Simon The Ripper's Mental Musings
By Humbuggie
(c) 2003 
san@sv-tales.com
Edited by Truthwebothknow1

A special thanks goes out to X-Phylia, with my utmost 
thanks for (ab)using her scientific mind to get all the 
complex details of this story in right order. I'm not a 
scientist. Thank god for me that she is. 

Written for Virtual Season 11, with a special thanks to the 
team there that has created such a wonderful series. I'm 
hoping that my efforts will contribute to the series' 
continuing success.


Oh no, I see,
A spider web is tangled up with me,
And I lost my head,
The thought of all the stupid things I said,
Oh no what's this?
A spider web, and I'm caught in the middle,
So I turned to run,
The thought of all the stupid things I've done
-- Coldplay 


Teaser 
October 2003 

Simon West liked to sing. No, he loved it. All the time. He 
hummed at the office, even though the sound of music was 
the furthest thing away from his ears. He chanted in the 
car driving home, turning up the volume during Coldplay's 
Clocks, which he recited perfectly. He went wild on 
Parachutes, too. At home, he was nuts on Dido. And when he 
was in the shower, he preferred Sunday Bloody Sunday.  

At school he was the boy you would always try to avoid in 
the playgrounds. The one who was picked upon and teased 
with his buckteeth, stupid grin and red hair above a 
heavily freckled face. He was never cute, cuddly or even 
slightly attractive: an awkward teen. He was off kilter. 
Weird. Not the good weird, but the awkward type. Something 
indefinable, something so strange, that it stirred in him a 
pure hatred against women. What a miracle that he'd passed 
all the psych tests to get his job; all forced upon him by 
women. Women were everywhere:  in the shops, the elevators, 
the pharmacy, the office, the . . .  well, everywhere! 

A male teacher of his, one-day said: "Some people are 
destined to become human 
wallpaper. Just go with the flow, and you'll be able to 
live your life freely."
Simon had taken that advice to heart; now he just sat back 
and hated them all. 

Today, Simon West no longer cared that women at the office 
constantly took the piss out of him at work. Now he was 
just the nerdy dude with the stupid Simpson's-mug, who took 
the four spoons of sugar in his coffee. The one who still 
lived at his mother's and liked her to make his lunch. In 
fact, his mother was the only woman he didn't hate. In the 
end, he just learned quickly to become that unseen 
wallpaper. 

That night, on his way home from the office, Simon's mind 
had been made up. He had been researching all the details 
for weeks online, imagining it all playing out inside his 
rather large skull. He knew that he had all the equipment 
now: the dark clothes, the gloves, the knife, the ropes and 
"The Ultimate Guide to Ripping: A Full Companion for the 
Future Serial Killer." Lovely. He had also printed out all 
the gruesome details he found described on a detailed, 
known website, and also in books. He'd devoured every 
single novel or reference book on Jack The Ripper; and last 
week, he decided he would become him. 

Jack The Ripper was his example, his god: the first serial 
killer noted throughout history, becoming notorious through 
his many gruesome acts and never caught. But Simon wanted 
to get caught. 

Perhaps he could commit one, two murders before anyone 
would make the connection. Then, they would scream 'murder' 
and say that The Ripper had returned once more. At the turn 
of the new millennium, someone needed to stir things up 
sometimes. That someone was Simon West: Mister Ordinaire, 
just like Jack The Ripper had once taken the innocence out 
of London. 

Simon scrubbed, shaved and dried while listening to 
Radiohead's OK Computer, and put on his black outfit. 
Everything lay ready in the trunk of the car. Downstairs it 
was quiet. His mother didn't like to be disturbed after 
eight, when she had cooked, cleaned and had dressed in her 
satin nightgown that buttoned up to the top. 

"I'm going out, mom," he told her politely. "I'll be back 
in a few hours. Don't worry about me." 

She didn't respond verbally, but waved with her hand. He 
locked the door from the outside and walked brusquely to 
his car. His sedan waited for him. It was a run of the mill 
trustworthy car, not an exciting one like most of his 
colleagues drove. He left D.C. and headed for Baltimore. He 
was a far cry from Victorian London, but he didn't care. 
There were plenty of alleys where he could find his whores 
to kill. He had researched the areas well, and knew where 
to go. 

He pulled his car into an abandoned parking lot a few miles 
outside of D.C. and walked over to the stolen RV he had 
snatched three days ago. He'd replaced the license plates, 
and paid some dude he knew to re-spray it black. It was 
old, it stank strongly of dog piss but it suited the 
purpose. He was in Baltimore in less than an hour. 

He knew his way around quite well, having scanned the area 
previously. He debated between Exeter Street, or Rhubarb 
Road; deciding to pick out the latter. Plenty of working 
girls hung out there, who would do anything for a dime. He 
spotted groups of them on almost every corner, and a few 
walking alone. He settled for the singletons. 

He put on the Knicks' cap that hid his thick red hair, 
pulling it down low over his eyes. He cruised up beside a 
woman dressed in black and red ass-freezer dress. 

"A blow, baby?" she purred instantly, lingering 
suspiciously near the RV. 

"I'm looking for a girl named Mary Ann," he whispered 
hoarsely, and then felt totally ridiculous. Who in their 
right mind would listen to this shit and not be put in mind 
of a B-movie? 

But the working girl smiled. "You're in luck baby, I'm Mary 
Ann." 

"No, you're not. I need a Mary Ann. A real one." 

"I can be whoever you want, darling." He watched her 
chewing gum working back and forth through her teeth. In 
his mind's eye, he pretended to choke her, to shove that 
gum as far down her gullet as possible, blocking off the 
air in her windpipe and have her suffocate on it. 

"I want someone named Mary or Ann, or both. Got it?" he 
hissed menacingly. 

She froze for a second or two, and waved out her hand 
instinctively. "There's an Ann standing right over there. 
The blonde bimbo with the leather boots. But she doesn't 
blow as well as I do." 

"I'm sure she'll die better," he muttered under his breath 
as he drove off, leaving the redhead dazzled. Before long, 
he had reached the blonde and asked if her name was Ann. 

"Yeah," she replied broadly.

He was angry that her hair wasn't the right color, but 
hell, that didn't matter. "Hop in." He threw open the door 
and allowed her inside. 

"No way," she said. "Around that corner there's a small 
motel. I'm not doing you in your car." 

"Get in then, I'll drive you." 

She hesitated. He took off his cap. She relaxed. "You seem 
okay." 

She stepped in gingerly and they drove around the corner, 
not even that far from where her friends normally worked. 
But instead of going inside the cheap, sleazy motel that 
was a magnet for hookers and their customers, he parked the 
car one block down. 

"Do you know why you are going to die?" he asked in a 
friendly, matter of fact manner. 

She startled and went for the door. He grasped her wrist. 
"Do you?"

"No," she squealed. 

"Because you're a stupid bitch woman with a stupid name 
like Mary Ann who can't keep her legs closed, and just begs 
to be killed in some equally stupid alley, slashed by a 
Ripper knife. That's why."  He ground out a sliver of anger 
between clenched teeth.

"Are you stoned?" she asked as calmly as she could manage.

He smiled. "I'm high on life, baby." 

"I'm calling the cops!" 

He laughed. "You do that."

In a flash, he'd grasped her by the hair and pushed her 
down hard, smashing her head against the filthy dashboard. 
She was stunned instantly. He left the RV and dragged her 
out from the passenger side, wearing his gloves. Strands of 
her hair remained on his clothing. He pulled her to the 
ground, and then onto the wet pavement glistening from the 
night's rain. 

Then he worked swift and fast, summoning up the gory 
details that he almost knew from the top of his head. 
Within three minutes he was gone, leaving her carved-up 
body for her friends to find. Blood flowed from underneath 
her body, twisting like a dark serpent into the drains 
beside her. The cuts were exactly as the real Jack would 
have made them. 

Simon West's voice remained calm until he reached his own 
car again. He had been careful not to leave a single trace 
inside the RV, still wearing his gloves. The bloodied 
clothing he had quickly replaced for another set. He would 
wash everything and re-use them the next time.

His mother would be long asleep by the time he got home, 
under the influence of her sedative, and leave him to his 
grisly devices. He felt strangely calm and started humming 
to himself without music. By the time he'd reached his own 
car again, he was ready to sing. 
 
The voice never trembled even slightly as it passed to 
mimic Coldplay's volume. He switched on A Rush Of Blood To 
The Head and sang every word perfectly. 

It was a rush indeed. 


The following morning, Simon West left for the office as 
usual, dressed in a decent gray suit, with shiny black 
shoes and an old-fashioned, boring tie. He used his badge 
to gain access to the building, to his department on the 
first floor, and ultimately to his desk. 

"You're late," his female boss snapped. "We're already 
running behind on all these case files. Assistant Director 
Miles is not happy with us right now, you know. The VCU 
needs to score quickly, and the backlog is not helping 
matters. Where the hell is your analysis?" 

He thought of killing her right there. Instead, his face 
smiled bravely. "I'll stay behind late today and make sure 
he gets everything." 

"You'd better. It's your fault entirely, Simon. You don't 
work fast enough. Your work is a mess." 

Simon stretched his back, switched on his computer, and 
accessed the Bureau's most sacred databases, before 
glancing unhappily at the amount of paperwork piled on his 
desk. He glanced at his watch, wondering how long it would 
take before anyone would drop the file on his desk, and ask 
him to start researching data. His file. His crime.

Now that would give him quite a kick. 


Act I 

"I see. I see ... I see. I see Nachos. Hot dogs. 
Basketball. The New York Knicks vs the Washington Wizards. 
The MCI Center. I see ... I see ... I see us there. Sunday 
night. Eight p.m. Two tickets." 

Dana Scully waited in barely contained amusement, until her 
partner in every sense of the word, was finished hocus 
pocusing before stepping into the basement office they'd 
shared for so long. She never missed a beat while strolling 
to the desk, placing her briefcase on top of it, and 
crossing her arms over herself. 

Mulder sat at his desk, a hand held over his eyes, and the 
other over two tickets he'd no doubt paid a fortune for. 
They were front row center court, right behind the visitors 
bench, the most expensive seats he could lay hands on. He 
opened his eyes. "Oh yes, that's our future, baby." 

"I see us working on Sunday evening," she retorted. "There 
goes your prediction. Or did you get that from the 
Stupendous Yappi?" 

Mulder looked up in quasi-shock. "Working, Agent Scully? On 
a Sunday? Besides, is Yappi still in business? Last time I 
heard, he was living in Australia predicting the future of 
Skippy the Kangaroo, after declaring to the world that Al 
Gore would beat the crap out of Bush, Jr." 

"Yes, Agent Mulder. Working. And the last thing I heard is 
that Yappi's working in Caesar's Palace, Vegas, where he 
urges zillions of filthy-rich men and women to spend 
millions of bucks on the slots; telling them erroneously 
which one is going to pop at any second." 

"Oh please, no work, Scully. Not this weekend! Is this 
coming from the woman who vowed a long time ago that her 
weekends were sacred, and that no one in this world could 
drag her into becoming a weekend working girl?"

"Don't forget mentioning that I also said Easter and 
Christmas should fall together." Scully lingered around his 
desk, before sitting on top of the two tickets, nearly 
squashing her partner's hand in the process. "I should add 
that it's not my idea to work, but unfortunately it needs 
to be done. This weekend. I'm sorry about your tickets." 

"Okay, where's the fire?" 

"We've had that already. It's AD Henry Miles."

"The new guy in VCU?  I heard he was a hard ass, but since 
when does he get to order us around?" Mulder groaned, "Did 
he get lost on the way to his office? 
Or is he attempting to replace Skinner who's enjoying a 
peaceful weekend in the City of Angels?" 

"Well, actually, Skinner did tell us he would replace him 
during his absence." 

"Which means that we have to obey the New Big Bad Boss. I 
know," Mulder sighed. "Ah well. So, what does he want?" 

"I'm guessing he's shooting under Skinner's feathers. He 
wants an evaluation of all our cases of the last year, 
going meticulously over all the details from A to Z. Even 
though you have an eidetic memory, I don't see how we can 
pull this off in less than a day. We are lousy admins, 
Mulder. We both put it off until the very last moment. This 
place is a mess, too; the cabinet is sloppy, the dust 
bunnies will start an uprising soon. The cleaning lady 
hasn't been here for ages." 

"Says who?" Mulder smiled.

Scully ran a finger in a slow line through the grot on top 
of that filing cabinet, pursing her lips with a hint of 
annoyance, and lifted her finger up, shoving it under 
Mulder's nose. "Says my finger. Anyhow, it's Friday and he 
waited until eight a.m. this morning, while I stood in the 
elevator with him, to throw this at me. Perhaps he's 
psychic too, and remote-viewed the tickets lying around on 
your desk." 

"Tough." Mulder leaned backwards, almost losing his grip on 
the chair, dangling between empty space and the desk. 
"He'll get everything that's in my head and that's it. If 
he wants a complete evaluation he can go run it by that 
analyst guy they have ensconced in dust on the first floor. 
I'm sure he can stump up all the crappy details that AD 
Miles gets off on. Remember him? The Freckle Dude. He knows 
it all, and it's right there in his computer, sitting next 
to Miles's office. I'm sure he's got no plans for the 
weekend."

"Are you really going to tell him that?" Scully smiled. 
"The Freckle Guy will get all the blame, while you're 
shouting out obscenities from your top notch seat in all 
your juvenile glory?" 

"If he doesn't like it, he can serve my head on a platter, 
after we've seen the game. Now, grab your coat, Agent 
Scully and take a walk with me."

"Where to?" 

