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Similar Deviations
As I mentioned before I love to draw the Simpson children older and this has been one that I have always been quite proud of. In the series there are a few tender brother/sister moments between Bart and Lisa but you rarely see any with Bart and Maggie so that is why I did this. To create some form relationship with these two as well.
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Another drawing that is inspired from my fan fic " Cape Feare" that I am going to write. After getting a letter from Sideshow Bob explaining where Laura is being held Bart knows very well that he could very well be heading off to his own death in order to save his former girlfriend but that matters not to him and goes to a abandon old warehouse in town. Now there, Bart is sneaking around every corner keeping an eye for Sideshow Bob or Laura. Hope you like it.
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This drawing is inspired by a scene from a fan fiction that I plan to write. As I spoke before Bart and Laura are my favorite couple in the Simpsons and in this they are boyfriend/girlfriend. However, because of his dealings with Sideshow Bob Bart ultimately breaks up with her in an attempt to protect her from harm knowing all well and good that anyone who becomes close to him in the end becomes a victim. Though his efforts are in a vain and Laura is kidnapped by Sideshow Bob and Bart has no other opition but to save her and face his arch nemises. This pic takes place after all that madness is over and they come face to face once more. Bart and Laura came out looking pretty good I think, but the background, I don't know looks a bit sloppy I think. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this.
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Bart and Laura have been my favorite Simpson couple since I bought the fourth season DVDs and saw the episode " New Kid On the Block" for the first time. Anyway, I drew this picture a few years back after watching the Halloween episode where Bart became a vampire and felt that if he had been older and he and Laura had gotten together than she would be the first one he had bitten and made her his vampire mistress. In the end I am very pleased everything turned on it. I tried to make it look good, yet seductive at the same time which I feel I suceeded in that attempt. I hope you all enjoy this and I look forward to hearing what you think of it.
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Act XVI, Scene I

"Therefore, since I cannot prove a lover, to entertain these fair well-spoken days, I am determined to prove a villain, and hate the idle pleasures of these days." ~ Richard the Third, Act I, Scene I

I was contemplating the sunset beyond the verdant hills when I heard the door to my office open, followed by the sound of a vaguely familiar female voice –a voice that could only be described as honeyed gravel.*

“Excuse me, Mr. Mayor? They say you speak English.”

“Indeed I do.” I swiveled my chair around to face my visitors. No sooner had they caught sight of my face than they screamed my detestable former stage name in unified horror.


“The Simpsons!” I shouted back, equally horrified.

Bart – the bane of my existence – was the first to recover from our collective shock and step forward brazenly. “Sideshow Bob? Of all the regione, in all the villagi, in all of Italia,” he cried out angrily, gripping the edge of my desk and pointing an accusing finger at me, “you had to be il mayore of this one!”

“I can assure you, I’m as sorry to see you as you are to see me,” I replied with impeccable calm, although inwardly I was still reeling in disbelief.

“How’d you wind up here?” asked Lisa, the daughter. Her tone wasn’t harsh or mocking, but rather genuinely curious.

“Yes, tell us your story,” said Homer, “but it better have a beginning, a middle and an end. And you’d better make us root for the protagonist!” he added menacingly.

I decided to humor them. After all, it was I who had the upper hand now, I who had risen through the ranks to become the head and the heart of an entire community, while they remained the same stereotypical, corn-fed, blue-collar Americans that I could comfortably look down my nose at.

“My tale begins after I had once again attempted to murder Bart.”

Homer nodded. “Okay, so far I’m rootin’ for ya.”

I told them the abridged version of how I had come to be mayor of Salsiccia, omitting, of course, certain details of a familial nature. My hopes that I could be rid of the Simpsons before Francesca returned from her latest date were dashed the moment my faux trophy wife walked in with Gino in her arms. Right when I was finishing my story, as if on cue. Damn that woman and her insufferable nosiness. Did I pester her about her about her various beaus and boy toys? Well… maybe a little.

“Roberto!” she called out, donning a smile I didn’t trust. “Amore!”

