WARNING: This is a Bart/Bob fic, so be warned that there's some interesting stuff in later chapters.

xxxxx

Dear Bart,

It is customary for the opening lines of a letter to contain bland pleasantries and enquiries after the health of the person to whom it is addressed. It is a dreadful shame, because now that I do actually want to hear how you keep, my true sentiments are in danger of being lost in a wave of mawkish nothingness. I am, you see, genuinely eager to hear that you are well and happy, and hope that a letter from the one you once saw (and perhaps still see) as your nemesis won't shake you unduly.

My writing of this letter is entirely selfish, part of my programme of self-cure, of which my doctors are ignorant. For the half-blind men in suits who run this hospital, I have constructed a neat Oedipal complex from which I can quickly and convincingly recover, thus securing my rapid release. This way I don't have to endure the uncomfortable and embarrassing indignity of having some overpaid buffoon of a psychiatrist poking his fingers into the murky washing-up bowl of my subconscious.

It is a convenient and serendipitous anomaly that Springfield is so utterly lacking in doctors of any calibre, that it has not occurred to even the best ones here that my apparent psychosis may be connect to the person onto whom it was repeatedly manifested. Not once have they asked me about you, Bart; not once have they tried to understand why it was always you I tried to kill; not once have they attempted to discern why you always managed to get away alive.

These are questions I asked myself, and which eventually I could answer. I won't burden you with the answers at this stage, but when you hear it it sounds so childishly simple you might even laugh. I long to hear you laugh.

All letters in and out of this place are read by both doctors and warders, so naturally I have recourse to a less usual postal service. One of the burlier and less intelligent warders here makes frequent use of me for certain favours. I allow this indignity to take place in order to make use of the power it gives me over him. It is a curious thing, power. He of course believed that when standing over me commanding me to carry out his wishes, he was the one who held the power. He could not have been more wrong. One trembling word from me to my doctor (I am, you will recall, an accomplished actor) and the warder's career, his marriage, his family, all would come crashing about his ears. I informed him of this yesterday, and as a result he has agreed to deliver this epistle to you in secret, without reading it. When I have finished I will fold the paper so as to make it impossible to open without tearing – you will thus know whether he has attempted to read the contents. If this letter was torn before you opened it, I would be grateful if you could let me know, and this canary will sing.

I have got this far and it has only now occurred to me that you might not reply. I entreat you to do so, even if only a few lines. It would mean more to me than you can ever know to receive a letter from you. My brawny but block-headed warder tells me he passes your house each morning. He has been instructed to leave my letter pinned to the wall in your treehouse. If you feel inclined 

to pen a few words, kindly leave your reply in the same spot that you find mine.
Yours, hopefully, and almost recovered,

Sideshow Bob

Bob,

Wow, a letter from a nut house! Don't get one of those every day. I'm fine, no different to normal. You're not my nemesis any more – no one who sucks so much at trying to kill me gets to think they're still scary. You're not scary, you're just kinda mental (which I guess is why you're in a nut house). I kinda like it, it's better than being boring and normal though, so it would be cool if we hung out when you get out. I feel bad for you being locked up. You never actually killed me, so it's unfair you're in the loony bin.

What were the answers to the questions you were asking yourself?

See you soon,

Bart

P.S. The letter wasn't ripped, so I guess the warder gets to keep his job. What was it he made you do?

Dearest Bart,

I simply cannot express the joy I experienced on receiving your letter. Thank you. Your simple few lines have done more to set me on the road to recovery than hours of miserable introspection (or anything these doctors could manage).

I am glad to hear that you no longer hate and fear me. I can only hope that one day you will feel for me even a fraction of the affection I now have for you. It made my heart leap to see you say you'd like to spend time with me, and believe me I am doing everything in my power to get out as soon as possible in order that we may see one another again.

I seem, almost by accident, to have given you the answers to the questions I asked of myself. In short (and I hope you will not baulk at the word), it was love that caused my fixation on you. I could not recognise it as love – my subconscious logic could not accept that I had a protective, fatherly affection for a 10 year old boy with whom I had no reasonable connection. Perhaps scared that it had the potential to grow into something more sinister (which could have turned out rather worse for you, dear boy), I twisted it and hated it until it emerged as a blind and all-consuming enmity. But even in the snares of my best laid plans, the underlying love I felt for you protected you from harm. In all my attempts to end your life, I managed to hurt not so much as a hair on your head. I saw it as frustrating ineptitude at the time. Now, I see it as the guiding hand of love shielding you from myself.



I suspect it is not possible to fully apologise to someone for trying to kill them, but nevertheless I will try. I am sorry, Bart. I am deeply, deeply sorry.

I hope all this talk of love hasn't made you vomit in disgust. I promise not to mention it again if it embarrasses you. Be assured that now I can see clearly, my only overwhelming desire is to spend time with you. No more attempts on your life!

I will be with you soon,

All my love,

Bob

P.S. You asked about the warder. He made me do something to him which should be a loving and enjoyable act, but in that situation, when forced, was a degrading and despicable thing.

Bob,

You mean he made you suck him off? Why didn't you just say so?

All that stuff you said about love – I guess it's a little bit embarrassing, but mostly it's flattering. You were totally screwed up when you were trying to kill me, weren't you! I had no idea, I just figured you hated me. Thanks for saying sorry though, it means a lot.

Last night, I remembered to check the treehouse just before I went to bed, and found your letter, and read it under the covers with a flashlight. I guess maybe you were on my mind when I went to sleep, cos then you were in my dream! We were on TV doing Krusty's show, you were you and I was Krusty. First you gave me an ice lolly, but then you took it back and ate it yourself, then you gave me a banana but when I grabbed it it oozed out of the end onto my hand, so I ate the bit that came out, but then you sprayed me with this massive water pistol and I got soaked. Weird, huh?

See ya,

Love Bart

My dearest Bart,

I am out! This letter has been left in your treehouse by my own hand. I dare not knock at your front door. Can we meet? My address is 24c Station Road. This weekend?

Yours with love, hope and anticipation,

Bob