"Starbucks. I'm thirsty. Didn't have my CafŽ LattŽ this 
morning, as you well know." 

"Oh Mulder." 

"What?" He stopped at the door and turned towards her. 
"It's not like we're swamped with work right now. I'm 
actually thinking of reopening up the Titanic case to see 
if they didn't crash into a UFO instead of a boring 
iceberg, so at least we can go do a little sea trip, and do 
something useful for a change. Hell, I'll even watch the 
movie with you for the twenty-fifth time, while running 
back and forth serving you peanuts and cola. Anything's 
better than opening the Weekly World News for the umpteenth 
time, hoping that one of the fake anal probing stories is 
not so fake after all. Do you know that an eighty-year-old 
man claimed he was probed and prodded for the use of his 
sperm, to create alien-human hybrids? He's suing the mental 
institution he's lived in since 1986, because they forgot 
to lock their doors at night." 

She laughed. "If you put it that way, I'm fairly certain 
that there's a reason why you're suddenly so keen to check 
out the new flavors at Starbuck's. They have great 
frappucino's there by the way, and I wouldn't mind trying 
one." 

"Yes. Thank you God!" Mulder exclaimed, waving his hands in 
the air. "Agent Scully finally saw The Light, and is no 
longer sucking down tofu crappy thingies." 

The second he opened the door; he was halted by a man 
trying to enter at the same time. An almost inaudible groan 
came from Mulder's mouth, when he realized that the one man 
he didn't really care for right now stood before them. 

Assistant Director Henry Miles. 

"Coffee, sir?" The agent asked, broadly smiling. 

"You can have that at the VCU, Agent Mulder. From what I 
hear, they have excellent hospital-taste blend that will 
open up your sinuses for the next two days. Walk with me. 
Now, if you please."  

Miles marched off around the corner, before the X-Files-
agents could utter another word. Mulder threw down his 
coat, glared at his partner and exclaimed, "Dead man 
walking!" before sashaying after the Assistant Director, 
shaking his ass.  Scully trembled with laughter, muffled 
only with the back of her 
hand when Miles turned suddenly, and threw them the most 
poisonous glare he could muster from his sizable 
repertoire. Where was Skinner when you needed him? 


The VCU was buzzing with activity as it always was. Mulder 
saw people chatting, talking, discussing, and laughing. 
Here, the most gruesome cases in the world were handled. 
People who were ten times worse than Hannibal The Cannibal 
were being sought, taken down and readied for trial. 
Laughter was natural in the bowels of the VCU: it was a 
safety valve; their way of ridding themselves of the 
anxieties one experienced on a daily basis. 

There were a lot of new Special Agents there now, and 
plenty of profilers, Mulder thought. The VCU had expanded 
quite a bit after 09-11, when suddenly the world seemed to 
be filled with more danger and serial killers than ever. 
Some said that the New Millennium was actually the cause: a 
lot of weirdos out there thought they were the new Jack The 
Ripper, or Boston Strangler and wanted their five minutes 
of fame. Jerry Springer didn't cut it anymore. The only way 
to get publicity now was by slaughtering and killing. 

It had been a while since Mulder was asked to profile a 
case at the VCU. They had been quite busy lately with their 
own cases, which also involved a number of strange 
killings. So why were they here now? 

Miles ordered the two newcomers to sit down in the room 
filled with FBI colleagues, and walked up front. 

"Revenge," Mulder hissed at his partner. "We probably 
forgot to clean his toilet." 

Scully leaned relaxed into Mulder's side, as they perched 
sitting on the edge of a desk, before whispering back, "If 
this has to do with your little trip to the Rock and Roll 
Hall of Fame in Cleveland a few weeks ago, you know, the 
one that you tried to reimburse through your expense 
account, I swear I'm impounding your desk right here and 
now, and throwing your name plate in the garbage. I told 
you he wouldn't go for the 'Elvis was an alien' angle." 

He smiled and turned to her. "If I were ever abducted by 
aliens, I'm sure that's the first thing you would do 
anyhow. My name plate wouldn't survive a fortnight." 

She showed him the broadest of grins, just as Miles turned 
towards them and voiced coldly, "I hope the joke was funny, 
Agent Scully because I can assure you that this case is 
not. The details I'm about to tell you are not so humorous. 
Keep that in mind when I show you the following photos. I 
hope none of you had a large breakfast of bacon and eggs, 
or any other cholesterol-laden junk you might chow down in 
the local diner. This is not good for the appetite. You 
have been warned." 

Before Mulder could quip, gruesome photos of four carved up 
bodies were passed around the room, silencing the eight men 
and women gathered there. Scully and Mulder, who were the 
last to receive them, watched how their colleagues faces 
became red and then pale, and how some balked and looked 
away. A young woman, who obviously was brand new at the 
VCU, rushed out of the room, taking deep breaths in an 
attempt not to spew out in the hall. Miles ignored her. 

"What is it?" Mulder asked as the photos were handed to 
him. He too became very silent when the photos lingered in 
his hands. He had seen a lot of gruesome stuff in his 
lifetime, but this really took the cake. His eyes took in a 
morass of flesh, blood, and the remains of other various 
human tissues, as yet undermined. There was simply nothing 
really that could easily explain the intent behind such a 
vicious crime. This wasn't done by a human, but by a 
monster. He had seen such photos before: more blurry and 
out of date, but definitely in the same manner. 

"We're not looking for Hannibal The Cannibal this time," he 
groaned as he handed Scully the photographs. "More like the 
MO of Jack The Ripper." 

"Indeed." Miles looked straight at his agent. "You hit it 
on the nail, Agent Mulder. It seems that we might." 

"Sir?" Scully asked, swallowing back the disgust at seeing 
such gruesome details. 

Miles stretched his back and looked around the room. 

"The agents I have in here are top notch, and the very ones 
that I need to resolve this matter quickly and silently. 
That's why you are starting immediately; you will drop 
everything else you've been working on. You will work on 
this case non-stop, until we find the killer who butchered 
the four women I've just shown you." 

Miles paced through the room; satisfied that he was 
grabbing the attention he sought. 

"The bodies you have just seen belonged to four working 
girls in the Baltimore area. They have been noted as 
professional hookers for at least four years. All of them 
were sliced and diced over the past three nights, with 
every subsequent act becoming more gruesome. Last night 
there were two bodies discovered in the same area, only a 
hundred feet from each other. None of these women have any 
connection to each other, or to anyone else. Different 
pimps, different areas, different features, different 
names. Yet they were not taken randomly. They appear to 
have been taken because of their names. Names that concur 
with the prostitutes that Jack The Ripper killed in London 
during the late 1800's. The method of murder is also the 
same. Since the case of Jack The Ripper has become quite 
notorious over the years, all these details can be found in 
abundance on the Internet and in books." 

"How did you make the connection, sir?" 

"The killer made it for us," Miles continued in stiff tone, 
and then looked at Mulder. "Agent Mulder, I happen to know 
that you studied the case of Jack The Ripper during your 
time at Oxford. I am sure you could convey the particulars 
of the story to your colleagues." 

Mulder stepped forward feeling as if he were back in 
school, and had been asked to draw a mathematical 
calculation on the board, slightly uncomfortable because it 
was Miles's scrutiny he was most under. 

"I don't recall all the details anymore, sir. I can give 
you a summary."

"Go ahead."

"I believe the murders occurred sometime in the fall of the 
year 1888. Jack The Ripper selected prostitutes from 
Whitechapel, a London District, and murdered them in a very 
vicious way. He was considered the very first serial 
killer, and even though there are plenty of ideas of how 
and why he did it, in the end it became clear that every 
murder became more gruesome, as though his anger escalated.  
They knew of at least five murders he actually committed, 
but there were constant rumors of a total of eight or nine 
murders. He left a message written in chalk on a door at 
one point, which led people to believe he was a Freemason. 
Since chalk was quite expensive in that time, the only ones 
who would have afforded it were doctors, carpenters, 
butchers or craftsmen." 

"Do you recall what that message was, Agent Mulder?" 

I smiled and looked at him. "Of course I do: 'The Juwes are 
the men That Will Not Be Blamed for nothing'. Interestingly 
enough, for an educated man, he miswrote the word 'Juwes'. 
The murders stopped after he almost totally decimated the 
body of one young prostitute. He then disappeared. He also 
sent letters to the police, taunting them to catch him, but 
they never did. Oh and I personally believe it was the 
doctor sir, even though I have seen the movie, From Hell, 
where they claimed the killer was conspiratorially linked 
to the royal family." 

"Very good, Agent Mulder," Miles muttered with a wry grin 
on his lips; taking a photo that had been tucked inside the 
map he was holding. It was a photo of a sentence written in 
chalk on a green, old door. 

"The Juwes are the men That Will Not Be Blamed for 
nothing," he repeated aloud. "That's our link, ladies and 
gentlemen, the sign that our Ripper wanted to leave us. 
We've got a copycat killer on our hands, and only one more 
murder to go before he finishes his grisly spree, if he's 
true to Ripper form. If he is stopping, that is." 

Miles focused on the faces of his agents. "This man is 
eager to get the slashings over and done with. In the real 
Ripper-case, the killings happened over a period of nearly 
two months. Our killer has killed four women in the past 
three nights, and I'm fairly certain he'll go for his fifth 
victim tonight. This means that we only have this afternoon 
to solve this matter. By tomorrow morning, it could all be 
over."

"With all due respect, sir," an agent from the back asked. 
"But why didn't we know about this earlier?" 

"The Baltimore police didn't really seem to care much about 
hookers being offed," Miles retorted coldly. "Until it 
turned out that the last victim was the estranged daughter 
of one of their most famous surgeons. He has threatened to 
inform the press over the lackadaisical police behavior, 
and also slam Baltimore PD if they didn't contact us. So 
now their blood is on our hands, so to speak." 

"What did they do wrong, sir?" Scully asked curiously.

"It's what they didn't do: like sending samples of the 
victims' clothing to the labs, non-prioritized. It takes at 
least a week then before the results to come back. I am 
certain we can do much better than that." 

"Does that mean, sir, that we didn't have that evaluation 
on Monday?" Mulder suggested. Miles didn't laugh.

"I want feedback on this quickly. The local press is 
starting to catch on now that the rumor about the surgeon's 
daughter has made its way onto CNN, and they're not happy 
that the Baltimore P.D. has been treating this case as a 
couple of unrelated murders. We need results, and we need 
them fast. Agent Moore, you are in charge of this 
investigation, because you're the senior agent in VCU.  I 
want everyone to report to you. You in turn, will report to 
me. Set up shop here and move quickly."  

Moore smiled in a self-assured, quite cocky way. He was an 
agent with the mental agility of a goose, Mulder thought. 
Of all the people in the VCU, why did Miles have to pick 
him? Why not Kenny Andrews, who was a much better profiler? 
It wasn't even as if Moore had the brains to solve such a 
case. Or was it because Miles knew Moore would never get 
much press coverage? 

"Agent Mulder, why are you still lingering about? I suggest 
you take your partner and your awe-inspiring brain to the 
morgue and get an idea of what these photos really look 
like up close and personal. Since you're the resident 
Ripper-expert, I want you in the field. Let someone else do 
the profiling. Hell, we've already got the MO/profile. Just 
go to www.casebook.org and scan the information at hand." 

With that, the AD Miles disappeared down the hall to his 
office and slammed the door, startling most of the agents 
working on the floor. 

Mulder's eyes followed Miles, catching a glimpse of the 
Freckle Guy who sat at his desk typing furiously away, 
while a woman waved hand gestures over his head; obviously 
shouting at him. The redheaded man didn't even seem to 
notice, stuck in his own world. 

What was his name again? Mulder tried to remember, 
concluding that he didn't even know it. Ah well. He 
shrugged and turned towards Scully. "It seems that the 
slicing and dicing has already been done for you. But how 
about we take a look?" 

She pulled a face. "No frappucino's today. You'd better 
sell those tickets too. We're never going to make it." 

"Wanna bet I can solve this case tonight, and we'll still 
make the tip-off?"

"You're on, Mulder, for two frappucino's." 

"You'll choke on them, Scully. Your insides will freeze up 
and you'll have an ice cream tofutti frozen yogurt 
headache." 

She smiled, and whispered for him alone to hear. "Who says 
I'll drink them?" 


The morgue had always been an eerie place for Mulder, but 
not so for his partner, who somehow always managed to get a 
certain sparkle in her eyes, betraying her excitement. This 
was her territory and he felt awkwardly out of place. 

Give him psychic abilities any time. Or a profile to 
create. Or Jack The Ripper. Even though he wouldn't admit 
it to anyone, he did know the whole case by heart, 
including all the names of the victims. He had read at 
least a dozen books on the subject, and knew all the 
theories by heart. It was one of the reasons why he became 
so intrigued in psychology in the first place. That, and 
novels by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, whose Sherlock Holmes 
made solving crimes seem so easy and inspiring. 

Back in Oxford, he'd started to get acquainted with all the 
details of the case, even jotting down his own notes and 
theories. He had done the Ripper tour in London, and walked 
through Whitechapel to get a feel for the place, as it 
would have been a hundred years ago. Unfortunately the 
streets were no suburbanized, and there was nothing left of 
the old town, except a few churches and original pubs here 
and there. He knew the Casebook website well, and had even 
contributed theories to it. He had the special edition of 
From Hell, and loved to theorize that Jack The Ripper had a 
connection to the royal family; as suggested in both the 
film and popular myth. He didn't care much for the monarchy 
anyhow. 

The notion that there might be someone out there 
copycatting The Ripper was more than exciting for Mulder. 
In fact, were it not for the deadline, he would be looking 
forward to going head to head with a Ripper-copycat. 
Perhaps, if he were lucky, the killer might even be a 
reincarnation! How cool would that be? 

