What time was it? There was no way for Bart to know. The lightbulb was still shining bright above his head, as constant as the silence all around him. He had to have been here for days now, and he tried his best not to go crazy in his underground room. He was lying on the bed, bored out of his mind, his arms covering his vision, and was trying to sing out every song he could possibly remember.

"They fight, and bite... They fight and bite and fight... Da da da, da da da... The Itchy and Scratchy Show..."

At some point he woke up from a deep slumber. He must have had a whole night's worth of sleep, because he couldn't remember where he was at first. His home felt too real, his bed, his room - he almost heard the echoes of his family downstairs as he clenched his pillow. 'It was all a nightmare,' he thought with pained conviction. He didn't want to open his eyes, as though his family would slip away if he did. But when they opened, he was greeted by the oppressive gray walls keeping him here. He sat up in a sweat, his heart beating hysterically as panic began building up in his chest.

"I need to get out. I need to get out... I need to get out!" he yelled in the empty basement.

But no one was here to even deny him his request.

Time passed insanely slowly in his cell. He had looked at everything around him, and there was nothing within his reach that could help him in any way. He thought the boring old basement might drive him insane before he was killed.

But more importantly, he had grown more and more hungry. He had got rid of everything in his stomach in the toilet nearby, sometimes puking almost nothing. His hunger was crippling from time to time and he found it difficult to stay up for very long. Had Sideshow Bob forgotten him? Was his grand masterplan to let him rot down here, his body decomposing until all that was left of him were ashes and bones? Or perhaps he wanted him to go insane too, mirroring his state of mind.

The sound of a key unlocking a door woke him up from his numb state. He felt like it had been ages since he had last heard that sound. Or since he had heard anything else at all. The wooden door squeaked opened, revealing the infamous figure of his host. Bart sat up with some difficulty and clenched his hands on the edge of the bed, not looking forward to the visit.

"Sit down at the table," the man demanded as he walked down the stairs.

Bart frowned in confusion and noticed that Bob was holding something in his hands. He reluctantly walked over to the table and sat down, watching him with apprehension as he drew closer. A bowl with some weird, thick stew in it was gently put down right in front of him. It didn't look appetizing at all, even worse than school cafeteria food, but the smell appealed to his survival instinct. Yet, despite his hunger, he didn't dare touch it. Instead he wondered what kind of poison was probably hiding in there, if it was going to kill him instantly or give him a slow, painful death. It was enough to make his stomach churn.

"What's that?" he asked with mistrust as Bob brought the armchair to sit across from him.

"Food, Bart," he replied happily. "Surely you haven't forgotten what food looks like."

The teen rolled his eyes. "No, I haven't. But you really expect me to eat that?"

"I give it to you. You may do with it as you wish."

An idea suddenly appeared in Bart's mind. It was a really bad idea, he knew it perfectly well, but he figured he could take his words literally.

He grabbed the bowl and threw it right into Bob's face.

The result was to die for, and reminded Bart of all the times the sideshow got hit in the face with a pie on television. He burst into laughter, the first in forever as Bob's expression gave him all the hate he needed.

But his hilarity was cut short when a large knife was drawn to rest right against the thin skin of his throat from across the table. He jumped and clasped the chair he was sitting on, trying to blend into his seat. He swallowed a hard lump, feeling the pointy blade threatening to give him some payback. He certainly hadn't missed the special treatment.

"From now on, you will eat what I give you, with no futile questions asked," Bob snarled angrily, in the verge of shouting in the basement, as he unhappily wiped his face clean.

After a few seconds of heavy breathing from Bob to make sure the point was driven across, to which Bart slowly nodded, he eventually withdrew. The half-empty dish was set back in front of Bart who looked down at what little food there was left for him. Against his better judgement, he opted to listen to his stomach and dug right into it, hunger overriding his fear of poisoning. It didn't taste nearly as bad as it looked, and it felt wonderful to have something in his stomach after so long. Now he regretted wasting over half of it, and he licked the dish clean to make sure he'd get as much as he could. If he wanted to escape, he would need all the energy he could get.

Yet he felt uncomfortably observed. Looking up, he noticed that Bob was watching him eat, with no expression on his face whatsoever. He suddenly felt like he was television himself, an entertainment for Bob's amusement. That was probably what he was, whenever his tormentor came to visit. Eventually, Bob's thin lips curled up into a little smile.

"You're on the news," he informed out of the blue.

"I'm on- I'm on the news?" Bart repeated in disbelief.

"There's a search party looking for you. Once again, people are talking about Bart Simpson all over town. How repulsive," he added in a growl, obviously unhappy people hadn't forgotten all about him yet.

Hope came back in full force in Bart's heart. "Ah! Not too long before the cops get over here and send you right back to jail."

