Hey, guys, did you know that after the success of the X-Files/Simpsons crossover episode, Fox commissioned a variety of crossover episodes? Here's a draft that Chris Carter wrote incorporating the characters from PG Wodehouse's Jeeves stories. Unfortunately, the licensing cost was too high, so Fox decided to pass. I recently came across the script while hacking Chris Carter's computer, and thought you'd all want to read it. Crazy, right?
It was 11:20 am in the lobby of the Wick, one of the swankiest hotels in New York. Marble floors, Corinthian columns, and an adjoining restaurant with three Michelin stars and a four-piece string section producing unobtrusive classical music. The lobby's occupants were a mix of stiffly dressed old money, flashily dressed new money, impeccably dressed staff, and two other people.
No one gave these two other people any mind, the eyes of the guests sliding right from the socialite they'd met last season on the Riviera to the footman who might procure them a snifter. Their eyes never rested on the man, whose floppy brown hair wasn't slicked back, or on the woman, who didn't wear a string of pearls around her neck. The woman wore a pantsuit, not a dress, and the man wore a paisley necktie, not a black bowtie. They stood by a currently unattended concierge desk, the woman's blue eyes scanning the environment.
"I don't think the department's going to foot the bill for this place, Mulder," she announced, looking at the neoclassical fountain by the grand staircase. "Unless you booked our reservations in the janitor's closet…"
Mulder grinned. "I tried, but they only have one janitor's closet, and I didn't want to share my cot. No," he shook his head, "this isn't our hotel, Scully. This is the site of recent reports of paranormal activity."
Scully betrayed no surprise, instead emitting a weary sigh. "What is it this time? Sight-seeing alien elite or the ghosts of J.P. Morgan and Andrew Carnegie?"
Mulder extracted a notebook from his coat pocket and flipped it open. "At 1 am last night, several patrons including," he waggled his eyebrows, "the pretender to the throne of Finland reported seeing a spectral figure in the halls. About ninety minutes later, there were several reports of a strange noise. Most patrons described it as 'like nothing they'd ever heard before.' A Ms. Bassett likened it to," another grin stole across his face, "'the pathetic wail of a mama-duck separated from her baby-ducklings.'"
Before Scully could ask the obvious questions, like whether security footage had captured any of this, or how much the pretender to the throne of Finland or this Ms. Bassett had had to drink, there was a cry from patrons dodging two new entrants of the lobby: a tall, nattily-dressed young man being chased by an older man whose broad shoulders supported a red, scowling head.
"Wooster!" the second man bellowed.
This Wooster dashed in Scully and Mulder's direction, performing an acrobatic jump behind the unoccupied concierge desk with such skill as to suggest he was rather in the habit of jumping behind things.
"Now look here Spode-" Wooster yelped as Spode approached him.
"I've got you now, you depraved lothario!" Spode boomed, and Wooster ran behind the next available obstacle: Mulder and Scully.
Mulder put away his notebook and stood straighter, so he loomed over Spode by several inches. "Sir, is there a problem here?"
Spode edged from side to side to get access to the depraved lothario, but each time Mulder and Scully edged along with him, blocking him. Finally he accepted words were necessary. "Yes, there very well is a problem!" he sputtered. As he spoke, specks of Spode's spittle spattered across Mulder's face, causing Mulder to wince, lower his already-sleepy eyelids even more, and mop his face with his tie. Spode pointed to Wooster. "This degenerate slime has-"
At this point, Scully placed her hand at her hip, moving her jacket in the process to reveal her holster.
"Sir, I am going to have to ask you to calm down," she demanded.
Spode's eyes bulged at the sight of the firearm. He immediately melted a few inches and adopted a simpering, nervous smile that suited him no better than his enraged scowl had. "Of course, I'm calm," he insisted. "Perfectly calm." His left eye twitched as he spoke.
"Now what's the problem," Scully asked.