Mulder's resolve lessened slightly, as his eyes took in the 
remains of the washed bodies of the three victims. Good 
thing he'd passed on that Starbucks Coffee. It probably 
would have shot back up his throat. It really was gruesome. 
No, more than that. It was horrific, disgusting and very 
much an act of pure misogynistic hatred. Whoever did was 
mentally deranged. Either that, or had a real hard on for 
The Ripper. 

"They were all slashed across the throat," the coroner 
started to explain. "But from there come the differences. 
Entrails are missing. This victim is missing a nose. She -" 
Mulder found himself swaying off, as the monotone voice of 
the coroner droned on and on, with gory detail after gory 
detail, of the final moments before the women all met their 
deaths. Good thing The Ripper had thoughtfully slashed 
their throats first, before committing his gruesome deeds, 
he thought. One cannot imagine what it must have been like 
to die in such a manner: alone and abandoned by the world 
that lived and breathed only a few seconds away. 

Mulder didn't need to know all the details. He knew them, 
as well as he knew the first names of the women who lay 
here. He looked at their distraught, ghastly pale faces and 
suddenly it struck him, that there was only one night and 
one victim left. The clock was ticking. 

"Scully, I'm going to head back to the office," Mulder cut 
in, interrupting the discussion. "I have to talk to Moore 
about where to go from here."

"How am I going to get back?" she asked, surprised. 

"I'll drop you off," the coroner proposed. "I'm heading 
there for a couple of meetings in an hour anyhow."

"Oh. Okay." She looked at her partner. "You go then. Don't 
go anywhere without me, okay?"

"Yes, boss." He winked and left the coroner's office 
hastily. Outside, he gulped down a few deep breaths, 
grateful for the fresh air that filled his lungs. His 
stomach still felt queasy, but already he was gathering 
thoughts and formulating ideas on what to do next. 

"But lunch first," he muttered under his breath, and 
crossed the street to buy two, extra ketchup laden hotdogs 
from the vendor. 

Simon West was a man without nerves. He'd learned to forget 
how to be nervous, while growing up being pestered by just 
about anyone. He had taught himself not to show any 
emotions. 

Yet, the second he learned his file had opened at the FBI 
he felt excitement grow inside of him. This was better than 
sex! Not that he knew what sex was, of course. This was how 
it felt to score a goal or touchdown, or have a number one 
hit in the charts. It felt so good. Fabulous. Orgasmic.

His boss, Vera Thompson, threw a thin new file on his desk. 
"I want you to look up all the data you can on Jack The 
Ripper. File all the information under the name "John Doe 
Ripper". We need it now instead of tonight. Mandatory 
overtime."

"Yes." His fingers lingered on the label stuck onto it. 
John Doe, he thought. How he wished he could announce that 
his name was Simon. Simon The Ripper. Now, didn't that have 
a cool ring to it? Oh, if only someone would figure it out. 
He was growing tired of murdering, anyhow. Good thing 
tonight was the last one, even though it would be the 
hardest one of all. The original Jack really had his way 
with that last hooker; almost turning her inside out. His 
stomach clenched in anticipation. Ah well, he was used to 
the blood already. In his mind, he was merely butchering 
pigs and chickens, not humans. 

If only they would find his little hint. He had hoped the 
Feds would have been on the case two days ago. Stupid 
Baltimore cops. Why had they dithered so long? Simon 
started scanning the Net; stored and then printed out data 
on The Ripper. He knew all the websites by heart. 

He looked up again to find Fox Mulder standing at his desk. 
With one startling gesture, Simon brought his index finger 
to his mouth, nibbling on his fingernail; a habit he'd 
nurtured fifteen years ago. Pieces of the nail stuck on his 
tongue and in his mouth; he flushed a scarlet red. 

"Do you mind if I take what you have already?" came the 
agent's friendly request.

Simon, for the first time face to face with the man he had 
admired for so long, just nodded quietly. "Go ahead." 

"Thanks eh -"

"Simon. Simon West." 

"Thanks, Simon." Mulder turned around and walked to the 
conference room reserved for the agents working on the 
case. Simon's eyes followed him until he closed the glass 
door. The data analyst sighed deeply. If only he would be 
the one to find the little lead Simon had planted for them. 
Mulder had one of the most astute minds in the FBI. It 
couldn't be that hard to catch him, now could it?


ACT II 

"How many cops are guarding the area?" Moore asked his 
partner, Lane, a feisty female, who looked more man than 
woman. Mulder smiled because he knew Lane. A long time ago, 
before Scully breezed into his office, rumor had it that 
Blevins had earmarked either Lane or Scully for the job of 
Mulder-Watch. Good thing they picked Scully. He couldn't 
possibly imagine himself working day and night with this 
volatile creature. 

"According to the Baltimore P.D.? Too many already."

"They still don't give a shit, do they?"

"If it hadn't been for the surgeon, they would have passed 
on this case. They see hookers every day. They feel this 
guy is probably just doing them a favor by cleaning up the 
city." 

Mulder smiled while continuing to scan the photos and 
coroner's report that had been e-mailed to them earlier. He 
had the original Ripper's coroner's reports next to him, as 
well as the original photographs that were printed out by 
Simon The Freckle Guy. 

"Something's off," he finally said after half an hour of 
intense reading, startling most of the agents who were 
working just as intently, on their share of the 
information. Moore left his desk and walked over. 

"What? What do you see?" 

"The last victim has been killed differently. If he 
followed the original Ripper MO, her body would have been 
much more severely decimated than it is. He left it pretty 
much intact, and I'm wondering why." 

Mulder looked up at Lane. "Didn't the Baltimore cops say a 
man almost caught him in the act?" 

"Yeah, an eyewitness heard a scream, went to look and found 
her dead."

"Yet he still had to time to carve up bits and pieces of 
her, but not everything. Interesting. Now tell me, if you 
were a serial killer, Agent Lane, would you still take your 
time slicing, when at any point in time you could be 
disturbed by a sailor, or pimp?" 

"I would get the hell out of there."

"Quite interesting," Mulder muttered. "Especially since the 
Ripper liked 
to cut his victim's throats; severing the vocal cords in 
one drag. Assuming he took his time to carve into her, how 
could the victim have screamed without a voice?" 

"So -?" Moore asked. 

"Our guy left a chalk message on a door, and he didn't 
follow the full procedure on the Catherine-victim. That 
means he wants us to believe he was nearly caught in the 
act. In truth, I believe he might be leaving us a clue, and 
perhaps that is, that he wanted to get caught."

"If he wanted to get caught, he would have waited."

Mulder smiled. "Agent Moore, the first thing you learn 
while studying serial killers, is that most of them have an 
unspoken urge that needs to be fulfilled. They almost dare 
us to stop them. The duality is that they want to get 
caught, but don't want to. You know?"  

"Agent Mulder, I'm sure your theory will amount to 
something but -" 

"All the other victims were killed in the exact same manner 
as the original ones, Agent Moore. Meticulously up to the 
smallest detail: the way the bodies were placed, the way 
they were carved up, the entrails that were missing, ... 
everything. Only, in 1888 it was the third victim that was 
left in one piece, because the Ripper got caught. The 
theory was that he killed a second woman that same night to 
satisfy his blood lust. But here, our Ripper was killing 
his fourth victim, while the police had already found the 
third. Yet, he left her in one piece too. Why would he do 
that, if not to leave us a breadcrumb?" 

"Aren't you reading into details too far, Mulder?" Moore 
smiled nervously.  

"I don't think so. I'm wondering - could I have that 
description on the victim's clothing again?" 

"Leather skirt, black panties, high black heels, short top, 
push-up bra," Lane read out in detached monotone. "Just 
enough to leave some skin covered." 

"And enough clothing to leave smudges or traces on the 
leather. A fingerprint or DNA, perhaps. Wouldn't that be 
great? I mean, I know the clothing has already been 
examined for prints, semen and all that, but we know that 
we can do better. Do you know where it is?"   

"At the coroner's, I'm sure. He would have picked it up, 
had the killer used his bare hands, Mulder," Moore said. 
"You're looking for things that aren't there."

"It won't be on the clothes then. Whatever trace he left of 
himself, it must be on her body somewhere." 

Mulder grasped his cell phone and dialed Scully's number. 

"Hey, traitor," she said, picking up.

"Hey, are you still at the coroner's?" 

"Yeah." 

"Could you do me a favor, and ask the coroner to go over 
the last victim's abdominal area again, to find any 
possible residual tissue or semen from our perp?"

"Mulder, she was a hooker. I'm fairly certain there will be 
DNA from more than one person on her body." 

"Do you?" he winked.  

"But I should check the clothes, too. I have this hunch our 
killer might have left behind a few clues there." 

"You're right," Mulder agreed. "Get on it."

"Yes, Mr. Bossman." 

After Mulder hung up, he turned to find Simon West, staring 
across at him from behind his desk. The redheaded man rose 
up and walked slowly over to him. Mulder leaned back in 
anticipation, as the other agent handed more printouts to 
him.

"Is it true you're looking for a Ripper copycat?" Simon 
asked quietly.

"Yep."

"Great. I mean, fascinating. If there's anything I can do - 
"

"How are you fixed in the coffee department?" Moore yelled 
over his shoulder, then grinned broadly at his own stupid 
joke. 

Simon turned crimson, and left before Mulder could utter 
another word. The agent stared at the other man's slumped 
walk, realizing who West reminded him of: Rain Man. 

Minutes later, Mulder's phone rang.

"You were right," Scully spoke excitedly over the phone. 
"We picked up enough tissue to get a DNA-sample, and should 
have it analyzed within the next twenty-four hours." 

"We don't have twenty-four hours, Scully. If our theory is 
correct, he'll be slicing before midnight. That's in about 
seven hours. You're not giving me much of a window here. In 
fact, if the analysis is that late, it will not help one 
bit." 

"Mulder, have you got any idea how complicated it is to 
perform a DNA-test? In normal circumstances, a person has 
to wait two weeks to find out if he fathered a child. So be 
glad they can rush this through in a day." 

"Yeah but we have a great, big and beautiful lab in the FBI 
that can do this in a matter of hours. We need you to pull 
some strings here, Scully. Your Quantico-colleagues will do 
you a favor, right? I'm sure they can speed things up a 
little bit." 

"Right," she sighed. "I'll head over there myself. So, what 
are you going to do?"

"Me? I'm going clubbing." 

"Ha ha, very funny."

"Seriously. Since 'Field Marshall' Miles wants me as a 
field agent on this, I am going to the area myself to check 
out some bars. There might still be a remote possibility 
our John is killing off the competition, even though I 
don't think so. I'll probably be home late tonight, 
darling." 

"Mulder, you're not going by yourself, are you?"

"Of course not. I've got Agent Moore to keep me company 
even though he looks more like a Fed than most of those 
stereotypes on Die Hard. Plus, he isn't as gorgeous as you 
are. I'm telling you, this guy has F.B.I. written all over 
him. I'd be better off alone." 

"Don't you dare do that, Mulder, I'll go with you."

"Nah. We'll need you as a decoy later on to play Mary 
Kelly."

"Who?"

"The last victim. She was a redhead too, did you know 
that?" 

"Funny, Mulder. I'll talk to you later." 

Mulder smiled as he pocketed his phone, and then looked in 
shock at Moore for a second as something hit him. The agent 
lived only a block down from the office, and had gone back 
and forth to change for their night out. And there he 
stood: dressed in the most overtly, flashy colors ever. He 
looked like a Hawaiian pimp. The shirt screamed 
'Undercover' all over it. 

"Oh.my.god." Mulder couldn't help but muffle his laughter 
at the sight of the cowboy boots, and greasy slicked black 
hair combed back on his head. 

"What?" Moore asked innocently. "Don't I look okay?" 

"Moore, how long as it been since you've been in a bar?"

"Hmm, about fifteen years." 

"And before that, you mirrored yourself on Magnum P.I.? You 
even have Tom Selleck's chest hair? Jeez, the only thing 
missing is the mustache."

"Actually, I have a fake one -"

"Save it, Moore. Come with me, I'll help you out." Mulder 
got up and patted his colleague on the back. "I'll 
transform you into a sexually obsessed forty-something in 
no time." 

As the other agents shared instructions on their duties for 
the following hours from Moore, Mulder caught Simon West 
hanging around his desk looking quite bored. He didn't know 
what it was about West that somehow made him feel sorry for 
the man. Was it because he really was the garbage bin of 
the office? Because no one seemed to give him a break? He 
didn't know. 

Yet West seemed to be the type of guy that actually 
belonged in a sleazy bar, seated on a stool while some 
bimbo danced around a pole for a buck or two. With him, 
they would definitely look undercover. 

"How's Miles on lending out people?" Mulder asked, turning 
to Moore. "I'd like to take The Freckle Guy as our third 
man."

"Who? West?? Mulder, he's a first class loser. He'll do 
nothing!" 

"Indeed, that's what I'm looking for. He'll fit right into 
those bars we are going to visit. Better than you faking it 
as Magnum P.I. and ready for the karaoke club." 

"Miles will never allow this."

"He's not here right now, right?" 

"No, he's in a meeting with the new Deputy Director." 

"Goodie." Mulder walked over to West and tapped on the 
desk. West looked up in sheer awe, surprised that once 
again he was called upon.

"How about a night on the town in Baltimore?"

West suddenly smiled broadly, revealing a set of perfect 
white teeth. "I love Baltimore! But can I call my mother 
first and tell her I'll be late?" 

Moore groaned loudly. 