Behind that cordial mask her dark eyes glittered inquisitively, suspiciously. In the brief time we’d been together, the Simpsons were my first and only out-of-town guests. Most everyone I knew lived far away, in either Britain or America, and Francesca was well aware of that. I don’t fault her for her curiosity. It is human nature, after all.

The exact details of my criminal past I’d kept mum when we agreed to “marry,” and although she made no direct inquiries, I found she had little respect for my privacy, as evidenced by her constant eavesdropping on private phone calls and meetings.

I resisted an unpleasant smirk at her arrival and instead curled my lips into a convincing smile, and without missing a beat, introduced the Simpsons to my “bride” and “son.”

“Holy moly!” Homer exclaimed, “I always thought you were… you know… out loud and proud!”

I shrugged. “Well, I experimented in college, as one does.” The exact details of said experimentation I prefer not to divulge, thank you very much.

“Yeah, I never went to college,” Homer replied.

I gave him a deadpan look. “Stop the presses.”

It was then that Marge stepped forward, introducing Francesca to her family. “Hello, I’m Marge. This is my husband Homer, my daughters, Lisa and Maggie, and my son, Bart Simpson.”

“Bart Seempson?” Francesca repeated the dreaded name, and I felt the blood drain from my face. “The name Roberto cries when he has-a the bad dream!"

Although I knew that I sometimes talk in my sleep, I was unaware that Francesca had ever heard me, as we rarely shared a bed for non-carnal purposes. Indeed, we even had separate bedrooms on opposite sides of the house. She couldn’t possibly have heard me all the way from her own room, could she?

“Bart Simpson! Bart Simpson! Bart Simpson! I make like my daddy!” shouted Gino while stabbing the air with an imaginary knife. “Ack! Ack! Ack!”

Apparently they could both hear me screaming in my sleep. Fantastic.

With an admittedly nervous chuckle, I lifted the boy from his mother’s arms and set him on the floor. He was usually better behaved whenever I handled him.

“Yes, Bart and I used to go, er, fly-fishing together!”

Gino ran around in circles shouting “Die, Bart! Die, Bart!” until he stepped on his toy rake and was effectively silenced by the handle hitting him in the face. I never thought I could feel such satisfaction in seeing it happen to another person for once, although at the same time I deeply empathized with the boy. It was an odd combination of feelings, to say the least.

And then Francesca did the unthinkable.

“You shall all stay for dinner,” she announced, “and tell me more about my wonderful Roberto.” Here she turned to me, and brushed her fingers through my hair with a dreamy sigh. “He makes love like a man who just got out of jail.”

I felt myself blushing, then, before I knew it, Francesca was kissing me on the lips. My surprise was so great that it took me a moment to return the gesture, although I suspect that I failed to do so convincingly. Of the various uses for her mouth, kissing was not one of them. No matter what lust-driven lengths we were taken to together, I was spared not a single kiss.

It was a different story when it came to Gino, of course. She gladly kissed his every bump and bruise, and at every bedtime gave him a kiss good night. The tenderness she showed her son was unlike anything else this woman had to offer. I sometimes believed that Gino was the only male she could ever truly love. Not that I minded at all. But sometimes…

With a little chuckle to ease the tension, I gently ushered Francesca toward the door.

“Haha, yes, you crave my skillful touch," I purred. "Now go, take the boy and shut the door. I’ll rock your world anon.”

That was a promise, for I decided right then and there that she owed me for taking it upon herself to invite my archenemies to dinner. I was by no means a forceful man (rape and domestic violence were among the few crimes I truly despised) but I’d be damned if I was going to let Francesca get away with this. She was clearly doing all of this out of spite, and I had no doubt that she would soon try to wheedle the Simpsons for information about me.

The instant my office door was closed, I turned to face my guests, dropping down on one knee with my hands clasped pleadingly.

“Simpsons! I beg of you! Please don’t destroy the new life I’ve created here! Surely even the most heinous criminal deserves a seventh chance?”

