By the end of the week, Waylon Smithers had to acknowledge there was way more to the basic maintenance of a nuclear plant than he ever imagined. Especially when Sharon told him to 'lead up,' a phrase used to refer to donning the anti-contamination suits used in areas of potential radioactive exposure, and brought him to some of the ductwork near the reactors.

Sharon, belly-crawled forward, a Geiger counter in hand, and pulling a rope attached to her toolkit behind her. Smithers brought up the rear.

"I, uh, I didn't realize there was this much to swapping out a simple washer," he admitted.

"Oh sure," Sharon replied. "Nothing's ever simple. We had to tag-out the entire tertiary hydro-circuit for Reactor Two at seven am this morning. We're using the redundant system, but," she squeezed under a low conduit, "we have to get this done stat. The redundant systems aren't designed for long-term use." She grunted. "Ah, here we are." She hauled the toolkit up into the tiny space.

Smithers slid under the conduit pipe, and drew himself up beside her and the kit. She took a few readings with the Geiger counter. "It's mostly a safety precaution," she explained. "The odds of any areas being hot down here are slim to none, but, never take chances."

"Nope," Smithers agreed.

He watched as Sharon grabbed a wrench and started unfastening several bolts by her head. She rolled on her back, and braced her feet on the pipe above her. She grunted, twisting for better leverage.

"That's why (nngh), you started with Gary. Now you know how to tag out a system. Do you know what would happen if someone turned on pumps right now?"

Smithers put his hands on the wrench and helped her loosen a particularly tight bolt. "We'd all die?"

"Hah, I like your humor. However, several thousand gallons of boiling water would come rushing through here. You'd probably live, but it wouldn't be pleasant. Still better than the other hydro-circuits. Those have steam running through them!"

They finished the last bolt. Sharon put them all in a tiny dish, and sealed the cover to keep them safe. She grabbed the water pipe in both hands, braced her feet against the one near the ceiling and pushed.

The pipe slowly swiveled away from the junction, exposing a worn gasket seal. "This," she said, prying the seal off with her fingers, "is not a problem yet, but if it's not replaced now, it could be. The last thing we need is any sort of leak."

She handed the gasket to Smithers. It was black, about the size of a salad plate, made out of some synthetic rubbery material. He flexed it, curious. He noticed signs of cracking along the outer edge.

Sharon fished around in her kit box. "Ah, here we go!" She showed him a replacement seal. It was grey.

"They all start out grey?" he asked.

"Yep," she replied, lining it up on the junction, and closing everything back up. She and Smithers tightened the bolts, then began the arduous crawl back.

"I wish they'd put in an access corridor," Smithers remarked.

Sharon laughed. "This is the access corridor! You should see some of the truly difficult spots to get to."

The rest of the day passed uneventfully.

Smithers tried to keep his mind on the task at hand, but he had to admit maintenance, "infrastructure," whatever it was called was simply not his cup of tea. Valuable to learn, he could acknowledge. He had no idea how physical the job actually was, but it was something he hoped not to ever do again.

By the time he arrived home, feeling grubby and tired, he was looking forward to the weekend. Climbing around pipes and soldering wires was simply not for him. He paused briefly at the front desk to get his mail, several packages from his online shopping last weekend, and nothing more. He was glad he'd been able to pick up his new glasses earlier this week.

Smithers had decided to go for something different than his traditional round rims. He had finally decided on a chic rectangular style for his everyday wear. New hair, new glasses, he thought, strutting like a peacock in front of the mirror; a whole new Smithers. Looking sharp, he thought proudly. Oh yes, he liked the look.

He almost snapped a 'selfie' to post on his social media page, then thought better of it. Let it be a surprise when, if, he ever went back to Springfield.

He showered, then sat down to open the boxes. It was a good thing the sites he shopped at kept a list of past orders. It was also good they were discrete. It was so hard to find heels in his size, and he didn't feel like shopping out. He didn't have much time to go through everything though. He'd promised the gang he'd meet them at The Lucky Lady after work.

Smithers grabbed his phone off the table and fired a text over to Keith. They'd been in loose contact through the week. "Are we still on for Sunday?" he asked.

A few seconds later his phone buzzed back a reply. "We r stll going 2 NYC, rite?"

Smithers winced. He'd have to break Keith of that chatspeak habit. Really, it was too much. "Yes. And please, use the whole word :)" He threw in a smiley for good measure.

Seconds later the reply came in. "K ;)"

Smithers rubbed the side of his head. "Will you be at JV's tomorrow?"

"No. Gotta finish a papr. Paper."

"Okay. See you Sunday."

