There was nothing at all unusual about the scene. Charles Montgomery Burns sat at his desk in his vast office, half asleep. There was a buzz as the intercom button outside his office was pressed.

"Your mail is here, sir."

Burns sat up, and pressed one of the buttons on the underside of his desk. A trap door opened in the middle of his floor.

"Oops." He muttered, as he pressed the button beside it. "Bring it in, Smithers."

The door opened, and a young Waylon Smithers (senior) walked around the open trap door and dropped the pile of mail onto Burns' desk.

"Close that." Burns said, motioning vaguely at the floor.

"Yes, sir." Smithers said.

Burns pulled out his sword-shaped letter opener. He looked at each letter suspiciously. It was the usual: bills, environmentalist crap, more bills... and a letter. From time to time, Burns always got a hand-written letter, usually from some starry-eyed child with dreams of teaching him a lesson.

He opened this one first. Breaking the dreams of children has always made Burns happy.

Dear Charles Montgomery Burns,

You may not remember me, but I have known you since you were young. We have been out of contact for years, and I have finally decided to make an attempt at writing to you in the hopes of arranging a meeting. Perhaps we could get lunch sometime to catch up.

If this sounds good to you, please write me back as soon as you can.

-An Old Friend

"Smithers!"

Smithers looked up from the crank on the other side of the room. He was sweating; it was the only way to close the trap door, and it wasn't easy.

"Smithers, what's the meaning of this?" Burns asked, holding up the letter.

Glancing sadly at the half-closed trap door, Smithers let go of the crank, which immediately began spinning as the trap door opened again. He made his way over to Burns' desk.

"Meaning of what, sir?" He asked, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

"This letter." Burns waved it at him, but didn't let him take it. "The person didn't even sign his name. Check the envelope for me."

Smithers picked up the envelope, and looked at it. There was a return address, but instead of the name of a person, there was the name of a small company.

"It only says-"

"Is it a first and last name?"

"No, it says-"

Burns leaned forward and snatched the envelope from Smithers' hands and looked at it. There was nothing worth noting on it, so he tossed it in the trash can beside his desk.

"Find who sent this to me." He said, shoving the letter across his desk at Smithers, who picked it up and started toward the door.

Monty Burns sat back in his chair, and opened one of the letters he knew would insult him. They were always good for a laugh, after all.

Smithers paused. There was no address on the letter. He needed the envelope. He walked back to Burns' desk.

"Something the matter?" Burns asked coldly, as he looked at Smithers over the top of the letter.

"No, I just wanted to know if you wanted me to... close the trap door before I started on finding out who sent this."

Burns lowered the letter and looked at the trap door. Smithers used this opportunity to snatch the envelope from the trash.

"Mmm... You should. I don't want anyone to know it's there."

Smithers forced a smile, and nodded. "Yes, sir. I'll get right on it."

-

Monty Burns was looking at himself in a small, hand-held mirror. When had his hair gone grey? It must have been recently. He remembered when it was a beautiful, rich brown... flowing in the wind... With a sigh, he stuffed the mirror back into his desk.

Obviously, it was the war that had done it to him. Never mind that it had been eight years since he came home. It was just a convenient thing to blame.

In a moment, Smithers opened the door. Burns was glad that he had put his mirror away when he did.

"So, what have you found?" Burns asked, leaning forward.

Smithers stayed by the door. He looked down at a sheet of paper in his hand, in a half-hearted attempt to stall. Burns just raised his eyebrows impatiently.

"It's..." Smithers took a deep breath, "It's a man who goes by the name 'Frederick Allen Burnham'. He owns -"

"Get on with it." Burns said, waving one hand impatiently.

"Right. I went to-"

"Not important! Just tell me what you found out."

Smithers frowned. "I found his picture." Smithers cast a wary glance at a giant portrait of a man that hung to the left of Mr. Burns' desk. Burns followed his gaze to his father's portrait.

"Are you saying that the letter is from my father?" Burns asked incredulously.

Smithers nodded. "It has to be him. Even this name he's taken on – Frederick Allen Burnham. Frederick was your father's middle name, and 'Burns' and 'Burnham' are quite similar, and I mean, he obviously wouldn't use his first name..."

"Is that the picture?" Burns asked, pointing at the paper in Smithers' hand.

Smithers nodded, crossed the room, and set it on Burns' desk.

Without a doubt, it was Montgomery Frederick Burns. Older by many years, but it was unmistakable. Monty Burns would know his own father anywhere.

"You can go." Burns said, pulling a sheet of paper out of his desk.

Smithers left without another word.

The letter was going to be difficult. He needed to see his father. After all, Burns had spent quite a number of years assuming the man was dead. Well... sort of. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Monty Burns had always doubted that his father was really dead. After all, no one had ever found his body. No one had even sent out a search team. When it became apparent that the man wasn't coming back, he was simply pronounced dead.

I'll meet you at the Café down the street from the Power Plant, on Friday, at 11:00 precisely.

He sealed up the short letter in an envelope, and put a stamp on it. He pressed the intercom button. Yet again, the trap door opened.

"Blast!" He exclaimed, and pressed the button beside the first one. "Smithers, get in here. I have some tasks that need doing. Now."

Smithers peered in before he entered the whole way. He was actually relieved to see that the trap door was down; Burns couldn't open it under him if it was all ready open.

"What is it, sir?"

"Come here." He commanded, and as Smithers made his way around the gaping hole in the floor, Burns explained. "First of all, I need you to send this letter to my father at the address he sent it from. Second, I need you to close the trap door. Third, move the blasted buttons away from each other to avoid this problem in the future. I don't want to accidentally press the intercom button when trying to be rid of a troublesome employee."

"Of course, sir. I'll get right on it." Smithers said, taking the letter from his boss.

"Make sure you don't give away the fact that I know. I'd much rather surprise him."