“Bob! You haven’t told your wife about all the terrible things you’ve done?” Marge asked incredulously.

“Yeah! I tell Marge everything,” Homer added. “Not necessarily in words, but in body language. You know, sneaking around and such.”

Bart crossed his arms and glared at me. “Bob, your family will find out the truth,” he growled. “Sooner or later you’ll try to kill me again. Watch, I’ll prove it.” He stepped forward and lifted the front of his shirt, exposing his abdomen in what was no doubt meant to be an enticing display. “Come on, Bob! Slice, dice and serve on rice!”

“You little scamp!” I chuckled, kneeling before him to pull his shirt back down, while a darker part of me wanted nothing more than to plunge a knife into that belly and rip out his entrails. “You know, you’ll make some murderer very happy one day. But it shan’t be me!” I ruffled his hair and stood up.

“Bart, Bob is a family man now,” Marge said. “You can’t be a bad person if you have a family!”

The older girl – Lisa – spoke up. “And literature is filled with tales of redemption, from Jean Valjean to the voice of Buzz Lightyear, Tim Allen.”

Then Homer stepped forward, addressing me directly. “Alright Bob, we won’t tell your beautiful new family that you’re a homicidal psychopath IF you fix up our car.”

I breathed a sigh of relief and gave a grateful bow. “Grazie! Now I can’t undo the past, but I can try to make it up to you. My humble little town is at your service!”

Little did I know that that fateful decree would mark the beginning of the end of my decadent new life.

*”Honeyed gravel” is how Marge’s voice actress, Julie Kavner, describes her voice.


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Act VII, Scene I

I did never know so full a voice issue from so empty a heart, but the saying is true: 'The empty vessel makes the greatest sound'. ~ King Henry V, Act IV, Scene IV

"Farewell, my ownnn! Light of my life, farewelllllll! For crime unknownnn, I go to a dungeon celllllllll!"+

Though Bob's quiet voice rang melodiously down the dank corridors of Sector Seven, his heart wasn't in it. Gilbert and Sullivan simply couldn't express the melancholy that settled on his shoulders like a raven of Poe's.

Gingerly touching his fingertips to a pipe, he found it pleasantly cool to the touch. He traced its smooth metal length along the wall as he walked, his thoughts far from Springfield. Suddenly he was clutching a balcony railing, looking down on the citizens of Salciccia as they went about their daily routines. The faint stirrings of an overhead vent became a lukewarm Mediterranean breeze.

As the air grew colder, Bob found himself in England, at the very top of the London Eye, the giant Ferris wheel overlooking the River Thames. He'd only been on it once, over a decade ago, but the memory was still vivid. He'd always meant to go back, but then he'd ended up in America, attending Yale and getting suckered into a degrading internship-turned-subjugation to Krusty the Clown.

Why didn't he just up and go home, then? Why did he always return to Springfield? Because somehow, sadly, it just made more sense this way. Because every single time he tripped up, every single time he stumbled and fell from his self-erected pedestal, every time he flew too close to the sun and burned his wings, Springfield was always there for him. This glorified hellhole was the net that kept him from hitting rock bottom.

And yet, how he loathed this town. His numerous attempts to inject some class into it were met with ignorance and resistance. It had taken him a lot to finally realize that one simply cannot force a common garden slug to transform into a butterfly. Cruel as the metaphor was, that was his brutal but honest opinion. If the people of Springfield resented the comparison, that was their problem, not his.

At the end of the hall Bob paused, his hand still resting on the pipe. The metal surface felt warmer here, and wet. Suddenly he yanked his hand from the pipe to cover his nose and mouth, catching a sneeze. The wet feeling on both his face and hand had nothing to do with the sneeze, he realized a moment too late. He looked from his wet hand to the pipe he'd been touching, the latter dripping a clear liquid, although there were no visible cracks. Whether it was merely condensation or an actual leak, he did not know, nor did he want to know at that moment.

