (to BARTENDER) Another.

BARTENDER: You've already had three.

MIB #1: According to the story board, I'm capable of six in one night. Keep pouring.

BARTENDER: (resigned) You want something for your invisible friend?

MIB #2: (interested) Invisible friend? Like a poltergeist? Or an ectoplasmic anomaly precipitated by elecromagnetic disturbances in the--

BARTENDER: No. Like Harvey!

MIB #2: Who?

BARTENDER: Harvey! (MIB #2 stares, clearly flummoxed) C'mon, you gotta know Harvey!

MIB #2: (Okay, so Celebrity Jeopardy runners-up occasionally have egregious gaps in their pop culture knowledge. That's why they get defeated by Stephen King!!) Uh---

BARTENDER: Geez, Louise. Where have you been? Holed up in some basement office in Washington keeping track of UFO sightings? Harvey's a big white rab-- (breaks off abruptly as MIB #1 reaches across the bar with a lethally graceful movement, grabs the front of his shirt and yanks him foreward)

MIB #1: (very distinctly, accent intensifying) You would be well-advised not to mention big white ANYTHINGS in my presence.

BARTENDER: (staggers back after being released) Man, I guess SOMEBODY got reamed out at yet another tactical debriefing. Try to control the externalization of emotion, mon ami. This isn't Jerry Springer. Anyway, I was only being pleasant. If you don't want to buy a drink for your buddy Jerky--

MIB #1: (shouting) JERKY IS DEAD! (recovers) And he wasn't my 'buddy.' I don't have 'buddies.' Except maybe Chuck, and he got blown up. (pauses) A lot of people I know get blown up.

BARTENDER: Uh--

MIB #1: So, no buddies. No weaknesses, either. And for the record, Jurgen was my trainer.

BARTENDER: And now you're contacting him through the Psychic Friends' Network, right?

MIB #2: (snorts) That service is sooooo bogus.

MIB #1: (crosstalk) Psychic Friends' Network? (turns slightly) Birky, I need intel on--

BARTENDER: SEE! YOU'RE DOING IT AGAIN!

MIB #1: (back to BARTENDER) Doing what?

BARTENDER: TALKING TO JERKY!

MIB #1: Jer--? OH! No. It's BIRKY I'm talking to. Short for Birkoff.

MIB #2: (sitting up straight) Birkoff? That wouldn't be SEYMOUR Birkoff, would it?

MIB #1: (suspicious) Possibly.

MIB #2: If it is, keep an eye on him. I've seen Internet postings about the stuff he'd been doing in the White Room with that Gail chick and...well, let's just say it's weirder than an alien autopsy and enough to put you off Oreos for the rest of your life. (extends his hand) I'm Mulder, by the way. Special Agent, FBI.

MIB #1: (shakes) Michael. Cold op, Section One.

MULDER (aka MIB #2): The most covert anti-terrorist organization on the planet, right?

MICHAEL (aka MIB #1): Mais, oui.

MULDER: Man, have I heard a lot about you guys! What's your motto again? Something about your ends being just but your means being ruthless?

MICHAEL: And if you don't play by our rules, we kill you. Of course, nobody tells you what the rules are beyond 'do the job,' so there's no real need to plan for retirement.

MULDER: (checks out MICHAEL's attire) You get to wear pretty cool clothes, though. Uh--Dolce & Gabbana, right?

MICHAEL: Gaultier.

MULDER: That was my second guess. (leans in) Lemme ask you something. Don't you find black picks up lint?

MICHAEL: Unfortunately, yes. But it also picks up women. And it doesn't show blood.

MULDER: Good point. (sips drink very tentatively) I applied to you guys once.

MICHAEL: Section likes to do its own recruiting.

MULDER: So I found out. I got back a form rejection letter signed by somebody called Operations. He said you only took people who'd murdered members of their immediate families.

MICHAEL: Well--

MULDER: I wrote back saying I thought Section should make an exception for me. After all, I DID witness my only sister being abducted by unknown entities.

MICHAEL: (to himself) And I've had to witness my sister playing house with some second-rate chef. (to MULDER) Did you get a response?