With Simon West sitting quietly as a little boy in the back 
of the car staring outside, Mulder started a conversation 
with Moore, who seemed to admit there was a slight issue 
between the agents. 

"I know what you're thinking, Mulder," he said. "You don't 
think I can handle this case." 

"I don't care either way, Moore. To be honest, I'm just 
here to do a job, and then on to the MCI Center to catch 
the game." 

"Yes, you do care. You're like a kid on a playground. You 
feel right at home in this kind of world. Is that because 
you're dealing with monsters every day?"

"The human psyche is a monster, Agent Moore. It doesn't 
matter if you chase human weirdoes or whatever. In the end, 
it all boils down to one thing: everything happens for a 
reason. Find that reason, and you find your killer."

"Does a creep like that need a reason to murder?" 

"They never do. They act on their instincts."

From the rear came a sound. Simon opened his mouth and 
caught Mulder's glare in the rearview mirror. He cleared 
his throat, and stretched his back a bit. "Don't you think, 
Agent Mulder, that someone can kill just to get rid of some 
desires, but for no particular reason at all?"  

Mulder smiled sympathetically. "They all do that, West. 
Every single one of them. We humans are a veritable 
cornucopia of desires and urges. It's just the question of 
if you act upon them." 

"And what if that man doesn't know how to stop anymore?"

"Then he will be stopped, one way or another. That's where 
law enforcement is vital." 

Mulder never took any of his colleagues home, save for 
Scully and Skinner, but he wasn't about to let the Hawaiian 
Shirt Agent become the cause of any them getting hurt. So 
the two agents followed Mulder into his apartment, the two 
of them looking around curiously. Moore, because he'd 
always wondered if Spooky Mulder was actually a freak that 
kept alien fetuses on his dresser; and West because he 
wanted to know how his favorite agent lived. 

They were both disappointed.

"Your apartment looks normal. Boring even," Moore 
complained. "This sucks, Mulder." 

"Sorry." Mulder disappeared into the bedroom, and returned 
with two sets of clothing. One pair would fit Moore 
perfectly, albeit a bit small around the waist, but West 
would drown in them. 

West changed in Mulder's bathroom, taking his time to nose 
around for special things while biting his fingernails. No 
female stuff here, nothing out of the ordinary. Just 
shaving gear, soap and all the necessities of life. What a 
drag. 

He bit his thumbnail, and dropped small pieces of it on the 
tiles; not even aware of what he was doing. His mother had 
tried to break him out of the habit, but even as an adult 
he couldn't shake it off. He did it everywhere, even in the 
stolen car that waited for him outside the D.C. area. 

Simon West felt troubled. He knew he had to kill tonight, 
but how he was going to do that, when he was undercover 
with his idol and another agent? Should he just go with the 
flow and play it by ear? Perhaps he should ask Mulder to 
come join the party. He was certain that Mulder must have 
the murderous streak in him too. You had to be a little 
crazy if you were a field agent/profiler. It was almost a 
requirement to get in the heads of perps. Perhaps Mulder 
would even be in awe that he, Simon West, had fooled them 
all. Just wait and see, he thought as he hummed The 
Scientist. 

When he walked outside, he looked like a regular guy. Clad 
in jeans with rolled up pants, a sweater with rolled up 
sleeves and his hair combed neatly, he was ready to go. 
Moore actually looked human again, too. Mulder looked suave 
dressed in jeans, dark sweater and leather jacket. 

"All right, boys," Mulder smiled broadly. "Let's go catch 
us some fish." 

The night before, Simon West had made himself a case file 
that he kept at home on his computer. He had started to 
gather information on Fox Mulder ages ago, but had never 
done anything with it. The frustration had struck when he 
realized that after three days of murdering, no one at the 
FBI seemed eager to take on the case. During one very long 
restless hour, he had thought he would never get Mulder's 
attention. 

But in the morning, when he learned about the fresh cases 
at hand being probed, he knew he was in luck. They were 
interested and alarmed now. And yes, soon enough Mulder 
showed up. Simon had instinctively known that Miles would 
drag Mulder into it. 

Simon couldn't even explain why he liked Mulder so much. It 
probably had something to do with the fact that he lived a 
very mysterious professional life in that basement office. 
West had seen cases pass by his desk that were about 
aliens, government cover-ups, freaky people, monsters, and 
misfits of science; just about running the gamut of 
everything imaginable. 

The case that really caught his interest was Luther Lee 
Boggs, the serial killer who claimed he was psychic. From 
then on, whenever he could, during the dreary working hours 
he maintained, West would study cases of the X files agents 
had solved or not solved.

He couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to step 
into Mulder's shoes, facing danger every day of his life. 
It would sure as hell take the edge off the boredom and 
dreariness he felt right now.

Perhaps that's why I do what I do? West pondered as he 
jumped into the backseat of Mulder's car. To kill the 
boredom. So far, he hadn't really found another reason. 
Should there be one then? Perhaps not. 


They arrived in Baltimore around seven p.m., after stopping 
at a deli to pick up sandwiches, ice tea and coffee. 

"So what now?" Moore asked, as soon as Mulder parked the 
car outside The Inn, a dreary old place that looked like it 
belonged in old London. "Are you going to stand around 
outside, and look for working girls who are named Mary?" 

Mulder glanced in the rearview mirror. "West, what do you 
think?"

"I'd go inside that bar, and check to see if there are any 
pimps who have girls named Mary, and get them off the 
streets. And then see if they have noticed anything odd." 

"And why do we not ask that as FBI-agents?"

"They'd pack up their bags and go. They won't talk."

"West, are you sure you've never been out in the field 
before?" Mulder asked grinning. 

"Actually, I have -" Simon stopped, knowing he would be 
giving out too much information. He didn't want Mulder to 
know the truth about his reasons for wanting to work as a 
data analyst. 

It was too late. Moore laughed loudly. "Yeah, he fucked up 
his first case, didn't you know? That's why Miles has 
banished him to the office permanently. He killed his own 
partner, the sucker."

Simon knew when he was being toyed with and when he didn't 
like it. He felt his face Contract, his cheeks turn red and 
his entire beings thrum with anger. This was exactly what 
he'd been trying to avoid for so long, the reason why he 
became Simon The Ripper in the first place. He needed to 
release pent up steam. He needed to show that he could do 
it. 

He clenched his fists, and chewed on his lip until it bled. 
And he would have rushed forward in that anger, for the 
first time in his life forgetting his exterior meek 
appearance, when Mulder suddenly spoke in a harsh, angry 
tone towards Moore.

"Don't ever call anyone a sucker for getting hurt, okay? Do 
you want to lose your partner?" 

"No, but -"

"Do you?" 

"No!"

"Then have respect for your colleague, and don't ever treat 
him like garbage again, okay?"

"Geez Mulder, get off your high horse."

"I'm sure you mean 'Spooky Mulder'."

"Whatever," Moore shrugged, throwing his sandwich on the 
ground. "I'm going inside. You can follow in ten minutes." 

"Don't do anything stupid like blowing your cover," Mulder 
hissed after Moore rammed the door shut. "Sucker." 

Suddenly Simon did something he hadn't done in ages. He 
laughed. He could feel it starting deeply from his insides, 
becoming harder and harder until a flood of mirth rushed 
through him, until he heaved with escaping laughter. He 
could not recall having laughed this loudly before. Ever. 

And when he looked into the mirror, he discovered that 
Mulder was laughing too. In fact, he was roaring along with 
him, instead of at him, like most people did. 

"Here," the agent said. "Have a seed." 

"Don't mind if I do," Simon replied, spitting out the piece 
of fingernail stuck inside his mouth. "Thanks."

"Gross, West." 

"I know. Call it a bad habit."

Mulder just smiled and chewed on a seed, wondering what 
Moore was up to inside the bar. 

"So, what happened to your partner?"

Simon raised an eyebrow. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Sure you do. You were eager enough to come when I invited 
you along. Now spill, while you look around for anything 
out of the ordinary, like guys trying to lure girls 
outside, that sort of thing."

"My partner and I were supposed to backup a couple of other 
field agents, who were going after a bank robber at his 
apartment. We walked in and he started shooting at us. We 
ducked away, inside the apartment. I ran, Agent Mulder. I 
ran into the bathroom and shut the door, while they kept on 
shooting back. He was hidden behind the couch that stood in 
front of the bathroom door, right there. All I had to do 
was open the door and shoot him at point blank range. But I 
panicked, uh... chickened out. I fired three times through 
the door. I heard shouts. When I opened the door, I saw 
that Larry was dead as a doornail. I had accidentally shot 
him through the door. After that, they laughed at me. 
Everyone thought it was a great joke. Horrible really. Just 
awful.  Agent West shot his 
partner and peed his pants. Funny, isn't it? Since then, 
the closest I've come to a case is by putting the data into 
the system." 

"Well, just don't shoot me," Mulder smiled as they walked 
to the bar door. 

The next one to enter the bar was Simon. He insisted on it. 
Mulder watched him leave as he grasped the cell phone to 
call his partner. 

"Thanks for making this case quite boring, Agent Mulder."

"You're welcome. What's new?"

"Nothing yet. Results first thing in the morning. Did you 
get hurt yet?"

"Oh thank you."

"Come on, I'm waiting for a call from either Miles, or a 
hospital to tell me you got kicked in the balls for asking 
pimps too many questions, when they want to protect their 
goodies. Where are you?"

"The Inn. Nice place for a pimp-gathering, don't you 
think?"

"Very nice. Are you alone?"

"No, I've got colleagues here." 

"Have fun with the ladies, Mulder."

"Do I sense a bit of jealousy there?" 

"Oh no. I'm happily discussing boring science crap with my 
colleagues. You see what you made me say? Since I've met 
you, I've come to frown on science now and then."

"Must be my good influence."

"Har har. Get back to me soon, Mulder. Okay? And stay in 
one piece."

"I'll try. I know a great overnight store where they sell 
grapes though."

"Night, Mulder!" 


Mulder laughed as he hung up his cell phone and left the 
car.

"Rock 'n' Roll, baby," he muttered underneath his breath, 
when he opened the door for what was obviously a working 
girl, who smiled at him broadly underneath fake lashes that 
looked like huge spiders - and walked inside the barrier of 
noise that was the bar. 

Simon West didn't even wink when Mulder stepped into the 
bar, and quickly scanned the area. Moore sat in the back, 
talking to a bulky African American who roared with 
laughter every time the agent said something. A blonde sat 
on his lap rubbing her tush on his leg. 

"He feels right at home," Mulder groaned, walking over to 
the bar where West sat. Simon wondered what he had to do 
now, but he shouldn't have. Mulder leaned a bit into him 
and whispered, "Anything weird yet?"

"At least four pimps. Look at the guy to my right." 

Mulder leaned forward to order a drink from the bar, 
catching a good glimpse of the man sitting next to West. He 
was tall and draped with at least four gold necklaces like 
Mr. T on 'The A team.'

"Now that's got money written all over it," Mulder said. 

Mulder then looked caually around the bar, spotting a 
couple of men clad in dark clothing. The bar was thick with 
cigarette smoke. Only a few looked up. In the back a couple 
of pimps were fighting; more notable by their fancy 
clothing and golden attire. 

"Talk about clichŽs," Simon smiled. 

"Martini," Mulder ordered. 

The bartender pulled up an eyebrow.

"Shaken, not stirred?"

"Do I look like James Bond to you?"

"When I'm drunk, probably." 

"Just the Martini."  

"This feels cool, being undercover," Simon whispered too 
loudly for Mulder's liking. The agents both bristled 
inwardly, when the bartender placed his drink before him at 
the exact same time. 

"Oh. I'm a fucking things up, aren't I?" Simon cringed 
quietly. 

"Just shut up and let me do my thing, Simon. You carry your 
piece."

"Unfortunately, yes," Simon sighed. "Not that I'm that keen 
on it. I mean I shouldn't be allowed to carry a gun at all, 
should I?" 

Mulder looked aside. "You are still a Fed, Simon. Everyone 
makes mistakes. Just keep it ready but don't do anything, 
okay? Just follow my lead when I need you." 

With that, Mulder left Simon seated on his stool and 
wandered through the bar looking for working girls who 
might be willing to talk to him. He knew that in order to 
do that, he'd have to get past their employers. 

He stopped at a table in the far corner, where four girls 
were chatting loudly with someone who was obviously a pimp, 
and his bodyguard. Nearby at a table, sat three 
transvestites: three bulky men were dressed up like 
gorgeous women. And they were gorgeous, Mulder discovered 
in awe. With their slim shoulders, and long legs they could 
easily have been walking down the catwalk, pretending they 
were female models. But as soon as they opened their 
mouths, a dark male voice came out and gave them away. 

Ouch, Mulder though. Such a shame. 

He sat down without asking, but was immediately seized by 
the shoulder, by the bodyguard who grumbled, "Get lost."

Mulder didn't miss a beat. "I'm sure your boss would like 
to help me preserve his women. Wouldn't he?" The bodyguard 
stared at him for more seconds than were comfortable to 
Mulder. This was a big no nonsense guy.

With that, the pimp waved with his hand, and allowed Mulder 
to sit. The agent slipped into a chair. "You a cop?"

"No, I'm a man with business interests, just like you. 
Rumor has it that there's a new Jack The Ripper out there 
slashing women. I'm looking for him. I want to protect my 
interests, if you know what I mean." He winked 
conspiratorially.

"You don't look like a pimp."

"I prefer not to think of myself that way. I'm a 
businessman."

"New in town, hey? So, are you going to steal my 
territory?" The pimp flashed his teeth dangerously.

"No. I just want to find out if this Ripper guy is going to 
kill off my girls." 

