Date Finished: July, 1997 Classification: Humor Keywords: Jarod/Miss Parker Rating: R (mature subject matter ) Stag Night at the Centre By Elsewhere Disclaimer: All characters herein are property of some form of rich American company, and no harm, other than in good fun, of course, is intended to such companies. Spoilers: The entire first season, but nothing after. Note: No pissed off actors, NBC producers, writers, camera crews...no drunken idiots, basically, were hurt during the making of this story. Of course, they all had hangovers afterwards, but that's another story. All activity herein was monitored (with supreme interest) by the American Humane Society...and the cast of the X-Files, who begged to watch simply because they never get to do such fun things on their show, even though it's obvious every avid fan in the world wants it. Other Note: Sorry it took so long to get this one out, Pretender fans. BTW, kudos to Witch1, who, of course, inspired this thing. : ) Summary: The *real* reason Jarod was kicked out of the Centre. ***** Miss Parker strode into the office, her heels clicking on the slick floor as she came like some terrible bomb that Broots just knew was going to blow up in his face...after all, who else's? He was the one the producers had hired to be her little puppet, after all. He tried desperately not to resent his treatment, but thought to himself that as an actor he should get a little more respect, and vowed to speak to his agent about getting a raise. "Broots, you demented fool," she hissed as she lit a cigarette. "Do you realize that those sons of bitches up in the Tower just denied me a holiday from this paranoia and conspiracy they call a TV show?" "I do now, Miss Parker," he said obediently. "Don't talk back to me, Broots," she snapped. "Neither of us is paid for that." "Yes, er, no ma'am," he answered meekly. She huffed out enough putrid cigarette smoke to rival a JX-5 leak and Broots wondered if last year's little incident in the Tower conference room, the conference that had gone horribly wrong when it had been discovered that someone was gassing the room and all its occupants, had in fact been simply the product of Miss Parker's cigarettes, since she certainly had been in attendance. He ducked away from the stinging tobacco and banged directly into his computer desk, his hand smacking down to hit a key, inadvertently wiping out the Centre's security files for the last twenty years. "Broots, you moron," Miss Parker hissed, and for the first time he realized why she must be so angry. She had strep throat! "Sorry, Miss Parker," Broots said, ignoring the wild signalling of a man who 'd just appeared in the dimly lit---to say the least---office. He wondered if the personnel were playing baseball indoors, in which case Mr. Raines would be very upset if he caught them, considering that the last time the baseball had broken a window, knocked out a pair of Siamese psychokinetic---or whatever---twins, knocked the last clone of the Director out the window to fall to its death on the ugly looking---but obviously unreal, only photographed and trussed up by computers---rocks of the Delaware coast, and finally sprung a leak in Raines' oxygen tank before coming to rest in the pit of Sydney's stomach...from where it had never yet been recovered. Then he realized the wacko signalling him was the director, trying to get him to act more nervous. In response, he lifted his middle finger to the man, and, of course, the Parker bitch thought it was for her and with an angry hiss she brought her fist up to connect with Broots' chin. There was a deafening crack of bone, and Miss Parker grinned as Broots fell back again, knocking out another decade or two of Centre top-priority files. "Let's see make-up fix that," she growled, and stalked away, only to be balked by the very floor that made her heels sound so impressive, as her feet slipped as she came close to the elevator, and she fell directly on her ass. Ignoring the giggles of the surrounding crowd, including Broots, she pulled herself back up and, rubbing her rump tenderly, she left the screen, despite how hard the camera tried to pan after her. Meanwhile, Sydney appeared...seemingly out of nowhere. Only on TV (sigh). "Mister Broots," he said, his voice coming across in a thick Chinese accent. "Um, Sydney, you've, ah, kind of lost your accent again," Broots stammered, hearing the giggles of the camera crew again. "Oh, yes," Sydney shook his head, his voice returning to its usual cultured Belgian. "Fanfiction, you know." "Uh, yeah, whatever," said Broots, turning to sit down and only succeeding in slipping against the desk again and deleting Sydney's porn folder, much to the older man's rage. ***** Miss Parker's heels signaled her arrival long before it was necessary...and two hours later she finally pushed open the double doors and stepped into her father's office, her eyes widening and her jaw dropping at the sight she saw therein. Her father, Mr. Raines, and---mother of God!---Jarod, sat together on Mr. Parker's desk, each holding a glass of scotch on the rocks and, altogether, singing some completely daft sea shanty and rocking back and forth in their merriment. Broots was tipped over the side of the nearest chair, his hand clutching a still seven eighths of the way full shot glass---dead drunk. "Oh my GOD!" she screeched, finally bringing attention to herself, since the men had all ignored her heels, knowing she could be anywhere in the Centre. "Honey!" Mr. Parker cried joyously. "Come join us!" "What the HELL is going on!?" she demanded ominously, stretching her strep throat to painful distances. "It's stag night!" Jarod called, nearly falling off the desk in his mirth, quite obviously well past tipsy and into thoroughly pissed. "Don't you remember, Miss Parker?" "She was too young to remember," Raines rasped. "Also, she's a woman. How could she understand such things?" Just then he glanced at Miss Parker, still standing in the doorway with coronary written all over her face, and his eyes widened slightly. "Hey, Parker," Raines gasped, and both Parkers responded. He shakily shook off the woman, turning to her father. "Did you ever find out what her fucking name is?" "No," Mr. Parker admitted sadly. "The writers won't tell me." "They won't tell me either," Miss Parker called. "Andrea," Jarod said innocently. "Not my real name, you idiot!" she slammed the doors behind herself and stalked up to the desk. "There has to be some stupid, totally out of character first name for me, preferably at some point next season." "Oh," Jarod said, looking hurt. "Here, darling, have a drink," said Mr. Parker, and handed her a scotch. "And a joint," Jarod added eagerly, and handed her a home-made marijuana role. She accepted both, and momentarily she was looking oddly content. Suddenly she looked at Jarod, wild desire in her eyes. "God, Jarod, you look even better when I'm high," she said, and jumped at him, knocking him off the desk. "Must be the Soap Opera training," he mused as she tore at his clothes. The door opened again, and Sydney stepped in, his immediate reaction the same as Miss Parker's had been, but with a different light. "Oh, NO!" he shouted. "Not AGAIN! I thought we got rid of this problem when you left, Jarod!" He glanced around, looking for Jarod. Jarod wouldn't miss a Centre stag night, would he? Of course not. His superior intellect proved that. Eventually Jarod's muffled voice rose to meet Sydney's weary ears. "Can't talk, Syd," he called. "Copulating." Sydney's eyes widened, and he hurried over to the desk to sit with the other men and enjoy the show, ignoring the popcorn Raines passed him. "Gotta love the Centre, don't you, guys?" Mr. Parker cheered, slapping Mr. Raines on the back, so hard that the man's oxygen tube was ripped from his nose and he fell forward, slumping on the floor. Sydney's eyes lit up. "Do you think he's okay?" Parker asked, sounding concerned. "He'll be fine," Sydney said darkly. "You don't sound too convinced," Parker said doubtingly. "Well, of course," Sydney looked up at the man as though noticing him for the first time. "Don't you ever read the damn script, Parker? This is convenient for me, because I fantasize about killing Raines!" "You too?" Parker asked, amazed. ***** THE END-no comment necessary. **Feedback is always appreciated**Flames will be used to light the new fireplace!**