Chapter Three

Mr. Burns picked up the phone in his office. "Ahoy-hoy?"

Smithers said, "Monty?"

"Waylon!"

"Can we talk?"

"We already are. Or have you forgotten that already?" He could hear Smithers snicker on the other end of the line.

"No. I mean, can we talk face-to-face?"

"Why, I think that can be arranged," he said, flipping through his datebook and crossing out a meeting. "I'll see you soon." He pressed a button on his intercom. "Plaskett, move the board meeting to tomorrow at two."

Mr. Burns stopped at the hospital gift shop to get a bouquet of pink and white roses and pale blue hydrangeas, then proceeded to Smithers' room. He swung the door open and approached Smithers' bedside. "Well, I'm here. What did you want to talk to me about?" Realizing his abruptness had caught Smithers off-guard, he held out the bouquet. "I got these for you." Burns pulled out a thin, blue vase and set it on the table beside his bed.

"Thank you, Monty," he said, slipping the stems at the base of the bouquet through the narrow lip of the vase.

"Does that vase seem familiar to you?"

He wrinkled his eyebrows. "No. Should it?"

"You gave it to me last year when I left the hospital after my bout with hypohemia."

"I'm afraid I don't remember."

"I brought the card you gave me, too." He pulled a card from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and handed it to Smithers. It was a standard "get well soon" card with floral imagery and ornate, shiny, and embossed gold lettering. He opened it to see paper-clipped to the inside a picture of Smithers hugging one of the hounds and giving a sad smile. A handwritten note read: "The hounds and I can't wait for you to get back on your feet. Monty, you're more precious to me than the air I breathe. With love, Waylon Smithers."

Smithers inspected the card, taking careful note of his handwritten message. "I can tell you meant a lot to me. That's why I wanted to talk to you."

"Here," he said, handing Smithers Bobo. "Surely you remember who this happy little fellow is."

"No, I can't say I do."

"You still don't remember anything about us?"

"I'm sorry. I don't."

"You don't remember going to a Turkish prison for trying to buy opium for me? You don't remember when I ran for governor? When you donated your kidney to me? When I blocked out the sun and got shot by a baby? When we fled to Cuba to evade charges for stealing a trillion dollars? When I flew to Canada to secure your lifesaving thyroid medication? You mean to tell me you remember none of that?" Smithers shook his head, obviously distressed at being unable to recall such integral moments in his life, and scrutinized the bear in his hands. "His name is Bobo, by the way." Burns absentmindedly stroked Bobo's ear. "He's my cherished childhood teddy bear. We went through such great lengths to retrieve him, and you had him restored for me."

"How did we meet?"

"Well, your father worked for me, so I saw you when you were a baby, and occasionally when you were a child. Do you remember what happened to your father?"

"Yes. I do, actually. He died in an accident at the plant, didn't he?"

"How do you know that? I didn't tell you that until last year, and you've forgotten everything else we've done together."

"I don't know."

"Well, anyway, I didn't really get to know you until you were a young man. You did chores for me as a summer job your last year of high school, and then in college, you did an internship with me. We were fast friends, much as your father and I were, and I insisted you apply for a full-time position with me, and you insisted upon it as well."

"How long was it before we...?"

"Oh, it wasn't long at all. I knew that if we didn't finalize things quickly, some other man would snap you up, and I wasn't willing to take that risk with such a capable young man. And you've satisfied me with your performance every day since then."

"Every day, really?"

"Yes, well, you've always been so energetic, so eager to serve me. Oh, sure, you've had to change positions a few times before we figured out what worked best, but frankly, as long as you're with me, I don't care what position I have you in."

"It might be a while before I'm comfortable... being in that position again with you. You know, until I get to know you better."

"You'll be comfortable in whatever position I tell you to be in."

"Ooh, yes, sir! You're making the proposition increasingly palatable." He licked his upper lip. "Tell me more about yourself, Monty."

"I am a billionaire and CEO of Springfield Nuclear Power Plant. I am a Yale alumnus, a member of the Springfield Glen Country Club, and a man who appreciates the finer things. And should anyone cross me, they'll have to contend with my hounds ripping them apart."

