Over the years, the Springfield Police Department had become notorious for rampant corruption and utter incompetence. When former Chief Clancy Wiggum opted for retirement to be a stay at home father to his only son, the Princeton educated Lou found himself suddenly thrust into the position of authority he so coveted. And the mess that came along with it. Through hard work and a willingness to learn, Lou set to the monumental task of reforming the entire rotting department. In short, he betrayed the thin blue line; Lou came down hard on corrupt cops, using equally vile tactics to expel them from the department.

It was not pretty, but it worked and although he continued to receive scores of death threats, public confidence in the police rose. But such an approach made him unpopular, so he hoped that solving the Matt Selman case would show the men under his command the merits of his efforts.

Which was why Lou had opted to work through the night, pouring over the evidence collected from thirty-five industry way. Even the button on the tape recorder was becoming worn as a result of his incessantly replaying of the message.

Given the serial killer had addressed him personally, Lou believed there was a hidden message contained somewhere within the words. For a second, he allowed his mind to wander and thought about how Clancy might have approached such a gauntlet. But that was obvious. He would acquire himself a case of Mallomars and promptly get to the bottom of them before taking a nap.

Obviously, that solution was no longer satisfactory. A killer put the entire town at risk. People who depended on Lou, so he redoubled his efforts. Confident he was on the right track, he held the transcription up to his desk light. Call, Mad Kings, and Tether were all phrases that jumped off the page at him. However, it was the chalked phrase, 'all is one' which he placed the most importance on.

Whoever the killer was, they had emphasized it separately from the taped message. There was certainly some sort of perverse religious angle present. But what doctrine precisely was the question. Next to Lou's arm was a stack of holy texts. Each skimmed for a similar style of speech. Lou was unfamiliar with those religions that were far older than established orthodoxies. Religions, whose worshipers dawned dark robes, passed around signs of yellow and chanted in droning, ancient tongues to deities that transcended time itself. With heavy eyelids, he pushed off the desk, rolling over to the coffee machine. He refilled his ceramic mug; the door to his office flew open, causing him to jump. An explosion of coffee splattered across his white shirt.

Lacking tact as usual, Special Agent Rex Banner entered, declaring, "I booked a flight the moment I got your message. There is no time for delay. Let me see the body." He was wearing the same brown tweed suit had nearly eight years earlier when he had first come to Springfield to enforce an archaic prohibition law. When Lou failed to react, the agent stormed over, grabbing hold of the sides of his chair. "Damn it, man! I believe this is the same killer I have been looking for! I have to know!"

Rex's intensity was like a thousand suns. It was enough to singe Lou's eyebrows clean off. He opened his mouth, then shut it. "Erm." He collected himself. "Right. Ruth is in the basement doing the autopsy."

"Good to hear," Rex said, hitching up his pants by the belt. "I'd be obliged if you let me take a peep at the stiff." He was not asking for permission as he turned on a dime and immediately headed for the stairs that lead below the station. Lou hastily moved to follow him. Storming right into the autopsy room, Ruth stared agape as Rex marched pushed her aside. "That's enough for now, Missy."

"I am sorry?" She was stunned by his lack of tact. Ruth looked to Lou. "Sir, I was just going to start my examination."

Lou waved a hand apologetically. "Humor him." To emphasize his own displeasure, he took a loud sip of coffee. "Nice to see you again, Rex."

"Likewise Lou. Likewise." Rex said as he stuck his hand into the deceased's shredded mouth, feeling around at the back of the tongue. Whatever he was looking for, he did not find it. Soon his hands were fondling the hapless corpse with little regard for its dignity. "Now… Where did you put it this time?"

Ruth raised the plastic shield that sat in front of her face. "Looking for something in particular, agent?"

"Our phantom has a very specific memento he likes to leave," Rex stated blandly, as he pulled back a roll of stomach above the right hip bone. "Ahah!" He exclaimed. "Found you again, you wily son of a bitch!" Rex motioned to the other two. "Come and see this."

Ruth frowned. She had conducted a preliminary look over of the body just the night before. "That wasn't here last night." She was referring to the faint symbol which was now cauterized into the side of the victim. It was a meticulously detailed circle with an exterior ring depicting Nordic runes and an eye. The center featuring three circles again along with what looked to be hieroglyphics.

"The Halo of the Sun. It's supposed to symbolize protection." Rex explained before becoming quiet as he stared into the glowing red brand. It peered back, causing his head to throb. He twitched. "Wait." His eyes flicked to Lou. "Do you have security cameras at this precinct?"

"Yes, there is a room in the back."

Rex nodded. "Tell one of your men to prepare the conference room. I have some case files in the rental car out front."