"No one will look for you here," he said darkly, staring right into his eyes with an eerie confidence in his words.

"Are you kidding? You're always the prime suspect when anything happens to me, you know that, right?"

"No, no, no. Not this time, Bart," he replied, smiling again. "After all, you ran away from home."

"What the...? What are you talking about? You fucking kidnapped me!"

"That's not what the news say. You even packed a few things before you left."

"Wha- I didn't even... What are they saying on the news?"

"Let's see..." Bob began as he took a newspaper clipping from his pocket. "Missing. Local teenager Bart Simpson missing since the night of the fifth... No trace of a break-in... probably ran away from household with some personal belongings... If you have any information, please contact the Springfield Police Department. Of course, I will not," he chuckled to himself.

Bart's enthousiasm vanished and shock took its place. How could anyone believe he would run away? Was it the reason no one had raided Bob's house yet? And Lisa, could she really believe it to be true? So much of what the article said didn't make sense to him.

"What do they mean by 'some personal belongings'?"

"That was my plan. Sneak into your room, knock you out, and nudge the police into the right direction. 'You' packed some clothes in your backpack before running off into the night. Your current life isn't exactly all bright and happy anymore, is it? After all, you even had the courtesy of leaving the safety of your own house for me. I'll admit you almost caught me off guard there, but I made good use of your bad decision."

"Who cares?" Bart replied with unconvincing insolence. "Lisa knows you were following me around. She knows where I am."

"You told Lisa about me?" Bob asked with a slight twitch. "And what did she think, exactly? Do tell."

To that question Bart could only look away. He had opened his heart to her, to tell her the worst aspect of his young life. And what did it get him? A heated argument with her. His sister never believed him, and now she might even believe that he ran away. He would never tell Bob the truth, though, as it hurt enough already.

"She'll come get me..." he sighed quietly, trying to convince himself.

Bart flinched when Bob unexpectedly stood up. He watched in fear as he hurled the table separating them out of the way, knocking the empty bowl to the floor, all in the most noise that was ever heard in this room. His eyes were burning with anger as he closed the short distance between them, and Bart sank back on his chair.

"My plan is perfect this time, Bart. There is nothing left for you outside. No one – and I mean no one – is coming for you, not even your dear sister. You are mine, now and until the end of your days."

"You're a... fucking psychopath..." Bart said shakily, his brain turning all filters off.

He was expecting a world of pain for the insult. Instead Bob just smiled and leaned in toward him, resting his hands on either side of Bart's chair, until they were face to face and Bart could hear his own heartbeat thumping through his head.

"I don't accept compliments."

After Bob released him from his restrained position, Bart let go of the breath he'd been holding and his heartrate slowly returned to normal. He was relieved he didn't get beaten, but he was tired. He was still able to sleep, but he was tired in his soul. He had no idea how long he'd been here, days or weeks. He didn't even understand why Bob was feeding him at all.

"When are you gonna kill me, Bob?"

"Never."

"What?" he said, looking up at him.

"I spoke the truth to get my parole," he replied, then raised his right hand as if he was standing in a courthouse. "I no longer want to kill Bart Simpson. And it is true, I find no interest in ending your life any more. This is far more fulfilling to me. Far more deserving for you. You're much better entertainment alive than you'll ever be as a corpse. Don't get me wrong, there was a time when turning your body into an unrecognizable mess would have been the apotheosis of my life. But I realized – weeks, months, a lifetime of fun, or a mere minute of murder... It doesn't even compare."

Bart's eyes widened as he observed him. It was like something inside of the older man had snapped. Sideshow Bob's objective had shifted to a more sinister direction, if that was at all possible. Keeping him here forever, until he died of sickness, or until Bob died of old age.

For a moment, all hope of a rescue faded away from Bart as his mind turned to dark thoughts.

"Well... I can always kill myself, you know. What would you do, then?" he asked with a mocking smirk.

"Kill yourself?" Bob laughed heartily, sending cold chills down his spine. "Bart, please, you are far too proud and optimistic to end your own life. There will always be that spark of hope in you. You will never give in to despair, especially if it grants me the pleasure of your death."

Bart lowered his head in spite of himself. He had a point, but it didn't mean he would be defeated. Things couldn't end this way for the former legendary Bart Simpson. But he realized that was all Sideshow Bob hoped for. Checkmate.

"You're... You're damn right!" he replied with as much hatred as he could muster. "You know how we tangle, Bob. You ain't never gonna win. Just you wait."

But Bob just winced at his words. "You should learn your own language so that you wouldn't sound like a fool so much."

Despite Bob's change of plan, Bart's priority didn't change – to get the hell out of here. Now he knew he had all the time in the world to think of an escape. The only problem was that he had to deal with a psychopathic maniac whose sole objective wasn't to kill him anymore, but to torture him, with no hope of an ending to it.