NOW

"Tell me something, Waylon," Monty began out of the blue, "how are things with your wife lately?"

The two men had decided to winter walk down to the shore of the Springfield River, just downhill of the power plant. Though cold, the snow had been late in coming that year. Monty wore his old black pea coat. Waylon had gone with a down parka. Under the shadow of the recently completed cooling towers, they paused to take in the still view.

Waylon shook his head. "I finally convinced her to see the doctor." He put his hands in his pockets and looked across the river. "He declared that she has a nervous condition, and prescribed electroshock therapy at the hospital. She's going to start treatment next week. Depending on how the first week goes, they might let her stay home, or they might be keeping her." Waylon pursed his lips. "I don't know what I can do…"

Monty listened quietly.

"You know, before Waylon was born, I saw her reading a book, Every Woman's Standard Medical Guide. There's a chapter on nerves. It says the arrival of a new baby may be a signal for the beginnings of nervous tension in the sensitive, anxious woman." Waylon continued to stare across the river. "Roberta was never sensitive or anxious. Not that I'd call it." Maybe this is all because of me, Waylon thought pensively.

He lapsed into silence.

Monty stepped in and put an arm around Waylon's shoulder. "Come now, man. Perhaps the treatment will work wonders, and she'll be back; fit as a fiddle in no time?"

"And maybe she'll be institutionalized forever," Waylon muttered softly. He closed his eyes and tilted his head in Monty's direction.

Monty sighed and leaned in towards his long-time partner.

Their foreheads met, touching gently.

In the distance, against the grey sky, a crow cawed once.

The omen of change, Waylon thought heavily, messenger of death.

Head to head with Monty, he took a deep breath, and tried to regain his composure.

"Now see here, my man," Monty began softly, "If there's anything I can do for you and your family, believe me I will. You name it, and it will be done." Monty took a step back, one arm still on Waylon's shoulder. He grasped Waylon's other shoulder and turned to face him straight on.

"Look at me," Monty ordered, not unkindly.

Waylon raised his eyes.

"You're a good man, Waylon Smithers," Monty began slowly. The intensity in his blue eyes was almost overwhelming. "I promise you, I will do everything in my power to take care of you and those you love. No harm will ever come to you so long as I am here."

Waylon dabbed his eyes with his handkerchief. "You mean that, Monty?"

Montgomery Burns tightened his grip on Waylon's shoulders. "Always."


THEN

"You want a moat around it?"

"Of course I want a moat," Burns was fairly yelling now. "Dash it, man! How am I supposed to keep the riff-raff out without some sort of barrier?"

Smithers tapped his pen on the drawing table in mild irritation. "Why don't we go with a nice chainlink fence. Chainlink's all the rage. Very modern." He didn't bother erasing the large blue circle Burns had just drawn on his plans. Smithers would just redo them later. It was easier to let Burns have his way than it was to keep trying to correct the tycoon's "improvements."

"A fence? Are you daft? How on earth will a drawbridge work with a fence!?"

Smithers smiled patronizingly.

"We could have a guard house instead. With gates to control who goes in and out."

Burns' face split into a grin. "With turrets and machine guns?"

Smithers glanced at the prints. Machine guns? Probably not. "I was thinking more along the lines of tire spikes, and barbed-wire," he replied, straight-faced as ever.

Burns relented. "Oh, very well. That will have to do." He glanced down at the print. "But we'd still have the attack dogs, right?" he asked hopefully.

Now it was Smithers' turn to grin. "Absolutely! I'm thinking something like Doberman pinchers. Lean, fast, and ill-tempered." He gave Burns a wicked smile.

"Ah, I knew there was something I liked about you, Smithers!" Burns crowed. "I know a fabulous kennel in Germany: Zwinger vom Beisen Gesichtsausdruck!"

Smithers paused, translating in his head. "Does that mean 'Kennel vom Bitey-Face'," he asked tentatively.

"Ah, close enough," replied Burns. "I'll have Johan contact them first thing in their morning." Burns rubbed his hands together in delight. "Oh, Smithers, this will be the best atom- er, nuclear power plant, yet!"


THEN

Burns had invited Smithers to join him for dinner; and tried to hide his disappointment when the man declined.

Smithers explained he had promised his fiancée a nice evening at Le Mason Expensive downtown. I didn't even know he was engaged, Burns thought reflectively, as he sat alone at the head of his stately dinner table. Surprise, surprise.

What left Burns even more flabbergasted was the fact he wasn't entirely happy to hear that. Somehow, he liked the idea of Smithers being unattached. Single men, in Burns' opinion, made much better employees. They didn't get distracted with the trappings of family and all that bullroar. They time could be utterly devoted to the task at hands.

