Hacking Jack's Fine Smokables, a burgundy-walled tobacconist on the outskirts of the city, had oftentimes been Bender's favourite place to browse. And for a discerning criminal like him, to also rob blind for the quality cigars and cigarettes all over the window displays, plastered on walls and stuffed in counters.
99 times out of 100, Bender would snatch himself a free handful—chest-full if brazen—of nice Zubans, all while Hacking Jack would keep sorting those tampered displays and suspicious messes in between grumbles. Helping himself to Amy's bail money aside, the former Mayor cared nothing for being caught, only that he rose his reputation.
But reputation and karma had quite a connection… Turned out those shop owners, those whose livelihoods he anchored in those good days, had only grown colder over his absence. Against open contempt of him and by extension the city's justice system, they'd have private sit-downs to discuss how to 'solve' their problem.
Hacking Jack, for bearing the biggest grudge of the lot, would happen to hold the solution.
One he began to enact as Bender walked in, scratching off his shavings and shutting eyes for the memories. A feel for the Royal Kooparillo wrappings, spouting knowledge about the Zuban's rich flavours, and taking deep breaths for Dutch Butt tobacco content.
No care nor worry for being eyed or heard, even as the man watching looked more lit up, burnt and smoking than their own goods.
Sure as skies were blue, there once again stood his worst liability—by a parsec-wide margin. Had cost him countless thousands in lost sales over the years, but one incident he never forgave himself for was being swindled out of his best acquisition yet… Le Grand Cigar.
Wrapped in pages of the original U.S. Constitution, hand-rolled by a wild and unruly Queen Elizabeth II, and buried in George Burns' grave (and on and on the story went), it was also the fattest stogie one could smoke in several universes. Measuring almost a foot thick in the middle, Bender had loved puffing that impossible sucker at the National Silk Surplus, right in the wealthy faces present.
Where Jack kicked himself sore was selling him the burglar's tools that got it done, where he answered those nakedly obvious questions. A government-funded $300 sale, to cost him a whopping ten THOUSAND dollars in stolen cigar. Maybe lifetime money, had it been properly valued.
All those memories returning in force, as he snapped Bender out of his scented reverie.
"You…"
"Yes it's me, Bender… And I'm back, baby."
"The hell you will be; you've got one chance to get out, right this second."
"Now hold a minute, my good fellow! I'm just here for some tools."
"So you can finish off my business? Give me a reason, and I'll send you to the junkyard."
"For once, I've bigger game to hunt, pal."
Not convinced at all, Hacking Jack began ringing some numbers; Mom's defective bot reporting line, among them. That left Bender reaching to snatch the receiver, desperate to babble his helpless case. Merchant's point of view he claimed; what about all the Zubans he bought, when he could afford them?
"You honestly think, spoken from you and against my records, that I'm stupid enough to fall for that?"
Bender knew he was boned then; for all his crime, he never thought to fudge the numbers. Knew there'd be no replacing the total cost of every "Hi, Jack" and heist he had pulled off. In guilty silence, he watched Jack become a human chimney, grow red enough to seize and point a full-blown laser rifle at his face. Fateful days of Robot Mafias and Zookeepers flashing before him, sending him stumbling back.
The rifle hummed as Bender pleaded for peace and clean slates, only for Hacking Jack to fire a shot into the wall.
"Unlike you, that wall is insured. All us shopkeepers, we've declared you unwelcome, by lethal means if needed. Now I won't warn you again… Gonna leave on your own feet, or shall we cash you in?"
"Come on Jack, look deep in your heart and ask yourself… What did I do to deserve this?!"
Wrong words to wax, as another shot hit Bender square in the chassis. Leaking oil, he clutched and lurched about, groans of agony as Jack cranked up the charge.
"Any last words for such a stupid question?"
"Yeah, I've got two…" he coughed. "Cheese it!"
Overclocked by his cowardice program, Bender virtually vanished right out, and didn't dare to return. Losing his eyes for even poking his head in, he screwed in some spare replacements, sat at a park a block or two away, and began his pout & ponder.
