Then the X-Files being who looked some kinda blue-green Jackie Chan with Isabella Rosalini lips and breath that reeked of vanilla chig champa did a slow-mo Matrix descent out of the butt end of a banana vessel and hovered above my bug eyes, my gaping jaw, and my sweaty L. Ron Hubbard upper-lip and I could think was, "I hope Uncle Martin here doesn't notice that I pissed my ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ pants."