Like me, Burns thought. His time was all his. No one holding him back, or dragging him down. No attachments. A solitary apex financial predator in the wilds of a capitalist economy! Exactly like nature intended.

Speaking of nature…

"Johan," Burns bellowed, "Get in here!"

The tall man immediately appeared from the kitchen, dressed as always in his black suit, but wearing a white chef's apron. He moved silently over to his master's side. "There you are, what took you so long? Ah, never mind it. Johan, when will the new hunden be arriving?"

"Zey will be here within the fortnight, Herr Burns," Johan replied is his deceptively soft Germanic voice.

"Ah, wonderful. Well that gives me time for one last fox hunt with the old pack before we… do whatever it is with dogs when we don't need them anymore."

Johan nodded once, silently.

"Have the kennel master get them prepared, get my hunting vestments out, and ready my blunderbuss. I'm feeling lucky tonight," he quipped. And I have nothing else to do with my time tonight, he thought sourly, thinking of the guest he didn't have.

Johan nodded once, again, and left as silently as he arrived. After he was gone, Burns allowed himself a small shudder. Johan might be phenomenal at what he did, but at times he could be a tad eerie.

Leaving the remains of his dinner on the table for the servants to clean up, Burns rose and pushed his chair back. He strode purposefully from the dining hall, tossing his napkin carelessly over his shoulder as he left.

Upstairs in his bedchamber, his fox hunting attire had been laid out on his bed. Cream riding pants, black boots, white undershirt and red jacket, complete with black cap. His riding crop lay beside the clothes. Burns dressed hastily, donning a pair of house slippers for the moment. He'd put on his hunting boots when he got to the kennel.

He slapped the riding crop across his palm twice, and smiled; both the sound and the sensation appealed to his edgier side. Ah, the delightful form and function of a well-made leather crop! Such things, he hoped, would never go out of style.

His horse was already waiting at the stables. His horseman helped him put on the high black riding boots, then assisted him into the saddle. The horseman handed Burns his archaic firearm, which Burns slung into a holster across his back.

Early spring never allowed for a light evening. Already the sun was dipping behind the western edge of his estate, casting lengthening shadows across the lawns. Fortunately though, the full moon would be rising shortly.

An evening fox hunt. A more challenging affair, though perhaps not traditional. It always got the old blood flowing. He sat straight in the saddle, reins and crop gathered in his hands. "Cast the hounds!" he exclaimed, throwing a hand to the forest.

With that, the foxhounds were released. Almost immediately, they caught scent, and baying, took off. Burns spurred his horse forward, and gave chase.


THEN

Like so many of his hunts, he returned without a trophy. The fox darted quickly into its burrow, leaving not so much as a single hair exposed. Burns holstered his firearm back over his shoulder, clucked his tongue, and turned the horse back. He whistled shrilly, calling the hounds off their quarry.

His blood was still pounding in his ears from the spirited chase moments before, but now he felt oddly serene. Even though his veins still throbbed, there was a sense of peace, an almost sleepy calm that always seemed to come after such an exertive act.

Burns guided his horse leisurely through the overgrowth. The world had taken on a silver cast to it under the rapidly rising moon. The only sounds were the thudding of his horse's hooves, and the steamy pantings of the fox hounds as they trotted at his feet.

He let his mind wander as he rode. A pity Smithers was indisposed for the evening. Burns would've enjoyed companionship tonight. He thought of Smithers' face, the hazel eyes that seemed always on the verge of making some delightfully sharp and mirthful retort. The way Smithers' lips would purse and tighten when he held back a smile, or a laugh.

Good thing he does too, Burns thought, imagining those lips. No one would dare laugh at me! He snorted and looked up at the moon. What would you do if he did, a tiny voice in his head asked.

Oh, I'd find a way to shut his irreverent, impish mouth, Burns thought back at himself, giving his horse's sides a slight tap with the spurs.

The mare obediently picked up her pace. The hounds, winded but enthusiastic, matched speed.

Images of Waylon Smithers smiling in a warm and teasing way swam though his mind. Damnable, frolicsome youth, with his fake self-effacement, Burns thought darkly. He knows wit and well what he's playing at.

The little voice inside his head continued its small, but insistent nudging. He's not afraid of you, Monty, it admonished him.

Burns clenched his teeth. "Then I'll give him a reason," he snarled softly into the night air. His horse flicked her ears back at the unexpected, hostile tone from her previously mute rider.

The small voice gave a peal of laughter.

I don't think you could! The voice chided gaily. All you'd do is encourage him!