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It had been a depressing few years. I had even grown a beard to show to the world that I was rejecting my former employment and locked myself in to a cabin for the foreseeable so no one could see me. That showed them. I knew it wouldn’t be long before the FBI came crawling back, the wusses, begging me to help them out on an X-File. Sure enough, one fine day they came a knocking on my door.

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I had a shave and was back to my normal gorgeous self in no time. That showed those FBI weirdoes that I was ready for action again. I like to make my feelings demonstrably obvious because people are stupid and for most the truth is, like, way out there. I felt better for the shave though. I sometimes scratch my beautiful head and wonder why I went to work for the FBI, because I am such a stud. Occasionally, I think I should have become a male gigolo or even a Hollywood actor. Same difference, I guess. I could have been famous. They might have made toy figures of me.

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I digress, so let’s get back to the case. Skinner had been investigating a rumor about the US Olympic Swim Team. Their improved performance since 2004 had been raising questions that some sort of enhancement was being used to gain a shower of gold medals wherever they went. This disquiet centered on a young athlete by the name of Phelps.

Skinner was beginning to make progress when disaster struck. During his investigation, he made what he thinks must have been a startling discovery, but his FBI colleague was decapitated and he woke up in a ditch with no memory. He ranted on about gates and stars and Atlantis, which led me to believe that something fishy was going on here. He believed that Scully and I were the only ones suitably qualified to investigate what had happened to him. I think he quietly has a thing going on for me, he just keeps coming back for more.

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Scully wasn’t keen to get involved in the case at first. She had been busy saving one-armed children with leprosy through hitherto unknown procedures she discovered on the internet while at the same time subliminally dissing the Catholic Church. Yeah, she sure had been busy. I gave her all the salient points that I had extracted from the still delirious Skinner and insisted that this could be an X-File. Scully is a huge swimming fan and an even bigger patriot and it took some time to persuade her but she eventually came around to my way of thinking as she always does. Then she didn’t. But then she did. Then she didn’t. But then she did. Plus ca change.

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The name Phelps rang a bell and with a little rifling through my files in my still untouched office at the FBI (plus a little help from the Internet) we soon found ourselves in a deserted factory. Deserted, I say, but for a mermaid type creature held captive by mysterious militia men (who Scully hypnotized). I showed the creature my ID and attempted an interrogation. All she would utter were the odd syllables, “Jing” and “Bay” again and again and circled the number eight with her flippers till she got quite dizzy. She was making no sense.

We had come to a dead end. We left the factory and then there was, like, a space ship, a huge big thing with lots of lights and antennae (was there music, too?). It loomed over the building like a great big giant loomy thing. Anyway, it was, like, quite scary and the factory was mysteriously empty by the time the rest of the FBI got there.

I decided that we needed to get to Baltimore, Maryland, the home town of Michael Phelps, the young swimmer around whom this mystery seemed to center. Despite what the accounts department says, I still insist that this was nothing to do with the John Waters retrospective the city was hosting, even though the Bureau tried to query this later. They paid for our plane tickets, as per. (Suckers.)

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Before we got to Baltimore, we stopped off at the North Pole to prove that Santa Claus exists. Scully has this thing about kids, ever since she had to give up the one she thought she could never have but did because of possible alien intervention but then couldn’t keep because it was way too dangerous and, like, the kid could levitate things. So, I threw her this one. Had to keep her sweet some way and I sensed that she had been tiring of my bearded hippy impression. She liked Santa’s beard though. I wanted to shoot him.

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We got to Baltimore and went deep in to the woods on the outskirts of the city. There had been odd things happening in Baltimore since Phelps’ birth (or landing?) in 1985 and it seemed like a good place to start. There is no point changing our modus operandi at this point, it’s always worked in the past. At least it wasn’t snowing this time and there were no irritating FBI agents calling me Spooky and stuff. Scully thought she saw something but by the time she got my attention, whatever it was she had seen was long gone. She is always doing that to me. Bitch.

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It was time for some pool action. I wanted to dive right in there and confront Phelps, but Scully said that the sight of me in my red Speedos might frighten him off. Point taken. My love bulge does sometimes intimidate. Having another rifle through my files, I discovered that Phelps had been diagnosed at the age of ten with ADHD. Most people believe this stands for Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. Those of us in the know, however, have ascertained that in fact it stands for a highly secret and elaborate government plot. ADHD in fact stands for “Alien DNA Hybrid Design”. It is my belief that the government has secretly introduced this DNA in to hundreds of thousands of our children, in the hope of producing human weapons to be used to find massive weapons of destruction and kick the ass of anyone with the word “bin” in their name.

When I mentioned this plan to Scully she got all bleary eyed about kids and went to do some work in the lab.

I went to the pool and checked out Phelps. For some reason, he got a little spooked by the site of a fully clothed adult male checking him out. I considered that a disguise might work better.

