Syndicate Bachelor Pad

Alex Krycek's Journal, February 19

How my dreams and I started out in medical school and ended up in this crumby apartment with hot and cold running roaches, I don't know, so don't expect much of an explanation on that account.

Instead I will just stand before the fridge and wonder what to cook. A recipe my sainted mother used to cook (when she wasn't testing her drunk aim and my sober reflexes by throwing her latest empty vodka bottle at me) comes to mind.

I get out a 9 x 13 inch pan, grease it, dump a can of sweetened applesauce into it, dump a can of crushed pineapple on that, sprinkle a package of yellow cake mix over that, melt I cup of margarine and dump it over the cake mix, and sprinkle nuts over the batter. Throw the whole mess into a 350 degree oven, not bothering to stir it, wait an hour, and dump a carton of Cool Whip on it, and you have a wonderful concoction with enough fat and sugar to fuel any assassination job. And you thought I was just a leather jacketed pretty face.

I leave half for my roommate, who I seriously doubt can actually cook for himself. No, seriously. I have rarely seen the guy actually do more than eat, kill and sleep. Occasionally he breathes. Sometimes he picks up a hooker. About one out of those five instances I hear him pitching the poor girl's body out the window. Once he brought home a socially unacceptable paperback called "Totally Gross Jokes 3". I can still remember the puzzled look on his face when he asked me what you call kinky sex with chocolate (S&M&M) or how many perverts it takes to change a light bulb (just one, but it takes the whole emergency room to get it out). I prefer something intelligent like the American Medical Journal.

No, seriously. I always wanted to be a doctor. But the money was never there. Maybe that's the reason I got wrapped up in this mess. Never will happen now, no matter how much money I have.

Here comes Cardinal in now. Will finish later. Story.