Autopsy Time With Dr. Dana Scully. She rolls her tools over to the body and heaves another put-upon sigh. She could not be more bored. She takes out her tape recorder. "Begin autopsy on white male. Age sixty," she begins. "Who's arguably having a worse time in Texas than I am. Although not by much. I'll begin with a Y incision." Then, very dully: "Yee-haw."
Scully heaves the man's heart into the scale. "370 grams. Tissues healthy," she monotones blankly. Next, the lung. "345 grams. Tissues healthy." Next, a struggle to get all of the slippery large intestine in the scale. "890 grams. Yada, yada, yada," Scully says. She pokes around the man's insides, shifting her weight from one little foot to the other. "Stomach contents show last meal close to time of death," she mutters. "Consisting of...pizza! Topped with...pepperoni, green peppers, mushrooms. Mushrooms...that sounds really good." Scully cracks her neck.
Cut to a shot of a small motel. "Having completed the autopsy, I checked into the Davey Crockett Motor Court," Scully says, and the Time/Date Stamp taps out "Davey Crockett Motor Court." Mulder interrupts his partner's voice-over: "The name of it was actually the Sam Houston Motor Lodge." The Time/Date Stamp self-corrects. Heh. I love the clever Time/Date Stamp hijinks.
Inside her room, Scully puts money into the Magic Fingers and relaxes on the bed with a sigh, taking off her shoes and closes her eyes. Shortly thereafter, the door swings open dramatically, hitting the wall with a thud. Mulder stands framed in the doorway, covered in mud. There is no expression on his face whatsoever. "Chloral hydrate," Scully says without looking at him. "What?" Mulder asks. Scully finally looks over. "What the hell happened to you?" she asks. Mulder spreads his hands out expansively. "Nothing," he says, coming inside and sitting down in a puff of dust. Scully explains that the thing he didn't know he was looking for was chloral hydrate. "Knockout drops," she explains, her voice shaking with the magic fingers. She found it when she sent out the tox screen, she explains. "No, seriously, what happened to you?" she asks again. "Nothing," Mulder insists. "Who slipped him the mickey?" he asks. Scully looks at him dryly. "My 'theory'?" she says. "Your vampire." She explains that poor dead Mr. Funt had to be drugged before he allowed the perp to suck his blood. "He probably did it to the cows, too," she says. Mulder looks enormously thoughtful and stares into the distance. "What kind of vampire would do that?" Mulder wonders wanly, like a little girl who doesn't understand why her mommy won't buy her that Sanrio toaster that burns the face of Hello Kitty into your toast. "Exactly," Scully says. Mulder sighs. "We got another dead tourist. You have to do another autopsy," he finally tells her. "Tonight?" Scully yelps. "I just put money in the Magic Fingers!" Mulder shrugs. "I won't let it go to waste," he says, leaping onto the bed in a puff of dirt. Scully looks disgusted and sad and peels herself off the bed and gets up and puts on her shoes and coat. She looks back at Mulder lying on the bed. He starts chuckling uncontrollably, thanks to the Magic of the Fingers. Scully stares miserably at him. "This one's my room, Mulder. Don't get mud everywhere," she asks sadly. Mulder chuckles and chortles. "Yeah, okay," he laughs.