Badlaa

Okay, I was just in the kitchen, making a snack, because nothing makes me hungrier than watching tiny people burrowing out of dead people's colons, and there are ants coming out of my drain. Out of the drain, people! Can you even explain that to me? How do they live, with all the water and stuff, coming into the drain? This is typical. The ants and I have a long-standing and deeply bitter feud, going back to the summer I was eight and I made it my life's project to obliterate the ant colony in our backyard, a task I accomplished by sticking the hose down the ant hole and yelling "remember the Alamo!" (We'd just learned about the Alamo in history class). Since that fateful day, the ants have made it their sworn duty to make my life a living, breathing, bloody hell. But I will not be cowed by their brazen attempt on my plumbing! Never surrender!

Anyway, time for The X-Files and whatnot. Are you sure you wouldn't rather I talk about something interesting? Like the ants and my plan to destroy them, once and for all? How about Passions? That Theresa sure is dumber than a box of hair.

Okay, fine. Welcome to the cozy and genial atmosphere of Sahar International Airport, in Mumbai, India. Mumbai, India is hopping, yo; people are yelling, cars are veering to and fro with nary a thought for the sanctity of the rules of the road. It's smoggy. People are in turbans. A rather fat man exits a taxi and is immediately overtaken by various people (all of them in turbans), begging him for money. They're all very dirty. Like, with clumps of dirt. Yet another sensitive thumbnail sketch of another culture, folks, courtesy of Chris Carter and the folks at 1013 -- everyone in India is dirty and poor. Great! The Fat Man -- let's call him Fred, just for brevity's sake -- slams his passport on the counter, makes a snide "India sucks"-type comment to the Customs person, and heads off to his gate.

Behind him, an ominous creaking noise. Fred turns around to see a very small man, with no legs, in the generic Dirty Beggar ensemble, staring at him. He's perched on a little rolling cart-type thing, hence the creaking. "Poor bastard," Fred says. The Very Small Man -- let's call him Morty, just because I'm watching Seinfeld right now, and it's the episode where Elaine and Jerry go down to Florida to stay with Morty and Helen Seinfeld -- just keeps staring.

Fred takes off, but Morty keeps rolling creakily behind him. Fred sighs, puts down his briefcase and hands Morty a few rupee, advising him to invest in some WD-40. Morty takes the cash, but gives Fred a dirty look. As soon as Fred's back is turned, Morty dramatically drops the change on the floor.

Oh, sweet God. Fred's on the can and I just saw way too much of that nether area where the gut hits the thighs, and it's so uncalled for. Fred idly flips through his newspaper. Who gets that comfy in an airport restroom? Why am I even thinking about this? Creeeeeak. Fred peers down to see Morty's cart right in front of his stall. He's -- understandably -- wigged, and tells Morty to leave him be. Morty creaks closer. Fred stands up to give Morty what-for in no uncertain terms, and Morty grabs his ankle and drags him under the door of the stall. Fred screams. That Morty's pretty damn strong for a midget with no legs.

Welcome to Dulles International Airport, Washington D.C. Thank you for flying Indian Stereotypes Airlines!

Random Washington Hotel of No Name. A cute bellhop lets Fred inside his room, and attempts to make some kind of pleasant conversation, but totally gets dissed. Fred just stands and breathes loudly. The bellhop makes a giant whatever face and books. As he leaves, the Ominous Creaking of Morty's Cart of Evil commences, and the camera pans down to show us that Fred's luggage is all loaded up on Morty's cart. Fred turns ponderously, sits on the bed, and starts leaking blood all over everything. His eyes turn completely red. The bed is suddenly soaked with blood. It's really gross.

Credits.

The people at FOX think that people who watch The X-Files use Sprint, drive Mazdas, shop at Radio Shack, and have Discover cards.

Welcome back to what is now identified as the Hotel Belmont, 9:46 AM. Crime scene investigators swarm over Fred's bloodstained suite like the ants in my kitchen, as Scully enters the room, all sensible attire and lack of belly. BoobWatch2001: A Whole New Year: Still Totally Boob-Free, and Now, I'm Not Sure I Like That. She and Doggett exchange remarkably pleasant greetings and chat about traffic being a bitch, and she's so sorry she's late, charming smile, winsome grin -- who are these people? Do I detect...job satisfaction? Not that I know what it looked like if I saw it. Doggett explains the case to Scully; I'm not even going to go into the dialogue, because it's exactly what we all just saw happen. Doggett tells Scully that the ME's preliminary report has ruled out some kind of exotic disease, like Ebola, and that the room shows no sign of forced entry. "Nobody knows anything, in other words," Scully eyebrows. "I guess that's why it's in your inbox," Doggett retorts, flirtatiously. What's going on with these two? Is this what a good night's sleep will do? Although maybe Scully's late because she was at a tryst with Hot Autopsy Guy from last week. Doggett runs down a tongue-in-cheek list of what he thinks might be behind Fred's death: "Haunted hotel room? Alien invaders? Sloppy vampires?" All of which, by the way, would be more interesting than what this episode is actually about. Plot point alert: Scully spies a bloody child-sized palm print on the duvet cover. Doggett waxes nostalgic again about his days back on the force, and a ring of cat burglars that used children for "B and E jobs," but he's never seen anything like this. We. Know. Scully comments calmly that she doesn't believe there is any way a child could have killed Fred, which relieves poor innocent Doggett. Scully glances sideways at her partner. "I do think it's wise you keep an open mind," she tells him. They exchange another one of those almost flirtatious glances. The hell?