"How am I ever gonna prove that I'm stealing for the universe's sake, this time? Think, you magnificent bastard, think…"
As he kept slamming his steel fist into his head, he watched somebody spark up an oil patch to light a cigarette, a quick smoke to have before flicking the butt into a council-provided bucket. An idea most devious soon flashed inside his drives, had him laugh in malicious intent.
He could prove himself the 'hero', by first being the criminal.
Had often been the case during his time as Super King; leader Clobberella had always forced him to return those stolen bank funds, put out any fires he caused, apprehend instead of accept bribes… For additional plaudits & attention, he'd admit to worse.
Perhaps out of confusion or never getting the full picture, a fair number of citizens often saw his glaring visage do the good deeds, and begin to deem him as Earth's greatest hero. It'd be a reputation his best friends would encourage, that he and most of his sources would resent… Perhaps all had come to head, once The Zookeeper got involved.
Now was the time to break that clean slate, re-establish himself on these streets. And he knew how.
Dumping those butts out, and depositing his oil leak into the bucket, he returned to Hacking Jack's and got into position. Once he crucified the place from afar, only enough to hear him splutter, curse and snatch his rifle, he lit himself a Zuban.
Only needed one spark to light up such a crooked occasion; following a nonchalant flick of rotors, Bender soon had flames snaking about the floor, soon lighting the hundreds of displayed cigars. Just as well that Jack had lungs, and he didn't.
Forced to kiss the floor, Jack could only live to his namesake as he huddled down and tried to scream, waiting for those flames to suffocate him for good.
Least until he began breathing better air, before witnessing Bender use in-built extinguishers to keep the place from collapsing. An extended hand to help him to his feet, once the fires were snuffed.
"I'll thank you not to shoot me next time."
"No promises, but you did save my life. You've got my thanks, and that's all."
"I'll just clear away any smoke, and be on my way."
True to his word, Bender vacuumed those remnants up—getting one HUGE buzz—before grabbing his burglar's tools and crossing his rotors the entire way, trying to stop any further drips of suspicion.
Even when he'd been so out of practice, his crime of 'burglarcenarsony', one he hoped to patent & trademark one day, had come through when needed most.
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The day after a thorough oil change & patch-up, doing much better for being shot, Bender crashed at HQ to prepare for his latest heist. For the possible presence of war, to not discount the ramifications of the ladies' dates, he knew there'd be no time to case the joint, consider the threats and wonder where to collect the goods…
Not that he ever bothered himself with such meticulous plans anyway.
Burglar's kit and barely fake disguise in tow, it was that evening when he grabbed a cab for the property of Hedonism Bot.
More of noblemen than mere politicians, his mansion and lands stretched over tens of thousands of square footage. Front and centre stood a water fountain, fashioned from stone and surrounded in paths dotted by marbled, miniature Doric columns. After boxed hedges trimmed to quantum perfection, guests would be framed by an arched marble column before coming in, palming walls of rich coffee as they were let inside.
In such a palace, one could hear the electrified circuits and cries of "Oh my!" and "Oh, yes!" aplenty, as the Roman-styled senator let his guards feed him grapes, rub sandpaper over his rivets, or lather him in decadent chocolate icing.
Not wanting to disturb the boudoir, Bender slipped out a quality lockpick, having a couple of jiggles before breaking in. Even for how often he invited himself in before, to rediscover such ancient eras of prosperity, advancement and brilliance had still blown him away.
Aside a complete modern bar and cellar laid several pieces of art—expansive, imagined scapes and fine portraits—detailed to atomic-level—to hide the wall. To his left & right, hallways to stretch beyond his zoom lenses, and perhaps filled to stuffing with treasure. Chancing a walk-about, he almost fell apart for what he had found.
"All these bedrooms and bathrooms… Just how indulgent do these gatherings get, and what do those guests leave behind?"
Bender rounded back to the cellar's spiral staircase; he knew he was getting distracted. Daresay even tempted, especially once he laid eyes beyond the cellar. A king's ransom of top-dollar drops, and far from any laser traps, motion detectors, heat sensors or any other deterrent, just a lone Doberman sound asleep.