"I don't care what he does. He hasn't touched any of my 
ladies yet. But you look like the sort of low life guy who 
would love to step onto my turf and fleece my money. I 
don't like that. I think you deserve a warning." 

Uh oh, Mulder thought wearily. "I don't care about your 
territory. Gotta go." 

Before he could move an inch, he was grabbed by two bulky 
transvestites who dragged him backwards. From the corner of 
his eye he saw how Moore was still talking animatedly to 
another pimp, and the girl sitting on top of him. West did 
see it. He stepped up from his stool, but didn't move an 
inch. 

Before he knew what was happening, Mulder was dragged 
outside into the cold air. 
"Hey, we can talk about this, right?" the agent asked, 
ready to take the first punch. "I'm sure you are nice girls 
and all but -" 

Before he could even react, his right arm was twisted 
firmly up behind his back. So firm indeed, that it knocked 
the wind out of him. Two strong sets of hands grabbed it. 
Suddenly, Mulder realized what they were going to do.

"Hey, stop it!" he shouted. "Don't - !"

A sickening pop came from his shoulder as the ball joint 
neatly separated from the socket. Mulder screamed in pure 
anguish and agony, feeling the shoulder muscles try 
unsuccessfully to self-repair the damage. He had been there 
before, when they busted up his little finger a long time 
ago. The pain was so acute it nearly sent him off into 
oblivion.

Through a haze of red hurt, he saw the doors open, and 
people rushing outside, but no one helped him. He couldn't 
see West or Moore. Then the punches followed, sending 
explosions of pain through his ribs. By now they had him on 
the ground kicking him, and kept on kicking him. He was 
fairly certain they kicked him in the balls too; it sure 
felt like it. 

"The kneecap too?" one of the 'girls' asked. 

"No, that's enough. Let him walk back to the dirt he came 
from." 

By the time they kicked him on the side of the head, he was 
too far-gone to notice, still clutching his dislocated 
shoulder, his arm plastered protectively against his chest. 
Then he heard shouts, but he wasn't capable of doing 
anything but groaning, and stayed down for the count on the 
cold concrete only a few feet away from his own car. 

Eventually, the hurt became a non-stop thunder inside his 
head, and strobes of pain hit his entire body in waves. 

"Sucker." The group split up and left him alone writhing on 
the tarmac, in the first trickles of rain. He hardly felt 
the numbing pain going through his shoulder and ribs, 
wondering instead how to pick himself up and get help. 
Until out of the darkness, a body stepped forward and a 
hand reached for him. He opened his eyes and saw Simon 
West. 

"Come on," he said. "I'll take you to hospital." 

"Where's Moore?" Mulder groaned.

"He's dead." 


Act III

"So this is what it's like to be field agent, is it?" Simon 
asked, staring in awe at Mulder's beaten and bruised body 
while they jacketed his chest up with bandages to protect 
the cracked ribs. His right arm was already in a sling 
strapped around behind his back. The dislocation had been 
reduced upon his arrival at the ER and fortunately didn't 
require surgery. Just a couple of weeks of rest and 
healing. 

"Yep. Some sight, hey?" The agent winced, gingerly wiggling 
the fingers visible beyond the blue cotton sling. "Not 
exactly what you were expecting, is it?"

"Oh, I don't know. Perhaps you've got some babe on the side 
who finds it very interesting that you're a Special Agent." 


First silence, then Mulder muttered painfully: "In my 
dreams." 

"So eh, what now?"

"Now? Now I go home, get some rest, good. ...Ouch...pain 
meds and forget about our Ripper until tomorrow."

"So you're not going to bite into the investigation and 
move forward? I thought you'd be pissed at everyone and the 
world. And what about Moore? He's dead, you know. Shouldn't 
you be out investigating his death?" 

"No. Someone else can pick up those pieces. Besides, Moore 
died of a gunshot wound during a bar fight. Not exactly the 
most glamorous way to go, you know. I've given my statement 
of what happened. Not much else I can do tonight like 
this."

"But don't you feel guilty?"

West knew he'd struck a painful chord when Mulder winced 
loudly. "Of course I do. I dragged his ass in that joint, 
didn't I? What's the use of going back there and dredging 
it all up? I can't handle that, Simon. I've been stuck on 
guilt trips all my life. Moore knew what he was doing. His 
death was a shitty exit, but I cannot focus on that right 
now. I'm still hazy on the details that led up to this. I 
was having a few problems with breathing at the time, 
getting used as a punch bag. There are still seven agents 
working on the case and I guarantee you that by now Miles 
will be itching to haul my ass anyhow. Plus, I am not 
exactly in good shape here, Simon. I mean, look at me. Let 
someone else pick up the pieces for once." 

"Then what about The Ripper? He'll kill again tonight! You 
have to stop him, Mulder." 

"I'm not of any help to anyone right now, am I? I've got a 
bump on my head the size of New York, a dislocated shoulder 
and several cracked ribs. Should I even talk about my nuts 
here? Brings a whole new meaning to the phrase: blue balls! 
No, let Miles handle it before he fires my ass. He didn't 
need me in the first place. Finding The Ripper is just 
plain old police work. He can comb the area with a 
toothbrush for all I care. I won't be there tonight. Geez! 
Be careful with that, will you? You're kind of hurting the 
hell out of me here." 

That last part was directed to the nurse and doctor still 
strapping up his ribs. 

"You shouldn't give up like this, Agent Mulder!" West 
exclaimed frantically, knowing he was losing Mulder's 
interest quickly. "This is still extraordinary, you know. 
You are still looking for a serial killer. Let me help save 
your career. I could help you with all the data. I know all 
the cases by heart. Your lovely partner could help too. 
She's on her way, isn't she? You could have your killer by 
tomorrow, just like you wanted. This shouldn't have been 
for nothing." 

Mulder was about to retort, only to be stopped by Scully 
breezing into his treatment room. Even though she obviously 
tried to keep her cool, he could tell she was quite 
distraught.

"I told you, didn't I?" she sighed, gently touching his 
chest where it was not taped. He winced at the coolness of 
her fingers, and then at the look that Simon gave the two 
of them. Scully's fingers lingered there a bit too long.  

"Oh, you are -" West stopped and turned his usual crimson 
red. "Never mind. I'll wait outside."  They watched him as 
he shuffled off in an embarrassed gait.

The door closed quietly. Scully carefully embraced her 
battered partner, who groaned in agony. Somehow she almost 
got stuck between the tape and his chest, managing to catch 
his sore arm in the process. 

"Oh sorry. How bad is it?" She directed that question to 
the doctor. 

"Two cracked ribs, a dislocation, now reduced. That is, 
shoulder separation in human language, Agent Mulder. A raft 
of bruises just about everywhere, it could have been 
worse." 

"Don't forget the bruised ego," Mulder completed. "Two 
'girls' took me down, Scully. Of course they were guys 
dressed like girls, but still. Could you see Ru Paul 
winning a fight over you? It was like something out 'Too 
Wong fu'."

"You'll live. Now tell me, Mulder. What in god's name 
possessed you to take Simon West out there? Are you crazy? 
Miles is going through the roof! You should have told him."

"He was busy sucking up to the big bosses. I thought it was 
quite a good idea really. Somehow West seemed to belong in 
the part. He didn't fall out of place for undercover. That 
was me, unfortunately."

"Busy asking too many questions?"

"At least they believed I was a pimp."

"You should be very proud of that. Now tell me, what the 
hell happened to Moore?"

"I don't know. One moment he was inside the bar talking, 
and probably asking questions. The next, West told me he 
had been stabbed to death. It was weird, Scully. I didn't 
have time to ask questions. I was out of it after getting 
my ass kicked. West shoved me in the car and called for 
backup. By that time, the bar had emptied. So tell me, did 
they find a body yet?"

"Moore is in the morgue, Mulder."

"No, not him. A hooker's." 

"Not yet." 

Mulder sighed. "Just take me home, Scully. It's no use. I'm 
fading fast here."

She sat at the side of the bed and stared at her partner. 
The doctor finished up. "Going home is probably out of the 
question for the night. You should be under observation at 
least for the next 12 hours or so. You might want to stay 
here and rest a bit. We'll give you nice painkillers."

"As tempting as the offer is, I must decline. I just want 
to go home."

"It's your choice, Agent Mulder. Let me just remind you 
that you have to watch those ribs for the next few weeks. 
They are quite near to your internal organs. If you got 
into another bar fight again, you might damage something 
more severely. Okay?"

"Yes, sir," Mulder replied meekly. Then the doctor and 
nurse disappeared and left them alone. Scully pulled that 
face she normally made when she didn't believe her ears.

"Mulder, what are you up to?"

"Moi? Nothing! I just want to go home, Scully." 

"That doesn't sound like you. In fact, it's so unlike you 
that I'm almost suspicious. You have a plan, right? You're 
going back to find your killer. You'll end up getting into 
another situation and get even more hurt."

"Scully, why is it that you believe I have danger written 
all over me? I'm not interested. Miles didn't need us in 
the first place. He didn't need a profiler, just a stupid 
agent who would get someone killed. I'm fairly certain he's 
writing his report to the Director on me as we speak. So 
why should I even bother?"

"Mulder, it wasn't your fault. Okay? You actually made the 
right choice throwing yourself into the field like that. We 
had a deadline. We had to do something. It was a good idea 
at the time. It just backfired, that's all. Happens all the 
time. Since when did that stop you?"

Somber faced and in pain, he stared at her, eyes shouting 
defeat. "I'm..." 

"Stop that nonsense right now, and get your ass back in 
gear. I'll be your eyes and ears. Hell, I'll dress up like 
a bimbo, and become Mary Kelly the Second; how's that?" 

"Are you going to wear a flimsy little black leather skirt 
then? Shake your tush?"  He asked with a familiar leer 
breaking through the pain on his face.

"Of course."

"And loads of make-up?"

"I'll even ruin my hairdo. Satisfied? Now let's get out of 
here, and get you to the office. It's early evening yet. We 
might find a way to catch him before the morning. At least 
we can try to stop him from slaughtering a fifth victim, 
and disappearing into back into the woodwork. I'm not eager 
to let you go back to the office, Mulder, but I know you've 
got your mind set to it. I'll be your twenty-four medical 
staff from now on." 

"Yes, ma'am." Mulder eased himself off the bed carefully, 
aided by his partner; grinning broadly yet painfully. "Have 
I ever told you that 'angry Scully' is quite a turn on?" 

"Have I ever told you that a man clad only in boxers, 
carrying his business to the left, with a strapped up chest 
is a real kick too?"  She smirked, one finger straying to 
stroke his bandage.

"Oh please. You sound like a groupie."  

"I am your groupie, Mulder, and don't you forget it. Here, 
I'll help you get dressed." 

Scully leaned down to help Mulder step into his jeans. When 
her face came eye to eye with the bulge in his boxers, he 
groaned and laughed. "Scully, are you coming on to me?"

"Not now, Mulder. Think ice cool frappucinos." 

Outside Simon West was still waiting. Nervously chewing on 
every single nail that still he still had left. His face 
was distraught. "Please don't give up," he started 
immediately when he saw the two agents: Mulder looked quite 
pale and in pain, Scully's arm around his back, eager to 
help. 

"Don't worry, I'm back. Now, you said you could help me 
with that data, right? Let's drive back to the office, and 
go over everything again. Perhaps there's a way of 
establishing a profile. I created one out of my own 
curiosity on Jack The Ripper a long time ago. Maybe I can 
come up with one on this man with a similar MO."

"Would it help if I told you that the DNA tests will be 
ready in about an hour?" Scully asked, grinning proudly. 

He turned to her with a leer. "If we weren't in a hospital 
right now and I didn't feel like I'd gone ten rounds with 
Tyson, I'd take you right here, right now." 

"Mulder..."

"Oh, I forgot. Sorry, Simon."

"'S'Okay," the Freckle Guy smiled. "I'm happy to see there 
is at long last, someone who treats me as if I'm here." 

"Simon, why do you put yourself down like that?" Scully 
asked as they walked to the elevator. 

"Because I'm wallpaper, Agent Scully. I don't exist. I'm a 
grey appearance. Nobody cares about me, and I don't care 
about anyone. That's my life. Dreary, isn't it? It's always 
been like that." Simon suddenly stopped, realizing he was 
confessing how he felt for the very first time in his life. 
"I guess I don't matter," he finally added.

Both agents stared at him. Then Mulder suddenly realized 
that West was right. During all the years he'd worked for 
the Bureau, Simon had been there, sitting in his corner 
near the Assistant Director's office, dutifully typing away 
at the data, which every Special Agent used for research 
and information. They all received input from West, but 
they didn't even care where it came from. He could have 
been a computer. Press Enter to print. 

Mulder had seldom met anyone before who could blend in with 
the furniture the way Simon West did. Then why had he lured 
West along into this adventure? Because he had sensed that 
West was a very lonely man, eagerly looking for some 
excitement in his life. Because somehow, he'd finally and 
suddenly connected with this man, who seemed all too happy 
to be dragged into a mess made by his peers; because Simon 
was a man with no past, no present and no future. Because 
he could even blend into a bar filled with pimps and 
scumbags, and no one cared he was there. Invisible in plain 
sight.

So . . . odd. 

The three agents drove back to the office in silence. 
Mulder and Scully could not know how much Simon The Ripper 
suddenly felt at ease in this strange situation. They were 
looking for him, and all he had to do was go with the flow. 
He could help them track down himself. He could only hope 
that the DNA he'd left lying around at crime scenes, was 
evidence enough with which to find him. His fingerprints 
were stored within the FBI's databanks with links to the 
NCIC.