Bob made a mad dash toward the nearest emergency decontamination shower, shoving past a handful of workers who laughed uproariously as their supervisor doused himself from head to toe for the second time that week. The first time had been after one of the men poured the contents of a glow stick into a glass beaker and then "accidentally" spilled it on Bob as a joke. In a panic he'd stripped down to socks and underwear before hitting the shower. He'd refused to put his contaminated clothes back on afterward until Smithers heard about the prank and explained to Bob that it was merely a practical joke that some of the seasoned workers liked to play on new employees.

This time, however, Bob didn't remove any clothes, and he didn't come out of the shower until he was thoroughly drenched. Pushing his sopping hair out of his eyes, he growled at the laughing men, but said nothing. He knew that this time he had no one to blame but himself for panicking over a harmless water pipe leak. One of the men tossed him a towel, but as he was laughing too Bob opted not to thank him. Considerably calmer now (but in no better a mood) Bob now took the time to read a sign beside the decontamination shower that he hadn't noticed before.

WARNING! The chemicals in this facility are known to cause the following health symptoms: projectile perspiration, audible eyeballs, defused anus, irritable ovaries, acrid elbow odor, illegible handwriting, hysterical male pregnancy, disembodied earwax, brain murmurs, Cockney accent, testicular retreat, existential angst, chronic presbyterianism, absent nostrils, toenail anemia, increased libido, decreased libido, heightened eyelash sensitivity, compulsive preening, paranoia, unibrow, death and double death.

Bob smirked at the sign. Great. Whether this was another joke or not, he found a dark, unsettling humor about it. Wouldn't it be just his luck to have one of these issues? Sometimes he wondered about the hysterical male pregnancy. Not to mention his libido being all over the place. And he WAS brushing and styling his hair a lot more often lately (was it so wrong to pride oneself on looking fabulous?). Probably just signs of a mid-life crisis in the works.

Shuffling down a corridor with the towel wrapped around him, Bob's svelte body collided with a much wider body upon rounding a corner.

"Oof!" Bob practically bounced off Homer, who was unmoved by the collision.

"Wha - sneak out early? Who said anything about sneaking out early?" Homer blurted out. "I don't have to stand here and take these accusations! I bid you good day, sir!" And with his nose in the air he started to walk away.

"Get back here, Simpson!" Bob called after him. Homer reluctantly obeyed, looking nervous. "First of all, I never accused you of anything, and second, you've still got five more hours of work, which I highly recommend you return to at once before Mr. Burns discovers what an irresponsible employee you really are."

Homer moaned. "Ohhhh, come on! I've been working overtime for the past two nights and it's really putting a dent in my time with the family! And tonight's family game night!"

Bob raised a brow.

"The guys at the bar are depending on me to referee their beer pong tournament!"

Bob frowned. For a long moment he just glared at the blubbery oaf who had sired his arch-nemesis. Then his expression softened and he sighed. "Fine. Go and play your juvenile game," he murmured, waving him off.

Homer stared at him. "Really? You're letting me go?"

Bob grunted in assent, looking like he was already regretting his decision.

"What's the catch?" Homer asked.

"There's no catch," Bob growled. "Just be gone before I change my mind."

With an ecstatic "WOOHOO!" Homer hurried down the hall to punch out. Bob headed in the same direction, his shift having ended at the same time. At the time clock he found Homer chatting eagerly with a couple of co-workers who were also punching out. Bob waited patiently for him to move his wide load before doing the same with an overdramatic sigh.

"Hey, what gives?" Lenny said to Bob. "Shift's over; you should be happy!" The man was clearly in an elated mood himself as he normally never spoke a word to the supervisor unless he had to.

"Yeah," said Carl. "You look like you're punching in instead of punching out."

Bob smirked. "Do I? Hmm, that could be due to the fact that I have a second job to work tonight and only two hours to recuperate from this one."

"Wow," Homer said. "Sucks to be you. Especially when your hair's on fire."

"WHAT?" Bob shrieked and spun around, swatting frantically at his hair. A small auburn lock near the back was smoking, and without a decontamination shower nearby Bob was forced to stop, drop and roll to put it out. The three men chuckled.

