CHAPTER SIX: The Message
Bart awoke. He was felt overly warm, and the sheets clung to him with sweat. He felt the discomfort of an arm under her back, and another across his chest. As he turned to see the person next to them, the warm, glowing memory of the previous night flowed back into him; a warm, comforting wave. In the pale, predawn light, he saw her face, her long hair, her flushed cheeks, her thick black lashes. She looked so at peace, the world of pain and toil beyond her.
He gently plied her arm from his chest, and placed it on the pillow beside her. He pulled the covers over her naked shoulder. A peaceful smile tweaked the corners of her mouth, and her eyelids clenched as she nuzzled her pillow. He stood there a moment, adoring her with his loving gaze. Cautiously, he planted a light, prayerful kiss upon her cheek. She made a small noise, like a cooing dove.
"I love you," he said, and never in his life had his heart more truly felt those three, simple words' meaning more fully.
He showered, washing the sweat and the stickiness from his skin. A small silver medallion, once bright and gleaming, now dull from wear, hung from his neck. He tiptoed back into the bedroom, and put on his sweats. He stretched his arms and legs, slowly calibrating his breathing. He left the apartment, and made special care to lock the door.
He walked down the hall, and took the stairs down to the ground floor. Outside, he stretched some more, and started off, slowly working his body into a run.
He jogged through the dim streets. The streetlights were still on, their stark, yellow glow clashing with the faint, growing blue that was fanning outwards from the west.
As he jogged up to a dark alley, a figure stepped out directly in his path. Darkness concealed his form and his face.
"Hello Bart," the deep, honeyed voice intoned.
"Sideshow Bob!" he gasped in a frightened whisper.
"Yes Bart, it is I. So good to see you again."
The man stepped into the dim pall of the lamp. Indeed it was Robert Terwilliger, the one whose life was once consumed with trying to kill Bart. Age had tempered him, and changed him. His hair was shorter, more manageable. He had lost the plumpness his life as an actor had given him, replacing it with the thin, muscled look of a fugitive. Round, dark spectacles sat on his prominent nose. Clad in a long black coat, with a wazikashi on each hip, he looked particularly menacing. A warm smile came to his face, and he set his hands upon the young man's shoulders, and a tickled chortle rose from his throat.
"Bart. Bart, dear boy, look at you! The round bellied, puckish young scamp I last saw twelve years ago, now a strong and handsome youth! So good to see you old friend!"
"Yeah, good to see you, too. I see that life on the lamb has had it's toll."
"Yes, well, it's not been easy these past twelve years. I've never had a moment's rest, you see. I've spent only two or so years in the country, you see. I fled to Canada, then off to the wilderness of Alaska. I waited a few months there, while my few friends arranged for me a transport to Russia. I spent a few years there, living in a desolate little village next to the Ural mountains. I spent a few years in Bahrain, enjoying the warm seas and sunny beaches. But, as you know, what with the terrorism and all, the Middle East is not a good place to be found. I worked my way across Asia, avoiding official documentation and, well, legal travelling as much as a possibly could. I found my way to Japan, where I have spent the last four years with the Yakuza. That is where I got these two beauties," he concluded, setting his hand on one of his swords.
"So," said Bart, who had caught his breathe during the long exposition, and was now standing erect, "Why'd ya come back?"
"Various reasons. First, the search for me has pretty much cooled off. I faked my own demise at least thrice, thus, for the most part, throwing off my pursuers. Second, I have earned much money working for the Japanese mafia, and am able to retire and live out the rest of my days in happy solitude in the town that I love. But, most importantly of all, I heard that my favourite young man was getting married!"
"How did you know that?"
"My dear, boy, I worked for the mob! And, as you know, many businesses in town, including the one where you ordered your wedding and engagement bands, are controlled by the mob! Fat Tony, you see, is still in fairly regular communication with the underworld, and, hearing that you and a beautiful woman, had ordered an engagement ring and two wedding rings, he contacted my Yakuza overlord, and I came!"
"Really, you came all the way here just to see my wedding?"
"Well, that and to escape from Interpol."
"Oh."
"But, Bart, the joyous news has been pushed out of my mind by graver matters!" he said, seizing Bart's arms and looking at him with gravely, "He has returned!"
"Wha…? Who?"
"Charles Montgomery Burns. He has been resurrected by Dark Magick."
"No…he can't! Fr. O'Flaherty destroyed him! He's dead!"
"There are some evils that can not been slain for as long as this world exists. Burns has been reanimated from his ashes. By Waylon Smithers."
"But…"
"Did your sister not see him three days ago? Have not your sisters' dreams been haunted by his face, and that of his master, of late? Did Vicar O'Flaherty not get shot the next day? Was his house not broken into? Did the police not say that it seemed as though it were burglarized? And now, I come and tell you that Smithers has resurrected his master?"
Bart was horrified. He felt the warm medal press against his chest.
"We must prepare, Bartholomew. Once again, we shall be called to fight on the front lines in the war between Heaven and Hell. Protect yourself, Bart. But even more importantly, protect the girl. She has not faith, and, though your love is true, through it, Burns and his minions may be able to exploit you, and destroy you. Protect her, and that shall be your best protection."
Bart stared for a moment, his mind misted with the strange truths now throw in his face. He nodded.
"I shall need to meet with you and the others later. Your parents, I fear, may be too old to help us, but you and your sister, and your fiancé may. I want you to visit the hospital and speak with the priest, and see if he can offer any important advice. The young priest, he must be made to know the truth. He may be difficult in convincing, but perhaps if he speaks to Father O'Flaherty he can be made to understand. Either way, I shall need you, your sister, your woman, your parents, the priest, if possible, and any friends that you can convince to meet Tuesday night at the Maison Derriere at 9:30. There, we shall lay our plans."
He gave Bart a stern nod, and then started towards the dark alley. The sky was now much lighter, and the street lamps had faded.
"Until then Bart, farewell."
Bart watched as he mounted a large motorcycle that he had parked in the alley. He revved the mighty engine, and took off with a screech.
Realizing that he had no time to finish his usual jog, and being far too flustered to try, he turned about and jogged back to the apartments.
As he entered the house, he saw Jessica walking into the kitchen, wearing his bathrobe about her body, and a towel around her hair.
"Morning!" she said, smiling.
"Good morning," he answered breathlessly.
"Did you have a good run?" she said, walking over to him, and rubbing his tense, muscled back comfortingly.
"Yeah…yeah. How about breakfast?"
"Okay, I'll try!" she said, shrugging.
"I think that I have some waffle batter left over in the fridge."
"You made waffles?" she said, quite pleased.
"Well, it's the store bought stuff, ready-made. Sorry."
"It's okay. It makes good waffles!"
"Okay then!"
"You go shower off, and I'll cook the breakfast," she said.
"Sure you can handle it?"
"Bart, I know how to watch a waffle iron light, and how to brew coffee! You'd think that I was incompetent, as…you!" she said, her laugh wrinkling her nose.
"Alright."