Flicking the lights, he heard those pronounced barks & growls, the guard dog ready to chomp down on ass—metal or otherwise. Far from great skill or cunning, Bender only needed a raw juicy steak, and solid smack across the skull, to lull and drop the beast.
Now having free reign to explore, he chose to case the place a little, think of the money he could've made pawning everything off. Back to work after a while; investigating that rare hovering brew, and cursing for smacking solid metal.
Later confirmed his fears through a big puff of smoke; an invisible safe had housed the prize. An antique yet well-advanced invention, in days where eye, hand and voiceprint scanners became standard. So much for the quiet, professional touch—none had needed their ears for anything like this.
Worse yet, the safe seemed housed on a pressure pad; to catch a thief like Bender raiding his stores, and be ripped from the realm of self-pleasure, would have to piss his senator off. Sat under the safe, he muttered and scoured through his hard-drive, trying to find inspiration before he just chose to watch some on-board videos.
As he shuffled through, he soon came across the time of great significance in him and his best buddy's life… 'The Search for a Seven-Leaf Clover.'
A crummy day and future capped off at the horse-races, Fry had begun to reminisce about that find, one to grant extraordinary luck in anything he desired to achieve. Only caring about basketball, break-dancing, and beating his older brother in those days, he never imagined the true powers he possessed.
Only knew he had to keep it safe…
The memories preserved within Old New York's ancient underbelly had told the story of Yancy, peeved for being outshone again, chasing Fry back home in a full jumpsuit. Fry knew he wanted that clover for himself, one to again escape his reach and be locked inside Fry's record vault.
Even centuries after such incident, for being frozen and flung so far forward, Fry hadn't let such resentments go. For his stealing, cribbing of styles and constant rivalry, Yancy had always been a pain in his proverbial.
Once he saw his clover in Yancy's statuesque lapel, now named 'Philip J. Fry', he first felt only dismays of being proven right.
Had empty bitterness for those stolen dreams, jealous rage for the documentaries of 'his' life… A mix that grew so volatile that he took his friends grave robbing, determined to compensate his older brother for such suffering.
Only an accidental crack of gravestone moss, and the inscription behind, would switch his entire perspective.
Turned out that Fry had been wrong for years. While the clover was indeed taken since he came back, Yancy never used it solely for himself. Instead, he had named his newborn son in Fry's honour & tribute, and passed the clover down. As that kid grew to achieve every last dream of his kid brother, he enjoyed the extraordinary success—and true closure—that was to come.
First person stepping foot on Mars, the legendary lead vocalist of Leaf Seven, a rich entrepreneur, and a man who'd put the 'Phil' in philanthropist.
At the grave, those words Fry found before bowing his head: "Here lies Philip J. Fry, named for his uncle, to carry on his spirit."
Given the clover, he felt his eyes well up, and chose instead to place his charm back, to give apologies and genuine thanks to his long-dead brother. Filling in the grave he just dug, he'd return home, never to orbit those sacred meadows again.
Remembering how he revealed Fry's prize, or intended to, Bender blew smoke to keep that safe revealed, and felt about for its frequency. Once he did, his oscillation process began; one to involve a violent, noisy shake that popped the door, and his head, loose.
"Ahhh, just like old times."
A chuckle as he span his head back on, only to find himself at the end of laser-tipped weaponry.
"Old times like a crucifixion, the gallows perhaps?"
The senator's guards; to his displeasure he had rattled the safe right off the pad. Must've been a dozen of them ready and itching to slice him to ribbons, make Emmental of him… Worse yet, the normally jovial senator had come down to confront him.
"Why, if it isn't one of my constituents! Pray tell, besides interrupting, what you think you're doing here?"
"I, um, er… I was just checking the place out, yeah. Just me, Bender, hoping to explore what I'd never have."
"Methinks Bender, thou doth take me for a fool. Care to explain how my bottle's clutched in thine rotors?"
"After so many years bending girders, all for three square drinks and a recharge, this honest bot just wanted to taste the fine life…"
As the guards kept their points trained and Bender continued to ramble, Hedonism Bot took the time to scan him over. Seemed against reputation he was true to his word; nothing but the bottle in either chassis or hand. And when he found his bottle's little secret, he ordered those weapons downed.
