A/N: In this chapter, we get to see a bit of Moe's everyday life at the tavern and a bit of his past. You know, I couldn't help but notice how similar Moe is to Billy Joel. I mean, they both look the same, they have New York accents, and the song "Piano Man" practically screams "Moe's Tavern" to me. They have different personalities, but they both sort of suffer from depression. I mean, Billy Joel wrote a suicide letter once! It's literally so scary how much they bear a resemblance. I apologize if I'm ranting, but this is just so funny!

Disclaimer: (Read by Mr. Burns) The author doesn't own "The Simpsons" or its characters, including – hey, what's up with all these slang terms? Is that really how kiddies talk, these days? Our generation is history...oh, well. Release the hounds!

(Third-Person P.O.V.)

Meanwhile, on the other side of town, there was a tavern in not-so-great shape. And yet, the patrons who visited thought it was the place of the Saints whenever they had a tough day at work. The alcoholic drinks served as perfect ways to end the day. ...That is, as long as they didn't pay much attention to the owner.

Morris (Moe) Szyslak, the owner of Moe's tavern, was a grumpy and broody man in his middle-ages who spent a majority of his life trying to find ways to kill himself. This was because nobody in Springfield seemed to like him and he was always getting the worst of the luck that came to haunt him. His hair was originally black, but it began to grey due to the constant stress he was put under. In addition, he had grey-hazel eyes, a round nose, the overall facial appearance of a gorilla, and a stout, slouched body.

He was almost never seen smiling. There wasn't a lot for him to smile about. Sometimes if somebody was driving him crazy, he would point a shotgun at their head and threaten to shoot. More often than not, he had to deal with obnoxious prank calls from Bart. Speaking of which -

RING! The phone rang and Moe cursed, making his way to the bar and picking it up.

"Moe's Tavern," he sighed.

"Is Anita there?" a voice asked.

"Who?"

"Anita. Last name, Straightjacket."

"Hold on, I'll check," Moe grumbled, before placing his hand over the speaker and shouting, "Is there an Anita Straightjacket here?! Hey, everyone! Anita Straightjacket!"

"How long did it take for you to figure that one out?" Lenny smartly remarked, before everybody burst out laughing.

"What?!" Moe demanded, not understanding why everybody was laughing. Then it dawned on him. "Hey, w-wait a minute!" By the time he picked up the phone again, he was steaming with rage. "Listen, you little red-bellied pigbutt! When I get my hands on you, I'm gonna drop you in a septic tank and watch as you drown in your own grandpa's feces!"

However, the prank-caller was too busy laughing to take the threat seriously. And as usual, the session would take place again the next day, so long as Moe remained gullible. In the mean time, everybody was laughing wildly at Moe's gullibility and the hilariousness of the prank-call. Whether they realized it or not, it helped to lower Moe's self-esteem every time it happened. That night, Moe could no longer take what was happening. His right eye twitched and he stood absolutely still. Finally, he grabbed his shotgun and barked,

"Alright, that's it! Out of my bar! NOW!" Shots rang out and everybody ran out of the bar, holding their heads and screaming.

"He's off his rocker!"

"Moe's on a rampage!"

"He wasn't kiddin' when he said he needed a straightjacket!"

"Don't go in there! He's got a gun!"

Unbeknownst to the patrons that visited, the gun wasn't loaded with any actual bullets. Moe knew that if he actually shot any of them, he would be deported back to the Netherlands immediately. On the other hand, Holland was a hell of a lot nicer than this run-down town full of jerks, he supposed. It didn't use to be like that. He used to be a kind, strong young man who loved children and wanted to have a successful boxing career. God, what an annoying guy. All sunshine and lollipops before he grew up and realized how much humanity sucked, Moe thought darkly and mockingly.

Early in his career, he began to attract the attention of a small group of fans and the Sports TV media. He even remembered what he used to be called.

"There goes The Gladiator, quick as lightning, hitting Dynamic Dino's jawline with the strength and force of ten men! Wow, Bob, I've never seen anything like it!"

"Flaming Tiger is coming in for the kill, but there goes The Gladiator, coming back swinging, and – oh, my! Is that a triple spin he's doing in the air?! And he lands perfectly too, just before he slams that fist into the right shoulder, knocking out the great, ferocious beast! Jesus, Bob! I must be dreaming!"

"Now this man is almost ten feet tall, thanks to his trusty stilts! They call him Lean Larry! I wonder what The Gladiator has in store for this one! He's just tall enough to reach his – Ooh! That looked like it hurt! Hooray for The Gladiator!"

Eventually, his fanbase grew larger and he was all over the media, kicking every opponent's butt. Everybody loved him. He was seen as a God in the eyes of all who knew him. ...That is, until the summer of '64.

He was at the Championship Rounds, getting ready to face the biggest, most muscular boxer of all time. He went by the name of Pearl.

"Ha! Anybody with a sissy name like that is liable to trip over his own feet before the match begins!" Moe scoffed bemusedly. So confident and charismatic was he, that he lit up the whole arena when he stepped out from behind the doors. The other man, on the other hand, had a dark, menacing aura about him that made the crowd cower in their seats. Nobody, not anybody, was brave enough to step up to the challenge and fight him. ...Nobody, but Morris Szyslak.

The fight had begun and The Gladiator and Pearl were one-on-one. Nobody dared to ridicule the other man's name, for fear of them being killed.

"They say he eats rocks for breakfast and brushes his teeth with sulfuric acid!" one crowd member whispered.

"One time, he got so angry with his manager that he picked up an automobile, utilized it as a baseball bat, and hit him right outta town!" another one beside him added.

"Ain't nobody fought him an' lived t' tell the tale!" an old man with a long white beard whimpered, shuddering in his place. Everybody gasped and moved to the edge of their seats, waiting, watching. Pearl threw a punch. Thankfully, he missed. The TV crew began to speak, albeit very nervously.

"There he goes, Bob! The man of the century! He must have balls of steel to be up against that guy! And we see here that he, yet again, manages to dodge a punch! Pow! He hits him right in the left rib! But what's this?! Looks like The Gladiator's signature move wasn't enough to knock 'im down! Oh, and there goes Pearl, standing up, looking mighty mad! He screams like a battle-axe warrior, throws the strongest punch he can muster, and – and – OH MY GOD!"

The crowd screamed and covered their eyes as Pearl straddled The Gladiator and beat the stuffing out of him. Nobody would do anything. When Pearl finally screamed with rage and left, The Gladiator was almost lifeless-looking, bleeding everywhere with several broken bones. Back in the day, nothing was censored on television, so one could only imagine the reactions of his beloved fans when they saw the graphic details of Pearl beating the living hell out of him as he yelled.

"Is this it?! Could – Could this mark the very end of The Gladiator's career?!" the TV reporter sputtered. Moe was hospitalized immediately, but it was too late: his condition no longer allowed for boxing. He lost everything: his job, his girlfriend, his money, his public image...everything. He started out at the very top, before falling down a deep trench, moving to Springfield, and becoming a misfitted failure like almost every other adult there. On top of it all, he was an illegal immigrant who nobody seemed to love. Screw my life, he thought drearily, as he wiped the countertops.