My plan was to get closer to Phelps by adopting a cunning disguise and gaining his trust by impersonating a cheer leader. Something happened that grey evening by the pool, and I am convinced it is the key to this file. However, I have no memory of what happened between six and eight on the evening of that day. Somehow Phelps has managed to wipe my mind clean of anything I may have discovered during that time.

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To this day I cannot remember what happened during these hours and what sort of mind trick Phelps used on me to wipe my memory. This would not be the last time Phelps would use such tactics against the fight for the truth.

I think I saw my sister though.

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As ever, Scully seemed to get the easy part of the assignment. It was her task to infiltrate teenage parties to ascertain whether Phelps had been demonstrating any unusual behavior. I wanted this part of the assignment as some of those chicks were hot. But, yet again, I ended up with the dangerous bits. Somehow, Scully got it in to her head that there would be a pedophile priest with an odd combination of a Scottish and American accent at the party, preying on the sweet young things. She wanted to kick his ass before coming to a strange but measured kind of understanding. I told her to get with the case and stop thinking about kids all the time. Really, sometimes she worries me.

She has, however, proven useful in the lab. Using his fecal remains, she has ascertained that he consumes around twelve thousand kcal every day. This is more than five times the average male adult intake. Proof surely he is part of the government’s secret ADHD program. This theory has been rejected out of hand back at FBI HQ. The bastards.

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I returned to the woods and found the bodies of two children from Eastern Europe. This was nothing to do with the case so I left them there. Scully would only have wept openly at the autopsy table and I didn’t want that, at any cost. Why is it that whatever case I am on there is always something seemingly thrown in that has absolutely nothing to do with the issue at hand? I sometimes think there is a conspiracy going on.

At this point I discovered that Phelps had signed up to “Project (I Want To) Believe” in an attempt to silence those who question he is taking performance enhancing drugs. This is a supremely clever ploy on his part and I suspect that his naïve country boy persona is an act. By focusing on the drugs issue he is diverting attention away from the alien hybrid truth. This guy is nothing short of a mastermind. But could I prove it? I felt I was at last getting somewhere.

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Meanwhile, Scully found some evidence of wrong doing in the woods. Funny how it’s always in the woods. She has a thing for woods. And children. Hmmm. However, the evidence mysteriously disappeared before the dumper truck that we rented to get it to the morgue even arrived. So, Scully couldn’t do an autopsy. She never believes her own evidence anyway, so it didn’t make much difference.

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Scully and I met up again and exchanged the facts that we had discovered. Or not. Nothing seemed to make sense so everything at least seemed normal. We went to another disused factory. We kinda had a hunch.

There we discovered, much to our amazement, a huge green organic pod of possibly alien origins. This pod is, I believe, the source of the DNA material gathered by American scientists and introduced in to the youth of our nation. Phelps was possibly accidentally administered a little too much of this DNA and this has led to his extraordinary success in the pool.

However, at the conclusion of this case, on our return to the factory with the now recovered Skinner and a host of FBI, the factory was completely empty apart from, like, a zillion cigarette butts. Our only source of evidence was gone.

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The whole of the next day is a blank for both of us. I believe that Phelps must have had something to do with this, although again I have no evidence to back up my theories. I swear I smelled a hint of chlorine before I blacked out, though. The FBI maintain that a few tattered ribbons and bent out of shape circular gold-plated things with a lead interior is not proof of an alien mind-blanking device. The fact there were eight of them held no sway either, even though eight is a mystical number to many South American Shamans. The disbelievers. They took the medallions away and they have not been seen since.

Someone or something got to us. This conspiracy leads to the very top.

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Whatever happened that day, our memory will hopefully, at some point, return. Even though I may not have the physical proof that the alien hybrid program exists I will at least have satisfied my own intellectual curiosity and have discovered the truth. Scully remains doubtful about my theories. Bee Atch. In the meantime I will continue to track and study Phelps, despite the restraining order. He is the key to his whole case and I will crack it.

There is some good news, however. Scully is pregnant again. Which is good. I think. She said something odd the other day. She pointed at her belly and said “The truth is in there”. I think she may be cracking up. She is acting oddly and our relationship is deteriorating.

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Scully refused to fund me anymore, even though I was always brilliant in bed. She is getting morning sickness now and an overwhelming urge to eat tuna. In fact, she has become a voracious devourer of sea food in general. This could be a case in itself.

The FBI refused to take me back. Again. I had to get a job at Home Depot to make ends meet. At least I was in good company – Vanessa from The Cosby Show, down on her luck too, is a co-worker. The FBI, as usual, maintains tabs on me. They thought I wouldn’t notice Agents Such and Hartsky keeping a close eye on me. I am always sharper than they think.

I just want to believe that. Sob.