Hell Is Empty

Fish feel pain.

It's a proven, scientific fact. Some Scottish chick with a degree as long as your arm figured it out while she poured acid into the poor little fucker's eyes and watched and measured and wrote the gory details on some sort of pain scale while the poor critters twisted and writhed and flopped about.

It sure as hell got some of the fishing folks in an uproar. It seems they had always told themselves the fish don't feel no pain whenever he grabs onto that hook and gets yanked out of the water. Busted their nice little painless world view all to hell.

Krycek got a big hoot out of that. I mean, when I finally convinced him it was real. The guy is always trying to get me to broaden my horizons and believe in extreme possibilities, but he had a real problem with this fish story. I finally had to shove the magazine under that tiny little nose of his and tell him to read the damn thing for himself.

I enjoyed watching his face as he read the article. Nobody smirks like Krycek. It starts out small and you know it's on its way, but it's still surprising when it does show up cause it comes out of his eyes, too. They get bright, real bright and intense and knowing, like he figures the human race is just too fucking funny, like you gotta laugh or snarl or you're gonna cry.

Krycek's real good at snarling. He's not so good at crying.

He tossed the magazine back at me and said that the damn fish story was a fucking metaphor for his life.

Krycek's a real intellectual. No, I'm serious. He's a smart guy and sometimes I try to impress on him that I'm not as dumb as I seem; so, I asked him if he felt he was the fish or the fisherman or maybe even this scientist chick in his metaphorical life.

You might think I'm crazy or dumber than a stump asking a badass like Krycek if he's comparing himself in any way to a woman, but you've got to understand the relationship we've got. We trust each other. Don't know why. We just do. We watch each other's backs on the occasions we work together. Which is surprising that he'd trust anybody after the business with that asshole Carnivale and the old fart Spender.

He's even given me my handle, Cowboy, for reasons that he says are only too obvious. The man's got a real subtle humor, almost to the point of being non-existent.

Anyway, he didn't pull out his weapon and drill me a third eye, just flashed those big pearly whites of his at me and said he wasn't any Forest Gump talking about the meaning of life, which sure as hell isn't any box of chocolates.

I had to agree with him about that.

Funny thing about Krycek and chocolates. The man gets downright girly over the stuff. I've actually seen him slump down in his seat and whimper while eating a Snickers candy bar. It's deeply disturbing in a way that only another man could understand. To be sitting right next to the guy in the confined quarters of a car or out in public somewhere and have him doing this... this orgasmic shit over a fucking candy bar!

I'll tell you what it's like. It's like that Harry Met Sally movie where the woman's sitting in the restaurant and starts this orgasmic chant, "..yes, yes, YESSSSSSS!" You know what I mean.

Well, that's what it's fucking like with Krycek eating fucking chocolate.

We don't have any chocolate now, thank you Jesus, it's just Krycek and me and a magazine we've both read and a very boring parking garage under a very boring Federal building. You've seen one; you've seen 'em all. But, things are going to pick up in just a little bit. We're expecting a visit soon from an Assistant Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

Krycek looks into the side mirror and adjusts it with his fake hand. Just a little nudge with the fake finger. It didn't need adjusting. He's nervous. Can't say I blame him. AD Skinner makes me as nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

It's not that I'm afraid of the man. Now, I know it's not like any guy is ever going to admit to being afraid of another guy, but it's true. I'm not afraid of him.

Krycek is.

And that makes me nervous because Krycek just isn't the type of guy to be afraid of somebody like Skinner or any guy for that matter. And he is just not intimidated by authority. Krycek would spit in the face of the devil himself.

It took me a while to figure it out and when I did I nearly peed on myself from the sheer horror of it all. I've seen the look in Krycek's eyes when he's watching Skinner walk away from him and it's damn chocolate orgasm time. Oh, it doesn't last as long as a Snicker's candy bar, but the emotion's there in them big, purty eyes of his.

If I had a two by four I'd hit him up the side of the head with it. Of course, he'd shoot me afterwards, but I'd have the satisfaction of knowing I'd at least tried to knock some sense into him before I died. It'd be my one good deed.

The man couldn't have picked a more impossible person to fall in love with. Skinner hates his guts. It's obvious. At least to the rest of us not living in the Kingdom of Far Far Away.

Oh, it's not as if Krycek has completely lost all reason. He knows it's hopeless. But, it's like chocolate. He can't give it up. And who can blame him, really, for yearning after what he can't have. It's like freedom, this love he's got for Skinner. It's all mixed up in his head. I know it is. The love of the unattainable.

He says he's going to be free one day. I don't know what he means by that exactly, if he's talking about freedom from this alien invasion or Spender or maybe just life itself. I think it's more a personal thing for him, his freedom, than some patriotic quest for the entire planet. Skinner's part of that freedom.

It's all just a dream because Krycek is a fish and Skinner's one of those fishermen who doesn't want to believe his catch feels any pain while he's slicing open its soft underbelly and spilling out all those nasty entrails.

And Krycek's already taken the bait. Oh yeah, he's hooked on that line real good, the dumb fuck. And there ain't no doubt about the pain, no sir, no doubt at all.

We both get out of the car when Skinner finally makes his appearance, except I stay leaning against the car door while they walk into the shadows. The lighting in parking garages is highly susceptible to all sorts of hazards and quirks of nature, even in Federal parking garages, so there's always a dark corner to slink into. God is in the details, they say.

I'm watching his back as best I can. This chit chat isn't supposed to take long. And it doesn't. Voices are raised at one point and I make a move toward them, but then Skinner clutches his left arm close to his side and sort of hunches over while Krycek steps back and turns towards me and the car.

It's obvious Skinner's in pain. Those nanoboty critters are damn fast. Krycek's close enough now I can see his face clearly. It's like looking at a thunderhead boiling up and rumbling across the prairie. Something you want to get outa the way of mighty quick. I slip back into the passenger seat and he's behind the wheel, pounding on it with his good hand and cursing. Then he's slamming the car into reverse and screeching outa there like...you guessed it...a bat outa hell.

We're driving pretty fast and normally I'd be nervous riding in a car being driven by a one-armed man who's mad as hell and not abiding by the rules of the road in a consistent or safe fashion. But, Krycek gives off this aura of competence that is just unshakable. I'd never dream of asking him to let me drive. It's one of the reasons I've lived as long as I have.

That and I never ask Krycek to explain what he's saying in Russian. He's cursing. It's pretty obvious. I do hear the words, 'stubborn', 'idiot', and 'fool', but then there's lots and lots of other words that seem just a mite suspect as to the nature of their meaning.

The word 'heartfelt' comes to mind.

One thing I do know, Krycek may use these nanobotty critters on Skinner and he may act like he gets some sadistic buzz out of it, but he don't. I've seen him afterwards, like he is now, and it tears him up inside, makes him crazier than he already is. So, I keep quiet.

But sometimes I worry. If something happens to me, which in my line of work is highly likely, then who's going to know he feels pain?

"Hell is Empty, And all the devils are here."
The Tempest, William Shakespeare