So Mulder and Scully sneak into the pigpen to let the little oinkers loose. Or, rather, to open the gate and try to shove them into the yard while trying to avoid being found out by the nutsy, psychotic inbreds. Mulder shoves one pig violently. "Scully, would you think of me as less of a man if I told you I was kind of excited right now?" he asks. Scully gives him a disgusted look. "Is there a secret farmer trick to get these things moving?" he asks. She grunts that she doesn't know. They push. "Bah ram ewe!" Scully hisses at the pigs. "Bah ram ewe!" Mulder pushes a pig, unsuccessfully. "Yeah, that'll work," he snarks. "I babysat my nephew this weekend," Scully explains. "He watches Babe fifteen times a day. " More pushing. A Peacock ambles out of the house, holding his bloody hands aloft like a surgeon. A really, really disgusting surgeon. He washes his hands at the pump in the yard, but is soon thereafter distracted by the pigs, which have finally realized that they've been offered their freedom and are now running amuck. The Peacock makes a face and calls for his brothers/fathers/whatevers. They come racing outside. Damn pesky livestock!
While the Peacocks are chasing the pig every whichwhere, Mulder and Scully make a run for the house. Mulder picks up a large plank of wood along the way. They head in the back door, poking it open with the plank. Which is promptly impaled by a long, sharp spike. Scully and Mulder exchange looks, brows raised, and draw their guns. They creep inside the house, under the spike. "FBI!" Scully calls. "Is anybody in this house?" There's no answer. They poke around the place, flashlights out, guns drawn, kicking in doors. The usual. Mulder kicks open a door to find a room full of old newspapers and magazines. "Oh, no," he says very sadly, and holds up a yellowing paper, reading, "Elvis Dead at 42." Mulder makes an exaggerated pouty face. Scully rolls her eyes at him.
Scully finds a room covered in pictures. The people in the pictures get progressively less freaky-looking as the pictures get older. She's examining the photographs when Mulder finds roller marks on the hardwood floor, leading right under the bed. He pulls aside the bedskirt. (The crazy inbred freaks have a bedskirt? How dainty.) The woman under the bed starts screaming like a banshee. She needs some serious dental work, by the way. She hollers at them to get the hell out. "It's all right, ma'am, we're federal agents," Mulder tells her kindly. "We're here to help you." Scully suggests that they move the bed. "They've got her strapped to some kind of board or something," Mulder says. Scully gestures at him, like, "Then roll her out, numbnuts." And they do. And she screams and screams and screams and screams. In addition to needing dental work, she could also use several prosthetic limbs. Four of them, to be exact. Mulder -- again, very nicely and calmly -- explains that everything is going to be all right; they're from the FBI, and they're going to help her. "We're going to make sure that you get home," he says. She's still yelling. Scully directs her flashlight back to the photos on the wall. "Mulder, she is home," she says, looking first at one of the pictures, then at the woman. "It's Mrs. Peacock. She's their mother." And their wife! Their mother! And their wife! Mrs. Peacock stops screaming and starts sobbing. Her eyes roll around alarmingly in their sockets. Mulder backs up a bit, and she rolls herself right back under the bed. He furrows his brow.