Truthfully, Smithers was relieved Keith wouldn't be there. He'd signed up on the registry for Drag Night. If his 'lifestyle choice' was in the closet, his 'passion for fashion' was kept locked in the basement. Everything was kept in a secure steamer trunk in his apartment in Springfield. Fortunately, he'd been able to order what he considered the bare minimum from the internet. He laid everything out on the couch, and examined it thoroughly. Not quite as elaborate as he liked to be, but it would work. I'll look marvelous anyhow, he thought with a smirk.

Carefully, he folded everything, putting his dress neatly into his garment bag, and the rest of his accessories into a hard-covered rolling suitcase. He grabbed a flash-drive from his computer bag, and tucked it into the suitcase. It had "his" songs on it. Many years ago, he went to the recording studio in Springfield, and had a few remixes made of several pop songs. For some, he changed the lyrics a bit. Justin Bieber's song, Boyfriend, became "Girlfriend." Stuff like that.

He'd done a good deal of the mixing himself, retouching the music, and recording new lyrics. He could sing, and with training had taught his natural tenor voice to hit a very sultry alto. His friend, Julio, back in Springfield, had helped provide some of the vocals as well. Julio could hit the high notes that were just beyond Smithers' range. Two voices really added a nice depth to the chorus.

Smithers was looking forward to getting a chance to perform. There was something about dressing up made him feel as if he were someone else. He could be confident, sassy, even a bit catty when he needed to, and no one batted an eye. On stage, all his insecurities melted away. It was a wonderful, freeing sensation to toss away his daily life for a spell, and be whoever he wanted!

But for tonight, at least, he was still Waylon Smithers.

He smiled quietly, inwardly.

Tonight, he'd just be one of the boys, out for drinks at the pub. Tomorrow, he'd be a diva!; then Sunday: back to nice, normal Waylon Smithers.

Smithers glanced at his phone. It was nearly six-thirty. Time to get going. He grabbed his wallet, smoothed back his hair, and made his way downstairs to the strip below.

The Lucky Lady was quite crowded. He squeezed his way through the crowd and sat down at the table next to Ruby (from accounting). Antoine was there, of course, wearing a polo shirt and what appeared to be swim trunks, or possibly just very gaudy shorts. There was an empty chair between him and Gary. Sharon was there as well, chatting with someone Smithers didn't know.

Smithers greeted the party, and ordered a CliffBoxer. He glanced over to the bar. The woman who he'd seen bartending with Leon the other night was there, as was a man Smithers didn't know; but no Leon. Smithers caught a motion out of the corner of his eye.

Preston had come in and made his way over to the table. He eyed the seat next to Antoine, rolled his eyes, and sat down.

"Saved that specially for you, Preppy," he beamed.

"Whatever, Antoine," muttered Preston.

Ruby looked up from her conversation. "No, really, he did! I tried to sit there, and he shoo'd me away." She gave Antoine a mock-reproachful look. "Jerk."

Antoine made a guilt-as-charged shrug, and grinned at Preston. "Fashionably late as usual, eh?"

"I had work to do. If you had any sense of responsibility, you'd know what that meant."

"I am responsible! I ordered a pizza before half of you people even got here!"

Preston narrowed his eyes. "What toppings?"

"Veggies on one side for Sharon there, and meat (glorious meat!) on the other half for me!"

Sharon tilted her head. "You're too kind."

"Really? Should I jerk it up a bit?"

Everyone stared at Antoine. The realization of what he just said hit him, turning his face from tan to deep red. He hid his eyes. "Let's just… uh, let's just strike that one from the record, okay?"

Everyone, even Preston laughed. The pizza arrived; and the evening lengthened on.

Saturday morning Smithers woke bright and early. He was too excited to sleep any longer. He checked his watch, and bounded down to the exercise room. He needed to burn off some energy, get his mind centered. He did a three mile run on the treadmill, then lifted weights for a while.

Afterwards, feeling significantly more focused, he headed to his apartment and took a shower. He checked made sure everything he needed was packed, and sat himself down to brunch.

There was a knock at his door.

Smithers froze, spoon halfway to his mouth. A surge of apprehension flooded his body. No one knew he was here. There were only a few people who had his address. Sure it was on file at the plant's HR department, but no one there would care.

The knock came again, a bit louder this time.

Hands shaking, he dropped the spoon back in the bowl, and padded over to the door. He peered through the peep-hole, and breathed a sigh of relief. Relief, and possibly a bit of disappointment. For a split second, he'd almost thought it had been Mister Burns…

One of the clerks from the front desk was standing there, holding a thick white envelope.

Smithers unbolted the door, and opened it.

The clerk handed him the envelope. "This arrived by courier for you this morning," he said, handing the letter over. It was an oversized envelope, made of some antique style paper. Smithers thanked him, and tipped the man five dollars before shutting the door.

Curious, he brought the letter to his table and examined it.