"That's why we wear hard hats," Lenny said, knocking on his own headgear before hanging it up by the time clock. "You never know what might be dripping on your head in this place."

"Plus they block the constant barrage of radiation to your brain," Carl added, hanging his up beside Lenny's.

"Indeed," Bob muttered as he stood up, patting his hair. It felt a tad crispy in the back; nothing a quick trim couldn't mend. He looked at Homer. "Might I enquire as to what happened to YOUR hair? Assuming you had any to begin with."

"They don't make plus-size hard hats," was Homer's simple answer.

Bob rolled his eyes. "Right. Well, I've a night shift to brace myself for, so if you'll excuse me, gentlemen..."

Homer slapped a heavy hand on his back before he could walk away. "Say, why don't you join us at Moe's for a drink?"

"And why would I want to do that, pray tell?" Bob muttered as he shrugged Homer's arm off.

"'Cuz it's Beer Pong Night."

Bob sneered. "Tempting, but I'm afraid I'll have to pass."

"Aw, come on!" Carl joined in. "A coupla drinks and your night shift will be nothing but smooth sailing!"

Bob reconsidered. Perhaps a bit of the devil's brew would give him the gonads to step out onto that strip club stage. He might have actually enjoyed his new job if it weren't for the fact that a certain ex-wife of his attended every show. And, well, he DID spend the large part of their honeymoon inebriated in order to perform his husbandly duties without being sick. And she never even suspected! So why not?

* * *

Scene II

O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil. ~ Othello, Act II, Scene III

Bob kept to himself during the beer pong 'tournament', which consisted of only four players (Homer and Barney against Lenny and Carl) and one and a half games - the first being a tie and the second being interrupted by Barney's AA sponsor, real estate agent Cookie Kwan. She'd burst into the bar just as he was chugging down a plastic cupful of beer and started scolding him loudly like an irate mother, to the amusement of his friends.

"If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times: stay away from Moe's Tavern! And stay away from the west side!"

After Barney was dragged out by the ear, the second game ended in a draw when Homer failed to talk Bob into teaming up with him. Now the remaining men sat at the bar, unusually quiet. Bob sat hunched over looking sullen as he nursed his second Scotch on the rocks. His presence seemed to color the atmosphere a gloomy shade.

Moe wiped a bit of spilled liquor from the bar and paused in front of Bob, looking the man over. "What's with Lord Sit-n-sulk?" he asked Homer, who was sitting on Bob's right. "He ain't said a word all evening."

"He has a second job he's gotta work in an hour."

Moe gave Bob an empathetic look. "Well that bites." He moved a large jar across the bar and unscrewed the lid. "Have a pickled egg on the house."

Bob's lip curled at the acrid stench of vinegar and brine that wafted from the jar. "Pass."

Homer took that as his cue to swipe a few eggs for himself.

"So what kind of job is it?" Lenny asked, sitting on Bob's other side.

Bob stiffened a little, then his shoulders sagged and he sighed. He didn't look at anyone, but fixed a smoldering glare on his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. "If you must know..." he paused as if to build suspense, "...I'm the newest and most popular act at Springfield Stallions." He followed his confession with a large gulp of Scotch, draining his glass and coughing.

"Springfield Stallions?" Carl repeated. "What's that?"

"That's the male strip club on Beaumont Boulevard!" Lenny answered before Bob could. Every man in the bar gave him an odd look. Lenny blushed. "What? I know that because my ex-girlfriend left me for one of the strippers!"

"Yeah, after you took her there for your six-month anniversary," Carl pointed out.

"That's because I'm sensitive to a modern woman's needs!" Lenny argued.

Carl rolled his eyes. "Right."

"Whoa, whoa, hold on a sec here," Moe spoke up. He looked at Bob. "Lemme get this straight: you're a male stripper?"

Bob nodded, sullen as ever.

"So, in other words, dames flock from all over town to see you take off your clothes - AND you're getting paid to do it?"

Bob nodded again, smirking a little as he held his empty glass out and shook it. The ice cubes clinked.