And then he could only pray they would stop him before he 
had to return to Baltimore and finish the job.
 
Simon The Ripper didn't want to kill anymore. He'd got what 
he wanted: Mulder's attention. But the urgency inside him 
told him he had to finish what he had started. And then 
what? Strange, he hadn't thought that far ahead yet. He 
would take the punishment the way it came. No matter what 
it was. 

Find me, Mulder, he prayed in silence. And explain to me 
why I am what I am. 


ACT IV 

"Mulder!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
 
Miles's booming voice filled the room as soon as the agents 
walked in. 

"Here we go," Mulder whispered to his partner as he 
straightened his back, causing flashes of pain through his 
body. He felt like crap. His arm and shoulder ached 
severely in the sling. The stabbing pains in his chest 
prevented him from taking deep breaths, and he had the 
mother of all headaches that would have send anyone into 
oblivion. 

But the really cool drugs that the doctor gave him before 
leaving the hospital were starting to kick in nicely. 
Mulder heard how his own voice started to slur and felt 
strangely happy. The pain would soon subside to just a 
nagging ache. 

"I love drugs," he muttered underneath his breath as he 
wiggled his way to Miles's office.

Then he plonked himself down in the leather seat that stood 
behind the desk, squirming to find the right position. But 
somehow, it didn't work. He just couldn't get the right 
seating height. "Yjou've got a lovely chjair," he muttered 
incoherently when Miles turned his back on him; waiting 
impatiently for the others to come in. 

He got up and moved behind the desk, throwing himself back 
into the big brown expensive leather chair. "Whjy don't I 
hjave a chjair like this?" he whimpered as he started 
wiggling back and forth. The chair squeaked in unison with 
his movements, alarming Miles. 

"Mulder, what the hell are you doing in my chair? Get your 
ass out of there and get Scully in here! And the other one 
- the Freckle dude - what's his name again? North or 
something?" 

"West, sir. East, South, North, West." 

"Don't be funny, Mulder, or I'll hand your ass over to my 
superiors. Move out of that chair, now!" 

Very loudly Mulder started pumping up the seat height, 
using his left arm and hand with all the might it had. 
"Hjeight njot gjood enjough. Captain Kjirk to the rescjue, 
sjir!" he giggled inanely, still bouncing up and down. 

Miles sighed and gave up, taking the seat opposite his 
desk. Every time Mulder inquisitively grabbed something 
from the desk, Miles leaned forward and snatched it out of 
his fingers. Mulder couldn't care less anymore about the 
consequences of his actions. Who would when the best 
painkillers available to mankind made him giddy with overt 
goofiness? 

"Mulder, are you sick?"

"No, sjir," he slurred as he picked idly at the ink blotter 
in front of him. 

"You look like shit."

"You alwjays djo, sjir." 

Miles first turned pale, and then bloodred. Oh god Mulder, 
Scully cursed underneath her breath. Stop talking. 

But Mulder was on a roll. "Isj thjat a njew sjuit sjir? 
Thje coljour sjuits you." 

"Moore is dead, Agent Mulder. Have you got anything to say 
for yourself?"

Mulder smiled and closed his eyes, leaning happily 
backwards. "I shjot the shjeriff, but I djidn't shjoot thje 
djeputy." 

"Agent Scully, what the hell is wrong with your partner?"

"It's njot - erm, I mean - not his fault, sir. He's in 
severe pain and the doctor gave him heavy medication." 

"So why is he not in the hospital then?"

"Agent Mulder insisted on solving the case, sir. Since our 
copycat is still walking about, he wanted to give the best 
of himself to aid in the search." 

"Thanks to Agent Mulder, the Ripper will not show his face 
tonight. The entire Baltimore area is covered with cops and 
Feds." 

"At ljeast wje'll hjave sjome tjime ljeft to booglie 
thjen," Mulder bounced precariously in his seat.

"Shut up, Agent Mulder. Or better yet, tell me why you 
dragged a bleeping data analyst from his desk job, and put 
him out in the field with no experience at all!" 

"Sir, if I may -" Simon whispered from his seat, but his 
words fell on Miles's deaf ears.

"If yjou wjould stjop trjeating thjat mjan ljike a kjid, 
hje wjould djo a ljot mjore than plus a pren," Mulder 
garbled. "Sjimon djeserves bjetter." Mulder suddenly seemed 
to realize that a trickle of drool had escaped his mouth, 
and lifted his right arm to try and wipe it off, only to 
realize it was strapped to his chest and no use to him. 

"Djamn it," the agent whispered loud enough for everyone to 
hear. "I cjan't ewen jopen my fly. Hjow am I gjoing to 
wjipe my assj?" 

Miles at least had the decency to ignore that remark. 

"Well, next time you drag your colleagues out into the line 
of fire, you'd better ask me first, Agent Mulder. Or I 
swear I'll kick you out faster than the speed of light. Now 
what are you going to do next?"

"Agent Mjulder - pardon me, Mulder - is going to try and 
set up a profile now, sir. Based on the gathered data we 
have, we might determine who's been committing these 
heinous acts, while we still have time. We're also waiting 
for further DNA results and will compare them with known 
criminals in the database." 

"Go to work then. And Agent Mulder, please don't drool on 
my chair in future. It's hard to get the stains out. Go 
drool on your own."

"Yjes sjir." 

Mulder somehow managed to swing himself up and out of the 
chair, and sprung into salute mode. "Gjoing boldly tjo the 
fjinal frontjier, Captjain Miles!" and waddled towards the 
door, stopping, momentarily confused. 

"Hey, wje're baldly gjoing now. Here's Skinman." 

Walter Skinner stood agape in the doorway, staring at the 
spectacle of his doped up agent. Ignoring Mulder, he turned 
to Scully. "Is he on medication again?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"Oh brother." 

Mulder pushed himself past his boss, and wobbled drunkenly 
back into the hallway. 

"I'm njot sjacked!" he exclaimed for the remainder of the 
crowded VCU to hear, giggling away to himself. Then, 
suddenly loosing his equilibrium, he slid straight into 
Skinner's arms and drooled on the A.D.'s suit. 

"I love you, Scully, I do." he slurred, before slithering 
bonelessly into a drug-induced stupor. 


"Are you sure he's okay? He looks like shit," Miles 
remarked in amazement.

"Oh, that's normal. He can't stand his medication. This 
stuff makes him as wiggy as all get out." That was Scully. 

"And this man's going create a profile tonight? I don't 
think so. Get him home and out of our way." Miles again. 

"No, he stays."  

"Grrrrrrroan." 

From the couch in Miles's office came the unmistakable 
moaning of a man waking up from a medicated stupor, and 
back into his world of pain. As much as the medication 
affected Mulder, it also wore off quite quickly. 

"Mulder, it's me," his partner soothed, as soon as he 
managed to open one eye.

"Yes, I know," he retorted, trying to turn on his uninjured 
side, only to realize he was stuck between Scully and the 
seat. " Ouch. Oh brother."

"You drooled again. Here, try to sit up. You okay?"

"Oh no. Err, I'm okay. What happened?"

"You did a little dance, made a little love and went down 
tonight.  Oh yeah, and Miles is having his chair cleaned. 
Your spittle was all over the place."

"Huh?" 

"Well okay, skip that little love bit. You've got another 
bump but you'll live. Here, drink some water. We need you. 
Something happened while you dreamt your little dreams. 
I've got some shocking news."

"Skinner's back with a vengeance?"

"Well no. You actually passed out in Agent Lane's arms, 
calling her Skinner, and then Scully. Skinner's not here, 
Mulder. You dreamt about him, that's all. Is there 
anything, I should know about the two of you?" 

"Funny, Scully. Very funny. Now tell me what you found."

"First of all, I forgot to tell you that we've found DNA on 
both the Catherine-body, and the woman that died before 
her, Elizabeth. The lab examined both of them. And get 
this: they are two different types of DNA!" 

"So?" Mulder grumbled. "You said so yourself: they could 
have been with any number of guys at any time." 

"Mulder, you don't get it. One of the DNA samples belongs 
to a man... and the other to a woman!" 

"Huh?" 

"Yeah, huh. Exactly!" 

"A lesbian hooker maybe?"

"Yeah right. Mulder, there's more. The DNA test shows that 
there is a definitely close blood relationship between both 
subjects." 

"Like in a brother and a sister? We're looking for a duo?" 

"Most likely." 

"Oh joy." Mulder downed a cup of water, only to suddenly 
find Simon West staring at him in total shock. The man 
became as pale as a sheet, and suddenly had to lean on 
Miles's desk. Nah, he had to have imagined that. Mulder 
shook his head to clear the cobwebs. 

"Did I really call him Captain Miles?"

"Oh yeah." 

"Crap." 

"Don't worry about that now. There's more. When Moore was 
killed, the knife was missing. The killer took it with him. 
But get this: the coroner is a hundred percent certain that 
the same knife was also used in the slayings. Moore was 
killed by the Ripper, Mulder. Your theory was right. He was 
in that bar, probably searching for a new victim."

"But a new victim hasn't been found yet." 

"No, everyone's on the lookout for any possible missing 
working girl. Only, there are so many runaways working the 
streets, that she could be long dead; lying in some alley 
without even being reported missing."

"No, Miles was right. The Ripper would not be stupid enough 
to kill her with so many cops and Feds crawling over the 
area. The red light area is small in Baltimore, and he 
would want to kill her right there, where he took all the 
others. I think we may have some time left."

"Simon is running a data analyses on the DNA, comparing it 
right now." 

Mulder felt his mind come back to his senses, and shook off 
the last bit of confusion. The drugs had worn off and the 
pain was back with a vengeance, but anything was better 
than calling Miles 'Captain.' With utter embarrassment, the 
agent spotted the VCU-members muffling their snickering as 
he walked in. 

"Where are we so far?" Mulder asked, ignoring the wry grins 
and tittering. "Can I help?" 


The profilers gathered in the room groaned and moaned 
because the night passed 
quickly, and they were no further ahead. All they had so 
far was the possibility of a Bonnie & Clyde type of duo, 
which went out killing people ˆ la Jack The Ripper. That 
was if the female DNA actually even belonged to the 
killers. 

"It must have been," Mulder surmised. "The first two bodies 
didn't have a trace on them. However this time, the killers 
deliberately touched the bare skin of their victims, and 
they left a hint for us that we can use to look for them. 
So what gives?" 

"What if the female DNA belonged to one of the hookers 
finding the body?" Lane asked. 

"No. Two men, who didn't touch her, found her. Can't be. 
Autopsy showed she was washed and scrubbed everywhere - and 
I do mean everywhere - so she probably didn't do a John 
before she was killed. Of course women could have touched 
her but even so, I'd like to think we're talking dual 
killers here." 

That in itself, Mulder found very odd. "We're obviously 
looking for someone with 
misogynic tendencies." 

"Excuse me?" 

"Someone with a profound hatred of women. I established 
that in my previous profile on Jack The Ripper that he was 
a misogynistic. No one in their right mind would do this. 
The man carving into the bodies, mutilating them in such a 
fashion, is most likely to suffer from this mental 
disorder." 

"So a woman can't have this disorder?" 

"I don't know. I guess that in the case of a woman with 
something like this, we would just call her a psycho 
bitch," Mulder grinned. "I'm not excluding the possibility 
that the killer was a pimp and one of his working girls. 
The people in that bar seemed to belong to that profession 
anyway. There was a girl sitting on Moore's lap, and he was 
talking to a big bulky African-American."

"Most serial killers are white." 

"Play that funky music, White Boy." Mulder groaned and 
rubbed his eyes with his left arm. He felt useless and 
awkward without the use of his trigger arm. He'd dislocated 
his shoulder before but this time it hurt like hell. What 
if he could never fire a weapon again? Nah, the doctor said 
it would mend perfectly. 

Suddenly Simon, who'd been sitting quietly behind his desk 
sifting through the DNA data, stood up and looked at his 
peers. "Why are you so sure it's two people doing this? 
It's not possible. I mean; it doesn't make any sense. I . . 
." 

The room became quiet as everyone stared at Simon. 

"A maso-whatever you called it wouldn't be using another 
woman to kill women, would he? That doesn't fit his 
profile. It must be a mistake." 

"He's right," Mulder agreed after an awkward silence. 
"Unless of course his sister is the only woman he doesn't 
hate. I'm going with Simon's theory. We're looking for one 
man. Lane, did the police find anyone who was in that bar?" 

"Nada."

"Okay, then I'll go scan the database for all the pimps 
we've arrested in that area lately. I'll never forget the 
face of that dude busting me up." 

Mulder winced painfully as he moved to a computer next to 
Simon's, and opened the massive database that held the 
arresting records, and photographs of every criminal in the 
state. "Here we go," he sighed, as he started searching his 
way through it on the lookout for the ladies' man that had 
beat him up. 

Fifteen minutes and a hundred photos later, Mulder found 
his guy. 

"Got him and an address," he exclaimed in triumph. "Let's 
see if he's still not willing to talk, shall we?"


It was past four a.m. by the time Michael "Mighty Mike" 
Chandler sat firmly ensconced in the Bureau's bowels. He 
was not allowed to have a cup of coffee, but Mulder and 
Scully were at their sixth cup in the past three hours. 
Mulder's aches and pains seemed to worsen considerably as 
his body started to stiffen up. 

"I knew you were a cop," Mike grinned broadly, taking in 
Mulder's pale bruised features. "You couldn't hide it for 
the life of you."

"That's funny because I'm a Federal Agent. Don't insult 
me."

"Whatever." Mike shrugged. 

"So, did you have fun killing my colleague?" 

"Excuse me?"