There was no return label, but the handwriting that wrote his address was all too familiar. Smithers' hands started to shake. He turned the envelope over at looked at the back. Sealed with a wax emblem, bearing the crest of the Burns Family.

Smithers had only seen Burns send letters like this twice before. Each had been a solemn and formal affair; ones Burns had handled with the utmost privacy. This type of letter was reserved for the most grave of Burns' proclamations. Everything from the green seal, to the money-green ink was designed to emphasize the seriousness of the document.

Smithers set it on the table and stared at.

The letter seemed to be staring back, demanding Smithers' attention post-haste.

Smithers sighed. Not today, Monty. The letter's burdensome presence was getting on his nerves. He snatched it up, carried it to the one of the drawers in the dresser, and stuffed it into the bottom under his clothes. I'll deal with you later, he thought sharply. I don't have time for this right now.

Time, yes. What time was it? Smithers glanced at his phone. It was nearly noon.

While J. Vernie's didn't open for patrons until four, the performers were encouraged to get there around one. That way, everyone had time to get dressed, rehearse their acts, and get settled in. The actual show wouldn't start till five.

Smithers decided he'd wait a little longer before catching the bus downtown. He didn't want to arrive too early. Getting dressed would be easy. Makeup was what took the longest, he thought.

He contemplated calling Burns, and announcing he would not read the letter because he didn't care what it said, then thought better of it. If he knew anything about the old man, Burns was probably pacing a hole in the carpet by now, waiting for a reply. Let him stew a bit longer, Smithers thought, feeling rebellious and oddly proud. I'll call him when I'm good and ready.

Smithers arrived at J. Vernie's right on time. He followed the rest of the queens upstairs, and started getting dressed. Few of the bar employees had arrived yet. The kitchen staff were in, doing prep for the night's dinner service, but none of the bartenders were in yet.

Smithers chatted with some of the other queens as he got dressed. There were changing blinds, but like theatre, there was very little self-consciousness. Some of the outfits, like corsets, required a second set of hands to help tighten. A bit of padding here, a wrap there, make-up, and (of course) the fabulous accessories.

Smithers' persona was a tan-skinned beauty named "Shezabelle Lexinton," first-name pronounced like she's-a-belle. He, or now, rather she, took care to put on her makeup, starting with chest and arms, darkening her skin to a warm olive shade. She put in her contacts, and finished her face. Shezabelle was every bit as outgoing as Smithers was quiet. She was the sort who as soon toss some witty remark over her shoulder, then strut of with a snap and a pop of her hips. She was fierce, and she knew it.

Makeup done, it was time to get downstairs for rehearsal.

None of the queens was a first-time performer. It made everything easier. While "Drag Night" was not an exclusive event, it helped when no girl had first-time jitters. "Shezabelle" practiced her walk, pivoting easily despite the four-inch heels. She wished she'd had her old shoes, they were more broken in, but these would have to do.

She decided her act tonight would song number, "Girlfriend." It was a slow, and rather seductive piece, fitting with Shezabelle's teasing nature. The best part was, the entire song was in her range; she didn't have to lip sync. She earned quite a few cheers from the other queens during the final dress rehearsal.

"Alright, Ladies, that's a wrap," called out a towering queen named "Elodda Vomanne." She was the host, and also the master of ceremonies. She was the one who had been out of town the other weekend, and watching her keep everyone on task, it was clear this event couldn't work without her. "We've got a few minutes before doors open. Get yourselves some water, and head upstairs!"

Shezabelle felt her stomach flutter with excitement. She always got the jitters before going on stage, regardless of the character she would be playing. A little nervousness was good. Overconfidence was the killer of actors.

The opening act was Elodda singing her song, then opening with some friendly reading (teasing) of the patrons. She introduced the next act, who did a comedy skit. Then it was Smithers', Shezabelle's, turn.

The bass came up first, fog flowing onto the catwalk as the intro began. Shezabelle counted the beat in her in her head, then stepped into the middle of the stage.

If was your girlfriend, I'd never let you go

I can take you places you ain't ever been before

(She paused and swung her hips.)

Baby take a chance or you'll never really know

I got money in my hands that I'd really like to blow

(She pantamined swiping a credit card)

Swipe it, swipe it, swipe it for you

Chillin by the fire while we eatin' fondue

(She sashayed to the very front of the catwalk and pointed at a cute patron.)

I dunno about me, but I know about you

So say hello to Shezabelle oh, in three two

(Turn upstage.)

I'd like to be everything you want

(Sharp turn back the audience, snap fingers.)

Hey boy, lemme talk to you…

The door opened, someone was walking in during the middle of her number. The nerve! How rude… and oh my god! It was Preston. She'd recognize that face and round-rimmed glasses anywhere. He was wearing a white button up shirt, khaki pants, and deplorable patterned tie…

Shezabelle almost lost her place. Almost. She was too good to be distracted like that.