Moe glowered at him. "Oh, woe is me!" he jeered, "I gotta get naked in front of a pack of screaming, drooling babes who all wanna get with me!" He swiped the glass from Bob's hand and refilled it, grumbling obscenely. "And oh no! It gets worse! They're throwing money and panties at me! Boo-hoo-hooooo!" He slammed the glass down on the bar. "Ya snivelin' prick."

Bob frowned. "For your information, it isn't nearly as glamorous as The Full Monty no doubt led you to believe." He'd never seen the movie, but he knew just enough about it to make a basic comparison. "The next time I hear a woman complain about being treated like a piece of meat, I think I can safely say that I empathize with her."

He found it rather ironic, though, that the main cause of these feelings happened to BE women. And to narrow it down, one woman in particular who took a sadistic pleasure in treating him like a sex slave - minus the sex, thank God.

Moe was no more sympathetic after Bob's ex-wife horror story than he was before.

"Whine, whine whine! Ya want some cheese with that?" the bartender sneered.

"Come on, Moe, lay off!" Homer spoke up, putting an arm around Bob. "This poor shlub has to dance for Jabba the Butt and you're giving him the business like it's nobody's business! He almost managed to kill her once, you know," he added proudly.

Bob growled. "Ohhhh, if only I could step out onto that stage tonight without the slightest inkling that SHE'LL be there! The mere memory of my last private audience with her threatens to make the bile rise in my throat." His melodramatic speech captivated everyone's attention. "But alas, her ghost lingers like a malignant tumor in my brain, and I fear there is no way to silence the poltergeist, short of taking a scalpel to my frontal lobe!" He pulled at his hair in frustration, as if he could feel Selma's slimy presence in his head.

"Wow," Homer muttered, "I didn't think anyone hated Selma more than me. But if you just want to forget about her... hmmmm..." He scratched his chin, thinking. "Hey Moe, how about making my ex-brother-in-law-now-supervisor a Forget-Me-Shot?"

Bob raised a brow, looking from Homer to Moe quizzically. "Forget-Me-Shot? Dare I ask?"

"It'll be like drowning Selma in an acid bath while drowning yourself in a champagne bath," Homer said with a grin.

"You wanna clear your mind, this stuff is like brain Drano!" said Carl.

"Yeah, Moe shoulda called it Braino!" Lenny added.

"Ehh, Braino was already trademarked," muttered Moe as he pulled a videotape from underneath the bar and popped it into the TV/VCR hanging from the ceiling.

Bob watched the screen as a slightly staticky version of Moe explained how to make the drink in question.

"You start with a splash of Jägermeister, then add sloe gin, triple sec, quadruple sec, gunk from a dog's eye, Absolut Pickle, the red stripe from Aquafresh, and the funniest ingredient, the venom of the Lousiana Lobotomoth. You stir it with a home pregnancy test till it turns positive, and presto: the Forget-Me-Shot! This drink is the ultimate brain bleacher. One swig wipes out the last day of your life."

Moe stopped the video and turned to Bob with a grin. "So whadda ya say? Want me to whip you up one of them memory killers?"

Bob made a sickened face. "Why would I want to put my lips to something so appalling, much less ingest it?"

"Cuz it really works. Just ask Homer. Or not. He don't remember a thing. And because it'll getcha where ya wanna go a lot faster than these watered-down Scotches you been drinkin'."

Bob looked from the beady-eyed bartender to Homer's expression of blissful naivete, considering. After a moment, he looked back at Moe with a firm nod.

Moe set to work immediately. Halfway through preparing the drink, he paused. "Uh, oh. Looks like we're all out of the red stripe of Aquafresh." He gave Bob an apologetic look and chuckled sheepishly. "I, uh, I used it all up tryin' to cure my jock itch."

"The red stripe is hot cinnamon," Carl pointed out.

"Yeah, wouldn't that burn?" Lenny asked.

