Chapter 2: The Interview (or is it?)
I slowly walked down a long corridor with a notepad and a pencil. (How predictable!)
I sighed, thinking about the assignment. I have heard of Sideshow Bob before. Pretty cynical and notorious; crazy, but of course everyone knew he was smart. Quiet little fellow, or big since he was old. Well, not too old, he was in his mid 30s-40s. I looked around seeing sealed cells and janitors mopping the floor. There had been a fight..blecch..One corteous janitor waved at me so I waved back. Surprisingly, he looked Scottish..Finally, some form of happiness. Everything was grey, so very, very grey. Depressing, as if it was
the PERFECT place for suicide, which it probably was. I approached a guard and showed him
a permission slip from my mom and teacher.
"They're very brave or very stupid people," the guard said. "Here." He handed me a piece of paper and a gun. "JUST in case he decides to have any funny business," he snickered.
I held the gun in surprise. "All righty then," I replied with a slight smile.
The guard punched in a code into a computer and two doors opened. I thanked the guard and walked into the next corridor. SO long...and it seemed so endless. I realized there MUST have been alot of convicts..
"Lesse...Cell 2531 Block B..." I muttered, reading the slip of paper I received. "Here we go!" I approached a metal door.
A sign near it said "WARNING: APPROACH WITH EXTREME CAUTION." I sighed and pushed a buzzer.
"Yes?" a voice said.
"Um, yes, I'm here to speak with Robert Terwilliger. I'm Zoey, and my teacher assigned me to interview-?"
"First of all, do you have a gun in your hands?" the voice asked.
I blinked. "Uh...yes."
"Well, if you want to speak with me then you will have to leave the gun outside," the voice said.
I sighed, knowing that this was a great deal of a grade, I put down the gun. "Ok, I put it down."
Soon, the man inside called the guard and had him open the door. I walked inside with my pencil behind my ear, a notebook in my hands. I looked around the room; It had only a bunkbed, a desk loaded with books, and a buzzer to call the guard(s).
I heard the door slam and blinked. In front of me was a man, of course in uniform, with purple, maybe maroon, sproingy hair. He had a mysterious smile and stood up straight.
"Hmm. I haven't seen you here, in town I mean," he noticed.
"I just moved here, sir."
He laughed. "Don't call me that. Call me Bob. I'm Sideshow Bob, at your service." He took a bow.
"What kind? Community service?" I asked.
"Don't make me laugh. So...why are you here?"
"I'm, uh, supposed to interview you. I have no idea why though."
"They're probably trying to kill you. Well, then, have a seat," Bob said.
I sat down on the floor while he climbed up onto the bunkbed.
"Where should I begin?" I asked him.
"You're asking me? Heh, well, let's try my Record," Bob suggested.
"All right then. What did you do to end up in here Bob? You're a pretty sophisticated person, and you're wasting your life in here."
I paused and took a breath. "I thought you were smart."
Bob fliched and blinked. "Oh? Are you calling me an idiot?"
"No way! You're a criminal mastermind! 'Idioticity' is the last thing on your list, Bob."
"I thought you said you weren't from around here," Bob inquired.
"You're pretty famous so word spreads...like butter," I said, while doodling on the notepad aimlessly.
"Oh? Am I?" he asked curiously.
"Yeah!" I yelled. "You're pretty much my favorite criminal!' I blurted. "I like people with
high IQs. I looked you up on my laptop, so..."
Bob laughed. "Hah, I never knew there'd be someone who would like a villain."
"No, really. You're pretty interesting, I assure you! I'm pretty smart myself, though I'm not really bragging. My IQ is a good 156."
"Ooh...a smart one are we? Square root of 81?" Bob asked.
"Nine." Bob raised an eyebrow.
"Two dogs, four cats, and six birds equal how many legs?"
"Thirty-six."
Bob blinked. He ruffled his hair. "Who wrote the play 'The Wild Duck?'" Bob gave a smirk.
"Ibsen..?" I said as I got up from the ground.
Bob frowned. "You don't read plays."
"I do too. According to my friends, I'm pretty much an oddball, since I love to read and draw. I don't really like TV too much or music by all of those gala and gaudy stars, such as Brittany or the Backstreet Boys," I said with a sad tone.
Bob sighed. "I wouldn't complain. I tried to-"
"Abolish TV? Yeah, I know. Now, I'm supposed to interview you, so when can we begin?"
Bob sighed again. "Well, I did say I was going to tell you my Record. I tried to frame Krusty the Clown, one of my worst enemies. I tried to murder two people: Bart and Selma Simpson."
"Bart?"
"Yes," he said disgustingly. "BART. I also ran for mayor and for your information I won. But by.... fraud... of course." Bob stretched and blinked, moistening his eyes.
"So, you've done some, Bob." I wrote down all of the information in the notepad and sighed. "Of course, you should be a very respectable person here...right?" I asked.
"Oh, no one respects me here. They treat me like a clown." He shrugged and dug his hand into a pillowcase and pulled out a book.
