AUTHORESS'S NOTE: Hi, everybody:) I felt like writing something a little different today, so I wrote the first chapter of a story I've been wanting to write for a while. Please read and review. Thank you:)

BANJOS, BEAUTY QUEENS, AND BROKEN HEARTS

CHAPTER ONE:

I exhaled yet another two nebulae of hoary air as I glanced at my watch and noticed how even the wrist it was attached to was shaking. In five minutes, the party would commence, and I knew from past experience the ire and disappointment I would evoke in my boss if it was not entirely up to par, if one table was set up askew, if I had put 84 candles on the cake instead of 83, if said cake was not quite saccharine enough, if the entertainment was not quite tasteful enough…

My heart began to knock against my chest with each new thought of a possible error I may have made. I reminisced about the last birthday bash I had held for my beloved: a bash that showcased an insulting rendition of "Happy Birthday" from the Ramones, a humiliating comedy act from that ungainly boor Homer Simpson, and a gift from me in which my dear one was not even interested enough to turn his head at. I had received the thrashing of a lifetime that day, and although it physically caused me no pain, tears soaked my heart for days to come.

All I ever wanted was to make my friend happy, and I had planned this extravaganza for weeks simply so this happiness could be accomplished. Every year, I toiled assiduously over every last detail, ensuring even the tiniest minutiae were without fault; however, when the day actually came and the curtains were minutes away from being risen, I never failed to hyperventilate. I looked at my watch once more, out of desire for diversion more than necessity.

It was time.

After putting out my latest cigarette, I closed my eyes, took a satiating breath, and endeavored to isolate my thoughts from the blather of the guests behind the curtain. Nothing is going to go wrong tonight, Waylon. You hired the finest caterers, the décor is exquisite, you didn't invite the Simpsons, you hired Tony Bennett for God's sake! Nothing can go wrong this time.

With the comfort of these thoughts, I opened my eyes once more and finally raised the curtain.

"Welcome, everyone," I announced as the audience began to silence themselves. "We are gathered here today to honor a truly special man, one that never ceases to amaze and inspire me: my boss and my best friend, Mr. Charles Montgomery Burns. Take a bow, Monty."

"Don't call me 'Monty'," mumbled Mr. Burns as he stood to the plaudits of the guests and flashed a pretentious smile their way. As he took his seat again, I continued, "To celebrate this 83rd birthday of this incredible man, I have hired Mr. Tony Bennett to commence the party with a few of Mr. Burns' most loved tunes. Mr. Bennett?"

I took a few steps to my left, waiting for Bennett's entrance. It never came. I began sweating underneath my tuxedo as I stared to my right at the erroneously empty place beside me. "Mr. Bennett?" I called out once more from the microphone. The guests began to whisper. I looked out at the plethora of confused and accusing eyes, the eyes of the myriad celebrities and big shots that had come every year and were now just expecting me to fail.

But what hurt me to a much greater degree was hearing Mr. Burns sigh and remark, "Fabulous. No entertainment. Well, then, let's just eat the damn cake and get this stupid party over with."

Then I heard a voice cry out from the audience: "Why don't you sing us a little ditty, Mr. Smithers?"

I peered out into the marine of faces and spotted Homer Simpson, obviously drunk, standing on his chair, raising his wine glass to me. He had crashed my party. He and his equally inebriated coworkers, Lenny Leonard and Carl Carlson. My blood boiled.

"No, that won't do, Simpson. Now sit down," I attempted.

"Come on, Mr. Smithers. It's a birthday party. We need to hear the song. The song is the only good part anyway. It's just so cleverly-written. And it never fails to make me laugh either."

I tried once more: "Cease your absurd natter, Simpson," but that phrase only made him burst into an inexplicable burst of giggles as he continued to egg me on.

After a few minutes of humiliating myself in front of my peers and superiors with my exchange with Simpson, Mr. Burns stood and demanded, "Smithers, just sing the blasted song or else that drunken lout, whoever he is, will continue on."

I considered calling security and simply having Simpson removed from the party, but I knew that would only cause more of a scene. So, I obeyed Mr. Burns' demand, and nervously crooned "Happy Birthday" to him. I had never fancied myself much of a singer and could feel my cheeks grow increasingly heated with each line I droned.

However, for some unbeknownst reason, people were applauding me after I had finished. I felt like I had stepped into some Twilight Zone; people were applauding me? For nothing but a little rendition of one of the least impressive songs known to man?

I thought for certain that I was in some Bizzaro realm when I heard someone request I sing another song. They must just be too desperate for entertainment, I told myself, but as I was about to leave the stage, Mr. Burns cried, "Come on, Smithers, sing something! What are you doing leaving the stage? We asked you to sing. Now sing!"

As nervous and embarrassed as I was, Mr. Burns' desire to hear me sing was all I needed to hear. "But I don't know what to sing," I stammered, but then a thought came to me. "Well, I did write a little song…it's nothing really, but…"

"Just sing the song already!"

"Okay. Um…It goes something like… Another year has come and gone, and I've lost the strength to continue on. You could be my light, my effulgence bright, but that's not what you want to be. I see your darkness deep inside, the terror you refuse to hide. I'd pull you up and into me, but that's not where you want to be. I know your needs while you only know your desires. I know your rainfalls while you only know your fires. I could be the one you need so dear, but that's not why you want me here. No, I'm only here to play the fool, to keep you happy and ensure your rule. I'm what you need, but not what you want. But that's not who I want to be. That's not me, it's just not me, and it's something I can no longer be."

I then stopped my ballad and looked at Mr. Burns. More than anything, I had hoped he would be looking back at me, realizing that he was the only one in the world I could possibly be singing to. But instead, I saw him telling some war story to the man seated next to him. I set the microphone down and trudged off the stage, my sclerae growing red from the emotion I had so ineffectively poured out of me.

I tried to escape to the bathroom but as I began to wash my hands and face, a tall man with platinum blond hair and clad in dashing sapphire-hued tuxedo approached me. "Mr. Smithers, why did you run off the stage like that?"

I turned to him with surprise and frustration. "Because my song was ridiculous and obviously didn't even get through to anyone."

"Whoa. What? What made you say that?"

"I saw the expressions on the guests when I finished singing; they were looking like I was an extraterrestrial being from Neptune or something. And then Mr. Burns, well…" I began, then realizing that I didn't even know the man I was talking to, I finished, "Well, it was just pointless and embarrassing."

"Well, I thought it was splendid, Mr. Smithers. You sang it with great emotion and verve, and it was obvious that your lyrics meant a great deal to you. And that's what we're lacking these days in music: the genuine factor of the songs. Lyrics are practically nonexistent in most popular music, but it's what I've always believed to be the most essential aspect of a good song," the man said.

I looked at him, intrigued. "So, you're in the business?"

"I am," he said with a smile, offering his hand. "I'm Stacey Oliver, talent agent. Have you ever thought about pursuing a career in music?"

Taken aback, I replied, "Well, no. I've never considered myself much of a musician."

"Do you play any instruments?"

"Well, yes. Guitar, banjo, piano…"

"Perfect. You're perfect. Meet me at the Gilded Truffle tomorrow. We'll talk."