Author: Daydreamer
Posted: 28 June 2004

The Quintessential Bad!Cliche Bad!Fic
Rated: G - for gag me with a spoon. Or for grin, depending on your sense of humor.

The Quintessential Bad!Cliche Bad!Fic

Mulder and Scully had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met. She walked into his office like a centipede with 98 missing legs and was dumbstruck. He was so handsome, so good-looking that words deserted her and suddenly, her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.

Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two other sides gently compressed by a thigh master. His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free. He was as tall as a six foot, one inch tree, and she was short, like a smaller tree, maybe five feet, four inches.

He told her about the X-Files and she laughed. She had a deep throaty genuine laugh like that sound a dog makes just before he throws up. He tried to explain. He spoke with wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it. She laughed at him and yet, she grew on him -- like she was E. coli and he was room temperature Canadian beef. The whole scene had an eerie surreal quality, like when you're on vacation in another city and Jeopardy comes on at 7:00 pm instead of 7:30. Neverthless, he fell for her like his heart was a mob informant and she was the East River.

He took her to Oregon. It rained, and her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze. The rain turned to hail and the hailstones leaped up off the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease. The town was a typical, suburban town with typical suburban neighborhoods full of houses with picket fences that resemble Nancy Kerrigan's teeth.

The case was a mystery and the revelation that aliens were involved came as a rude shock to Scully, like a surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free ATM. She disagreed and he both resented and respected her for it. Still, when she was arguing, her voice had that tense grating quality, like a generation thermal paper fax machine that needed a band tightening.

Despite his efforts to keep things quiet, the media found out. The public's right to know -- it was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids with power tools. The investigation led them to the woods. There was a chase, then shots rang out, as shots are wont to do. There was a light, and then ...

He looked at her, at the frustration and determination, then moved toward her. She moved toward him and they moved toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.

In the end, there was no proof, no evidence. He was used to it, but it was new to her and it hurt - it hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to the wall. Her eyes were like limpid pools, only they had forgotten to put in any pH cleanser. Without realizing, he'd fallen in love and when she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up. And he knew that they wouldn't back up -- they would go forward like an old car with a stick shift that wouldn't go into reverse. Always forward.

Unused Cliches

The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't.

McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a hefty bag filled with vegetable soup.

Even in his last years, grandpappy had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long, it had rusted shut.

The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.

Young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.

"Oh, Jason, take me!" she panted, her breasts heaving like a college freshman on $1-a-beer night.

He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame. Maybe from stepping on a landmine or something.

The Ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.

She was as easy as the TV guide crossword.