Night shift bag checker at Ralph’s Market of the Strange. Witnessed no less than three ectoplasmic manifestations and one dimensional vortex in the mayonnaise aisle.
All past lives-Present:
Seeker of The Truth. Place of employment: Out There.
Can play the X-Files theme (and only the X-Files theme) on acoustic guitar.
Can also render the same on paper: Wah-wah-wah-wah-WAH-wah. (Deedledeedledeedle) Wah-wah-wah-wah-WAH-wah. (DeedledeeDEE) WAH-wah-wah-wah-WAH. DUNdundun. Created by Chris Carter.
Willing to satisfy Mr. Duchovny’s sex addiction twice weekly, on the condition that I am allowed to wear rubber gloves.
And just in case that sterling resumé isn’t enough to sway you, I’ve taken the liberty of providing an excerpt from a little piece of fan fiction I like to call “The Curse of The Were-Mummy.” I think a quick read will help assure you that I’m the only man for the future job.
“But isn’t that the point?” Mulder persisted, placing his hand on the butt of his gun like the biggest badass you’ve ever seen. His face seemed tortured with a yearning for Truth; a Truth that forever eluded him. “How do we know it
a demonic force that stole the stereo out of this TransAm?”
Mulder’s partner paused, smirking skeptically. “Science,” he muttered, and slid into the driver’s seat of their black Escalade like a snake slithering through a pat of honey butter.
Mulder laughed bitterly. “Agent Swaim, always the skeptic.”
Agent Swaim,” he corrected, starting the car’s engine with a deafening roar. “Now come on…we’ve got a werewolf to kill.” And as they tore off into the night, Percy Faith blaring full volume, Mulder felt that for once, maybe the Truth…was in here.
I await your phone call, Mr. Duchovny.
When not writing for Cracked, Michael searches for his lost sister as head writer and co-founder of the ongoing paranormal research group Those Aren't Muskets!
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