The alarm clock went off sharply at seven. Mr. Burns allowed it to ring oh, two times before becoming irate. Where was that useless Smithers? Ususally he arrived promptly at 6:59 in time to turn off the infernal contraption. Oh, he could feel the goo in his eardrums sloshing!
He swatted his hand at the clock angrily, becoming increasingly more frustrated as it ignored him. How did Smithers usually operate this thing? "You there! ...Quit that incessant ringing or I'll have Smithers toss your sorry hide out that window! ...Oh for heavens' sake, it looks like it's time for this poor old fellow to take matters into his own hands." He sat up in bed with some difficulty, and reached for his wallet.
"So, you want incentive, do you?"
A whole forty-four seconds late, Waylon Smithers chose that moment to burst through the door, panting furiously. He silenced the alarm clock, helped Mr. Burns out of bed, and drew the curtains (of the 30ft master bedroom window) before even sitting down to breathe. His normally immaculate appearance was off today, and Burns noticed his bow tie was off-kilter.
"Smithers! You've broken a perfect track record of consistency! Good heavens man, what's the matter?"
"I'm sorry sir – I've just received word that the state chapter of Environmentalists is on their way here to protest the way Springfield runs on nuclear power."
Burns' face became grim. He strode to the great window, staring out at the labyrinth of the various free-ways and by-ways that connected Springfield with the rest of the world. Mass transit had failed him again. "I always knew this day would come, Smithers. ...How many buses are they taking?"
Smithers grimaced as he braced himself for the impact. "At least thirty, sir."
"And, my good friend, you chose today of all days to ride up here, late?"
"Well! -- Sir, I was-"
"No matter. Come. Take me to my plant. We'll stop this monkey business before it takes root in this sad town. Time to silence the foolish masses before they trample civilization underfoot with their talk of – What's that so-called crisis they're tooting their horns about, Smithers?"
"-Global warming sir?"
"Ah yes... Global worming... Hah! Little do they know, the worms in this town are as robust as ever!"
"Actually sir, I think they're here to, uh, argue that nuclear emissions from our plant are leading to a collective rise in global temperature. I believe they're using a "Save the Polar Bears" theme."
"Smithers, surely you don't believe in this rubbish?"
"Well, I-" His assistant trailed off uneasily. Typically, he wasn't asked for anything more than a trivial opinion, such as how they shall arrange the portraits in his vanity hall, or whenever Mr. Burns wanted an affirmation of peoples' adoration for him. But he could squash any personal beliefs he had for the sake of his boss's state of mind. "It's all baseless speculation sir."
"Then enough with the unproductive small talk! Let's give those commies the fight of their lives."
"Yes sir." Smithers sighed inwardly. They'll rue the day they crossed C. Montgomery Burns, yadda yadda yadda.
Once in the limo another interesting thought occurred to Mr. Burns. Staring fixedly out the window he asked, "What prompted these bottom-dwelling hooligans to action anyway, Smithers?"
"I believe the daughter of one of your employees." He didn't bother to mention the name.
"What? This is an outrage!" Burns weakly thrust his fist on the armrest, turning to face Smithers with determination. "I want that man fired!"
Again, another inward sigh. "Why bother? He'll be working here again next week," his assistant muttered under his breath.