Spode's smile widened. "Miss, nothing to concern yourself with! If you will just let me apprehend this criminal here-"
"Hah!" the alleged criminal behind Scully and Mulder exclaimed. "I'm not going with him! I may be stupid, but I'm not suicidal!"
Spode's scowl returned. "You'll do as I say, Wooster! Swine like you-"
Mulder and Scully sighed and flashed their badges. Mulder announced their identities: "Special agents Mulder and Scully of the Federal Bureau of Investigation-"
At this, Wooster's bottom lip seized its quivering and he straightened to his full height. "Muldy?" he exclaimed, his bright blue eyes goggling, "is that you? I thought you looked familiar!"
Mulder and Scully turned around, Scully mouthing, 'Muldy?' and eying her partner curiously. Mulder studied Wooster for a minute before recognition washed over his face, bringing with it a surprised but delighted smile.
"Bertie?" he asked.
Bertie Wooster pumped Mulder's hand enthusiastically. "In the flesh, old bean! Well, I'll say!" He placed his hands at his hips and surveyed Muldy. "It's been an age! How's the old head bumpology? Still trying to find that certain je ne sais quoi what gives the baddies their baddy-ness?"
Scully frowned, still eying her partner. "Head bumpology?" she repeated.
Mulder turned to Scully. "He means phrenology. Which I didn't study."
"Oh?" Scully arched an eyebrow. "Is that where you draw the line?"
Bertie shrugged. "Phrenology, psychometry, paleontology, whatsit," he slapped Mulder's arm, "how goes my old chum Muldy?"
Mulder turned back to Bertie. "You know, still ticking away…" he nodded towards Scully. "This is my partner, Dana Scully."
Bertie nodded enthusiastically at Scully. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Dana Scully Mulder!"
It was difficult to say whether Mulder or Scully was the one to blurt, "no," first. In any case, Mulder continued the correction: "Not that kind of partner. Just Scully."
Bertie bobbled his head, unaware of the awkwardness of his gaffe. "Oh, American girls! So modern!" He clapped his hands together. "Well, this is a nice little serendipity, I do say!"
Spode cleared his throat. Bertie flinched, as if he had forgotten his pursuer, and the three turned around to face Spode.
Spode again wore a smile, although now it appeared less nervous and more forced. He directed his still twitching gaze at Mulder. "Pardon me, but am I to understand that you are acquainted with this sore on humanity's backside?"
Bertie bleated a shocked, "I say!" but Mulder chuckled slightly, and informed Spode that yes, they had gone to school together.
Bertie smiled at the remembrance. "Ah, those were happy times! The golden days of youth, eh, Muldy? Snooker championships, pushing Bingo into the pond, hoisting Tuppy's undertrimmings up the flagpole, knicking Gussie's newts and depositing them in Barmy's mouth as he slept! Ah, academia! You can't beat it!"
"And the classes, of course," Mulder added.
Bertie shrugged noncommittally to this addition. "Eh…"
Spode took a deep breath and puffed out his stomach as much as it would allow. "If you are quite done with these depraved remembrances, I have a standing appointment to break every bone in this jellyfish's body!" He again stepped to the side, and again Mulder and Scully stepped in unison.
"We can't let you do that," Scully pointed out.
"Jellyfish don't have bones," Mulder pointed out.
Spode's face deepened from red to purple. "Sir," he sputtered, again starting to spray Mulder, "I will have you know that you are speaking to a member of the English peerage-"
"Which doesn't give you the right to assault people in hotels," Scully interrupted.
"Not nice hotels, anyway," Mulder added. He took the handkerchief Bertie was offering him and began to wipe the spit from his face.
"And we're not in England," Scully pointed out. "But if you really think Mister…" she trailed off and glanced at Bertie.
"Wooster," Bertie supplied, slightly bowing. "Bertram Wilberforce Wooster!"
"If you think Mister Wooster," Scully continued, "has committed some crime, we can give you the contact information to file an extradition request."