"You were there, Mike. You killed Agent Moore with a single 
stab wound. You're the copycat Ripper, aren't you? Might as 
well admit it because I've got witnesses." 

"That's bullshit." 

Mulder banged loudly on the table with his good hand. "Is 
it? I can put you at the scene. You beat me up. You decided 
to punish the other FBI-agent in the room too, didn't you? 
Forgetting that the knife you used would link you to the 
killings." 

"I didn't kill anyone! What, do you think I'm stupid?"

"You look stupid. You assaulted a federal officer. That 
makes you stupid. So, what's it going to be, Michael? Are 
you going to help us, or should I drag your ass in front of 
a judge and lock you up until trial? The D.A. is eager to 
get his hands on you. You can help yourself here. Men like 
pimps in prison, did you know that? They know you love to 
play pet." 

"Okay, okay." Michael shuddered. "I'll cooperate. On one 
condition: you don't charge me for assault on you either." 

Mulder smiled. "Hmmm. Let me think. Okay I thought about 
it. No deal." 

"Okay okay. Just cut me a deal then. A punishment of some 
sort. Whatever. No hard time. Okay?" 

"We'll see what we can do. Now, you know who killed those 
women, don't you?"

"All I know is that it's not someone from our crowd. It's 
an outsider. Several of our women have seen him. I can tell 
you what make of car he drives, and what clothes he wears."

"What about his face?"

"They see so many faces. I'm having a hard time protecting 
them as it is, without an asshole driving around 
slaughtering them. They are all scared shitless. The 
Baltimore cops did shit to help them, you know. Nothing. 
They didn't care." 

"Well, we do care," Scully cut in with sincerity. "And we 
are going to stop this. So tell us all you know."

After ten minutes they had all the details on the RV, 
including a partial license plate number. 

"Now we're getting somewhere!" Scully smiled as she rushed 
over to Simon to run the latest info through the database. 

And Simon? He just smiled. He felt itchy inside. It had 
been a long night, and he was glad he wasn't out there 
slaying his last victim. Let them find me. Let them find 
me. Let them find me. 


The RV was found abandoned in a supermarket parking lot 
outside of Baltimore. The vehicle had been reported missing 
by its elderly owner, who obviously didn't have anything to 
do with the murders. It was towed to the nearest lab around 
seven in the morning. 

Scully lay restless with her head down on her desk at the 
VCU, red rings underneath her eyes, and very tired. Mulder 
slumped exhausted next to her. 

"I told you you should have sold those tickets," she 
mumbled. "Even if we still make it, I'll be dead as a 
doornail." 

"We're nearly there, Scully. I can feel it in my bones." 

The agent stretched his back, jarring his aching ribs in 
the process. "Oh god. I wish I were somewhere on an exotic 
beach right now being pampered by hula-girls."

"Hula Mulder. And moi?"

"You can have hula-boys, Scully."

"Oh. Okay then. What now?"

"Now we wait for the lab results to see if they find any 
fingerprints, more DNA samples and lovely little thingies 
that we can use to establish our killer. Simon, stop eating 
your fingernails. It's annoying." 

Simon West looked up and flushed. "Sorry, Agent Mulder." 

"Go home and get some rest."

"I prefer to stay here."

"It's the weekend. Don't you have anything to do on a 
Saturday?"

"Except taking a shower? No."

Mulder's interest was peaked. "Simon, don't you have a 
life? I mean you must have something to do. Somewhere to 
go. Do you have a wife, a girlfriend or anyone who can keep 
you company?"

"No one, nada, zip. It's just me and my mom."

"Your mother must miss you."

"She doesn't care about me." Simon couldn't prevent his 
voice becoming bitter. "It's just me, that's all. I don't 
like women. Never have." 

"Oh? Why not?"

"They laugh and tease you, and tell you you're too 
insignificant. Make you feel too small for this world. They 
don't see you, treat you like wallpaper, and choose someone 
else all the time." 

Simon abruptly stood up, the blood in his veins alive with 
the anger he'd kept under control for so long. He was 
tired, weary, and suddenly sick of hanging around the 
office in a futile attempt to deny his goals. He had to go 
out now and kill. It had felt so good to kill those women, 
to put his knife into them, and run it through their skin 
and muscles. Yeah, he had to feel that again.

"He needs a good lay," Scully muttered from her seat. 

"You know what?" he said. "I have to go. I've been here for 
too long already. You're right, Agent Mulder. I do need a 
life."

"That a boy. Go out and have fun. And thanks for your help, 
Simon. We appreciate it. We'll keep an eye on the rest of 
the results."

"Goodbye, Agent Mulder. And thank you for . . . well, for 
all of this." 

Before Mulder could say another word, Simon was already 
rushing towards the elevators. 

Scully groaned, and turned her face to her partner. "Do you 
really like this guy, Mulder? He's just downright weird."

"Yep. I know. And yes, I kinda like him." The agent stood 
up, stretched his back again, and almost passed out as a 
tremendous pain shot through his chest. "Oh god, I really 
should stop doing this. I'll be busting a kidney soon." 

"Then sit down and get some rest. You look like hell."

"I love you too, Scully. When are we going to hear from the 
lab?" 

"Anytime soon," Scully said as she stared at Agent Lane 
snoring at her desk. Most of the agents had fallen asleep 
as they waited for more information to come in. The two of 
them were the only ones remaining awake. 

"I hate Miles," Mulder mumbled. "Ten to one he's sleeping 
in his own warm soft bed right now." 

"How do you know?"

"Scully, shuddup. Hey my phone is ringing. Yeah Mulder. 
Okay, yes. Okay, what? Huh? Okay. Thanks! Bye." 

Scully forced herself to pretend to be interested, as 
Mulder looked at her and became suddenly very pale. 

"What?" 

"They found stuff in the truck. Fingernails. They're 
comparing it now to the DNA." 

"Fingernails? Cut off?"

"No, bitten off. Oh my god."

"What? Mulder, what is it?" 

She followed her partner as he rushed to Simon's desk, and 
watched him pull up the database that held all fingerprints 
and DNA on every Federal Agent in the Bureau. 

"Damn it, I can't open it. Does anyone have the password of 
this database?"

"It's private. No one can access that but the A.D.'s and 
D.D.'s," Agent Lane yawned sleepily from her chair. 

"Get Miles on the phone, and ask him for the database pass, 
Scully." 

"Mulder, why in god's name? Do you think it's someone 
here?" 

He turned to her, breathing heavily with pain and 
disbelief, and whispered, "It's Simon."

"What??" 

"He always bites his fingernails. He doesn't like women. 
He's a loner. My spooky sense is almost shouting. It's 
him." 

"He wouldn't." 

"What do serial killers crave for, Scully? Satisfaction 
they cannot get in any normal way. Simon left us deliberate 
clues, I'm sure. He wants us to stop him. That's why we 
found the DNA. That's why he reacted so oddly at times. The 
killer wants to be caught. Geez, I'm so dumb I didn't see 
this before!" 

"I'll get Miles here," she spoke, "but you are seeing 
ghosts, Mulder."

"I hope I am, Scully. I really do." 


Miles was not a happy trooper when he strolled into the 
office, and opened the FBI's most sacred database for his 
agents. He was quite familiar with data analyses as it was 
one of his jobs to ensure that all data was utilized 
properly. 

"Simon West, huh?" he growled. "The Freckle guy sitting at 
his desk all day looking dead? Come on, Mulder. That's a 
stretch even for your questionable machinations."

"Sir, he saw himself as wallpaper all the time. The most 
important thing a killer does is to blend in with the 
crowd. That's what he did. It's him."

"If that's the case, you had your killer underneath your 
nose all the time. Too bad, Mulder."

"If that's the case, he could be out there right now 
looking for his next victim. He left in a hurry, sir." 

"You'd better find him then. Because it looks like you're 
right." 

"Oh god," Scully muttered as she stared at the proof in 
front of her on the computer screen. "Mulder, that can't 
be."

"It is. Simon's our guy. He's the one." 

"Much more than that, Scully. I think he's an X-File. He 
doesn't have a sister, yet that DNA says he does." 

"Then let's find out the truth." 


Mrs. West was a skinny, frumpy old woman who didn't seem 
too happy about the intrusion in her house. 

"Simon?" she asked. "Not here. Didn't see him since last 
night." 

"Do you know of places where he might hang out?" Scully 
asked wearily. "Bars, friends..."

"Friends? Simon?" The woman laughed loudly. "He hasn't had 
a single friend in his entire life. He's a loser, ma'am. 
Nothing more, nothing less. He shouldn't have existed, you 
know. I should have gotten rid of him from the start. He's 
a nothing, just like his daddy." 

"He is a man with talents, Mrs. West. It's a shame you 
never figured that out." 

"Talents? Hah." 

"Do you have other children, Mrs. West? Did Simon have a 
sister?"

"No."

"Are you certain?"

"I know how many kids I popped. I just had Simon and that 
crybaby was more than enough. I never had any other." 

"Thank god for the kids," Scully hissed under her breath, 
pissed off at the woman's indifference to her own son. 

"Excuse me?" Mrs. West stood up, instantly becoming a tad 
taller than Scully. "Do you know what it's like to have a 
son that's worth zip? If you ever have kids, I hope you'll 
have a stupid one so you can know what it's like."

"With a mother like you it's a miracle he even made it this 
far," Scully retorted. "Come on, Mulder, let's get out of 
here."

"No, I'd like to see Simon's room first. Perhaps there are 
more clues there." 

"Get the hell out of my house," Mrs. West replied coldly. 
"You're not going anywhere."

"Yes, we are. Or do you want to be arrested for co-
conspiracy? I can get a warrant in an hour."

"Go upstairs then and leave me the hell alone." Mrs. West 
returned to her television set and couch, acting as if they 
didn't exist. Scully stuck out her tongue, before following 
Mulder upstairs. 

"Jeez, women like that piss me off," she hissed, staring at 
Mulder's amused expression. "There are so many people out 
there who ache for kids, and she treats her own like dirt. 
Nice woman." 

"Ah well, let her be. Here, let's take a look." 


The bedroom was a representation of the dreary life that 
Simon West had always lead. On the walls, hung posters of 
long lost glories like Jane Fonda and Farrah Fawcett. 

"Oh yuck. Charlie's Angels. The series. Poor guy." Scully 
looked around realizing the room hadn't changed for at 
least twenty years. 

"He really must be desperate. Look! Knight Rider!" 

"Mulder, we've concluded that Simon West is a poor excuse 
of a man, but where is he now? He killed those women, and 
the clock is running to stop him before he does it again. 
Where do we go?"

"He'll be in Baltimore, Scully. I'm fairly certain of that. 
I just don't understand why he doesn't have a sister. They 
must have screwed up at the lab." 

"They don't do that." Scully sighed. "I can't explain it 
either, Mulder. We need to find Simon, maybe see if he can 
tell us. I'm just hoping that the others might catch him 
before he does anything wrong. Every unit out there knows 
to look for him." 

"Look at this." Mulder pointed at a notepad and pen lying 
on the desk near the window.  Simon had jotted, scribbled 
and drawn dozens of words on several pages. "This is old," 
Mulder said. "Look what he wrote over every page." 

"I hate women. I hate women. But I love mother. I hate 
women." 

"Okay, so now we know he hates women," Mulder said. "And 
that's not getting us 
anywhere."

"Mulder, I remember something I've heard throughout my 
science classes. If this is true, then Simon West is 
extraordinary after all. I cannot imagine though that he 
would be -" 

"Scully, what?" 

"Do you know what chimaera people are?" 

"Erm. No?" 

"Sometimes nature plays freakish jokes on us, as you know. 
I read this article not so long ago about a boy that was 
born a couple of years ago, whose blood contained two 
different sets of genetic material. During the gestation of 
twin siblings, one of the embryos is somehow absorbed by 
the other, resulting in a fetus with two different sets of 
genetic material. That is called chimaerism. This boy that 
I read about, some of his cells carried female DNA, while 
others carried male DNA." 

"Are you saying that's what Simon West is?" 

"What if he doesn't have any siblings like his mother said? 
What if the lab didn't screw up? Where did the female DNA 
come from? The pattern in both samples clearly indicate a 
close relationship between them, like that of siblings. Do 
you have another explanation?"

"So what does this mean?" Mulder asked. "He's both male and 
female?"

"It could explain why he feels so out of place." 

"What exactly is wrong with him then?"

"From what I've heard, he might have two different types of 
blood, but that's not always the case. That would happen if 
he had a non-identical twin during his development. We 
would have to run tests on him to determine that. Mind you, 
Mulder, chimaeric people are very rare. I'm just guessing 
here." 

"In that case, let's find him quickly and see if your 
theory's right." 

She smiled. "You want to go back to The Inn, don't you?"

"Fancy dressing up like a hooker?"

"That won't work. They'll know by now you're a Fed. I'll 
watch your back instead." 

"Too bad." 


The Inn was crowded again. After Moore's body had been 
removed the previous night, and the cops had combed the 
place, the crowd had slowly returned. It was nearly nine 
a.m. on a Saturday morning, but no one seemed to care. Most 
were eating breakfast and looked as if they had been there 
pulling an all-nighter. 

Most of them probably had. 

The place fell silent when Mulder and Scully walked in. 
Mulder still wearing last night's clothing, complete with 
bloodstains and looking worse for wear. He was looking more 
and more pale, Scully thought, starting to get worried 
about his exhaustion. He belonged in a hospital bed, but 
she knew Mulder wouldn't give up now that they were chasing 
Simon. 

The bartender was the same guy too. Mulder walked over to 
him. "The guy I was with last night. The freckled one. Has 
he been in here?"