Moe shook his head. "This is some reeeaalllllly wicked jock itch I'm talkin' about." He looked at the tube of toothpaste. "Hmmm... ya know what? I betcha the blue stripe will still do the job. Yeah. Let's try that."

Bob had a strange sense of foreboding as he watched the blue stripe fall into the glass with the other ingredients. Moe mixed them together with a home pregnancy test, then checked the result.

"What the -? Huh. Never had this happen before." He held the test up for Bob and the others to see. Rather than single or double parallel red lines, there appeared to be a rather sinister-looking, squiggly black X. Moe scratched his head. "Seriously, I can't tell if this is positive, negative or W-T-F!" He tossed the test aside and set the drink in front of Bob. "Oh, well. Enjoy your poison."

Bob stared at the ugly greenish-brown concoction. The foreboding feeling increased tenfold. He slowly raised it to his lips, then held his breath as he downed the entire glass as quickly and cleanly as possible. It burned a path all the way down, hitting his stomach like a tiny H-bomb. The heat poured through him, submersing every nerve and synapse in liquid fire. Suddenly he felt as though he were made of fire, every single neuron in his body screaming in white-hot rage. The world spun around him and he plummeted, falling away from the sun into the icy black abyss of space. Falling and falling and falling and falling and falling and then...

...Bob landed on the cold, sticky linoleum floor of Moe's Tavern, unconscious.

ACT VIII: [link]


Sorry for the long wait and sorry for the cliffhanger. I am SO evil! XD

+"Farewell, My Own" from HMS Pinafore by Gilbert and Sullivan
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Act V, Scene I

Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. ~ Twelfth Night, Act II, Scene V

Puffing out his chest with a deep breath, Bob entered Mr. Burns' office with his head held high. He was dressed to impress in his best suit and tie, having traded in the last of his Armani suits for a far cozier English brand that he'd grown up with. It was the type of suit he would have worn as mayor, had Francesca not been such an overbearing fashion tyrant. If it wasn't made in Italy, it was inferior in her eyes. Which would explain her constant attempts to "correct" his inherent British-American mannerisms. The woman had been so obsessed with maintaining a perfect image that she'd had to make everyone around her as fake as she was.

Looking around Mr. Burns' lavish office, Bob got the impression of a man hellbent on projecting a similarly intimidating image. It reminded him of his own office back in Salsiccia: it boasted of a big, powerful man, yet it was far too grandiloquent for any mortal to claim convincingly. Like Gino attempting to strut around in "Papa's" giant shoes. It just didn't fit.

On one wall hung a larger-than-life oil portrait of a bald, vulture-like man, dressed for the cold, standing proudly with a rifle atop a dead polar bear in the midst of an Arctic wasteland. Below this painting stood the actual bear, stuffed and mounted on an oak platform, teeth bared and poised to attack. On another wall hung an equally immense portrait of the same man, armed with a musket, charging alone against an entire army of Red Coats and impaling the nearest one on his bayonet.

Bob smirked. He wasn't sure whether to be amused or offended. He approached the spacious desk. If he'd thought his own desk was big, it was nothing compared to this one. The subject of the gruesome portraits sat behind it, reading a newspaper and looking not at all intimidating like the paintings would suggest. He seemed unaware that he had a visitor, even though it was now two-thirty - time for the scheduled interview.

Bob cleared his throat. Nothing. Only a faint rustling as Mr. Burns turned the page of his newspaper. Bob stepped closer and cleared his throat again, louder this time. Mr. Burns glanced over the top of his paper, then set it down. Bob was about to introduce himself when the old man pushed a button on the intercom device on his desk.

"Smithers! Get in here and water that potted palm. It sounds drier than a jolly caucus race!"*

There was a garbled reply coupled with the hiss of static, then silence. Mr. Burns stared so intensely at Bob that the normally eloquent younger man suddenly found himself tongue-tied.

"Er -"

The door opened, and in stepped a bespectacled man holding a watering can. He paused when he saw Bob. "Sir?"

"You're too late, Smithers," said Mr. Burns. "The red leaves, the yellow bark... this palm tree is obviously dead. Get rid of it!" He fluttered a hand in a shooing gesture at Bob.