Standing in the doorway, Lou watched intrigued as Rex fast-forwarded through the security footage for the night prior. "Let us see…" he said to himself, brow furrowed. He stopped the footage around 12:00 a.m, then went frame by frame, his eyes searching the monitor.

Lou came over, sitting down next to him. "Looking for something specific?" On the computer screen, he could see Eddie seated at the front desk with a can of duff in hand. After downing the whole thing, he promptly went to sleep. Some things never changed.

"Testing a colleague of mine's theory," Rex explained, leaning forward in his seat until his eyes were literally pressed against the glass. Seemed budget cuts at the bureau meant it could not afford to take care of its agents' eyesight. "Bit of a spooky guy, but he thinks this killer would be brazen enough to waltz right into a station and tamper with the body."

When the analogue clock on the wall behind Eddie read 2:00 a.m. there was a distortion on the footage. Static first, immediately followed by a flash of red, green and blue. Rex stopped the tape and placed his finger near the window. "There."

A hazy, vaguely humanoid blur was present on the screen. Lou's eyes widened as he noted the black loafer that was clearly contained within the cloud. "That's not possible," he said. Even Eddie would not have slept through entering the station.

"I suggest you keep an open mind on this case," Rex said, hitting play again. The video continued, with the fuzzy figure walking past another sleeping officer before entering the autopsy room where the freezer was located.

Lou blinked, and upon opening his eyes, realized that the video skipped a whole ten minutes. Now the unknown subject had reemerged, walked right up to the camera. They stopped, wrote something on a piece of paper, and raised it. It read: Stop wasting time, Rex. Another flash of distortion followed, leaving the room void of their presence.

"I…" Lou started, but trailed off at a complete loss for words. Sure, being on the force for so many years meant he was used to the occasional strange sighting or weird story. Nothing, though, compared to watching someone—rather something, vanish into thin air.

Rex was not surprised. He reached over and took Lou's coffee; he sipped from the cup. "Careful, you are getting cocky." He stood, clapped a hand on the other man's shoulder. "Alright, now I will brief your men."

Still reeling from the discovery, Lou sat stunned in the conference room, which it went without saying had seen better days. Eddie tried to dust a few cobwebs to make things presentable, but gave up when the hissing spider that lived in the corner nearly devoured his arm. Quoting a bible verse could not quell its venomous rage, so the men of the Springfield Police Department settled for tossing an inmate or two its way.

An uneasy alliance, made even shakier by the constant use of squirrels for gambling. Chittering, man-eating spider aside, there was a box in the center of the water-damaged table. Rex emptied its contents in front of Lou. "As I am sure you've realized, Lou. We are dealing with a uniquely crafty individual."

"Just how long has this killer been active?" Lou asked as the folders being fanned out before him gave a pretty clear idea.

Eddie took a seat as well. Rex raised the first folder. "Long enough that we have bodies dating back to the early eighties that have similar markings." He waved the manila folder. "But this one here is the earliest we are absolutely certain is our phantom."

He slid it over to the two men. Eddie reached and turned it around to face them. He read aloud. "Josh Weinstein. Unemployed at time of death." He held out the contents so his chief could get a good look. "He and his friend, Bill Oakley, were active members of the National Purity League."

"It was a fringe Nazi Party affiliated organization, but the NPL got the boot for its obsession with genetically inherited intelligence," Rex explained, a grim expression hanging from his face. "They must have disbanded, because their founder, John Swartzwelder, has dropped off our radar entirely."

Lou was not particularly surprised; he was a black man who grew up in the seventies so knew all too well the racial animosity that bubbled just below the surface of American civil society. "Can't say I am sorry to hear that," he said, looking at the photographs pinned on the document. "Why is it always the pastiest nerds?"

Rex gave a snort, having had a similar reaction upon first seeing the image . "Too long being coddled by mamma, no doubt. These guys were ivy leaguers with plenty of priors before going underground."

"Makes sense. That kind of privilege can easily warp someone's mind," Eddie said, shuffling the pictures to the crime scene photos. They showed a grisly artistic display; Josh's body had been dismembered, its various parts placed about a snowy road. Trails of blood from what appeared to be his hands, arms, and feet formed three interlocked circles large enough to reach the sidewalks on either end. "Pretty brutal for a first killing," He commented off-hand; "I'd say this suspect has had plenty of practice."

"Good eye, Ed," Rex agreed, "we've been looking into careers related to working with bodies." He directed with his eyes back toward the file. "In this case, it was a deserted street. Although a resident in the apartment above claimed to have seen a car drive out of the fog and strike Josh as he crossed. His recounting of the tale was dry and without inflection. "This witnessed claimed there was a person wearing a white sack over their head."

