Secondhand Burns

Chapter Two

"Sir, are you sure there's nothing more important I could be doing? Perhaps something more pleasant, like tax evasion?"

"No. I need you to keep an eye on these broads while I'm out so they don't swipe my possessions I, er, embezzled so hard to acquire."

"But why do you need me to do this?"

"Because you're the only man on my staff who's impervious to their, er, charms."

"I suppose that makes sense. But do they have to be in thongs and string bikinis? We're in Mr. Burns' office, for God's sake! I mean – your office, sir."

"I need them in uniform and ready for action for when I return. Now, do me proud." He left and shut the door, then opened it and peered back inside the office. "And I, er, don't mean literally do me," he said, then shut the door again.

"Well, duh," said Smithers, teeth grit slightly yet tensely.

A woman with long, blonde, wavy, styled hair, large busted and tanned who looked maybe nineteen years of age, sidled up against him and stroked his chest. "If you let me borrow the mayor's keys, I'll make it worth your while."

Smithers gently pushed her back with an index finger pointed to her chest. "I don't think my husband would appreciate that."

Her cheeks went red as she backed away.

Smithers parked his car in the lot for their luxury apartment at precisely eleven o'clock. When he opened the door, he saw Burns sitting on the couch in his navy blue suit with a wet splotch on the pant leg, his black tie knotted loosely about the collar and his shirt halfway untucked. Burns forced a smile, trying to look as though all was well. "What happened?" he asked, noting a powerful fragrance as he approached.

"I had a little mishap with the cologne."

He rushed to Burns' side and led him to their bedroom. "Here, let's get you into some other pants."

"I can dress myself, Waylon. See?" he said, gesturing to his outfit.

"I know you can. But I want to help you," he said, pulling a pair of navy blue pants out of the drawer. "Put these on," he said, already removing the stained pants. As Burns pulled the pants up, Smithers tucked his shirt inside and zipped him up, then straightened his tie.

"I'm afraid I spilled the last of that cologne you like."

"You don't need any cologne. You smell alluring enough as is. Now, let's go," he said, placing his hands on Burns' shoulders and leading him out to their limousine. Burns rode in the back as had been their custom, and Smithers was all too happy to let him sit in back where he'd stand a better chance of surviving a crash. Besides, it harkened back to the days when he was of the highest station of society and Smithers was able to cosset him to the extent his heart desired. When Smithers drove him around in their limousine, it was as if nothing had changed and they still led the recklessly sumptuous lifestyle they had once led.

"Smithers, party of three."

They led them to their table.

"You have an airtight case for defamation," said the blue-haired lawyer, opening a briefcase and taking out some papers. "Kent Brockman made comments on-air declaring you guilty before your trial, and there is clear evidence that this hurt you financially in addition to damaging your reputation in the community. By failing to issue a retraction, Channel 6 shares culpability. That's why when I called Brockman's lawyers today, they immediately wanted to settle."

"For how much?" asked Burns.

"One million dollars."

Smithers sneered. "Tell them they can stuff it. That's an insult, not a settlement. They know they're going to lose and will have to pay a cold ten million when this goes to court." He bit off a piece of a breadstick. "Besides, the publicity about my defamation suit will help remind people of my innocence. They didn't report on the outcome of the trial nearly as much as they did on my presumed guilt beforehand. I can tell walking around town that some still haven't gotten the memo." Burns took Smithers' left hand in his right and squeezed, giving a troubled glance. Smithers smiled slightly and intertwined their fingers.

"Great, then I'll tell them we'll see them in court."

"See, Monty, you'll be a millionaire again."

Burns squeezed Smithers' hand harshly. "I don't want to be wealthy that way. I still have my dignity."

"There's nothing wrong with relying on your spouse for some things. I've relied on you for financial support for decades."

"Yes, but I relied on you for physical support. Now I rely on you for everything."

He put his hand on Burns' knee. "I know this is difficult for you. But if you want to feel useful, why don't you...do some dusting when you get home? I haven't gotten around to it in weeks with my busy schedule."

"I'll thank you not to patronize me."

"I'm sorry. But you know, as much as you need me, I need you."

"All I do these days is sit around, drinking, watching cartoons, sleeping..."

"Why don't you do something out in the community? That might give you an idea of how to make your fortune back so you won't have to rely on me to be a millionaire anymore. Marge Simpson is teaching an art class at the adult education center. Why don't you do something like that?"

"An art class? That's how I'm supposed to contribute to the household?"

"I took her class last year, and I learned a lot. Remember that painting I did of you on your yacht last spring? The one I didn't show you until we were engaged."

Burns blushed, remembering the nude painting of himself lying seductively on a couch on his yacht Gone Fission...the yacht he used to own. "I'm not going to paint anything like that of you!"

"Why not? Marge painted you in the nude."

"I don't want anyone else to see you like that."

"Springfield's art community has seen you like that."

"I was no one else's to claim, then. You, however, are mine and mine alone, and I say no one will see you like that."

"You wouldn't have to show anyone else. Just like I never showed my painting of you to anyone else."

The blue-haired lawyer's phone rang. "Hello? ... Mm-hm ... I see... Very interesting. ... They're here now. I'll tell them. You keep working on those negotiations. I'll be back in about an hour." He ended the call. "Mr. Burns, why didn't you tell us you filed a quitclaim deed with the county clerk?"