"It sounds like we've led an exciting life. Why did we flee to Cuba, again?"

"After the second world war, the United States charged me with the responsibility of delivering a trillion dollar bill to allied countries in Europe, and I thought, 'Why should they get a trillion dollars for nearly losing? If they weren't strong enough to fend off invading forces by themselves, then I say, "hard cheese" to them. Wouldn't our country's money be better spent rewarding the successful?' So I pocketed the bill and became the richest man in the world, and I remained so until the CIA found out and tried to apprehend me earlier this year."

Smithers gasped. "The world is so unfair. Then what happened?"

"Fortunately, the reporter who had been interviewing me – who happened to also be employed at my nuclear plant, as you later informed me – knocked them out, and we headed for your apartment in my Stutz Bearcat. You were wearing your bathrobe over your clothes when I arrived and pulled you outside, and you drove us to a hangar, and we flew off in search of an island to make our own."

"I take it we didn't live happily ever after on an island paradise?"

Burns' eyes grew downcast. "No... I landed the plane in Cuba and this Castro fellow stole the trillion dollar bill and banished us to the ocean on a raft."

"Good Lord! How did we get out of that one?"

"Well, after a few days adrift, U.S. Coast Guard spotted us and arrested me. I bribed the jury and walked free."

"What a harrowing ordeal."

"It was dicey at times. Particularly on the second evening at sea, when I fell into the water. You promptly pulled me back up onto the raft, but with night fast approaching, I began to shiver. We didn't have any towels, so you held me against your chest, and your body heat sustained me through the night. Throughout that night, I thought about how the last thing I'd said to you before this mess began was a churlish comment about the dinner you'd cooked for me, and yet you'd upended your life on a dime to spare me from a lengthy prison sentence. I never properly thanked you for that. So... thank you."

"Thanks."

They spoke for hours, Burns recounting many of their escapades, primarily focusing on their recent history and a few of his favorite stories from earlier in their partnership that he frequently looked back on. "Is any of this bringing back your memories?"

Smithers gradually closed his eyes. "No. I'm afraid it isn't."

Burns sighed in frustration. "I've tried every herbal tincture for amnesia on you, spent hours talking to you about our lives, and what has it profited us? Nothing! And that quack Hibbert hasn't been any help, either." He looked away and to the floor. "I don't want to let you go, but perhaps I must," he said under his breath. "I've exhausted every option. Unless..." He turned back and stared fixedly into Smithers' eyes, his own face having somehow slackened and tensed at once.

"What are you thinking about? Why are you looking at me like that?"

Burns' cheeks flushed, and he nervously rubbed the back of his neck with the palm of his hand. "I had a thought – it may sound absurd, but – oh, what the hell?" He pressed his hands against Smithers' cheeks and quickly leaned in to plant a kiss on his lips. Smithers' eyes opened wide, his heart fluttering, and as soon as he had processed the kiss, it was over. "Smithers? Waylon, how do you feel?"

"I feel..."

"Yes?"

"I feel... a sense of impending doom. Like I'm going to die. Oh Lord, your kiss gave me a heart attack, didn't it? My first kiss since the accident and now I'm having a heart attack. That's just great."

Burns pressed a button to page Dr. Hibbert, who came walking swiftly to Smithers' bedside. "Smithers says he's having a heart attack." He clasped his hand over Smithers' wrist.

A nurse affixed ECG leads to Smithers' chest and Dr. Hibbert looked at the readout. "Sinus tachycardia. Nurse, what's his TSH?" She handed him a chart. "Normal. Mr. Smithers, you're not having a heart attack. You're just twitterpated." He chuckled, patted his shoulder, and left the room.

"Waylon, I – I think I know the reason you felt like you were going to die."

"Really? Why?"

"One day, there was a silly prophecy that turned out to be a marketing gimmick that the end would come by sundown. As the people of Springfield awaited doom, we standing among them, you took my face into your hands and kissed me."

"I don't remember much... But I do remember that." He sighed inwardly. "I wish I could remember more about the life we had."

"It will come in time," he said, running his hand along Smithers' wrist. "I hope."