"Let him go, he has entertained me enough."
"But Senator, sir, we caught him red-handed. We let him go, he's sure to come back."
"What makes thine believe that I'm concerned? I never imagined I'd see an honest burglar in action, and oo-whoo, he's the finest I've seen! I daresay he more than deserves his loot; if he comes back, he'll get worse."
"So last call then, let him go?"
"I must say, it's disappointing you questioned my first."
Thankful for second chances, Bender left debris in cheesing it out the cellar, and didn't stop until he got inside the taxi he had hailed. Couldn't help but feel suspicious though; for the rarest liquor on Earth, that was the 'cleanest' heist he ever pulled.
Finding a small rolled-up label upon a better look at the bottle, he gave only a gasp… The loot hadn't been what he was after, at all! Seemed that his sources, no doubt still riled for being ratted out, had hoped to screw him through a cheap knockoff, one they planted inside the mansion to entice the heist.
But Bender dared not dismiss his senator's generosity, nor of his three hours of hard work. It was a job well done, and to him, that was all there was to care about…
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Around the time Bender completed his heist, Kif had finally delivered the good news to Amy.
After years and years of applying, of watching his papers be shredded, torn or otherwise disposed of, Zapp had finally granted him his R&R. Seeing the chance to celebrate, Amy had organised a date for Elzar's, then & there, within the hour.
For the rookie aside her, such simple ideas of dinner and deceit had switched to something far more complex. Had him thinking he might've chosen to confront Zapp instead; course, for his insurance, temptations were too great to paste his insides all over the Nimbus.
As such, all he could do was pace about, insisting on going over every last plan, doubts sown in that he could sabotage everything with one mistake. For past and future lives, to this present right now, he knew how unprepared, hurt, and embarrassed he'd been.
Even for slow confrontation of fears, of slower cracks in his shell, the thoughts about this date had him shiver, his stomach gurgle. Had kissed only one sole girl outside family & friends, and only out of formal obligation.
Perhaps now, he had to make those first moves. Of all times to be such a complete foreigner…
Kif might've sounded like a pushover, but to be ranked only below President Nixon and General Zapp, he couldn't have been stupid. If Amy had made out with Mayfield instead, he was assured to dump her. For the end of the world after, just heartbreak to show for it.
There he'd walk, working his faces, mannerisms and speech while Amy explained for perhaps the hundredth time. No surprise then, that behind his back, she looked ready to reach for his throat.
She would soon come out a flawless gem, in an aquamarine, empire-waist style dress, a look to leave the kid loose-jawed. For his part of 'selling' the story as Ms. Wong's security detail, he remained in his typical leather jacket, jeans and this time, a pair of reflective aviators.
Dark enough to hide those darting eyes, a million little things through his head as the minutes crept closer…
"Oh man, what do I do? He'll be here any minute, and I swear—"
Amy had seized his throat to shut him up: "Damn you Thomas, listen… Get the hint, get in the zone, and get it together! Right now, I don't wish to explain to Kif why I hired a worthless wuss to protect me… Got it?"
A stunned response of "Yes ma'am" as they heard the doorbell, and she left him shaking his head to answer it.
A big squeal of "Kiffy!" later, there stood the gentleman officer, soon wrapped tight in her arms in his special white uniform. A bouquet of flowers in hand, a gesture that only worsened Mayfield's guilt. To get in between and potentially tear those two apart, for the sake of his new world.
But now that he had seen such love to begin with, he believed in his mind that they could rekindle after. No possibility, if there was no world to do so.
Gloved up, he gave just a muted grunt and handshake while introductions were made, trying to remember those tall tales of his lost arm, burn scars and body of granite. Even as Kif opened doors and kept the conversation going, he kept to that acerbic attitude.
Bad impressions, the first of many games—intentional ones—that Mayfield would play against that hopeful General-in-waiting. All in trying to encourage that tougher side, only for Kif to chastise him under his breath.
But for the dinner to come, that would only be an entrée of what Mayfield could expect.