Rating: PG - couple of curse words
Disclaimer: No one at FOX/1013 would claim this Warnings: Humor - Killer Krycek
Spoilers: Musings of a Cigarette Smoking Man Notes: Because it is Super Bowl Sunday 2004
Alex Krycek wearily rubbed his forehead. This was the worst time of year for all the Consortium hit men. If he'd ever had doubts about Spender's sanity, he was now, totally convinced the man was bonkers.
"I hate the Bills." Spender muttered when they were riding in the elevator to his apartment at the Watergate.
"They didn't even make it to the playoffs," Krycek answered, as he held the door for Spender. "They're out of it this year." He added soothingly.
"I hate the Bills," Spender said again as he poured himself a scotch and lit a cigarette.
Krycek wished he had a drink too, preferably several. He wished he were in the large suite the Consortium maintained for visiting guests, killers, scientists, and shape shifters. The guys downstairs had the game on, beers in the fridge and Hoagies on the table. It was kick-off time. He sighed soundlessly; even hours of pre-game hype was better than being stuck with Old Smoky. Didn't the man ever take a day off; it was Super Bowl Sunday goddamn-it, and he had three big ones on the outcome.
"I've got a job for you Alex," Spender said. "This one is delicate and handling it properly will go a long way in advancing your career with us."
Krycek nodded and hoped the mark lived far enough away that he'd get to hear the game on the car radio. Maybe he could time the hit just right and take care of it during halftime.
Spender handed him a sheet of Watergate stationery. He read the writing on the paper: William Johnson, Billy Pruitt, and Wilhelm Schmidt. "I believe you know where these gentlemen live, Alex?" Krycek nodded. "Take care of it," Spender said, picked up the remote for the TV, dismissed Krycek with an indifferent wave of his hand, and switched on the game.
Krycek stopped by the suite downstairs and picked out a couple of unregistered guns. The guys were all there, gathered round the TV. They took the time to make sympathetic gestures or wise-ass grins, as Krycek put the weapons in one of the empty Subway bags. They all chanted "Bills, Bills, Bills," as he closed the door.
Bastards, Krycek thought as he made his way to the underground parking lot, but he knew it was useless to complain. Every year it was the same thing and this time it was his misfortune to be the one selected to do the wet work and miss the game.
But three? Krycek muttered to himself, as he checked his vehicle for car bombs or bodies in the trunk that some lazy ass might have left there for him to clean up. Three was two more than he expected.
Krycek frowned as he turned into the Martin Luther King library parking lot; he was tired of the same shit every year. Just because he was a hit man didn't mean he shouldn't have the occasional day off. That decided, he went into the library and sat down at the nearest computer terminal. He logged on and sent a message. Krycek hit send, sat back and grinned. He wished he could be there when Mulder tried to get a 302 out of Skinner for an X File about the large number of Bills that died every Super Bowl Sunday.
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