MULDER: Another form letter. This one from somebody called Madeline saying, "Big deal. I tossed MY sister down a staircase because of a doll." (pause) Betcha it was a Malibu Barbie.

MICHAEL: More like a dominatrix action figure with leather accessories.

MULDER: (definitely intrigued) Tough lady, huh?

MICHAEL: You have no idea.

MULDER: I think I might. My boss is Janet Reno. She used to wrestle alligators.

MICHAEL: Madeline invented the concept of acceptable collateral. And she can stop her heart at will.

MULDER: Wow.

MICHAEL: There's only one woman in the world who can match her for relentless ambition, remorseless manipulation and cold-blooded calculation.

MULDER: Amanda on MELROSE PLACE.

MICHAEL: Get real!

MULDER: Hillary Clinton?

MICHAEL: Close. Kathie Lee Gifford.

MULDER: (shuddering) Oh, yes! Have I got an X-File on HER! And that kid? Cody? (whistles the theme to "The Twilight Zone")

[MICHAEL and MULDER lapse into reflective silence. BARTENDER goes about his business. MICHAEL finishes his drink and heaves a heavy sigh.}

MULDER: Bad day at the substation?

MICHAEL: (shrugs) The usual. Killing terorists. Suffering existential angst. Staring at my former material. You?

MULDER: Same old, same old. Chasing extraterrestials. Trying to figure out the mythology arc. Staring at my partner.

MICHAEL: Are you and she--?

MULDER: Do relationshipper fanfics count?

MICHAEL: Only if sanctioned by Chris Carter.

MULDER: Oh, yeah. Right. Like he's going to destroy the UST.

MICHAEL: You've got a problem with that, too?

MULDER: Are you kidding? In five-plus years, the closest I've come to having sex with ANYBODY is an off-camera encounter with a vampire.

MICHAEL: Quelle dommage.

MULDER: How's YOUR love life?

MICHAEL: There is no good news. Don't go there.

MULDER: Really? I'm surprised. I mean, I thought you French guys--

MICHAEL: Canadian.

MULDER: Huh?

MICHAEL: I'm Canadian. I play French.

MULDER: You know, I THOUGHT there was something strange about your accent! (pause) Beautiful country, Canada. Nice place to work as long as your wife isn't starring in a TV sit-com in Los Angeles and nagging you about not being around to escort her to Spago three times a week.

BARTENDER: Women!

MULDER: Can't live with 'em--

MICHAEL: --can't cancel 'em with a shaped charge of C-12.

[Muffled ringing sounds. MULDER and MICHAEL reach into their jackets and bring out cell phones. Each man clicks his on and brings it to his ear. They speak almost simultaneously.]

MULDER: Mulder.

MICHAEL: Yes.

MULDER: (grimacing) Mutants, AGAIN?

MICHAEL: (grimacing) L-Virus, AGAIN?

MULDER: Okay. I'll be there.

MICHAEL: Fine. I'll start sequencing.

[MICHAEL and MULDER disconnect, pay their bar tabs, gather up their things. They exchange nods of farewell and head off in opposite directions.]

BARTENDER: Hey, guy! Just remember--

MULDER: (over shoulder) The Truth is Out There.

MICHAEL: (over his shoulder) Be patient.

[MULDER and MICHAEL exit.]

BARTENDER: Actually, I was gonna say...get a life!

[Meanwhile, in a pleasant fern bar across town a TALL BLONDE who has bandaged fingers and is wearing a butt-ugly floppy hat has just come in out of the rain and seated herself next to a PETITE REDHEAD.]

PR: (conversationally) Nice hat!

TB: (surprised) Thanks. Nobody ELSE seems to like it. (removes hat, revealing some severaly singed hair)

PR: Oh, my. Been interrogating with that butane torch again?

TB: (grimacing) Playing with candles, actually.

BARTENDER: So, honey, what's your pleasure?

TB: Umm-- (glances at PR) What are you having?

PR: (toying with the paper parasol in her drink) Sex on a Ship.

TB: Been there. Done that. SIX times in one night. (to BARTENDER) I'll have a Harvey Wallbanger, please...

(OUT to COMMERCIAL)

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