Chapter Six

At seven o'clock, Smithers, Burns, Quimby, and his wife Martha followed a waiter to their table, doing their best to act casual in front of the journalists circling them. Smithers pulled a chair back for Burns, while Martha stood, arms crossed, as her husband Joe pulled back a chair and sat in it himself. The waiter pulled back a chair for her and handed them each a menu, then poured water in their glasses. Smithers spoke softly into Burns' ear, "What kind of wine would you like?"

"I'm in the mood for a red wine. A Cab, perhaps."

"Good choice," he said, putting down the wine menu and looking at the dinner menu. "Mm, braised short-ribs sound good to me. I'll have that, and a bottle of the Whistling Cricket Cabernet Sauvignon," he said to the waiter.

"I'll have the braised lamb shanks with roasted Brussels sprouts," said Burns.

"And the, er, wife and I will have the big soufflé and a bottle of your Sandy Valley Merlot."

"Excellent choices," said the waiter, collecting their menus.

"So," said Quimby, "you gentlemen appreciate fine food and wine. I would like to say that I, also, enjoy food and wine. I find it heartening that people from both sides of the political aisles can find common ground in this, er, arena."

Smithers said, "Now, Joe – can I call you Joe?"

"I, er – don't see why not."

"Great. Joe, I don't see why we have to be enemies. After all, we both want to be mayor because we want what's best for the people of Springfield, right?"

"What in God's name are you talking about? I mean, er, of course."

"So, Monty and I were thinking tonight would be the perfect opportunity to discuss policy and find some common ground and workable solutions to make Springfield more prosperous than ever. Why don't you join us for a nightcap after dinner, and we'll discuss over martinis, like gentlemen."

"Just what I was about to suggest."

They ate their dinners, exchanging feigned pleasantries and thinly-veiled barbs until the waiter brought their checks. They paid and drove out to Burns Manor in their limousines, sending off the cameramen at the gate, then went inside where Burns and Smithers cordially welcomed them, offering the Quimbys some chairs to sit in while they went to mix some drinks.

At the bar, once safely out of earshot, Burns said, "You're sure you have the doses right?"

"Yes," said Smithers, holding an eyedropper over a martini glass. He squeezed out a few droplets into each of two glasses. "It'll be enough to knock her out and put him into a suggestible state."

"Excellent." He wrapped his claw-like fingers around Smithers' neck and kissed his cheek.

Smithers dragged his hands down from Burns' shoulders to his hips and pulled him half a step closer. "Is all this devious plotting turning you on?"

"There is a reason I always flirted with you during my most nefarious plots," he said, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. "Now, quit undressing me with your eyes; those dithering Democrats won't drug themselves." Smithers shook his head as if to shake loose the fantasy he'd begun to indulge and mixed the martinis. As he poured them into the glasses, Burns said, "He'll be putty in our hands."

"It's showtime."

They re-entered the parlor, Smithers carrying the tray and handing the Quimbys their drinks as Burns took a seat across from them.

Quimby sipped from his martini and said, "Now, that is a fine martini," with a savoring gulp.

His wife sipped from her glass. "So, Waylon, what gave you the idea to get into politics?"

"Well, Martha, I just wasn't happy with the status quo. I didn't like how the Democrats have been running things, but I couldn't stand to vote for anti-gay Republicans. When I made my speech at that rally against Barlow, I saw how many people supported what I had to say, and I thought, 'Maybe I can make a difference.' I always saw myself as a follower, not a leader, but Monty convinced me I had the potential." He closed his fingers around Burns' hand.

Burns blushed and pointed an index finger at Smithers, lightly grazing his nose. "You give me too much credit. You proved your formidable leadership skills when you were acting CEO at the plant the last time I went to prison."

"How would you know? You weren't there."

"I reviewed surveillance records once I came back. I must confess, when I left you in charge, I assumed you'd hand out health benefits and days off like a Jehovah's Witness hands out religious literature." Smithers gave a nervous smile. "Once I saw how cowed into submission the employees were, I knew I had done well to entrust my beloved plant to you." He placed his hand on Smithers' knee and swirled his fingers around a couple of times.

"How did you do it?" said Quimby, running a tensed hand through his hair and gulping down the rest of his martini. "It seems every time I turn around, the slackers are napping or sneaking out to drink beer."