Lou placed a finger on the symbol, holding the photo toward Rex. "Any thoughts on what this means?"

"Glad you asked," Rex said as he reached into his pocket. He brought out a small, leather-bound book on its cover was the same three circles. "The symbol itself calls on the patron saint of sorcerers. It appears in alchemical manuscripts such as this one, so it is a safe bet our subject fancies themselves as a magician."

He pushed the next folder across the table toward them. Lou mused, "hell of a magic trick we saw." This time it was he who read aloud. "Ian Maxtone-Graham. Convicted of four counts of sexual assault was serving a life sentence.

"Deranged troglodyte told the judge that he felt women in the workplace were unsustainable," Rex said, sliding a hand into his pocket for his pack of cigarettes. "So she handed down the maximum sentence." He tapped one out. "The details of his death are especially curious. See, he was killed in his prison cell."

Lou nodded, scanning the words on the paper. Ian Maxtone-Graham had been drowned. His head pushed into the toilet after part of his jaw was broken by repeated blows against the glass bowl. "Says here a tape was recovered."

Rex pulled a plastic bag of tape recorders from his evidence box. "Another first. It differs from all the others. The phantom addressed Ian, instead of, well, us." He slid on a single latex glove, then sorted through the baggies, finding the tape he wanted.

The same nasally voice filled the room. Never before has the world seen a more contemptible worm, then yourself, Ian. I'd say your impotent fragility is laughable, except you are nothing more than an inbred ape with an inflated sense of importance. Allow me to help you see.

When the tape stopped, Eddie placed both elbows on the table. "Are we supposed to believe this killer has a social conscious? As far as we can tell, the most recent victim was a nobody."

Rex struck his lighter, bringing the flame to the tip of his cigarette. "No. Though we have to assume this killer is intimately familiar with their victims." He inhaled deeply. "In their eyes, they are all connected in someway. However, I have yet to find a pattern." He gestured to the bag of recorders. "My instincts tell me that the killer thinks we won't understand the work. Hence the tapes."

"You keep saying their. Is the gender suspect?" Eddie asked, removing his cap to reveal his shiny bald head.

"At present, I cannot be sure the killer is male," Rex clarified. "all signs suggest they would have to be physically large to inflict the kind of punishment on a body we are seeing. I just like keeping options open."

Lou raised studied the report. "Says here a guard on duty saw Ian leave his cell. Only fifteen minutes later was found dead. Doesn't that suggest his cellmate helped do the deed?"

Smoke was filling the room. The rich scent of tobacco making the chief's nose tickle. Rex began to pace, moving toward the open window to look at the town. "That would be the conventional explanation. Too bad Ian's cellmate was in solitary." He stared at the people going about their lives with disgust. "In less than an hour, a prisoner was drowned in shit. Defies logic, right?" He placed both hands on his hips. "You saw the footage, Lou. Whoever is doing this is uniquely talented."

He turned, showing the final folder. "Last one. Mike Reiss, failed stand-up comedian of some sort. Found suffocated in the parking lot of one of his venues. No sign of struggle or bruising. As if the air was sucked directly out of his lungs." Rex took another puff, raising a finger. "But this one is exceptional, because this tape is the first time I was addressed personally." He clicked the recorder.

Agent Banner. The call compels you to pursue me, does it not? Do not mistake these things for victims. Even if their sense of entitlement compels them to deceive. They are avatars for sadists, who derive pleasure from the infliction of suffering for the sake of amusement. Now they sob and plead as I apply their methods to their bodies.

" The call," Lou repeated; "same as the message left with the most recent victim."

Rex continued his pacing. He walked toward the window, then back. "I had just been brought onto the case." He looked at the chief. "Given the footage, it is now obvious that someone waltzed straight into my office and took whatever information on me they could." There was tangible frustration in his eyes. "Now they taunt me. Just when I think I have caught up, the killing stops."

Lou could tell the man who had once helped clean up the Springfield PD was on the brink of insanity in pursuing a ghost. He could understand the inclination toward obsession, he also did not want to see anymore murders transpire. "The recent tape mentions intent on killing three more. So that means they are in this town. We are going to find out who is behind this."

Equally resolute, Eddie nodded. "Even if we have to turn the town upside down."

"Good men. We are going to need every available officer on this case," Rex said, stopping at the edge of the table. He struck a commanding pose. "Prepare a press release. I want a curfew instituted. The citizens need to know to lock their doors and take extra precautions." He tapped the evidence bags filled with tape recorders. "Start with RadioShack. These are bought wholesale. It has kept the entire business afloat."