"I did what?"

"You added Mr. Smithers to the title of your mansion in July. Legally, he had fifty percent ownership of the mansion."

Smithers turned to Burns. "You never told me you added me to the deed."

"Do you know what this means? Your sale was illegal. The mansion is yours."

Burns' eyes lit up with childlike glee, and Smithers' eyes watered in response. They hugged each other in a fit of mirth. Burns sighed heavily, prompting Smithers to back up and ask, "What's wrong?"

"All the furniture, the grand displays of my legacy...that's still gone. I'll never get them back."

"With the money we get from my lawsuit, we'll furnish it so extravagantly it'll rival the old set-up." He pulled him in for another hug. "I'll have you living like a king again in no time." He released Burns from the hug and turned to the lawyer. "So when can we move back in?"

"Any time."

"I'll call the movers, and we'll have you back home by tomorrow," he said, dialing in his phone. "Then on my way back to the office, I'll stop by the post office and have them forward our mail – hi! Listen, sorry it's such short notice, but we need our stuff moved ASAP. ... Today, if possible. ... Mm-hm. It's from Apartment 1901 at the Cherry Grove Apartments to Burns Manor at 1000 Mammon Avenue. We'll of course pay you well for coming on such short notice. ... Two thousand? I think we can swing that. ... Great! Monty will meet you there at one. Goodbye." He hung up the phone. "Well, they're coming today. You'll be back home before nightfall."

"I'm going home..."

When the waiter arrived, Smithers ordered a bottle of champagne to celebrate.

Smithers stopped their limousine outside the apartment, the motor still running as he opened the door for Burns. "I'll be back late tonight – 1 a.m. – so don't wait up for me." He handed the styrofoam tray of leftovers to him. "You can heat this up for dinner. The movers should be here any minute now." He kissed his cheek. "Love you," he said, shutting the door and jumping back into the driver's seat and taking off.

That night, closer to two in the morning than one, Smithers pulled into the gate and parked in front of the entrance to their mansion. He turned the key in the lock, then upon entering, dropped his briefcase and took off his jacket, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. As he undid his bow tie, he walked through the empty halls on the way to their bedroom, but as he walked, a light from an open room caught his eye. He walked inside to investigate and saw Burns sitting by the fire in his antique chair they had kept from before – the chair he'd been sitting in the first night he and Smithers had first indulged their passions.

"Monty, I told you not to wait for me," he said, approaching from behind and running the palm of his hand along the back of Burns'. As he stepped closer to the fire, he saw Burns' head lolled to the side, fast asleep. "Let's get you to bed." He put out the fire, then scooped him up in his arms and carried him off to their room and laid him on their bed. He still slept soundly, and Smithers scooted surreptitiously beneath the covers, then tucked them around Burns' shoulders. "Good night, sweet prince." He, too, quickly succumbed to the seduction of sleep.

The next morning, at breakfast, Burns said, "I want to go to the dinner theater with you."

"Great! I would love that. When do they have shows playing this week?"

"I want to go to the showing this Saturday at seven."

"Ooh, I'm sorry, dear. I can't make it."

"What do you mean, 'can't make it'? You said I could have anything I wanted, and this is what I want. You don't work Saturday nights, so what is the problem?"

"I...picked up another overtime shift at the plant."

"You said you were going to cut down your hours."

"I know, I know."

"Then why the devil did you agree to work more overtime?"

"I'm sorry, but the moving expenses–"

"What's a paltry two thousand dollars when we have millions coming in?"

"I know, but that won't be for months, and I want to buy you nice things now."

"I told you, a few hundred dollars is nothing. I'd rather have you."

Smithers' heart galloped. "I'm glad you do, but I already bought a surprise for you, and I know you'll love it, but it was really expensive, and since we had the unexpected expense of the movers, I need this overtime pay just to make ends meet. I promise, we'll do the dinner theater next week. Let's do something else this week, though."

"Why don't we go to that wine tasting in the park on Friday? It's from four to nine."

"I have a campaign rally in Capital City on Friday, remember?"

"Let's rent out one of those swan boats on Lake Springfield this Thursday during your lunch break."

"That sounds...oh, but I have to attend a luncheon with Quimby Thursday."

"Wednesday. You only work eight hours that day."

"Yes, but I have to appear in court in the morning before my evening shift. You can join me, if you'd like."

"Oh, that's romantic."

"I thought you said you didn't care for romance."

"I'm not asking for a basket of roses and a sentimental folderol as tokens of your affection, but for God's sake man, at least try. I'm not hard to please." Smithers snorted. "What do you find so amusing?"

"You're kidding me. You're the hardest man to please! I've had to work harder to please you than I've ever had to work to please anybody. You're the most high-maintenance man I've ever met."

"I only ask one thing of you: your undivided attention and your everlasting devotion. What is so difficult about that?"

"Well, that was easy when I worked for you. But Monty, until you get back on your feet, I need to work to support you, and that means my time will be divided."

"But...what will I do?"

That helpless look broke Smithers up. "Why don't you go to Marge's art class today? I'll look forward to seeing what you drew when I get home."

"Won't there be some sort of enrollment fee?"

"Here," said Smithers, handing him a couple of hundred dollar bills. "That ought to cover it. Buy yourself some nice paints and brushes." He bit a slice of toast and set it onto the plate before leaving. "I should be home by ten tonight."