Second Sunday

It was a sunny day. A Sunday. Church bells rang throughout Springfield, signaling the end of the various sundry services, Masses, and rituals they had attended. At the First Church of Springfield, the worshippers filed out, chatting, shaking hands, and making plans for breakfasts, lunches, and brunches. The DeGeorge family shook hands with the minister, Caleb Russell, and Mr. and Mrs. DeGeorge made small talk and flattery while Felicia, their daughter, stood patiently, her mind decidedly elsewhere.

Felicia saw the Skinners, and rushed over to say high to Arlene, their daughter. Her brother, Arnie Skinner, came out of the church with the Quimbys, talking and laughing loudly. Arlene blushed as she saw John Quimby, Freddy Quimby's son. He was one of the more popular boys at school, and was said to have a crush on her. After some chit-chat, mostly about the Joey Allen's annual party that, though two weeks away, was already the main topic, their parents tugged them away and they said their goodbyes until the morrow, when they would see each other at school.

The DeGeorge family walked down the sunny lane, sweating slightly as the bright mid-morning sun shone upon their stiff and stuffy Sunday clothes. As they walked, the clanging bells of their church faded, blending into the holy cacophony that was Sunday morning in Springfield, USA. As they continued on towards their home on 738 Evergreen Terrace, one of the countless chimes grew clearer, and louder. They saw St. Andrew's Roman Catholic Church, its parishioners lingering around the front steps to chat with Fr. Molloy and one another, and…the Simpsons.

The DeGeorges had always held the Simpson family in very low regard. Whether it was the shabbiness of their home, the rowdiness of their children, the husband's drunken escapades that were stuff of town legend, or the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Simpson had wed under less than honourable circumstances, the DeGeorges considered their neighbors 'beneath them'. Felicia, however, had never agreed with her parents' assessment of their neighbors, and had long been good friends with the youngest Simpson child, a boy her age named Eric. Her parents never approved of the friendship to begin with, but now that both children were approaching adulthood and were beginning to look at the opposite sex, and each other, with a new, more mature interest, they did their very best to keep the two separate.

Felicia saw him. Knowing that she had noticed the boy, her father set his hand on her shoulder, squeezing tight, telling her firmly 'No!'. Felicia darted forward to speak to Eric.

"Felicia!"

"Hey Eric," she said smiling.

"Hi," he replied, smiling shyly.

"Oh, hello Felicia!" Eric's mother Marge beamed.

"Can I meet you sometime?" she asked in a desperate whisper, aware of her parents' burgeoning rage.

"Tonight, after your parents are asleep," he replied, matching her sharp whisper. Felicia looked back at her parents, who were visibly peeved.

"Come on Eric, we're going for pancakes!"

"Mmm…pancakes…glarrrrrr…" drooled Homer.

"Bye Felicia!" Marge called.

"Leave your shades open if it's a go, if not, close them," Eric said.

"Okay."

"Okay. See ya!"

"Bye!"

Felicia returned to her parents. She could tell from the look her father was giving her that she would pay dearly for talking to Eric.

Back at the DeGeorge's home, Felicia began to rush up the stairs the minute she was in the door. Her father saw.

"You will stay here," he said, his voice reaching out with its control. Felicia froze, and turned. "You will apologize to your mother and I for your behaviour, then go up to your room and stay there, do you understand?"

"No, I don't. Why?"

"You know perfectly well what this is about!"

"Mom…"

"You were smiling and flirting with that boy!"

Mr. DeGeorge entered the sitting room. He poured himself a glass of scotch, and sat down.

"The Townsheads asked us over for dinner tonight," his wife said as she came in and started dusting. "They're having roast beef."

"Muriel, it is the second Sunday of the month. You know my routine."

"Yes…your charity work in Skid Row."

"Exactly."

That night at seven, a limousine showed up at the DeGeorge's domicile. Mr. DeGeorge, dressed in his very best, bade farewell to his wife, told her that Felicia was not to have any supper that night, and left.

Inside the limousine was Seymour Skinner.

"Hello, Anthony."

"Good evening, Skinner," he said, biting back his contempt.

They stopped next at the Quimby residence, where they picked up Joseph and Freddy Quimby. 'Diamond Joe', as he Joseph Quimby was once known, was looking decidedly downtrodden, his tweed jacket dulled and moth-eaten, his face unshaven and sullen. His nephew Freddy, on the other hand, looked as groomed and clean shaven as ever, though a careful eye would have noticed the poor quality of his shave and manicure, and that his polo, khakis, and v-neck sweater were several years old and beginning to show their age, as was he.

"Er, eh, evening all," Freddy said cheerfully.

"Erm. Eh," his uncle sneered. The former mayor hated all the passengers in the limo, especially Skinner, to whom he had lost the mayoral race years before. He even hated his nephew, who had managed to maintain a degree of luxury despite the family's continued plunge into poverty and social obscurity.

'So, where to fella's?" the driver asked.

"The usual, Ferdinand. Red Light district, adult shops, crack dens, ice cream parlors, the usual," Anthony DeGeorge drawled.

"Will do."

Their night went as every second Sunday had for the past eight months. Mayor, former mayor, former mayor's rich and popular playboy nephew, and wealthy local businessman, all seen as moral leaders, all indulging in the basest of pleasures.

To end their evening, they and the 'lady friends' they purchased downtown headed for the Maison Derriere, Springfield's premiere burlesque parlor. As 'distinguished customers', they were ushered in the back for a private show.

"As you can see, everything is in order," drawled Belle, the parlor's aged matron, "And Layla will be in shortly to provide you boys a little entertainment. If you need anything, just give me ring!"

At the main entrance, a man in opera clothes shoved his way to the head of the line and bribed the bouncer with several grimy fifty and twenty dollar bills. He stormed through the old mansion, through the main theatre, the back rooms, and finally came to the back room where the four men were.

"No, no, no! I've told you a thousand times, no! You ain't welcome here! Jus' 'cause my girls dance around in their underwear doesn't mean they're harlots! No, this is a private room!"

But the man would not hear Belle's protests, and kicked open the door. He beckoned the dancer Layla, who smiled coyly and came to him, and strode away with her, only to return seconds later, gesture to the hooker sitting on Anthony DeGeorge's lap, and left. She grinned, looked at Mr. DeGeorge apologetically, and left after him.

"I'm ever so sorry, gentlemen, really I am. That bastard, comin' in here, getting my girls' feathers all ruffled!"

"Who is he?" Mr. DeGeorge asked.

"Pardon, sug?"

"That man…who is he?"

"Hareton Courtley…or 'Lord Courtley', as he calls himself. Pompous jerk from England."

"When'd he come over?" Freddy asked.

"Five, Six years ago. He was some aristocrat's son, but he was disinherited. They say…for celebrating the Black Mass in the family chapel."

There was a brief pause while they mulled over the meaning of what she had said.

"You don't say…" DeGeorge said thoughtfully.

"What does he do?"

"Nothing. Never worked a day in his life, the asshole."

"How does he keep himself then?"

"The girls keep him! My girls! And at the Sapphire Lounge, Girlesque, Florence's, they're crazy about him! Drives them up the walls. If I were religious, I'd say he's possessed. Possessed…of the Devil."

"…You don't say…"