Standing, Lou looked over. "Did you check out who owns 35 Industry Way?"

"Sure did," Eddie said, getting his notepad, "current registered owner is our old friend, Bart Simpson. He bought it at an auction for a single dollar."

"Bart? You are kidding?"

"No sir. Purchased it when he was twelve."

Lou was baffled at the notion a twelve-year-old could purchase a factory. Even if it was a rundown dump. "That might complicate things."

Rex went around the side of the table. "How so?"

"Bart is a troubled young man. Not an easy home life, a few misdemeanors," Eddie explained. "Classic case, honestly. It is just, he seems to have fallen in with Fat Tony's syndicate; word is the Don has taken a liking to the boy, and he is on the fast track within the organization."

"No doubt Fat Tony will lawyer up if we bring Bart in," Lou concluded.

Seeing the problem, Rex straightened his jacket. "Let me speak to Fat Tony. As you know, we go way back." The agent left with renewed vigor, he would not let the killer disappear again.

"Eddie, why don't you go ahead and pay Mrs. and Mr. Simpson a visit," Lou said; "let's check if the kid has an alibi."

Springfield was home to plenty of forgotten relics from a time when the world made sense. A time when the people had lives and were not simply glassy-eyed automatons shuffling between distractions to escape the drudgery of their miserable existence. A never-ending cycle of cruelty that, in turn, cultivated a vileness within the hearts of the residents. No one trusted each other, no one had anything nice to say. Everyone kept eyes forward, desperate to avoid any interactions.

Like the people, the buildings of Springfield were often inconsistent. Regularly being rediscovered as if the memory of their purpose had been suddenly created. One such structure was a nondescript manhole located deep within the woods outside of the town. An abandoned nuclear missile silo, one of those relics from the cold war. A faded memory of a time where enemies could be easily identified and aged men sat alone in smoky rooms ambitiously plotting when to send the entire world to oblivion. A fitting lair for a sinister figure, who draped in a dark robe was kneeling at the foot of a black altar laden with dozens of candles.

Flickering flames cast the liveliest shadows, which danced behind the person as they spoke a forbidden prayer calling on the powers of a being consisting of a thousand eyes. "Y'ai 'ng'ngah, Yog-Sothoth h'ee - l'geb f'ai throdog uaaah." The being who was both the gate and what laid behind it. Who swirled far beyond the bounds of the known universe, occasionally involving itself in the affairs of other species to ensure events unfolded as they should.

The murderer was aware that the silo housed an active warhead, ready to be launched at the simple press of a button. However, they had no interest in the primitive weapons of mankind. Repeating the prayer, "Y'ai 'ng'ngah, Yog-Sothoth h'ee - l'geb f'ai throdog uaaah." A match was struck, producing a vibrant green fire in the offering bowl. Calmly they tore the picture of Matt Selman the pretender in half, feeding the pieces to the hungry inferno. It wavered, shading the three interlocked circles carved into the wall.

Behind the serial killer were numerous jars. Collected for the purposes of seeing the ritual completed. A ritual that would tear off the cloth that blinded the imaginations of the townsfolk. To that end numerous eyeballs floated aimlessly in their new containers, blinking lazily. They were to be consumed, to help the figure see the hidden world documented in Al Azif. Reasoned approaches had failed. The Old Machine had forced an experience on an unwilling person to stand and watch as all faded away. Every face lost. Every happy memory stolen. Nothing would remain as long as the Mad Kings' reign of terror remained unchallenged.

Disembodied whispers swirled through the air. False idols, necessary to ignore to maintain the fragile balance of sanity. Without a word, the Phantom plunged their hand into the crackling green fire and from it pulled a new photograph in the place of the previous. Formed from the void, it was granted as direction by a benefactor.

The next tether stared back at the killer, who smiled morosely. Black curly hair, thick glasses and a look of an unearned personal superiority. The face of an unflinching narcissist who wrongly assumed he sat upon an unquestioned throne. A throne that build upon intellectual dishonesty, and a life of privilege that had misled the degenerated monarch into believing he was entitled to praise by virtue of his magnanimous birth.

A name was burned into the bottom of the picture: Al Jean. The sanctimonious.

Standing, the robe figure pocketed the picture and turned away from the altar. Without a word, they shed their ceremonial dress, revealing a business casual suit underneath. Quiet and methodical, each step was determined as they walked to the civil defense console, the lights still dim. The cold war may have been over, but its legacy lived on. Reaching down, the serial killer slid a simple white sack over their head. Two small slits served for eye holes, a crude way to protect the local's identity.

