Still Monty
"You seem to really care for him, and that is the best prescription medical science can offer for now."
"Waylon?" said Mr. Burns as he sat on a bench in his garden.
Smithers stopped tending to a nearby bird feeder and sat down next to him. "Yes?"
"You won't leave me, will you?"
"Why would I leave you?"
"When I get too old..."
"You'll never be too old for me."
"You won't want to be with me when I'm an invalid who needs you to wipe my ass like I'm an infant."
"Monty, what are you saying? You know I'll do anything for you, gladly."
"You won't resent me for wasting your youth?"
"Not a second I'm with you is wasted. The time I've spent away from you was wasted time. You say you know I love you, but clearly you don't understand how I feel at all."
"Thank you. I appreciate your fidelity." He placed his hand on Smithers', then looked up and gave him a slight smile before looking away. Smithers wiped away a tear of joy at his tender gesture.
"Thank you. I appreciate that."
"You can expect him to make unwise financial decisions, spend impulsively"
"He's been doing that for the last year."
"Realize that was just the first stage of his illness. Expect his judgment to further degrade."
Smithers walked into the dining room with a tray of tea and cookies. "Mr. Burns? Where did you go?" He set down the tray on a nearby table and ran through the halls, trying to think of where he could've gotten to. He turned down another corridor and saw Mr. Burns walking toward the entrance of his mansion carrying Picasso's Le Rêve. "Sir...what are you doing?"
"The local elementary school just telephoned me, soliciting a donation of children's 'books with pictures'. I don't have any of those lying around this old place, so I thought I'd just give them some pictures."
"But sir, that's an original Picasso. It cost you 180 million dollars!"
"Don't worry, Smithers. I have lots of paintings. I won't run out any time soon. After I deliver this one, I'll give them that delightful piece." He pointed to Cézanne's The Card Players.
"That's not the – that one cost you 300 million!" He rushed to Mr. Burns and grabbed his shoulders from behind. "Let's set the painting down and go have our tea and cookies."
"But I have to give them the pictures. They said it would be criminal if a wealthy man like me didn't give them any. I don't want to go to prison."
"It's not a crime. And if anyone tried to arrest you, I wouldn't let them."
"We'll have tea when I get back." He shooed him away and tried to walk forward, but he was thwarted by Smithers' much greater strength, as it took very little effort to keep him from moving.
"Monty...you don't have a choice in this." Mr. Burns turned his head to face him and gave a hurt look. Smithers winced at his heart-rending expression. He adopted an affable comportment and softly massaged his shoulders. "I made your favorite kind of cookie – caramel-filled apple cider. I also made chocolate chip and oatmeal blueberry in case you were in the mood for something different." His voice cracked as he tried to keep from showing his devastation at seeing Mr. Burns in his current state. "Come on, we'll have a lovely time together." Mr. Burns sighed in defeat and shoved the painting at him as he wandered off. "No, sir, not that way," Smithers said, leaning the painting against the wall and walking briskly toward him and bringing his arm around Burns' shoulders. "The dining room is this way...sir." He led him back to the dining room and seated him. "Which cookies would you like?"
"Oh, so I get to choose what kind of cookie I want? I'm so grateful I can exercise my free will over such a piddling matter."
"I am so sorry. But I'm just looking out for your best interests. Please know I'm just doing this because I care."
"You have an awfully funny way of showing it."
"You're not the only one who's hurting, you know."
"Why would you be hurting? You're the one holding me captive in my own home. How dare you keep me from choosing to come and go as I please? I will have you beaten for this insubordination!"
"I'm really sorry, sir, but you can't just go walking around carrying an original Picasso."
"And why not?"
"Because people will take advantage of you. That's not going to happen under my watch."
"You speak as if I'm some hapless old fool who needs to be babysat. I may be old, but my mind is still as sharp as a tack."
"I really wish that were true." He sniffed back a tear, then forced a smile and pleasant voice. "Now, which cookies would you like?"
"It doesn't matter. I'm sure you screwed them all up anyway."
Smithers' face fell as he served him two apple cider cookies and one each of the others. "I hope you enjoy eating them as much as I enjoyed making them for you."
"Go fuck yourself, Waylon."
He grit his teeth and stood sharply, slamming the palms of his hands on the table, rattling the ceramic plates and cups. He went into the corridor, leaned his back against the wall, and slid down to the floor, drawing his knees to his chest. Grunting in frustration, he pounded his fists against the carpet, his head hanging between his knees. After he'd tired his arms out, he reached into his jacket for a cigarette and a lighter. His cigarette lit, he took long, slow drags. Once he'd finished it, he wiped his tear-smudged glasses clean, replaced them, then lit another cigarette.
"Try not to take it personally."