"All it takes is knowing the proper means of persuasion," Smithers said, stroking the end of his armrest, a brass rendering of a wolverine's head.

"Do you have a, er, persuasion secret?"

"Maybe..."

"If you won't give me the secret, at least give me another of those marvelous martinis."

"Here, I haven't touched mine," said Smithers, handing him the glass and grinning malevolently.

"Please, Joseph," said Martha, "don't make a drunken jack-ass of yourself."

"Can't you get off my back? This is serious political business, not your sewing circle. Why don't you pretend this is your book club and finish your drink?"

"Fine," she said, sighing and slamming back her martini. "It'll be like my birthday party, then." She pulled out her smartphone and began checking her e-mail.

"So, Quimby," said Burns, "you want to talk politics, eh?" Quimby nodded, his head bobbing unsteadily, as he was obviously woozy. "Then answer this: why do you champion the excessive taxation of the wealthy elite, when you are obviously a wealthy man yourself?"

"Oh, that's easy. The taxes are collected to support my many mistresses in opulent luxury... I mean, to support vital social programs."

Burns laughed bemusedly. "Is that so? I'm sure all of Springfield agrees that is a worthy cause, indeed. In a pig's eye! Ah ha ha ha ha!" His laughter turned darkly vengeful.

Smithers placed his hands on Burns' shoulders and rubbed them soothingly. "Easy now, Monty. Ix-nay on the aniacal-may aughter-lay."

"Oh. Yes, I suppose there will be plenty of time for that later."

Martha Quimby's eyelids drooped, her head lolling to the side, and Smithers nudged Burns to direct his attention as she slumped in her seat.

"My wife's never been able to hold her liquor," said Quimby, noticing what they were nudging at.

"Excuse me," said Burns, "I need to... avail myself of the facilities."

Smithers said, "I'll be counting the seconds until you return," and Burns left for the hall. "So, Joe, what would you say is the hardest part of being mayor?"

Dazed, words slightly slurred, he said, "Catering to the whims of the fickle dumb hicks who make up this town."

"I see. Surely you have some positive opinion about Springfield and its citizenry?"

"You would think so. But after however many years mayoring in this jerkwater 'burg, I can honestly say I don't. Except for the broads. Hot, slutty, desperate young women who sleep with me because our depressed economy offers them so few other options. God bless this town."

"Uh-huh. Now, tell me more about those tax funds..."

Burns looked at himself in the full-length mirror in his bedroom, now wearing a blonde wig and red dress revealing most of his legs, which he crossed self-consciously. He reached for his phone and texted Smithers.

I am not going through with this.

"Just a moment," said Smithers, standing up and putting his phone away. "Monty needs some help in the bathroom. I'll be right back."

"Take all the time you need," said Quimby, patting his jacket over the inner pocket where he'd concealed a listening device.

As soon as Smithers entered their bedroom, Burns let out an exasperated sigh and said, "Let's drop this charade. He will never believe that I'm his mistress."

Smithers looked Burns up and down and said, "Oh, he'll buy it. All you need is a little..." He grabbed a tube of red lipstick from the disguise kit by the nightstand and held it in front of Burns' lips. "Pucker up."

"But Waylon–"

Smithers began applying the lipstick and said, "Don't worry. You look even more stunning than when you won the Miss Teen America pageant. You can pull off Miss Springfield for a drugged lech like Quimby no problem."

"What if he..."

"Yes?"

"What if he gets..." Burns anxiously circled his fingertips over his knuckles, alternating hands as he said, "...handsy?"

"Call him 'fresh' and smack him on the cheek."

"What if he gives up and won't take the bait?"

"This is Mayor Quimby. He's not going to take 'no' for an answer and give up easily." He kissed up Burns' neck and then tugged gently at Burns' earlobe with his teeth, then whispered, "Don't worry. If he gets out of hand, I'll put a stop to it."

"I suppose..."

"Remember: It's to get your plant back."

Burns sighed and looked back to the mirror, hardening his gaze resolutely. "Well, it's worth that."

"That's the spirit," said Smithers, running his hand over Burns' shoulder. "We'll have your plant back in no time."

"I'll meet you out front."

Smithers kissed his cheek. "We'll pull this off."

"As long as we pull it off before he pulls my dress off."

"I'll make sure of it." They left the bedroom, Smithers heading back for the parlor while Burns slipped out a side door and made his way toward the front entrance.

