Scully voice-overs her field report, something about deviation from norms and social mores, white males, above-average intelligence, yada profile yada profile yada. Most fetishists, Scully says, become killers, and Mulder believes that's exactly what's happening in this case.
At the field office, Mulder eats Chinese food from the box. Scully looks through yet more papers. "It is somehow easier to believe, as Agent Bocks does, in aliens and UFOs than in the kind of cold-blooded, inhuman monster who preys on the living to savage from the dead," she voice-overs. True, that.
The cold-blooded, inhuman monster Donnie Pfaster goes trolling for his next victim amid the hooker population of Minneapolis. One of the streetwalkers, a pretty young blonde, leans in his driver side window and asks whether he's looking for "a date." I've seen Real Sex on HBO. I know that's whore speak for "blowjob." Speaking of Real Sex, do you think they could possibly find some uglier people to get naked for them? Seriously. No one on that show is attractive. If people are going to get naked on my TV, I at least want them to be good looking. I can see naked ugly people in real life any day of the week. I'm talking about the gym, folks; get your minds out of the gutter. Anyway, Donnie Pfaster looks all creepy and thoughtful and tells the blonde -- let's call her Barbie -- that he's interested in "a couple of hours," not just a quickie. Barbie makes a face that's all, like, yay! Money! She smacks her gum and smiles. "What do you have in mind?" she asks. "I'm thinking some wine, a bubble bath, and then a brutal, heartless death. And not only am I going to kill you, I'm also going to screw up your hairdo. Are you in?" he responds. Not really.
Donnie Pfaster takes Barbie back to his dark and freaky apartment. He doesn't turn any lights on, but just stands there and looks at her. Barbie rubs her arms and complains that the place is cold. "Don't you have any heat?" she asks. "The forced air unit is broken," Donnie says, before creepily informing her that he'd like to run her a bath. Okay, like any normal person would use the phrase "forced air unit." Run, Barbie, run!
Donnie slinks into the bathroom and prepares Poor Doomed Barbie's Bubble Bath of Death. I'm disturbed to note that he and I have the same long-handled scrub brush. Although I use mine to exfoliate my back, so that I look pretty in halter tops, whereas I suspect that Donnie Pfaster uses his for more sinister causes. Like, um, exfoliating dead people? I don't know. Donnie turns off the water as Barbie wanders into the room. "Is your hair treated?" he asks her. Barbie looks askance. "Do you need a shampoo for chemically treated hair?" Donnie clarifies. Barbie is all, okay, Mr. Crazy Insanity, let's just get this show on the road so I can head back to the street corner where I feel comfortable. She starts to remove her shoes. Donnie stares at her red fingernails. Mid-leer, the phone rings. Donnie's all, "Excuse me," and slithers off to answer it. Barbie looks after him warily and takes off her coat. Man, Barbie, haven't you read The Gift of Fear? The guy's a total whack job. Screw the cash and get your little ass out of there.