A moment was taken to straighten the fabric before they turned toward empty space. They did not need to speak another incantation, for an incredible vortex formed in front of them. Unconcerned by this manifestation, the killer walked into the pulsating purple whirlpool; it sealing behind. Madness was not a state of mind, it was a state of being. One that dominated the senses, blinded all sight. Artificial extensions of perpetual misery were enough to hurtle a person into the darkest of abysses.

Before there was a Springfield Investigative Society, there was a group of high school freshmen labeled freaks by their peers. Hardly an affectionate label, it was attached to these six kids because of their inability to fit in with any other established cliques. Not athletic, or successful at academics, these teens seemed content to coast through the years sitting underneath the bleachers. Though it was known they enjoyed the occasional dabbling in the fine art of pranks. Such was the case that chilly October, as Bart ran down the hall with the volleyball team hot on his trail.

It turned out carefully replacing the gym's lights with black lights the night prior in order to turn them on during practice had resulted in some minor injuries. Now the team was aiming to get their revenge, but Bart had no intention of facing the consequences for his actions. A good prankster always had an escape plan, which, in his case, was on the second floor of the building. Dashing up the stairs, he rounded the corner where Terri was leaning against her locker, reading a copy of Frankenstein. It was her personal copy, so each page was covered with writing in the margins; Terri's notes on the challenges of creating life. Seeing Bart, she snickered, opening the locker's metal door.

Bart folded himself inside, slamming the door shut. Terri moved over again, returning her relaxed posture as she underlined another passage. The stomping of feet was heard, and Janey appeared. "Where is he?" she demanded, looking around.

Without even looking up, Terri asked, "Who?" She pursed her lips and muttered. "Doctor West's method was more sensible… Reanimate the muscle and basic systems first."

"Who do ya think!?" Janey replied, knowing the two were thick as thieves. "That spiky-haired nitwit you're always latched on to."

Terri played dumb, closing one eye as she pretended to think. "Spikey-haired nitwit?" She pointed down the hall. "Yeah, I think I saw Lisa heading that way."

"Ugh, not Lisa, Bart," Janey said, clearly itching for a proper scrap. She was quite a fighter, according to Nelson, who found out in class she enjoyed kickboxing after school.

"Sorry, who?" Terri asked, looking up from her book. Her blank expression suggested she was not even paying attention.

The routine went back and forth two more times before Janey, frustrated, said, "Fran! You take her!"

Francine, a towering ginger who liked to throw punches and ask questions later, stepped forward. She slammed her arm above Terri's head, causing her to shrink down behind her book. "Alright, tweedle. You wanna do this the easy way or the hard way?"

"Not my bow again!" Terri cried defensively, moving to protect the black bow that sat atop her choppy hair. Francine growled, and Terri panicked said, "He's behind the theatre licking toads with Richard!"

Satisfied by her answer, the volleyball team stormed off. She waited until they were gone, peering down the hallway, then opened her locker. Bart spilled onto the ground. Not only was he rattled by the vicious banging on the door, but his eyes were bloodshot as a trail of green snot ran down his nose. He sneezed. "Why!? Why are there so many herbs!?"

To his horror, he had found her locker filled to the brim with hundreds if not thousands of different kinds of dried plants: belladonna, mustard seeds, lavender and at least four species of moss that were not native to helped him stand. "I'm an alchemist, duh."

Her baggy, purple turtle neck's sleeves spilled over her hands, and Bart took the opportunity to wipe his bleary eyes on them. He coughed, his throat on fire. He spat a glob onto the tile floor. "You know, normal people stash weed in their locker."

"It's in there somewhere," Terri said, innocently; "the lavender hides the smell. Everyone thinks it is perfume." Which it was, but that was beside the point.

"I thought you kept joints in your hair," Bart said as she wormed her hand free from its sleeve and took his.

"Heehee, I'll never tell." Terri laughed as they made their way toward the front of the school. It was a scientific fact that it was easier to escape their state sanctioned prison through the main entrance rather than the side doors.

One track mind as ever, Bart asked, "How good are you in the stink bomb department? I've got a big order I need filled."

"I can make mustard and chlorine gas," Terri answered, a little too quick for comfort.

"Something less likely to put the Terr in terrorist."

"Tear gas?"

"Warmer."

A blast of cold air hit them outside, causing Terri to press against him for his precious body heat. "Ummm, I have some rotting onions somewhere that totally reek."

"Those'd be perfect," Bart said, his cheeks turning red at the mere sensation of being so close.

"Well, too bad. My services are not available on the week of Samhain." She giggled. "Although I was hoping we could do something special for such a ghastly and romantic holiday."