"Yeah, an hour ago. He left with a girl." 

" Shit! Where?"

"How should I know?" 

"Did they talk about a room, or a house or something like 
that?"

"She has a room on Exeter. Don't know the number." 

"Think harder."

"She belongs to him." A shrug to the right, and the bulky 
African-American Mulder had seen the previous night glared 
in their direction. The two 'girls' were by his side. 

"Uh oh," Mulder grinned, "Scully, get ready for a 
catfight."

"Is that them?"

"Yep."

"Leave it up to me."

The two agents walked to the other side of the room. 
Scully's Antarctic glare froze the two transvestites in 
their tracks. She dug out her badge and flashed it in their 
faces. 

"Which of you two sweet girls hurt my partner?" 

They shrugged, starting to look worried. Scully pursed her 
lips nastily.

"If I see you make one wrong move, if you even breathe 
wrong, I'll make sure you're a permanent transvestite. 
How's that?" 

"Bitch," one of the two muttered, before they walked away, 
shooting Mulder a wry look. 

The agent sat down next to the bulky man. "Your girl 
wandered off with our guy. Where is she?" 

"He's a Fed. He said so. Why should I tell you?"

"Because this Fed is also a murderer. He'll slash her until 
you'll find bits and pieces of her all around the town. 
Where are they?"

"Exeter, 10. Apartment 4. That's her joint." Mulder was 
already running.

"Let's go, Scully." 

Mulder called for backup as they drove to Exeter Street, 
where they had once captured 
Eugene Victor Tooms. "This calls for a trip down memory 
lane, hey Scully?" 

She smiled. "Why is it that we always end up chasing 
freaks?"

"Perhaps we're the freaks." 

"You don't seem to be growing any extras on your body 
though." 

"You should check harder, Scully. Tonight, maybe." 

"Let's find Simon first, but I'll keep you to your 
promise." 


The apartment building was a dreadful, damp and dark place. 
Mulder pushed all the buttons, except the one for Apartment 
number four. Finally a man came outside, leaving the door 
open for him. The agents rushed up the stairs; guns aloft 
and ready for use.  Mulder carried his with his left hand, 
since his trigger arm was of no use. At number four, they 
stopped. 

Scully pounded hard on the door. 

"Simon, open up!" Mulder yelled. "We know you're in there. 
Now get your ass out of there and leave the girl alone." 

No answer.

Scully pounded one more time before trying the doorknob. 
One turn, and they found themselves inside the apartment. 
On the couch lay the body of a blonde hooker. Blood trailed 
sickeningly across her face and torso, but she was still 
alive. Her hands were taped in front of her and blood ran 
in a stream down her legs too. 

"She's alive," Scully said softly. "Where is he?" 

The girl didn't respond, trembling in shock. She was still 
young, couldn't have been older than twenty. 

"Simon!" Mulder scoured through the living room and checked 
the kitchen and bedroom. Then he remembered what Simon had 
said once about his partner, and carefully advanced on the 
bathroom. 

"Simon, it's no use. Come out of there and talk to us. We 
know it's you, Simon." 

"Took you long enough!" Simon shouted from the bathroom. 
"And here I was thinking you would catch me within the 
hour." 

"It doesn't work like that, Simon. Fieldwork is long and 
hard. Why don't you put your gun on the floor and show your 
face. We don't want to kill you." 

"Simon," Scully called out after she'd lead the girl 
outside to wait for paramedics, and who now sat trembling 
on the floor. "We know why you feel so strange. We think we 
know what is causing it. We want to take you to the 
hospital for a couple of tests. We can work all this out." 

Silence. 

"Simon?" 

The door clicked open. Scully raised her gun and aimed it 
at Simon. Mulder held his gun up too, swaying the thing in 
the wrong direction. He couldn't fire if his life depended 
on it, he knew. 

Simon had tears running down his cheeks. He was the epitome 
of the image he'd procured over the past few years: the 
loser who sat in the corner of the room and played 
wallflower, while all the others were going about life and 
enjoying themselves. 

"Simon, it's over," Mulder spoke friendly. "Now, why don't 
you come with us and we'll take care of you." 

"It was the fingernails, wasn't it?"

"Oh yeah."

"Not the DNA?"

"We never imagined it was a Federal Agent doing the 
killing. We had no reason to go look there." 

Simon sighed. "All I wanted was someone to pay attention to 
me. That's all. For once in my life, I wanted to be 
someone. Is that so much to ask?"

"You definitely got noticed this time around. I'm sure 
you'll end up in the history books as one of Baltimore's 
most vicious killers."

"But they'll remember me as Simon The Ripper, won't they? 
Not as an original serial killer."

"Yes. For that, you shouldn't have copycatted the most 
notorious serial killer of all time." 

"Oh drat." Simon sighed. "I don't have inspiration, you 
know. I was a boring kid who couldn't even read a book 
properly. I couldn't imagine what the characters were 
really like. I just read and it meant nothing to me." 

"You killed Moore."

"Oh yeah. Not so difficult in the confusion. Everyone was 
running outside to see the fight with you and the girls. He 
kind of just ran into the knife. I always kept that on me, 
underneath my pants. No one saw it, so why not? I don't 
like it when they laugh in my face. My partner, too. He 
hated being stuck with me. Well, I solved that problem. But 
you guys really fucked up, didn't you? With that female DNA 
and all that. Such nonsense. I don't even have a sister."

"We know that, Simon," Scully countered evenly.  

"Ah well." Simon shrugged, lifting his gun and aiming it at 
Mulder. "I guess we say goodbye here then."

"Are you going to shoot me, Simon?" 

"No, I'm waiting for Agent Scully to shoot me, because I'm 
threatening you." 

"She won't shoot you."

"Someone has to. I don't want to end up being the prison's 
wallpaper. Just let me die and get it over with." 

"Unfortunately it doesn't work that way." 

"Then I'll shoot myself." 

"Will you, Simon?"

"Sure." 

Simon's movement changed and he cocked the gun to his head. 
"It's over in a flash." 

Mulder moved forward. 

"Stay put, Agent Mulder." 

"Simon, you're not a bad person."

"I'm a fucking serial killer!" His eyes bulged 
disturbingly. 

"No, you're not." 

"Oh come on Mulder. Stop trying to save me. I put this on 
myself. I'm not the type of lanky, cute FBI-agent that you 
are. I don't get the women's attention, and I don't have a 
beautiful partner in the sack every night. That's not me. 
You have everything, but I have nothing. We're not two of a 
kind. You don't have to try and convince me otherwise. I am 
just me, stupid little Simon West who leads nobody's life. 
That's me, and that's final." 

"Okay then." Mulder sighed wearily, and turned around, 
winking at Scully. "Go ahead and shoot yourself then. I'm 
sure it will all be wrapped up very neatly in a casefile 
that will end up gathering dust in the basement. I mean, 
everyone will want to hide the fact that you - an FBI-agent 
- killed four and a half women, right? Not to mention your 
colleagues. You're right, Simon. They will want to treat 
you like the nobody that you are. Good for them. I guess 
that's the fate that you deserve."

"Wha -?" Simon opened his mouth to protest. "I thought you 
were different!" 

Mulder shrugged. "I guess I'm not. Because of you, I 
sustained two cracked ribs and a separated shoulder. I'm 
not happy about that, Simon. I'm actually quite pissed. It 
fucking hurts. I should be happy that you're going to kill 
yourself. It'll be a neat little ending to this tale. You 
don't deserve a better fate than that." 

Simon lowered his gun and dropped it on the floor. "Take me 
in then, and let me do my story. I want everyone to hear 
it!" 

Mulder turned. "Of course you do. Come on, Simon." 

Scully sighed in relief, lowering her gun as she approached 
Simon. Mulder held him with his left hand. "Turn around, 
Simon. We'll have to handcuff you, and bring you in like 
the criminal that you are." 

He smiled. "I'll get a huge trial, right? They'll all pay 
attention." 

"But you'll still end up locked in a small, two by two cell 
down the end of the hall," Scully intoned. "That's how it 
works." 

Simon paled. "You can get me help, right? Treatment? 
Anything? A doctor? An audience?"

Mulder shook his head while Scully dug out her handcuffs. 
"No promises, Simon. You butchered six people." 

Simon West felt the bubble burst. He could actually tell 
that it was all going to hell. This was not how it was 
supposed to end. He was supposed to get press attention, to 
get all the fear that Jack The Ripper created upon the 
world. He had to be notorious, feared. 

'SIMON WEST IS THE NEW RIPPER'
'SIMON WEST IS A BAD, BAD MAN'
'SIMON WEST: FEAR HIM!' 

The second Scully clicked one cuff around his left wrist, 
Simon's anger burst. He pushed her away with one huge shove 
of his hand, kicking her body against the bathroom door 
where it smacked into the wood frame. She stayed down for 
the count. 

That same unexpected shove shook Mulder's grip on him. The 
agent fell backwards but didn't fall. Simon hurled himself 
on top of Mulder, pushing him onto the ground. The agent 
cried out in pure animal agony as his torso collided 
against the tiles. The sling and bandage that protected his 
right arm couldn't prevent it from hurting like hell. It 
smacked against the hard surface.

"Fuck," Mulder muttered underneath his breath, for one 
moment begging for the painkillers that had helped him 
before. 

The next second, he found himself staring into the barrel 
Simon's gun. "So, how am I going to get the attention I 
deserve, Agent Mulder? Or better yet: what do I have to do 
for it?"

"You had your chance, Simon," Mulder groaned underneath 
him. "Now get the hell off me."

"If that is all that's left for me, I might as well kill my 
idol too, right? I'm sure you'll get a memento in the 
Bureau's building somewhere. And perhaps it will read 
'Killed by his colleague in the line of duty'. Maybe 
they'll even name me. I'll be notorious." 

A smash over the head with a heavy glass ashtray stopped 
Simon West's reign of terror. Without giving so much as a 
kick, the murderous agent fell forward, on top of Mulder's 
banged up ribs. 

"How's that for notoriety?" Scully grumbled angrily, 
dropping the ashtray to the ground. 

"Scully, very funny one-liner, but could you please get him 
the hell off my chest!!! I'm kind of choking here," Mulder 
spluttered from underneath West's unconscious form. 

"Oh, sorry Mulder." 

"And while you're at it, could you please call an 
ambulance? I think I might have damaged a kidney; maybe a 
lung. And I think he screwed my other arm too."  


Epilogue

"How's that, honey?" 

"Oooh, I love it when you call me honey, Scully. It doesn't 
suit you, but I'll take it as it comes. Sweet as honey. 
Milk and toast and honey." 

"Shut up, Mulder and enjoy the game," Scully smiled, 
feeding him the last bit of hotdog she had smuggled into 
the hospital. 

It was a funny sight really to watch her partner perched 
upright in his hospital bed. His right arm was plastered to 
his chest by an even bigger sling after the abuse he'd 
caused the already damaged muscles and ligaments. 

His left forearm and wrist were bandaged, thanks to a 
sprain caused by Simon falling on top of him. His torso was 
still strapped in bandages for the ribs knocked around at 
the time of arrest. Fortunately he hadn't damaged any 
internal organs even though he'd come close. 

"Rest, rest, rest, rest," the doctor had insisted before 
filling up his IV with the good stuff. "We'll keep you 
here, at least for the weekend." 

Nestled in his bed that Saturday evening, Mulder had 
droopily replied, "Djoctor Jjackson ljooks ljike Skjinner. 
I mjiss jour bjoss." 

The Knicks tickets were sold after all, to Agent Lane and 
her girlfriend. 

"Now, if I'd had Agent Lane as partner, I would have had 
wet dreams all day," Mulder retorted when he found out 
about her preferences. 

"Oh thanks," Scully had replied. "Good to know I don't turn 
you on." 

"Would you mind turning on the television instead?" 


Sunday morning Scully came back with the results of the lab 
research. "I was right about West," she exclaimed in 
triumph. "He's a chimaera, and strangely enough that is 
going to help him. His lawyer told me they are filing to 
have him submitted to a hospital for further voluntarily 
testing and research. He'll probably wind up in a mental 
institution for the rest of his life." 

"Hopefully he'll have the time of his life being the 
subject of many tests," Mulder replied. "After all, he 
wanted the attention, didn't he?" 


Sunday evening, Mulder had been quite depressed, trapped in 
his bed. Everything itched and ached; felt hurt and sore. 
"I could have been at the ballgame, Scully," he'd whined 
over the phone. "Now I've got itchy and scratchy all over 
the place."

"Poor fuddy duddy. I'll come and keep you company, okay?" 

As soon as she opened the door, the scent of delicious 
greasy hotdogs swayed in his direction. And she strode in 
wearing a Knicks cap and T-shirt. In her hands, she also 
had a bag of popcorn, a large Coke and extra cap. 

"Let's go to the ballgame," she chanted and ended up 
feeding him two hotdogs. The bits of mustard that ended up 
on the sides of his lips, she licked up with a grin on her 
face. 

"Scully, you are the best. I'll never dream of Agent Lane 
again." 

"You'd better. Now move your ass and make some room."

Before the game was even half an hour further, Scully 
suddenly looked up. Mulder was fast asleep, with a goofy 
grin on his face, and the cap slipped over his eyes. She 
smiled, pulled up the blankets before turning down the 
volume a bit, and snuggled deeper underneath his left arm. 

Within two minutes, she too had fallen asleep, happily 
admitting that she really found all sports quite boring. 
Give her chimaerical people any day. 


In his newfound situation, Simon West happily submitted 
freely to all tests. They prodded and poked him, and asked 
him zillions of indiscrete questions. 
And he liked every moment of it. He'd found his niche.


End