In the parlor, Smithers noted that the mayor's head drooped over his shoulder, his eyes closed. Shit, I hope we didn't give him too high a dose. As Smithers approached him, he noticed that Quimby had a small electronic device looking similar to an earbud in his hand and carefully, surreptitiously, took it into his hand and slipped it onto the soil of nearby potted pansies. I see we had the same idea, thought Smithers, patting the interior jacket pocket over his left breast. "Joe," said Smithers in a sharp, loud voice. Quimby startled, and after looking in a few different directions, glanced at the open palm of his hand and the floor nearby, checking to see whether the device was still there. "You did say I could call you 'Joe,' right?"

"Uh, yes, I did. I, er, think."

"Excellent." Smithers looked over to Quimby's wife, still sound asleep, then back again to his rival. The front door bell rang, and Smithers went to answer it. He swung the door open to see Burns in his wig, dress, and "Miss Springfield" sash. They returned to the parlor, and Smithers said, "Look who I invited, to show you there's no hard feelings about your campaign's attack ads."

"But my – er, wife–"

"Don't worry," said Smithers, picking up Mrs. Quimby. "I'll take your wife to a nice, quiet guest room where she can sleep it off." He brought her into a nearby guest room, where he laid her on her side on a bed, then removed her earrings. He replaced them with an identical set with an embedded listening device, then rejoined Quimby and "Miss Springfield" in the parlor.

Quimby had his arm around Burns and pulled him closer. "Now, how about a kiss?"

Burns pushed back against him, then in his best attempt at a delicate, high-pitched, cutesy voice, said, "Sure, but first, why don't you take me to the nuclear plant and show me some radioactive waste?" Smithers tensed, the tip of his tongue clenched between his teeth. Oh, God. Monty's really rusty on his seduction techniques. "It really turns me on to see a man hauling something dangerous like that." Nice save.

"Sure, honey. I may be legally too fit-shaced to drive, but I never let the law get between me and you before. Let me just get my keys–"

"Don't worry about that," said Smithers. "I'll drive."

Quimby stumbled into the back of the limousine, pulling Burns along with him, while Smithers sat in the driver's seat, adjusting the rear-view mirror so he could keep an eye on the backseat. The gates opened, and they left for the power plant.

"So," said Quimby, sliding a silky red strap down Burns' shoulder, "Ready for that kiss, now?"

Burns slapped his face. "Fresh!" He pulled the strap back up his shoulder and crossed his legs tightly.

Smithers stepped on the gas pedal, speeding toward the plant. "Ah, playing hard to get," Quimby said, smoothing his hair back. "That's a game I always win."

"You will win, Joe," said Burns in a breathy whisper. Then, in a sharper and more natural tone under his breath, he said, "But not until we get to the plant."

"You don't have the make the game so hard," said Quimby, twirling the hair of Burns' wig. "And that's not the only thing that's hard."

Sighing, Burns tilted his head, encouraging the teasing touch, and batted his eyes.

"That's better," said Quimby, and Burns and Smithers shuddered simultaneously.

A few minutes later, as they neared the plant parking lot, Smithers saw in the mirror that Quimby was stroking Burns' leg and slipping his hand under the dress. Smithers made a sharp left turn and slammed the brakes, flinging Quimby to the opposite side of the seat. He flung the car door open to get out and open the door to help Burns out.

Burns stumbled on his way out of the car and leaned against Smithers, who had caught him in his arms. Smithers squeezed him, tighter than necessary to keep him upright, and whispered into his ear, "You're doing great."

As Quimby hauled himself out of the limousine, Burns seductively licked the tip of his index finger and brought it down to his knee, then trailed it up his leg in a smooth, flowing motion, pulling up his dress an inch.

"Ooh, baby," Quimby said, drooling.

"Before you can have me, I need to know if you can handle me." Burns flipped the bangs of his wig.

"I can handle anything."

"Excellent. Then you wouldn't mind tossing some barrels of radioactive waste into that river behind the plant to show me what a big, strong, daring man you are?"

"Okay. To be able to toss your salad, I will toss some waste." Quimby led them past security guards and to a row of barrels of waste.

Smithers said, "I'll leave you two alone," and dashed off into the shadows. He surreptitiously followed Burns and Quimby as they made their way to the river, Quimby staggering forward while dragging a barrel of nuclear waste on a dolly. Smithers held his phone in front of him, taking video of Quimby as he opened the canister lid and dumped the contents into the river.

