Chapter Nine: The Plan

Bart, Nelson, Jimbo, Kearney, and Dolph pedaled down the shady country road. It was lined with weeds, discarded cans, and tall, brown grass. The houses were sparse, mostly wooden, some built by hand, and all neglected and in a state of utter disrepair. On the front porch of one such house sat Cletus, the slack-jawed yokel, witling and "chawing tobaccy". Bart and Nelson waved, and the hick acknowledged with a nod and "how-do". They continued their long trek until they reached the house they were looking for.

Partly concealed by bushes and sparse trees stood the house of Snake; drug dealer, rum-runner, burglar, weapons dealer, carjacker, bank robber, and general crook. They road down the gravel path, then stashed their bikes in the bushes.

"This better work, Simpson! I didn't bust my ass biking all the way to this dump just to get shot by some crook!" threatened Kearney.

The walked up the creaking porch of the decaying shack. Bart knocked on the door. A rustling was heard, then a loud "click-schk" that made their stomachs drop. The door flung open. Snake stood at the threshold, a sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun in hand.

"Oh, it's you, little dudes. C'mon in." he said, lowering his weapon.

"Hey Snake."

"Yo, Bart-dude. Nelson. Jimbo. Kearney. Dolph." he said, waving them in with his gun. As the last went in, he looked around quickly, then shut the door and locked it.

The window shades were all draw, and a blazing fire was the only source of light in the dusty cabin. Crates of drugs, guns, ammo, bootleg videos, and hijacked merchandise lay about the single room. In a small grotto by the fireplace were a rusty, plinking sink, a sparking, ersatz toaster, and an old microwave oven. There was a smelly, calf-hide couch, with rat holes and cigarette burns in it, and across the room from it was a cracked TV screen, with a clothes hanger for rabbit ears.

"So, little dudes," drawled Snake as he eased into the couch and pulling a Cuban cigar from the opened crate to his right, "What brings you to my humble abode?"

He lit the cigar and puffed it with relish, then washed it down with a swig from a bottle of Jack Daniel's, a box of which was at his feet, acting as a foot rest.

"Well, Mr. Snake…" Nelson began.

"Please, please, call me 'Snake'"

"Snake…do you know this gun?"

Bart pulled the silenced handgun from the shooting from of his faded blue backpack, and handed it to Nelson, who handed it in turn to Snake.

"Oh yeeeeeah, I remember her. Beauty, ain't she? I gave to those two little Christian dudes, you know, with the voices like someone cut their sacs off…what were their names again? Nod and God…"

"Rod and Todd?" asked Bart, one eyebrow raised, and a finger raised to his left ear.

"Yeah, that was it. Todd's the tall one? Right?"

"That's them." said Kearney.

"Well," continued Bart cautiously, eyeing the shotgun, now leaning against the couch, "I'm not sure if you know this, but that gun was used in a double murder. A woman and a child."

"Ohhhh, NO! I thought that they were just gonna use it for a shoplifting or to impress some chicks or somethin'. Man, do I feel guilty!"

"Snake," said Bart, who had crossed the room during Snake's reply, and now stood beside him, hand on hi shoulder, "The security camera caught them. We are 100 certain that it was them. And now, they've gone beyond raping and murdering and robbing: they're trying to destroy the town! They killed the mayor, and the police chief, and Judge Snyder-"

"Aw man! And now the only judge in town in that bitch What's-Her-Name! Snyder was so cool…"

"Snake, you've given more weapons to them since then, right?"

"Well, yeah. An M-16, an AK-47, a bunch of handguns, a crossbow, and a shitload of silencers."

"Snake, I have a deal for you: we come with you on your next delivery. We need arms, and some body armor should things go bad. My sister and the Frink kid can rig us some wires. We'll have one tape recorder on one of us, and one in a nearby parked car. We need to wait until we have enough on tape to get them, then we draw our weapons. We place them all under citizen's arrest, and take them to the jail. Now that Uber-Bitch is the law in town, they'll hang for sure!"