"I'm here for my interview," Bob said quickly, fearing dismissal.

Mr. Burns stared at him again. He seemed to shrink in his plush leather chair. "Smithers, it's talking to me," he murmured to his assistant.

"That's not a palm tree, sir. That's your two-thirty appointment," Smithers explained.

Bob nodded and smiled. "Robert Terwilliger," he introduced himself, extending a hand across the desk. Mr. Burns glanced at the hand but did not move to shake it.

"And what makes you think you can just waltz into my office and demand a job interview?" he asked flatly.

Bob withdrew his hand as well as his smile. "The fact that I submitted a job application and was called the following day to schedule an interview for this very date and time," he answered smartly.

"Have you any experience working at a nuclear plant?"

Bob hesitated. "To be perfectly frank: no. My skills and interests revolve more around the arts - theater, opera and the like. I graduated from Yale with a bachelor's degree in classical studies and was once an active member of the Royal Shakespeare Company. Most recently I finished serving a term as mayor of a quaint but industrious little village in Italy."

Mr. Burns snorted. "Is that supposed to impress me?"

"Well -"

"Sir," Smithers interrupted. "I ran a background check, and this man has an extensive criminal record." He pulled a file from a drawer and set it on the desk. Bob glared at him but kept silent. Mr. Burns scanned the file, his furrowed brow rising higher and higher the further he read.

"Ah! Now that IS impressive! Perjury, grand larceny, terrorism... you're just the man this corporation needs!" He stood up with a grin.

"Sir! You wouldn't hire an individual with THAT kind of record?" Smithers protested. "That's completely unethical!"

"Oh, pish posh! Why, in this post-Eisenhower era, I wouldn't trust an applicant WITHOUT a criminal record!" Mr. Burns walked around his desk and laid a hand on Bob's shoulder. "Smithers, I want you to set this felonious fellow up in some sort of supervisory position, posthaste! And slap a nice title on it. A little razzle to dazzle the other employees."

Smithers smirked. "Super-duper-visor it is, then."

Bob grinned. This was even easier than he'd thought. "Mr. Burns, I cannot even begin to express my gratitude in a proper fashion, short of kissing your feet."

"And you'll do no such thing, so long as you're the senior executive supervisor of Sector Seven! With that lofty position you'll enjoy the perks of having subordinates bestow kisses on YOUR colossal feet!"

Smithers raised a brow. "How much morphine have you had today, sir?"

Mr. Burns smiled and shrugged. "Oh, not much. Just enough to turn a charging rhino into a prancing poodle." He turned to Bob again. "Say, do you know another way to stop a rhinoceros from charging?"

"Take away his credit cards?" Smithers grumbled, but Mr. Burns ignored him.

Bob thought for a moment. "Bribery? Blackmail? Extortion?"

Mr. Burns nodded. "I like the way you think, Mr. Terwilliger. Welcome aboard!"

Bob mirrored his evil grin and steepled fingers. "Excellent," both men said in unison.

ACT VI: [link]

*Reference to a line from "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland" by Lewis Carroll
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One of the few times Bob and Cecil really got along with each other. :D

Bob is 17 here and Cecil is 8. I like to make Bob nine years older than Cecil because that's how much older I am than my own little brother.
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:icondragonkekeplz: This is the first 'official' version of my Simpsons meme.

Rose Red Bullet - F2U! by Drache-LehreRose Red Bullet - F2U! by Drache-LehreRose Red Bullet - F2U! by Drache-Lehre Characters by Matt Groening and FOX Rose Red Bullet - F2U! by Drache-LehreRose Red Bullet - F2U! by Drache-LehreRose Red Bullet - F2U! by Drache-Lehre
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Nevuela allowed me to use her way of drawing again. so, i tried to draw like her.... but .... it's too difficult....

holy shit, i'm not very happy of the result...
Nevuela, i give up. it's too hard to draw like you, and i didn't know how you draw his fucking hair ... i'm not able to draw them like you!
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