TWO:

THE MURDER

Dark had fallen in Springfield. This was good. Sideshow Bob preferred the darkness; it was the best time to do his work in.

Though a lot of people here wouldn't call what Bob was doing work. They would call it cowardice, spiteful revenge, and murder for Bob was planning to kill someone on the night before the Frys would be arriving in Springfield. .

The plan was already in motion. He was standing outside the Krusty Burger, violating one of Krusty's advertising signs as he stood under a glowing street light, waiting for the perfect victim.

He knew it would have to be somebody not well-known, somebody Bart Simpson wouldn't care about…someone who the damn brat wouldn't love…

Fuming, he dribbled furiously all over the unrecognizable sign with an old magic marker he had had (how it got in his pocket he'd never know) as he thought of Bart, the boy who had so often spoiled his plans, the boy who so dearly loved Krusty the Clown, Bob's former partner and friend who had betrayed him to a life of a crime.

Screaming, Bob brandished a knife from his other pocket and tore the sign into shreds. It just wasn't fair! Why did every one of his plans go horribly wrong…?

Bob's screaming had attracted an unlikely visitor, Barney Gumble, Springfield's most gullible drunk. Every town had one.

"Hey, what's your problem mister?" Barney drawled, burping raucously as he approached Bob in a wavy stagger and Bob jumped out from under the light and into the darkness, darkness in which he killed Barney.

It was all over the news the next morning. The five members of the Simpson family reclined on the living room sofa, watching as the reporters broadcasted their friend's murder.

"Poor Barn," Homer mourned, taking a swig of Duff beer. Bart looked up at him worriedly. His dad and Barney had been drinking buddies for a long time. "He'll never taste another Duff again."

"Aw, Dad," Lisa began, and stopped. Kent Brockman, the news reporter, was just bringing in the latest update.

"Forensic scientists have just discovered at the scene of the crime," Brockman began, and everyone held their breath, "A lock of someone's very red and very disgusting hair. If anyone can identify the owner if this…uh…awful dreadlock, please contact – "

"Sideshow Bob!" Bart yelled, switching off the TV despite his father's feeble cries of protest. "He's behind all this, I know it! I'd recognize his hair anywhere-who wouldn't?!"

"Now Bart, I know that Bob is very capable of something like this." Marge forced her son back down into the couch beside her. He had gotten up to head out the door but Maggie had thrown the remote at him, reducing Homer into begging his son to bring it back. Once Bart had sat down Marge continued, "But he can't be responsible for every crime that happens here, you know that."

"Yeah, maybe it was someone disguised as Bob!" Lisa provided, picking up Maggie just as the toddler began to crawl away. "You know how he framed Krusty that first time."

Bart nodded. "Yeah, I remember that, all right," he muttered, taking a deep breath. "But Mom, we can't just sit here – "

"You're right, let's go out for a bit of fresh air," Marge agreed, and everyone rose.

From the backseat of his parents' car, Fry groaned. After a night's traveling they had arrived at Springfield, and what they saw there made Fry want to take the car and drive back home.

It was packed. Springfield was completely swamped over with news teams, reporters, and every other TV media imaginable. This wasn't what Fry had had in mind for his parents.

Yancy felt the same way. "Maybe we should go home?" he tried, but there was no turning back for their mother, who was speeding through the traffic like a mad cheetah on wheels.

Fry thought he was going to puke and he would've if his last meal hadn't happened yesterday. His mother had never driven so fast in her life.

"For the love of God woman, slow down!" Mr. Fry bellowed, his beefy hands gripping the dashboard tightly. Fry thought he looked green.

"I will not!" Mrs. Fry shouted. Fry closed his eyes as the car jump over a monstrous

hump in the road, causing his stomach to turn. Now he really was going to puke.

"Mom, where are we even going?" Yancy asked, trying to not look over at Fry, who was hunched over the seat and barfing all over the floor board. Their mother was going to be pissed…or more pissed then she already was.

"No, these cattle are moving out of my way right now!" Mrs. Fry was screaming as she drove the car by Springfield Elem. School. They would soon be reaching the Simpsons' house within seconds, maybe sooner, with the way Mrs. Fry was driving.

They were unaware of this, of course, and didn't recognize Bart Simpson as he followed his parents out of their house and into the road.

Fierce, Mrs. Fry slammed down on her brakes.

"Whoa woman, watch where you're going!" Bart chided her as he walked by, shaking his butt at her.

Fry would've loved that, Yancy thought, but didn't trouble his brother, who was having trouble dealing with his mother's wild driving tactics.

"The nerve of kids these days!" Mrs. Fry shouted when Bart and his family had safely crossed to the other side of the road. The car then speeded onward, not stopping until they had pulled into a restaurant called the Krusty Burger.

"Anybody hungry?" Mr. Fry asked.

"Some people shouldn't even be on the road," Marge later muttered under her breath. She was watching her kids play with their friends in the park. Her husband was right there with them, taunting Santa's Little Helper with a Frisbee.

"What's the matter with you, you mutt? Can't you see the Frisbee? Can't you even – wheee…look at him go!" Homer cheered as Santa's Little Helper tore after the Frisbee that he had tossed, hopping around in a drunken dance as he did.

Marge tried to smile but couldn't. It was hard to produce one while she was still thinking about that woman that they had ran into earlier on the road. With maniacs like that on the road, her children wouldn't be safe, especially Maggie, who hadn't even began to walk.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but do you know where I could find a job?"

Marge looked up at the sound of the voice. It sounded friendly, yet daring, like her son's and when she saw who had spoken she did smile.

Marge didn't know him, of course, but just looking at the boy, who was clad in a red jacket, a white t-shirt, and faded blue jeans, she knew that he was different, that something special was going to happen to him in the near future.

"Um, sure, there are plenty of good jobs here." Marge walked up to the boy. She could tell that he had the same slouchy attitude that her son had, even though he was trying to conceal it from her. "But, with the recent murder it's going to be hard to find someone to trust, let alone a job."

"Murder?" The boy looked dumb and innocent as he said it. Marge sighed deeply. He was so much like Bart…

"Yes, there was one yesterday," she answered, studying him. With his big, round eyes and untamed ginger hair, he was pretty cute, too cute to be a city boy but Marge figured that that was where he was from because she hadn't seen him around here before. "The reporters are having a field day with it, as you can see."

Her eyes traveled to the other side of the park, where the reporters had flocked like frenzied pigeons. The boy's eyes followed hers and Marge asked him his name.

"Fry," he said, and stopped to think. "Actually it's Phillip J. Fry but everybody just calls me Fry. What about you?"

"Marge Simpson," she introduced herself, and he extended his hand out to her. Marge readily clasped it. He beamed at her.

"So, about that job…" He led her to a bench and sitting down beside her. "… My parents talked it over with me earlier and they think that as long I'm here I should make myself useful and get a job. If I don't they'll go though the roof."

Marge chuckled. "In that case," she said, shaking his hand, "we'll find you a job as soon as my husband decides to quit playing."

Fry smiled broadly at her. He understood.