"That's how a real man pollutes. Now, how about letting me into your Oval Office?"

Burns squinted ahead to see Smithers give the signal of two flashing lights to indicate success in recording the event. When Quimby leaned forward with a lecherous grin, Burns tore off his wig and sash as he scrambled to get away from him. Speaking normally, he said, "If you think you can win me over with such a nonsensical line, you're dreaming. I know you're drugged out of your gourd, but I mean, really! First of all, the Oval Office is where the president works, not the mayor, and second of all, you're the mayor trying to seduce Miss Springfield, not the other way around, you dunderpate!"

Quimby, looking quizzical, said, "I don't know what you just said, but anything you say sounds sexy to me," and leaned forward to kiss him.

As soon as Burns could cry out for Smithers, there he was, placing himself between them, Smithers beginning to say, "Oh, no you don't," right when Quimby planted his lips over Smithers' and inadvertently thrust his tongue into his mouth. Smithers pushed back against Quimby's forehead and chest, finally prying him off after a few seconds of struggle. Quimby's eyes went wide when he saw whom he'd kissed and spat repeatedly into the river.

"Thank you," said Burns. "I know you're a keeper when you'll take a kiss from a Democrat for me."

"Don't mention it." He cringed and spat into the dirt in front of him. "I'm sorry, I had no idea he'd be this pushy. I guess his inhibitions were lowered so much he was less inclined to take 'no' for an answer."

"Wait a minute," said Quimby, squinting his eyes at Burns. "You're not Miss Springfield!"

Burns said, "Well, duh!"

Eyes lowered, Smithers said, "He's much too sexy to be Miss Springfield," and put an arm around his waist.

"Well, much as we'd love to stay and chat, we have to be off," said Burns. "How about joining us for a parting drink?" He held out a small bottle labeled as rum and waved it in front of him.

"No. I've done enough drinking for one night."

"Then perhaps you'd like to sample our new cologne. Smithers!"

"I don't see why I'd want to do that," said Quimby as Smithers pulled a spray bottle out from his jacket and sprayed in front of his nose. His eyes became unfocused, and he fell forward, flat on his face.

Burns hummed with self-satisfaction. "He'll be asleep for awhile. Let's go back to the manor, shall we? Perhaps you'll get a chance to sleep with Miss Springfield."

"Why wait until we get home? Your limo is here. I can drive us to a secluded place close by."

"Then let's go." Once he got in the backseat, Burns said, "Well, that was disturbing."

"Yes, but we've got some great footage for the next attack ad. It'll cripple his campaign." Smithers started the car up and headed for the exit. "You seemed to really be getting into it towards the end, before Quimby tried to kiss you."

"I was not."

"Why won't you admit it? Think I can't handle the truth?" Smithers made an exaggerated gesture of flipping his bangs, mimicking Burns' earlier gesture.

"I was motivated to appear enthusiastic to facilitate getting my plant back." He slumped against his seat. "Our plan had better work. I wouldn't want to have done all this for nothing..."

Smithers slowed the limousine to a halt, then unbuckled his seat belt and opened the passenger door to sit beside Burns. "It won't be for nothing," he said, hugging him. "Our plan won't fail. You saw how worn out he is from trying to run the plant. He wants to unload it, and it's only pride that keeps him from selling it back to us. With the election on the line, though, he's sure to give it up."

Burns held him closer and kissed the corner of his lips. "I hope you're right." As Smithers kissed along his neck, Burns said, "I wonder why he wanted to make me a salad."

"What?" said Smithers, chuckling between kisses.

"He said he would toss the waste so he could toss my salad."

"Oh," said Smithers with a blush. "He, uh – didn't mean that literally."

After kissing behind Smithers' ear, he said in an exasperated and exhausted whisper, "Then what the devil did he mean?"

"He meant, uh..." He wiped at a bead of sweat on his forehead. "He meant he wanted to use his tongue to anally stimulate you."

Burns backed his head away, one eye narrowed while the other widened. "You don't have designs on doing that with me, do you?"

"Um, well..."

"It's not going to happen."

"Of course. But if you ever wanted me to..."

"Waylon!" Burns said, flustered rather than angry.

"That's all right. There are other places I'd rather have my tongue. Like here," he said, kissing Burns deeply and activating the curtains over the windows.