Bart knew the answer. Passionately, he declared, "Nothing beats buying one hundred tacos for one hundred dollars!"

His infectious burst of boyish excitement made Terri's heart flutter; she was used to having the occasional heart attack around him. "Do you have one hundred dollars? Because I don't."

He paused, digging into his pocket for his Krusty brand Velcro wallet. It was pried open to reveal a fortune comprised of three crumpled dollars and a single nickel. "I suppose we could, uh, let's see…"

"Mhmm?" She waited.

"That's a great idea, T! Between the two of us, there should be just enough blood to buy one hundred tacos!" Bart proclaimed with a snap of his fingers. Motions that became finger guns after a second.

Terri stared back at him, unable to find any kind of fault in his logic. Of course, she already knew they had plenty of blood to spare; even better was that they were compatible types. Wistful she clasped both hands together. "That is the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me."

"Aw, shucks. I try."

"But you know what would be even more romantic?" She asked, taking both his hands.

"More romantic? That's not possible." He objected, swinging their arms back and forth.

"Trust me, this going to be waaay better," Terri said as a couple of cars passed by; seniors arriving late for their classes. "Since we've been dating for—" She counted off on her fingers. "Four months. There is no better time for our first proper date."

Like most broke teenager, most of their 'dates' amounted to sitting mindlessly in front of a television, watching pirated horror movies or engaging in wanton acts of criminality. Other pleasures included loitering at the mall, shoplifting at the mall, spray painting murals of Satan at the mall and sometimes, when feeling adventurous, they liked to shop at the mall.

Bart's ears pricked up. "I am listening." He quickly added. "If you are thinking somewhere like the Gilded Truffle, then we are going to need to give a lot of blood."

"No, silly. Even if the couple that kills together stays together, my idea won't cost us a dime." She lowered her voice, trying her best smoky, seductive femme fatale impression. "Tonight I want to watch one of my favorite movies, then go on a moonlight picnic."

"Moonlight picnic, huh?" Now that the puffy pigeon pecking at the crosswalk nearby had flown off, she had Bart's undivided attention.

"It's a family tradition. At the stroke of midnight, lovers enjoy a nice dinner under the glow of the moon and surrounded by the resting dead." Explaining her intentions out loud made Terri realize just how creepy it sounded. "Or we could sneak into the movies."

"Eh, we can do that anytime." Bart shrugged. He assuaged her concerns. "Let's do the graves one. Last time I was out in the ole boneyard, I was helping Milhouse bury some evidence."

She opened her mouth, about to ask what evidence, but remembered the rumors about how Milhouse still wet the bed. She shuddered, but then, eyes glittering, asked, "So, a date?"

Her heart was climbing into her throat and it was only a matter of time before she suffocated. "Hell yeah, dude! I gotta be out late, anyway," Bart said, flashing a grin.

"Ooo, up to something fun?" Terri cooed.

"Oh, nothing fancy this time. I was gonna try to steal Seymour's birdbath again."

"That's a two-man operation. Want some help?"

"Of course, I do. He's gotten me three times already."

While Bart and Terri were plotting the downfall of their former elementary school principal's birdbath, the rest of the freaks were working on a scam. Being proud slackers and delinquents was a tough full-time job. Sherri and Jessica planned to change their fortune, however, with a get rich quick scheme. The three plus Milhouse, who was a tolerated associate but not fully trusted member of their little crew, were chilling in the nook off the first floor hallway below the stairs.

Ideas were circulated. Milhouse took the toothpick out of his mouth and said, "What about the Albany ham scam?"

"That is a father and son grift, and we have at least two moms," Nelson said, dismissing the idea outright. As he learned, winning the pot on Bart's love life did not make him anymore responsible with money. "We gotta keep it simple."

Sherri smacked her lips, blowing an impressive bubble of pink chewing gum. "Let's try to not get suspended this time either. I don't need more on my permanent record."

Jessica popped the bubble with a finger. "Come on. How was I supposed to know Principal Leopold's daughter was in the fight club?" She looked back to her girls' magazine. "It's not my fault Sara broke her nose."

"You invited Sara in the first place." Sherri reminded her friend. "You know that bitch is psychotic."

"And you know, I like to cause a little chaos."

"We could have been expelled, Jess."

"Could have, but we weren't," Jessica said, flitting her eyelashes like the innocent girl she was.

"What about a kissing booth?" Milhouse interrupted.

"Uh huh, and who would be the ones getting herpes?" Sherri asked; "I am not. Terri is only ever going to kiss Bart and…" She looked at Jessica. "She's already kissed pretty much everyone in school."

"Not me!" Milhouse declared.