"Well, you were on Krusty's sho-"
"I know that! I didn't want to do it...that much...but...the publicity...argh, I wish I had a little more respect here. Since we have no pies, they throw jell-o as if my life was a skit! I, of course, duck. But there IS whipped cream to go with it so it is as equally patronizing as a cream pie. " He turned a page.
"Well, if it makes you feel any better..." I trailed off.
"What? What?" Bob asked as he peered at me over the rim of the book.
"I respect you."
Bob was silent. He somehow, broke it."You do?"
Sure. If I didn't I know who you were and disrespect you, I'd probably get myself killed. I'm not stupid, Bob, and I don't poke my nose where it doesn't belong." I wrote some things down and sighed.
"You remind me of a somewhat Lisa Simpson, only not as annoying and foilful."
"Heh...I don't know if that's a compliment...age?" I asked.
"Forty-three."
"Wow...no parole?" I continued writing.
"Working on it. I know I'll get out of here soon. All I have to do is keep my mouth shut. It takes just a little convincing..."
"Ok. Now...Bob..." I began.
"Yes?"
"Will you try to do another crime as soon as you get out of here or will you try to turn over a new leaf?"
"I don't know if I'll just plant a new tree...I guess I could try to be good. It may be near impossible."
"I can help," I suggested.
"You? Bah! Hah, I don't know if you can do that." Bob turned a page from his book.
"I can too! I already told you I'm a smart kid! AND I that I DO li-!" I paused. "I mean, respect you."
Bob sighed deeply and glanced at the ceiling. He shrugged and looked at me.
"Dear me. You would help me, a forty-three year old man, by the way thirty years older than you, washed up; probably demented, just so you can urge me to try to be a good citizen?" Bob asked.
"Yes, I would. It's better than Brittany." "And then what would I do, to repay you?" "Nothing. Nothing at all. Just...a good deed, eh?"
Bob closed the book and jumped down from the bunkbed. he paced back and forth, wondering what to do, or pondering on his next plan. He then looked at me and grabbed me by the collar, and stared deep into my eyes.
"IF you double-cross me, child, I swear you'll be on my list of people to murder if I decide to go on a killing spree," he told me with clenched teeth. "I don't want to kill you though...it's so...ugh...too cruel." He strummed his fingers through some strands of my hair.
"Such a large intellect you have; witty, smart. You're not stupid, but you might be crazy. You DO know what kind of trouble you can get into."
I gulped and bit my lip. "You're just as crazy to accept my offer just as I who had offered it."
He shot me a glare.
"But, you're pretty interesting. And I'm not..." I trailed off again.
"Not what?" he asked as he held me up by the collar. I took a breath and looked into his eyes.
"I'm not scared of you, Robert Terwilliger."
I slowly walked down a long corridor with a notepad and a pencil. (How predictable!)
I sighed, thinking about the assignment. I have heard of Sideshow Bob before. Pretty cynical and notorious; crazy, but of course everyone knew he was smart. Quiet little fellow, or big since he was old. Well, not too old, he was in his mid 30s-40s. I looked around seeing sealed cells and janitors mopping the floor. There had been a fight..blecch..One corteous janitor waved at me so I waved back. Surprisingly, he looked Scottish..Finally, some form of happiness. Everything was grey, so very, very grey. Depressing, as if it was
the PERFECT place for suicide, which it probably was. I approached a guard and showed him
a permission slip from my mom and teacher.
"They're very brave or very stupid people," the guard said. "Here." He handed me a piece of paper and a gun. "JUST in case he decides to have any funny business," he snickered.
I held the gun in surprise. "All righty then," I replied with a slight smile.
The guard punched in a code into a computer and two doors opened. I thanked the guard and walked into the next corridor. SO long...and it seemed so endless. I realized there MUST have been alot of convicts..
"Lesse...Cell 2531 Block B..." I muttered, reading the slip of paper I received. "Here we go!" I approached a metal door.
A sign near it said "WARNING: APPROACH WITH EXTREME CAUTION." I sighed and pushed a buzzer.
"Yes?" a voice said.
"Um, yes, I'm here to speak with Robert Terwilliger. I'm Zoey, and my teacher assigned me to interview-?"
"First of all, do you have a gun in your hands?" the voice asked.
I blinked. "Uh...yes."
"Well, if you want to speak with me then you will have to leave the gun outside," the voice said.
I sighed, knowing that this was a great deal of a grade, I put down the gun. "Ok, I put it down."
Soon, the man inside called the guard and had him open the door. I walked inside with my pencil behind my ear, a notebook in my hands. I looked around the room; It had only a bunkbed, a desk loaded with books, and a buzzer to call the guard(s).
I heard the door slam and blinked. In front of me was a man, of course in uniform, with purple, maybe maroon, sproingy hair. He had a mysterious smile and stood up straight.
"Hmm. I haven't seen you here, in town I mean," he noticed.
"I just moved here, sir."
He laughed. "Don't call me that. Call me Bob. I'm Sideshow Bob, at your service." He took a bow.
"What kind? Community service?" I asked.
"Don't make me laugh. So...why are you here?"
"I'm, uh, supposed to interview you. I have no idea why though."
"They're probably trying to kill you. Well, then, have a seat," Bob said.
