Chapter 2: Seething regret.

Disclaimer: The characters belong to Matt Groening.

That night a pistol shot echoed from the mansion on the corner of Croesus and Mammon street in the Springfield Heights district. The manor was, nevertheless, isolated from the rest of the houses in the area and, therefore, the pistol shot was not heard by anyone outside its premises.

Inside the manor its owner, Charles Montgomery Burns, held the gun that was shot. He was standing in front of the two men who had broken into his house, pointing his Beretta and seething in anger. His assistant, and lover, lay on the study's floor unconscious and the man known as Frank was now holding his shoulder in shock and pain.

The man named Joe turned his gun towards him but he was a second too late. The bullet pierced his shoulder and was blinded by agonizing pain, dropping his gun on the floor.

"Amateurs," Burns thought secretly, thanking his lucky stars. He knew his reflexes were not what they used to be and he had fought a World War to know that the two men were not skilled killers. Had they been ones they would have not dropped their weaponry just because a bullet had landed on them.

Burns aimed at the men and edged towards them. The man called Frank tried to reach for his gun and the second bullet landed on his kneecap breaking it into pieces. Frank screamed in agony as Mr. Burns stood over him, kicked the gun away and placed his foot over the wound.

The Joe fellow was much wiser to attempt something more dangerous. Monty Burns took his gun and aimed it at him.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?" the older man asked Joe aiming the gun at him.

Joe felt a shiver down his spine. His partner writhed in pain as the old plutocrat twisted his foot around the gun wound. Monty Burns looked at both of them dangerously. He suddenly turned his attention to Frank and put all his weight on the shot kneecap. Frank screamed loudly as the bone broke into smithereens and passed out.

Joe looked at Monty Burns who sniffed in contempt and lowered himself to look at him in the eyes.

"Your friend wouldn't survive an hour on the battlefield," he commented staring at him with his icy blue eyes, "I wonder how you would fair."

The young robber felt the gun on his shoulder. The metal was hard, warm and heavy and he knew his shoulder would break into miniscule pieces if the older man pulled the trigger.

"I'll talk!" Joe exclaimed pleadingly, "Please, don't shoot me."

"My finger is itching," Burns said wickedly, "So don't try my patience."

"We were approached by a man. He said he used to work for Fat Tony. This guy had a client that wanted to deal with you. I told him I'm no assassin but he said that his client wanted you alive. We only had to bring you to him. So we agreed."

Charles Montgomery Burns knew it was futile to ask for the client's name. He had dealt with people using such means a few years ago; long enough to know that in such situations the client's name was not to be disclosed to goons. This fact, nevertheless, did not mean he could not toy with his captives a bit longer.

"Carry yourself and your partner over there," he ordered Joe and pointed at an area near his writing desk.

Joe stared at him quizzically. The older man did not press him with more questions which was unusual.

"I have no patience for lollygaggers," Burns ordered dangerously, "Do you wish to try my patience further young man?"

Joe felt the gun's trigger click and grasped Frank with his uninjured hand. He crawled towards the spot, dragging Frank and growling in pain.

While he moved Monty Burns sat behind his desk. He looked at both men for one last time and then pressed the red button under his desk opening the trapdoor. Joe and Frank tumbled down a long pipe until they landed in a dark room with a scream of agony. Joe looked around. There were no windows and he had to blink a lot until his eyes would adjust in the darkness.

"There's a strange thing about getting old," Charles Montgomery Burn's voice filled the room and Joe turned his attention to the speaker it came from, "You tend to get attached to people and things more easily. My assistant is one of those people, and it greatly dissatisfies me that he will have to stay away from work to recover due to you hitting him. I don't like it when people disrupt my routine. Crippler, my eldest and most trusted hound is the same as I am. Unfortunately today I had to put him inside the house because it's getting cold and it has started to affect his bones. So he's not too pleased. I think you can help him appease."

Joe looked in terror at the old, ferocious guard dog which growled from the room's far end. He was tied with a chain and was trying to run towards them.

"Crippler," Mr. Burns' voice came out. The dog stood still listening, "Daddy's not very happy right now but you're a good boy don't you Crippler? So Daddy's sending you some chewing toys."

Monty Burns pressed another button causing the chain to be untied. He heard a scream of fear and turned the connection with the room off. He picked up the phone and dialed a number.

"Ahoy there," he said a few seconds later, "Yes it is I, Monty Burns...Tony my boy, there are two chewing toys in my mansion my lad. I think they might be of interest to you….No, no need for bloodshed in my mansion my lad….Yes….I'll see you tomorrow in the afternoon. Be discrete during your visit here…. My regards to the family."

