I'll tell you. I'll tell you all about it. The day I walked away from a murder, from that poor woman and her house set aflame. It's hard to recall such sickening memories, but if I don't get it out somehow, I'm sure I'll end up like him.

It was ten-past-twelve (the luncheon was timed for twelve— but I found myself running late due to his awful directions) on a quiet Sunday when it all happened. I was scheduled to meet Principal Skinner for lunch as an apology of sorts over a recent scandal at school. Nevertheless, it was safe to say that I already had a bad taste of this man prior to the visit. But no matter how disgusted I was with this man, I was still inclined to keep up appearances. I steeled my nerves and rang the doorbell.

It took a long time for Seymour to answer the door. I swore I could hear yelling akin to an old woman; possibly his mother. Imagine that: a grown man living alone with his mother! Already I was drawing parallels to all those old slasher-genre films, but I quickly shook it off. In retrospect, I really shouldn't have.

When the door finally opened, Seymour greeted me with utmost respect. He had a lacy apron on, with his formal suit— neatly ironed— slapped on underneath. I squinted at him, at his strange getup.

"Well, Seymour," I said, "I made it. Despite your directions."

Seymour hid his hands behind his back. "Ah, Superintendent Chalmers! I hope you're prepared for an unforgettable luncheon!"

Unforgettable indeed. I merely grunted and let myself into his home. It wasn't extremely difficult to find my way through his home; his dining table was located straight ahead, and without walls for privacy. It was very odd indeed, but not unbearable. I slid my bottle of wine into the bucket of ice and sat myself down as Seymour rushed to check the oven.

I took this time to check my surroundings. His house had a very curious colour scheme—or a lack thereof. The walls and flooring were all copiously coated with a gaudy blue. His walls were filled with paintings of generic flowers— so generic that I wondered if the artist even had a flower to paint from or if it was a generalisation of what a flower should look like. And the smell— the smell was almost office-like, with the scent of freshly printed papers and a smidgen of prunes coating the entire house. How utterly strange.

But what was even stranger was the length of time Seymour had spent in the kitchen checking on his roast.

I curiously took a few steps towards the door to the kitchen, just to attempt to hear something, anything. Lo and behold, I could hear traces of words here and there, coming straight from the devil himself.

"But what if… fast food… as my own cooking?" Seymour's tone was strangely cold and calculating. I pressed my head closer to the wall, but I was met instead with an obtrusive steaming noise. Could that be a fire? I quickly slammed open the door—

— right as the man himself, Principal W. Seymour Skinners, was lunging out of the open window.

"Seymour!" I screeched. That was it. I have had enough of this man. Right as I was about to fire this madman on the spot, Seymour's expression brightened up.

"Superintendent! I was— uh, just stretching my calves on the windowsill! Isometric exercise, care to join me?" He tugged at his leg, now fully extended. I must admit, he was extremely good at this "isometric exercise" thing. Perhaps I was just taking him for a fool. But of course— that didn't answer the wafting grey clouds of smoke, now rising slowly and filling the entire room.

"Why is there smoke coming out of your oven, Seymour?" I jabbed a fat finger at his oven.

"Uh." Seymour took his leg off the windowsill and stared at the oven, like he was cursing himself for some unknown reason.

I raised an eyebrow. Seymour, awoken from his stupur, hid his hands behind his back and merely smiled at me. "It's steam," he said simply. "Steam from the steamed clams we're having! MMmmMMMMMM! Steamed clams."

One circular rub of his belly was enough to convince me he wasn't bluffing. I grunted and closed the door behind me, my trust in Seymour regained once more.

A short while later, Seymour was back, carrying a silver platter of what appeared to be hamburgers of the fast food variety.

"Superintendent, I hope you're ready for mouth-watering hamburgers!" He smiled at me again, with that devious sincerity, perfectly unaware of the the trap he'd just walked in.

I smugly tucked a napkin into my collar and said, "I thought we were having steamed clams."

The man blinked, then calmly placed his platter on to the table. "Oh, no. I said steamed hams. That's what I call hamburgers."

I stared contemplatively at the plate of hamburgers, my mouth ajar. "And… you call hamburgers steamed hams."

Seymour nodded. "Yes, it's a.. Uh, regional dialect."

I squinted at him. "Uh huh. And what region?"

"Uh… Upstate New York?"

"Really." I sighed, not daring to touch my hamburgers. "Well, I'm from Utica, and I've never heard anyone use the phrase 'steamed hams.'"

"Oh, no. Not in Utica— no, it's an Albany expression," Seymour responded cooly.

"I see." I took a generous bite out of a burger. The flavour was surprisingly bland, yet overly flavourful at the same time. And the meat— the meat felt like ground up rubber and cardboard, all unceremoniously smashed together in a clumsy tango of salt and pepper. It was obvious where this was all leading.

"You know…" I said carefully as I took off the bun, revealing a slimy mess of tomato and pickles. "These hamburgers are quite similar to the ones they have at Krusty Burgers."

Seymour had just finished downing his glass of wine. "Oh, no. Patented Skinner Burgers. Old family recipe." He began to pour himself another glass.

I refused to touch another burger. "For steamed hams."

He nodded as he downed yet another glass of wine. God, this man could hold his liquor.

"Yes, and you call them steamed hams, despite the fact that they are obviously grilled."

For a moment, all was quiet, save for the clinking of Seymour's glass against the table. Then he started again. "Ye— You know, the—One thing I should— "

I motioned him to continue through. But Seymour briskly stood up from his seat instead.

"Excuse me for one second."

He rushed into the kitchen, and for a moment I could feel it. The leaves of crimson behind those gaudy doors. The smell of burning paints and ham.

The roar of the fire.

Before I could run, before I could do anything worth of mention, Seymour slid back into the dining room again. He stretched, and I could hear the genuine happiness in his voice as he said, "Well, that was wonderful. A good time was had by all— I'm pooped!"

I couldn't help but nod in agreement. "Yes. I should be going—"

No. I quickly stopped myself before I could dig myself any further in this sticky mess. I couldn't be going. Not while that room was still ablaze. What about Seymour's mother? She didn't know that her own kitchen— her own damn kitchen— was on fire, and could kill her at any moment. No, I had to bring it to attention. I wasn't going to let my pride kill another person. Not today, not ever.

"Good lord, what is happening in there?!" I shakily jabbed my finger at the fire, trying to sound as genuine as possible.

Seymour stared me dead in the eye as he uttered the words, "Aurora borealis."

"Aurora borealis," I repeated hollowly.

That was no aurora borealis in there. That was a fire. I had to trick him somehow into letting me into his kitchen. But how?

My eyes darted back to Seymour's face— that innocent face. It beamed at me, like it was a thing of its own, as if it never belonged to any human on the face of this earth. This face could tell no lies.

"At this time of the year, at this time of day, in this part of the country, localised entirely within your kitchen." I was gasping at the end of my spiel. No way there was an aurora borealis in his kitchen. No— it was simply impossible—

"Yes," Seymour said.

I pursed my lips together. "May I see it?"

"No."

And as I stood up and walked away from that room, it felt like everything had slowed to a crawl. How did I not see it? The fire engulfing his entire house, the frail screams of "Seymour!", the smell— that suffocating smell of burnt paint. It still haunts me to this day; how I walked away from everything because of one man's face. I remember being in a daze, and saying muffled words of "Thanks," and "You steam a good ham," and walking away like it was nobody's business. But, really, that doesn't change anything.

Mrs Skinner was dead within the next hour. And I helped Seymour murder her.