Okay folks, this is my final entry in the Bad Fic '09 competition. I got the idea today that asked "what if all the plots from all CM fanfiction written actually happened within the show's canon?" This, then, is what came of that thought. (Please keep in mind that this is a purposely-written bad story and is meant for humorous purposes, not to poke fun at real-life issues or groups.) [Usual disclaimers.]

Memo

To: SSA Aaron Hotchner

From: SSA Dr. Spencer Reid

In re: Vacation time

Dear Hotch:

I am giving notice that I am planning to use up a little of the vacation time I have banked. Before you ask, my reason should be pretty obvious. I'm tired, sore, fucked up in the head and struggling to remember my own name at this point.

Over the last five years I have, in my very humble opinion, given more than should possibly be expected of any government agent, regardless of station. I have been undermined by other colleagues (fellow or otherwise), but hey, that's to be expected. I've gotten the funny looks, the stares, and as you well know I've been told more than once that I'm either too young to have this job or that I really should stop skipping lecture class at the local college or university. However, this is not the brunt of my problem. What is the brunt of my problem is the other abuse I've dealt with, such as:

Relationships.

Okay, let's face it. I've pretty much slept with everyone on the face of the planet, and while I have to say that you are extremely satisfying for an alpha male in bed, there's something to be said for Morgan's creativity and Emily's willingness to experiment and Garcia and her threesomes. And then there's Rossi. (Did it just get hot in here?) Between that and the several hundred kids I've apparently fathered with half the female species in the between times, I'm simply worn out.

Mortal peril.

I knew when I signed up for this gig that there'd be some risk. I mean, it was highlighted in red in the manual, and that was after the big bold letters. It's just…well…do I seem to have a giant bulls-eye plastered on my forehead? Or a hot-pink neon sign that screams 'stunningly gorgeous genius with quiet demeanor—please abuse and torment me'?! I mean, seriously, how many times does a guy have to get nearly shot or run over or tortured before he gets a break? (And I haven't begun to collect on the hazard pay due me for putting up with Morgan's driving. I mean it. I could retire now.)

Kidnapping.

Again, huge flashing neon sign. I swear, about every third case involves some crazed bumfuck who absolutely has to point some weapon at me that is fully capable of separating me from my life. I maybe can't shoot the broad side of a barn, but damned if I can't take the shot when it counts. (Or is that luck? I'm still in the air on that point.) I mean, when's the last time someone tried threatening Dave or Emily? Is there something about me that just begs to be snatched like a loaf of bread or a basket of eggs? I mean, really, I'll work on it, whatever it is. Just make it stop.

Torture.

Now here's my sticking point. I mean, come on. I've been forcibly addicted to heavy narcotics, played at least eighteen rounds of Russian roulette against my will, dove out of numerous exploding buildings, talked down maniacally obsessed men with fragile psyches about to blow my head off, and that's just in the last twelve months. I think there was a bear trap in there too—I've still got a scar on my right ankle from that one.

But that's nothing to the ass-raping. I mean, please. There's sex, there's bad sex, and then there's being forced to become someone's bitch. Honestly, I'm surprised I've still got an ass left to rape. I'm convinced I'm getting by on a couple worn-out muscles and some heavy-duty pelvic bones in that area there. Why is it that every perverted control-crazed sex freak determines that I, and only I, am the absolute 'love of his life' and forces me into some sort of compromising position? If I charged the Bureau for every forced trick I've had taken out on my person, I'd bankrupt some small country like Lichtenstein or San Marino in five minutes.

Mental distress.

You and I both know I've gotten to become real tight with the Bureau shrinks. (This was not by choice.) I'm pretty sure there's another memo on your desk from Sam that says if I don't get this time off, I'll completely lost what mental capacity I have left and start a creative killing spree of my own before going completely insane. I'm beginning to wonder if he might not be too far off the mark on that one.

In short, I'm putting in for a vacation. I think eighteen months should do the trick. As to the question of 'what will you do when you're gone, Reid?', I plan to go to the remote parts of North America and learn more about local cultures. I've always wanted to become one with a walrus and study polar bears and live in my very own homemade shelter and learn to hunt small game and fish. Plus there's some fascinating folklore within some tribal communities that warrants further study—Mom's on me to find something new to read anyway.

Therefore, in accordance with Bureau policy, I submit this request for leave of absence. I look forward to your response.

Sincerely,

SSA Dr. Spencer Reid, Behavioral Analysis Unit