I sat down on the floor while he climbed up onto the bunkbed.
"Where should I begin?" I asked him.
"You're asking me? Heh, well, let's try my Record," Bob suggested.
"All right then. What did you do to end up in here Bob? You're a pretty sophisticated person, and you're wasting your life in here."
I paused and took a breath. "I thought you were smart."
Bob fliched and blinked. "Oh? Are you calling me an idiot?"
"No way! You're a criminal mastermind! 'Idioticity' is the last thing on your list, Bob."
"I thought you said you weren't from around here," Bob inquired.
"You're pretty famous so word spreads...like butter," I said, while doodling on the notepad aimlessly.
"Oh? Am I?" he asked curiously.
"Yeah!" I yelled. "You're pretty much my favorite criminal!' I blurted. "I like people with
high IQs. I looked you up on my laptop, so..."
Bob laughed. "Hah, I never knew there'd be someone who would like a villain."
"No, really. You're pretty interesting, I assure you! I'm pretty smart myself, though I'm not really bragging. My IQ is a good 156."
"Ooh...a smart one are we? Square root of 81?" Bob asked.
"Nine." Bob raised an eyebrow.
"Two dogs, four cats, and six birds equal how many legs?"
"Thirty-six."
Bob blinked. He ruffled his hair. "Who wrote the play 'The Wild Duck?'" Bob gave a smirk.
"Ibsen..?" I said as I got up from the ground.
Bob frowned. "You don't read plays."
"I do too. According to my friends, I'm pretty much an oddball, since I love to read and draw. I don't really like TV too much or music by all of those gala and gaudy stars, such as Brittany or the Backstreet Boys," I said with a sad tone.
Bob sighed. "I wouldn't complain. I tried to-"
"Abolish TV? Yeah, I know. Now, I'm supposed to interview you, so when can we begin?"
Bob sighed again. "Well, I did say I was going to tell you my Record. I tried to frame Krusty the Clown, one of my worst enemies. I tried to murder two people: Bart and Selma Simpson."
"Bart?"
"Yes," he said disgustingly. "BART. I also ran for mayor and for your information I won. But by.... fraud... of course." Bob stretched and blinked, moistening his eyes.
"So, you've done some, Bob." I wrote down all of the information in the notepad and sighed. "Of course, you should be a very respectable person here...right?" I asked.
"Oh, no one respects me here. They treat me like a clown." He shrugged and dug his hand into a pillowcase and pulled out a book.
"Well, you were on Krusty's sho-"
"I know that! I didn't want to do it...that much...but...the publicity...argh, I wish I had a little more respect here. Since we have no pies, they throw jell-o as if my life was a skit! I, of course, duck. But there IS whipped cream to go with it so it is as equally patronizing as a cream pie. " He turned a page.
"Well, if it makes you feel any better..." I trailed off.
"What? What?" Bob asked as he peered at me over the rim of the book.
"I respect you."
Bob was silent. He somehow, broke it."You do?"
Sure. If I didn't I know who you were and disrespect you, I'd probably get myself killed. I'm not stupid, Bob, and I don't poke my nose where it doesn't belong." I wrote some things down and sighed.
"You remind me of a somewhat Lisa Simpson, only not as annoying and foilful."
"Heh...I don't know if that's a compliment...age?" I asked.
"Forty-three."
"Wow...no parole?" I continued writing.
"Working on it. I know I'll get out of here soon. All I have to do is keep my mouth shut. It takes just a little convincing..."
"Ok. Now...Bob..." I began.
"Yes?"
"Will you try to do another crime as soon as you get out of here or will you try to turn over a new leaf?"
"I don't know if I'll just plant a new tree...I guess I could try to be good. It may be near impossible."
"I can help," I suggested.
"You? Bah! Hah, I don't know if you can do that." Bob turned a page from his book.
"I can too! I already told you I'm a smart kid! AND I that I DO li-!" I paused. "I mean, respect you."
Bob sighed deeply and glanced at the ceiling. He shrugged and looked at me.
"Dear me. You would help me, a forty-three year old man, by the way thirty years older than you, washed up; probably demented, just so you can urge me to try to be a good citizen?" Bob asked.
"Yes, I would. It's better than Brittany." "And then what would I do, to repay you?" "Nothing. Nothing at all. Just...a good deed, eh?"
Bob closed the book and jumped down from the bunkbed. he paced back and forth, wondering what to do, or pondering on his next plan. He then looked at me and grabbed me by the collar, and stared deep into my eyes.
"IF you double-cross me, child, I swear you'll be on my list of people to murder if I decide to go on a killing spree," he told me with clenched teeth. "I don't want to kill you though...it's so...ugh...too cruel." He strummed his fingers through some strands of my hair.
"Such a large intellect you have; witty, smart. You're not stupid, but you might be crazy. You DO know what kind of trouble you can get into."
I gulped and bit my lip. "You're just as crazy to accept my offer just as I who had offered it."
He shot me a glare.
"But, you're pretty interesting. And I'm not..." I trailed off again.
"Not what?" he asked as he held me up by the collar. I took a breath and looked into his eyes.
"I'm not scared of you, Robert Terwilliger."