"We all practice self-deception to a degree; no man can handle complete honesty without being cut at each turn.

There's not enough room in a man's head for sanity alongside each grief, each worry, each terror that he owns.

I'm well used to burying such things in a dark cellar and moving on."

― Mark Lawrence, Prince of Fools

Chapter Four

The Partial Playbill

He should have never been there in the first place. He had other ways around the predicament, and it wasn't as though the show attracted anyone in interest of promoting his work. Waylon could have denied the role and found publishers outside of his circle of theater and literary friends, but, in some twisted way, he may have found comfort in the limelight. In some way, he wanted to have the role of Ophelia – just to prove to everyone (or maybe just to himself) that he still had the flair, the spark it took to climb to the top.

But, now, all he had proven to himself was that he was a nitwit. He'd proven that he was a fool, and all the regret in the world couldn't erase the night he'd come to rue. No matter how many times his stomach wrenched and his mind pounded him with expletives, he'd never be able to undo the damage he'd caused.

He swore continually in a whisper as he hurriedly ambled down to the mailroom on the lower floors of the plant. His tongue bent on lashing him the punishment he felt he'd come to deserve and his eyes staying glued to the floor, as they felt unworthy of any other place. He watched his shoes move in blurs, glancing upward only when he saw shadows of employees or furniture intruding along his path, sighing grumpily as he felt the aches of the previous night's feminine footwear with every step.

"Hey, watch where you're go-, oh, sorry, Mr. Smithers, I didn't realize that was you, a-heh," a random employee spat as he was bumped into before retracting his harshness when he noticed the supervisor standing close behind him. He waved weakly, earning a glance and grunt from Smithers, who took the opportunity to focus on the signs lining the walls.

"Yeah, sorry," he replied feebly as he continued down an adjacent hallway, following the sign that was pointing toward the mailroom. "It's okay, Waylon," he said to himself as the large sign reading, "Mail Room", hung atop a fast approaching doorway, "what are the chances they even have one? It's not like anyone here would care about something like that."

"Say, did you guys happen to see that play last night?"

Smithers' heart nearly ceased to beat, soaring to the pit of his gullet and throbbing in his feet as his pace quickened. He rushed toward the door, despite the intimidation of the cool metal, and took not a moment's hesitation before tugging at the knob.

The man who'd spoken gave an odd passing glance, "huh, guess Mr. Smithers isn't a Tyler Perry fan. Who knew? So, anyway, guys-,"

Perspiration had traced translucent streaks down his face, and, in a moment of forgetfulness, he pressed his back against the door, sloping toward the floor. Had he'd not heard the hustle and bustle of complaining employees and clanking machines, he may have actually reached the floor; however, as many perplexed looks were shot toward him, he straightened his posture and readjusted the bowtie around his neck.

He commenced his journey toward the head supervisor of the mailroom, walking on eggshells as he felt eyes following him. He cleared his throat when he reached the end of the conveyer belt lines and approached the supervisor, tapping on the pudgy man's softened shoulder.

"Excuse me," Smithers coughed as he fiddled with his glasses before wringing his hands, "I know there's probably no point in asking, but Mr. Burns has requested a copy of last night's playbill from Hamlet. You wouldn't happen to have one, would you? No? Well, thanks any-,"

"Whoa, hold your horses, there, Tex," a gruff, yet strangely cheerful, voice lamented, stubby fingers rifling through a stack of paper, "I believe my nephew gave me a copy. Not to sound rude, but he's a bit of a fairy, ya'know?" The man added with a hearty snicker, only for the noise to taper away at the blank stare from the higher-positioned worker. "Ah, here we are! But, uh, what's Burns wantin' with a playbill from some sissy show?"

"Great," Waylon offered through gritted teeth and a phony grin as he took the paper, "and that's classified information, just get back to work."

The man gave a simper that struck electricity through Waylon's partially-beating heart as he spoke, "I reckon Burns is lookin' to get a slice of that pie they call Maribelle Stacy, am I right?"

Smithers' body ceased to function, his entire sensory board short circuiting as prickles replaced all other feelings. He shuddered, gulping profoundly as he eyed the man with suspicious intent, the firm expression far more mild and timid than he'd intended. He fumbled with the pamphlet in his hands, using it as a shield to hide the rosy embarrassment scorching his face.