Spode's ugly face was now an appropriately ugly shade of purple. He took a step forward and took a deep breath, before again noticing the holsters Scully and Mulder were discretely revealing. He swallowed, reconsidering whatever words he had planned. "Don't bother!" he finally growled. He flashed his glare at Bertie. "This isn't over, Wooster!" he announced before stomping away, sputtering to himself about the impertinence and incompetence of American law enforcement.
The patrons of the lobby had now been silent for some time, frozen in place and watching the scene with interest.
"Okay, show's over," Mulder announced to the millionaires, aristocrats, and staff. Soft babble slowly washed over the room, and the musicians resumed their place in Boccherini's Minuetto.
Bertie clapped Mulder's arm. "I say! That was awfully decent of you! Really gave that dyspepsic poop a set down!"
Mulder glanced at Spode, still stalking up the staircase. "Do you think he's going to a be a problem?" he asked.
Bertie shrugged. "Not staying long enough to find out. My man has secured tickets on the Mauritania, back to the ancestral motherland. Leaves in three hours."
"Engaged again?" Mulder asked.
"Not if I have anything to say about it!" Bertie announced. "Spiffing country you've got here, but when Madeline Bassett arrived two days ago, she removed its chief attraction, it being the lack of any Madeline Bassetts! Speaking of," he looked around the crowd furtively, "you haven't seen her anywhere in the hotel, have you?"
Mulder shook his head. "I don't think I ever had the pleasure of meeting Ms. Bassett while I was in England, but we're actually here to speak with her about something. I was told she would be at a poetry reading this morning, and would be back later in the afternoon. You've been avoiding her?"
Bertie nodded emphatically. "Avoiding her like that one bloke avoided that other bloke—you know," he cycled his hand, "some Bible thingy."
Mulder shrugged. "You always beat me in scripture knowledge, Bertie."
Bertie beamed at this admission. "Yes, I did always have a knack for that. Anyway," he continued, "she damn near had me cornered last night, and I only escaped detection by grabbing a bedsheet, putting it on, and barreling through the hallway like a ghost!"
Scully swiveled to Mulder and looked at him sharply. "I guess that explains our 'spectral sightings.'"
Mulder stepped from side to side. "Maybe," he admitted, "but it doesn't explain those strange noises from last night, though."
"Eh? What's that?" Bertie was following their conversation closely. "Strange noises?"
Mulder briefly explained their investigation.
"Oh, well…" Bertie ducked his head sheepishly, "apologies, Muldy, but that was probably yours truly, as well. After I ducked out on Madeline Bassett, I legged it to the Blue Jay Club. By the time I toddled back here I was slightly ossified, and I played my trombone. Jeeves says my idiosyncratic interpretation of the instrument is otherworldly."
Scully pursed her lips and stared at Mulder, who refused to meet her gaze.
"See, Mulder," she pointed out, "it's usually the simplest explanation."
"I don't know that I'd say this is the simplest explanation…" Mulder answered.
"Look here," Bertie cut in, "since it looks like I was responsible for your wild goose chase, I insist on taking you both to lunch! My treat! There's a top-notch spot just across the street!"
"Well, since it looks like our afternoon just opened up," Scully shot another sharp look at Mulder, "seems like a good idea."
As the three walked out of the hotel, Mulder asked Bertie why Spode had been chasing him in the first place.
"Well," Bertie explained, "it all started with a new pair of cufflinks I purchased…"
EXECUTIVE PRODUCER CHRIS CARTER
Full disclosure: Okay, so you've probably seen through my lie by now. This wasn't written by Chris Carter. It was written by PG Wodehouse. Chris Carter came across this story in an old issue of Milady's Boudoir from 1928, and paid PG Wodehouse's estate for the copyright on the characters Mulder and Scully. And thus the X-Files was born. Crazy, right?
Fuller disclosure: that was also a lie.