Jessica rolled her eyes, sighed, then spit into her hand before mashing it against his cheek. "There, now I have."

"Ewww." Milhouse wiped his face on his sleeve.

With a hand on his chin, Nelson said, "What about the band kids? We haven't shaken them down yet and they usually have money."

"Good idea, Nelly," Sherri said, having had a personal grudge against the band. She suffered through three years on the flute and would sooner start fires than ever go back.

Jessica flipped the next page, skimming an article about the newest lipstick brands. "We could lock up their instrument cases. Twenty bucks to unlock them before marching practice.

Nelson nodded. "That could work. Janitor has tons of spare locks." No one wanted to ask why the janitor kept so many locks.

"They'd snitch and bam, we'd be expelled." Sherri reminded them, punching her palm. The entire group was operating at half capacity with its singular prankster brain cell off having romantic adventures.

"How about this then," Milhouse said, motioning for them to get closer. They crowded together as he laid out his scheme. "It is important we focus on our year. Anyone older will know better," he concluded.

Sherri was impressed. "Hey, that might actually work."

"Yeah, a good idea for once, Milly," Jessica said in agreement.

"Really!?" He exclaimed, amazed they would think so. Like always, Milhouse tried to rebound, wiggling his eyebrows. "You know I am not just brains. I got these babies." He flexed his muscles for emphasis and Nelson groaned.

"Yeah, no. But if Bart is ever single again, give me a call," Jessica said, giving a flirtatious wink.

"Let's get this show on the road," Nelson said, ready to move on. He fixed his vest as they walked into the hall.

It was just after lunch, so Sherri lingered. "Um, actually, I will catch up with you guys. I need to use the restroom."

Milhouse and Nelson left, but Jessica stayed behind. A knowing look in her eyes, she said, "Puking again?"

Sherri tried to deny it at first. "What no? It was that creamed corn."

Jessica put her open pal beneath her chin. "Hellloooo. Who do you think I am?" She moved to offer her arm. "I'll have you know I developed my ED back in elementary school. So holding your pretty hair is the least I can do." She tapped her purse. "Also, got some breath mints."

Sherri hesitated, but complied. "Okay, but don't tell anyone. Only Terri knows."

"Love, not a word. We are just having some girl talk.

Contrary to the popular belief that the girls' bathroom was a clean paradise, where the scent of flowers and perfume dominated pristine white tile floors. In actuality, the girls' bathroom was a nightmare hellscape that reeked of piss; an air of sadness hung over the ruined stalls. Worst of all was the usage of period blood to write messages on the walls.

At present scrawled in dark brown letters above the trash can was the message: Jessica Lovejoy is a huge slut." So, after Sherri parted with the contents of her stomach, Jessica studied this targeted assertion. "Well, that is just gross."

Running water until the sink became clear again, Sherri cupped some in her shaky hands. "You know who wrote it?"

"I have an idea," Jessica answered, vaguely. She giggled. "Someone's getting her car keyed later."

Swishing water in her mouth, Sherri spat into the sink. "Let me guess. You were making out with some poor girl's boyfriend."

"Sherri! What do you take me for?" Jessica gasped. "We were doing way more than making out." She walked over to the window near a stall and brought out a cigarette. "Or so she thinks." Changing the subject, Jessica clicked her lighter. "These are way better for keeping the weight off, by the way. You can eat anything you want."

Sherri watched her from the corner of her eye. "Yeah… I think I'll pass."

"Your loss."

Staring at herself in the mirror, Sherri pressed two fingers on the side of her eyelid, pulling the skin taught. "Ugh, my crow's feet are getting worse."

This comment puzzled Jessica, who never noticed that the elderberry had some serious self-image issues. "Doubt," she said, coming over to assess this imperfection herself. She brushed aside purple hair and placed her chin on Sherri's shoulder. "Hmm."

Sherri felt her heart quicken; the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. The sensation of another girl pressing against the small of her back was enough to make a chill dance along her spine. Trying to stay calm, she said, "Pretty bad, uh, right?"

"I literally have no clue what you are talking about," Jessica answered, at a loss; "your skin is flawless and that purple eyeshadow really brings out your eyes." She reached around to touch Sherri's wrist.

"And you are thinner than me! See!"

She connected her thumb and finger to emphasize her point. Sherri frowned. "That is bone, Jess. But I've already gone up two pants sizes." A short exhale followed as she shut her eyes. "I am no Terri. She's got a perfect waist."

Jessica could not disagree. "Yeah, she's built like a curvy pear. If only she didn't apply her makeup with a trowel." She shook her head. "Anyway. Waist we can fix, all you need is a good is a good trainer. I got a couple you could try."

"Really?"