"Who told you about that?" He snapped, eyes adverting the worker and targeting the floor.

"My nephew – God bless him, he loves gossipin' almost as much as his Momma."

His fists tightened, slightly crumpling the playbill, as he hissed in a deep growl, "ugh, Stewart!"

"Yup, that's him, alright!" The bumpkin-sounding man tittered enthusiastically before being rudely cut off by Smithers jabbing a finger at him.

"That information doesn't leave this room, or you're fired."

As the supervisor began his rushed walk down the line of oafish workers, the southern supervisor called quietly with a cheeky chuckle, "whatever you say, Miss Maribelle."

Locked away in the solitude and safety of his office, Waylon paced along the carpeted floor, fumbling his fingers over the slick paper of the playbill. His eyes narrowed as his glasses sloped to the end of his nose, watching as the print grew bolder from beyond the bifocals. Sweat began to delicately stain the paper, soaking it with guilt and panic.

"Ugh, look what you've gotten yourself into this time, Waylon?!" he cursed at himself, his eyes cemented to the print that he uttered allowed, "… presents the all-male production… Hamlet…" he paused and sighed at the cast listing, "… Waylon Smithers Jr. as Ophelia… damn it."

His eyes drifted to the clock hanging from the adjacent wall, the second hand repeatedly pricking against his chest, and he knew time was dwindling before Burns would irately commence paging him back to main office. Suddenly, his adrenaline rushed through his veins, sending another layer of sweat to the palms of his hands as he hastily, thoughtlessly began shredding bits and pieces of the paper. Anything that was damning, he tore away, hiding his fault in crooked, ragtag rips; he tore away the entire cast list as to not seem too obvious, the announcement of the play being an all-male production, even the beginning bit of the elegant title to cover his intentions.

It wasn't until the sweat cooled and his heart and breathing slowed to a normal rhythm that he truly realized his actions, noting the sloppy mess he'd made of the playbill. While he breathed a weighty huff of disdain, a faint smile came to his lips as he thought up plausible alibies as he started his stroll back toward his boss' office.

"Okay, there's nothing to worry about," he reassured himself in a silent pep-talk, "just go in and play along. Nothing to wor-,"

"Smithers!"

Smithers jumped at the sharp tone, having failed to notice he'd successfully entered the office and was standing before the intimidating desk. He chortled softly, letting it fizzle away into a cough as Burns' icy stare chilled his bones.

"Well, it i-ii-is about time," Burns hissed, talon-like fingers reaching for and snatching away the pamphlet. "What took you so long, eh, Smithers?" Fingers traced along the ratty tears, further deepening the scowl sprawled along the owner's face. "What is the meaning of this?! This ratty piece of garbage is all you could manage?"

Smithers shamefully nodded, eyes pleading for forgiveness as he whispered an excuse, "must be another rat infestation, sir."

"Oh well, no matter," the elder sighed, slumping against the fabric of his oversized chair and gently peeling open the folds to read the contents. "It still puts me one step closer to that dashing vixen."

The assistant's shoulders wilted as he watched the lovelorn man cling the playbill hopelessly to his chest for a brief moment, guilt almost forcing a confession… almost. But, Waylon remained silent, watching frightfully as he followed Burns' eyes that were skimming every last detail.

"U-um, not to sound like a downer, sir, but I'm sure she's probably tak-,"

"Ah-ha!" Burns exclaimed, interrupting his ward's stammers with his own giddy fit of giggles. "There's an address!"

"Damn…"

"What?"

"Huh? Oh, um, n-nothing."

"Right," the leader said with an arched brow of confusion before shoving the playbill into the younger man's hands. "Smithers, note down that address and take it to the finest florist money can buy."

"But, sir, don't you think you're rushing things a bi-,"

"Hush! Now, go! Nothing is too extravagant for my precious Maribelle Stacy."

Smithers, stunned and taken aback as he scrambled with the paper once again, cleared his throat and fought back the confession that wriggled beneath his Adam's apple. He gulped and nodded, lowering his head as he complied.

"Of course, sir."

"God hath given you one face, and you make yourself another."

― William Shakespeare, Hamlet