Preston took a seat near the side of the stage, and watched, eyes shining in the dim light. She watched as he loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. He looked rather flushed.

What's he doing now, Shezabelle wondered. Is he… no… yes… he is!

Preston had reached into his wallet and was holding out a folded bill, at arm's length, the proper way to offer a tip.

He doesn't even recognize me!

Keep me on your arm, boy, you'd never be alone.

She gave a tantalizing spin and swooped down closer to Preston.

I can be your lady, anything you want

(Delicately take the cash, give him a wink and blow him a kiss)

If was your girlfriend you'd never let me go, never let me go…

Shezabelle finished her number amid a wonderful round of applause, and a few more tips. "Werk it, gurl!" hooted Elodda encouragingly as Shezabelle strutted exquisitely off stage. Upstairs she took her shoes off, threw her head back, and laughed.

"What's so funny," one of the other girls asked.

"Girl," chuckled Shezabelle, "I just saw one of my coworkers down there, and the poor boy didn't even recognize me! I had no idea he was even into this sort of thing!" She lost her words to her mirth, and held a hand to her mouth.

"Are you going to, you know, have some fun with him?"

Shezabelle batted her long lashes coquettishly. "Me, well, the boy is so not my type, but perhaps I'll let him buy me a drink if he offers."

After the final number, a choreographed finale where all the performers sang a number together the group broke apart and went to mingle with the patrons. Smithers, Shezabelle, noticed Leon was bartending tonight. She made her way over to the bar.

"Hey you," she said, giving a flirty bat of the eyes, "what's a gorgeous lady got to do to get a drink around here?"

Leon looked up, and smiled. "What'll you have…" recognition flooded his eyes; he raised his eyebrows in surprise. He nodded his approval. "Oh, girl, you look so fly!" He winked. "What'll be for you tonight?"

"Sex on the beach."

Leon chuckled. "Is that an offer or your drink?"

Shezabelle reached over and gave Leon's had a squeeze. "It can be whichever you want to make." They both laughed; and Leon fixed her a drink.

Shezabelle leaned on the bar, watching the patrons and performers mingle. Usually she'd be out there in the middle, but with Preston casing the place, she felt a low profile might be best. Not that she cared particularly, but she didn't feel like getting drawn into some out-of-character conversation. Fortunately, he seemed preoccupied. She breathed a sigh of relief and slowly sipped her drink.

Shezabelle thought she'd be able to make it through the evening without having to deal with Preston, but she was wrong. Halfway through the evening, he spotted her, and made a beeline over, cutting through the crowds like Moses parting the Red Sea.

She turned and whispered to Leon, "Angels and minsters of grace protect me, here he comes!"

Leon raised his eyes discretely over his shoulder. "I'll be here to cover for you," he whispered back.

"Hey there, gorgeous," came a familiar voice from behind Shezabelle.

Oh god, she winced. Smile, she ordered herself, and turned around.

"Hey there yourself," she replied saucily, leaning a hip against the bar.

Preston's face was rather flushed. He smiled, eyes wide, expression awkward. "I really liked your performance," he said, dabbing the back of his neck with his handkerchief. "I was wondering if I might buy you a drink?"

Shezabelle pouted her lips sexily. "I suppose you could. I'm having sex on the beach."

She could almost hear Preston's pupils dilate. She kept her smile, though inside she was looking for a quick exit.

"Is that an offer or a drink?" Preston asked, hopefully.

"Boy, that is my joke; and my drink," she replied with a faintly catty tone. Like most queens, Shezabelle had claws, and wasn't afraid to use them. She noticed Preston's slightly mollified expression. She softened her tone. "Oh babe, don't be like that," she smiled. "You're young, and I'm too much woman for you; I hope you understand."

Preston nodded. "I do." He paid for her drink, and slipped back into the crowd.

Leon leaned against the bar. "Nicely done," he remarked, nodding in approval.

"Thanks," said Shezabelle, letting herself drop back down to Smithers for a moment. "Even if he is, that way, and I don't really think he is, there are some people you just don't want to spend time with; you know?"

Leon patted her shoulder. "I hear you on that one. Hey, you and Keith seemed to hit it off the other day. So… is that leading anywhere.

Smithers, fully Shezabelle once again gave Leon a playful tap on the chest. "Why sir, a lady would never kiss and tell!"

Leon grinned. "Ah, fair enough, Madame." He held his hands wide in a gesture of supplication, "I beg your pardon."

Shezabelle gave him another wink. "Babe, for you I'd give my pardon freely." They laughed together for a moment. Shezabelle finished her drink, and slipped gracefully into the crowd.