-)-)-)

Waylon Smithers Jr. woke up in terrible pain. His head throbbed so hard as if someone had been hitting him with a sledge hammer for hours. His face ached and he could not breathe through his nose properly. He could not remember what had happened. All he could recall was that he was supposed to pick up Monty for their date once he had finished getting ready. Everything was blurry without his glasses and he felt confused and unable to concentrate.

A hand touched him making him shot up and recoil in terror. He let a yelp and tried to shoo the hand away. He knew that something bad had happened but the pain in his head was too strong and the voices around him were loud and incoherent. The hand came closer and he fought to escape it, only he was too weak to move.

The hand touched his chest again and was followed by a voice he could not comprehend. The tone and pitch of the voice, though, was immediately recognized.

"Monty?" he let out hoarsely, "What happened? Where am I?"

The voice came out again but it was still unintelligible. Smithers strained his eyes trying to see but the pain became unbearable. He could not understand the reason why but upon listening to Monty's voice he felt a wave of relief so powerful that tears started streaming down his cheeks. He felt confusion, happiness, irritation and sadness – all mixed together in his throbbing head. A wave of nausea suddenly overtook him and he leaned forward.

Charles Montgomery Burns managed to bring forward a vomit bowl just in time and was asked to leave the room as Dr. Hibbert was hurried inside.

The old plutocrat sat on the chair, outside the room feeling exhausted. He had summoned Dr. Hibbert immediately after speaking with Fat Tony; and Smithers had been moved to the manor's private hospital wing in less than thirty minutes. Hours had passed since then and Smithers had been examined and moved to his own personal chambers. His mind was racing.

The two men who were hired to kidnap him were also looking for a book. He was irked at himself for not asking about it before throwing them down the hatch but once he remembered about it; he was too busy thinking of Smithers' welfare to go find them. This book vexed him. He had made lots of enemies in his lifetime but he could not recall an occasion where a book was involved. He, Monty Burns, did not make a habit to keep memorabilia of his personal victories, something the situation could imply. He also owned a collection of rare manuscripts but he could not imagine someone wanting to hurt him over them. After all he was ready to part with any book in his collection if he was made a handsome offer.

His trail of thought was put to a halt when he heard the room's door opening. Dr. Hibbert came out and stood over him. Monty Burns followed him to his office.

"I am sane enough not to ask what has happened tonight Mr. Burns," Dr. Hibbert started, "and paid handsomely enough not to attempt to," he concluded with a laugh. He turned serious, nevertheless. "Truth to be told, Mr. Burns, your assistant needs lots of attention right now. He's suffering from a severe concussion and temporary amnesia of the events that led him injured. He's bound to be physically unstable, unable to concentrate and, maybe, emotional once his memory returns. I wouldn't recommend for him to be left alone for at least three days and he must avoid work for the next ten."

"Have no worries doctor. Smithers will be safe and sound in my manor. I expect you to be at arm's reach if needed though. I wouldn't want something to happen to my assistant as..."

"I know – the filing system," Dr. Hibbert chuckled knowingly his look implying that he found his excuse amusing, "Do you wish the nurse to sleep in the room tonight?"

"There's no need for this doctor. I served a World War long enough to know how to take care of an injured comrade. He can sleep down the hall in case he's needed."

Having shown the nurse his temporary room, Mr. Burns entered the bedroom where Waylon lay. He took off his suit as quietly as he could and changed to his night attire. It was two hours until sunlight but his body was resisting tiredness.

He sat on his bed, close to Waylon and stared at his lover. Smithers' face was swollen and bandaged and he let out snores while he slept. Monty Burns had to control the urge to get down to the basement and blow the brains of those idiots because looking at Smithers, his Smithers, so frail and vulnerable and weak made him want to hurt them even more.

He lay down next to Waylon, so close their cheeks could almost touch. He had not planned their anniversary to end like this and it seemed so unfair that Waylon could not remember their hours together. All the event that were supposed to lead to his declaration of love were erased from Waylon's memory and could no longer be remembered fondly.

"I don't know what mess I've dragged you into Waylon," he whispered in his sleeping lover's ear, grasping his hand delicately, "but I'm so sorry for this."

The story is just getting started and I enjoy writing it so much. I wanted to create a Burns that even though he is in love with Smithers, he is still cruel and will torture someone for revenge or to get his way. I hope I will become better at writing him as this story progresses.