"Will the tape be enough?"

"It probably will, plus all the weapons and drugs they'll have." Said Jimbo.

"Even still, Snake, you may have to come forward and testify. Can you do that?"

"Hmmm…I sure as hell don't want to go to jail again…but then again, these sick little dudes needed be stopped, man. I'm sure a plea bargain can be worked out…can you get your parents to chip in for my bail?"

"Maybe…plus, I'm sure Millhouse's parents and the Sherri and Terri's will gladly pay for the release of the man whose testimony puts the murderers of their children behind bars, especially if he demonstrates the courage to risk his own freedom for the cause of justice."

"Yeah, and when I'm out on bail, I can make a break for it!"

"Umm…that's fine with us." said Bart.

"As soon as those freaks get the needle, I'll be able to sleep easy." said Kearney.

"Yeah! As long as those fuckers get what's comin' to them, I don't care if you run free!" added Dolph.

"Boo-ya! I'll skip town, hide out in the desert for a few months, then come back, live in my old apartment for a while, and use my old alias, "Jailbird", for a few more months just to be on the safe side, and then move back here. So you little dudes think you can store all this shit at your places for a while? I'll give you each fifty bucks!"

"Well," hesitated Bart, whose usually-silent conscience objecting. Nelson punched him in the arm.

"We'd love to..." coughed Bart.

"Awesome! You guys give me the addresses of where you're gonna stash it, and I'll call Fat Tony, and I'll pay you after I get my payment. Make sure you take good care of it though, and only sample one box one of one product, okay? It's common courtesy."

"Okay then, you guys meet me here this Friday at nine forty-five, sharp. I'll brief you, and arm you. Remember, keep it cool, on the low-down. I'll truck the stuff over there, and you help me unload it. They usually pay me inside after checking the stuff, and sometimes one of their leader dudes invites me in for a drink. That is where he will spill the beans, if he does."

"Thanks Snake. I know that this hasn't been easy for you."

"Yeah, yeah…well, thanks for visiting anyways, amigos. Oh, here, a little something for the ride home!" he said as he handed each of them a pack of Cuban cigars.

"Remember," he added, with a wink, "Smoking kills."

In the tree house, Lisa Simpson, Max Frink, Martin Prince, and Database watched the negotiations with Snake. They had planted a miniature listening device in Bart's left ear, and used the old police billboard's giant coffee mug to amplify the signal. Pinhole cameras were implanted in Jimbo's skullcap and Nelson's vest.

"This tape alone could convict them!" exclaimed Martin with excitement.

"Yes, but to convict them, we have to catch them. Even when we had the police force under old Wiggum that would have been tough. But now that our police force is little more than a disorganized lot of half-drunk, gun-toting civilians, our best bet is to capture them during the weapon delivery. Plus, we'll get a tape of their confession, and that will certainly get them the convicted."

"Ehh, one man and five teens against an untold legion of blood-thirsty Satanists? Excuuuse me, miss coordinator poyson, but that smacks of craziness! Glaiven!" cried the excitable Max Frink.

"Ehh, we are doomed," whined Database.

"Don't worry, I'll call the militia the minute shots start firing. And they will be wearing bulletproof armor, right?"

"Technically, bullet resistant, dear Lisa. A shot from a powerful weapon, say, a high caliber rifle or a shotgun, at close range, can penetrate the armor if it strikes at a perfect ninety-degree angle. Even shots from normal range break through the outermost layers of material, and, at the very least, cause a nasty bruise. In even more sever cases broken ribs, damage to the internal organs, and internal hemorrhaging have occurred, and furthermore…"

"-the vest only covers the torso and not the arms, head, legs, or groin. I know, Martin, but this is our only hope for the successful capture of the main culprits. I know for certain that all the main conspirators will be there this Friday. It is the Dark of the Moon, and a Friday the Thirteenth. They wouldn't miss it: it is the perfect night for performing the Profane Masse."