Sunday at Pluto’s
I have a bad habit of getting into Moods and deleting things. This is a repost from last year, with a few little tweaks. Formerly called “Collarbone”. Diner fluff.
“What’ll it be, hon?”
This waitress can’t be for real. She’s a caricature - ambiguously middle-aged, with over-bleached, preposterously voluminous hair piled on top of her head, wide hips, blue eyeshadow, one bad tooth. Hell, she’s even chewing gum, smacking it cheerfully between her tongue and her teeth. She’s unbelievable, is what she is. The whole diner is unbelievable. And true to his affection for unbelievable things, Mulder is absolutely delighted.
They’re somewhere in Texas in the death grip of summer, and it’s hot enough to scald a loon. He’d almost thought it was a mirage at first; the rusting silver rail-car glinting like a beacon just off the sun-baked, dusty road, the comically oversized, hand-painted particle board sign declaring that they’d found Pluto’s Diner, a faded green alien speeding away in his Adamski-type UFO, calling out behind him to anyone that would hear - The Waffles are Out of this WORLD!