"Sure. And we can totally swipe my mom's La Toya Jackson VHS," Jessica said, flashing a smile. She gave Sherri's butt an affectionate slap, causing her to jump. "That'll get your ass nice and toned."

Sherri shivered and laughed nervously. "Ahaha. Sounds fun"

"Come on, enough of this pouting. Let me buy you a bottle of water. I'd hate for those pretty teeth to fall out." Jessica took one quick drag, finishing off her cigarette before offering an arm.

"Right, we better make sure the guys aren't blowing the plan." Sherri nodded, looping her arm. "Do you got any of those breath mints still?"

"Of course, love." Jessica handed them over as the two left to rejoin their conspirators.

By the end of the day, through guile and the occasional wild threat, almost the entire freshman class had been corralled onto the roof of the main administration building. Like cattle, they stood around in a daze, craning their necks to see the fabled pool that existed. There was nothing of the sort, not even an inflatable kiddie pool.

Standing in the safety of the stairway, Jessica counted out their haul. "One, two, three… A cool four hundred bucks."

"Awesome." Nelson said, cracking his knuckles. He walked to the door. "Hey losers!" Their peers turned it, becoming obvious it was all a ruse. "Haw-haw! Thanks for the cash, suckers!"

He slammed it shut, and Milhouse propped a chair against the knob. "This ought to hold em for a bit."

Sherri took her cut of bills and stuck them into her bra. "You guys go ahead. I'll catch up." Everyone nodded, heading downstairs, then to the parking lot. As the sound of banging echoed off the stairway, Sherri pulled the fire alarm and bolted after her friends.

Celebrations were an order. There was only one place for a bunch of freaks to blow off some steam while shirking their obligations to society. The mall. So they ultimately settled outside The Leftorium, a quaint little shop run by a local bible thumber, and therefore was not decorated for the season. Sitting precariously on the glass railing, Sherri slurped down a diet coke from the food court. "That was way too easy."

"We'll get detention for sure. Too many witnesses," Nelson commented astutely. He was busy chowing down on an unhealthy amount of nachos.

"Since when do you care about that, Nelly?" Jessica asked, debating in her head if she could steal the giant inflatable skeleton that was waving in front of a nearby store. It would look great in her room.

"Since Bart and Terri won't be with us. It's not the same, ya know?"

"How sentimental," Sherri teased. She waved her hand. "And you say that like, everyone didn't see Terri pull the fire alarm."

"That's cold, dude," Nelson said. "At this rate, she's gonna have detention next year, too. Given the… event."

Everyone bowed their head solemnly for a prank gone wrong. But it was best to not dwell in the past, so Milhouse asked. "Where are they, anyway? Bart was supposed to help me build another eggapult."

Jessica shrugged. "I dunno. I think Terri said something about stealing his bones if he didn't take her on a proper date." She paused, trying to remember their conversation. "Or maybe it was just one bone she wanted. She talks really fast."

"Figures," Milhouse rolled his eyes.

His bitterness caused Sherri to bristle. "Oh, will you let it go? So your boyfriend has moved on. No one is stopping you from getting a girlfriend."

"Hey! I had one. Bart wrecked that for me."

Sherri grunted. "This again."

"Seriously, dude. That was ancient history. You can get another," Nelson said, "no reason to hold a grudge like a woman."

"You think if I fell off this I'd die?" Sherri asked, tired of how much Milhouse resented her sister. Nelson moved to give her a shove, and she shrieked. "No!"

"Haw-haw! You don't actually want to die!" Nelson pointed at her. "Terri would have been all over that kind of drop."

"Yeah, that's cause she's a few circuits short of a live wire," Sherri replied with a frown as she jumped down. "So what you guys wanna do?"

Jessica clapped. "I've been feeling like shoplifting. What color is that?" She indicated to Sherri's eyeshadow.

"I don't remember, but we can go look," Sherri said, the two of them heading for the escalator. She looked back. "You guys in?"

"Yeah, no way. Not this time, "Nelson backing away.

Milhouse stood up. "That place is… scary." He shuddered at the unpleasant memories of the last time they helped. Horrible odors that scalded the throat and blinded the eyes.

"Your loss," Jessica said as the two girls left.

Nelson and Milhouse lingered for a second before the latter looked over. "Wanna go fight that goose again?" There was a nasty goose in the parking lot; it waged a ruthless war against anyone who tried to park their car in the first four spaces.

The beast had already sent them both running. Nelson punched his palm. Hell, yeah! That little bastard isn't gonna get the better of us this time!"

That little bastard did, in fact, get the better of them a second time. Both boys were sent packing in terror from its violent honks.