"Hey!" Bart yelled in the dank room as he dropped back onto the bed. He waited a few seconds, listening for any sound. "Heeey!" he yelled again, louder. He listened on, but the only response he got was a dead silence with no echo.
What had he got himself into this time, he wondered in a heavy sigh. He wiggled his arms around, to try and loosen the rope binding them behind his back, but his kidnapper had done a decent job with it. He got to his feet and stepped around his limited environment, testing the resistance of the chain binding him down. He even gave it a good shake, to be as noisy as possible, and stomped his feet for good measure. He had no idea if he was even heard at all beyond this room. Dropping back onto the bed, he tried again and again to free his arms, but the rope was almost cutting the blood circulation.
He didn't even know how long he had been asleep in Bob's basement. According to the maniac, he had taken a while to wake up. It was probably morning already, and thinking about his family made his heart sink. They must have noticed he was gone. His mother was most probably worried sick, Homer must be thinking that he ran away, and Lisa... Well, Lisa had to feel guilty for telling him Sideshow Bob had repented. But despite some resentment, he couldn't help but miss all of them. Despite living in his sisters' shadows, he only wished he had his phone to contact them, tell them where he was, tell them what happened. To swallow his pride and ask for help. But his phone was nowhere to be found, unsurprisingly. His family would call the police, eventually. Yes, Bart told himself, he only needed to wait, to buy time, before Bob eventually ended his life. He needed to make time until he was found.
He inspected every nook and cranny in the room, looking at everything to find something that could help him out, to escape or to beat up Bob with. There were no windows, the only connexion with the outside world was the very door Bob had walked out of. Everything else seemed out of the reach of his chain, beside his basic 'commodities'. He gave the toilet a dirty look. He certainly wasn't looking forward to using it, but at least he wouldn't shit in a bucket, he thought. That must be what Bob considered 'basic decency'. Against the walls was boring furniture anyone would find in a basement, but nothing that would help him in any way. Bart noticed a wine rack, and imagined breaking one of the bottles on Bob's skull, if only he was close enough to them.
His eyes wandered back up the staircase, and next to the door, he noticed a key hanging on a hook. There it was, his only way out. If only he wasn't affixed to the floor, but of course Bob had taken precautions. No loose ends so far, as far as Bart knew, but at least now he had an objective. After many attempts, and after working through the pain to loosen the rope, Bart finally managed to free his wrists. He laughed triumphantly, it felt incredible to be able to move his entire body freely. There was some hope, he was sure of that. He would always get out of Bob's grasp. He was Bart Simpson.
The silence, his only company, felt like eternity was crushing him. He was growing hungry too, which didn't help his current state at all. Careful not to graze his injured wrists, he eventually lay down on the bed, not thinking he would ever fall asleep here, but he ended up dozing off.
An unlocking sound jerked him out of his sleep. Given how difficult his waking up was, hours must have gone by. He observed the door with painful apprehension, and when it started opening, he quickly got up to his feet and put his arms behind his back. Bob was back, and he walked down the stairs with his usual composure.
"Sleep well?" he asked when he came to a stop in front of him.
That question sounded strange to Bart. He had just woken up again, and he could only wonder how much time had passed since his last visit. Obviously, the police hadn't got to Bob yet. He didn't answer his question - of course he hadn't slept well – instead he glared at him with all his hatred. It only earned him a soft smile from the redhead.
"You know, I could feed off that stare for days on end. It's such a shame I have a life outside of you, and you don't."
"Fuck you."
Bart forced his eyes shut when he saw Bob raise his arm. Sure enough, a punch landed right against his stomach, making him cough and take a step back. He almost lost his balance, but found the wooden chair on which to sit his doubled-over body.
"So, you're gonna hit me everytime I talk back to you?" he spat angrily.
"Who knows? You might want to watch your language from now on."
Bart struggled to keep his hands hidden behind his back and decided not to push his buttons for now. Bob was more impulsive than when he was a child, yet didn't seem willing to kill him so far. This made him all the more unpredictable, so he had to be careful for now. He watched him closely as he seemed to revel in beating him up, radiating pure sadistic joy.
"I haven't had this much fun in... God, I can't even recall. This, Bart," Bob paused and pulled out a thin chain from underneath his shirt. Hanging from his neck was a old-looking metal key, which he seemed eager to present to him. "This is you."
"Me?" he asked dubiously.
"Yes, you," Bob replied with a wide smile. "This is the key to your door. A constant reminder of what awaits me at home whenever I'm away."
Bart eyed the key dangling in front of his face with intensity. His brain raced and adrenaline rushed inside his body. In a swift motion as fast as Bob's strikes, he reached with both his hands to try and snatch the precious item from him. The other man was faster, however, and quickly retreated with surprise etched on his face.
"Ah. You freed your arms, I see," he murmured as he tucked the key back against his chest.
Bart tensed up. It had been the perfect opportunity, with his way out so close to him. It had always ended that way with Sideshow Bob – he always got so pretentious, Bart just had to wait for him to make a stupid mistake. But this time, it had failed. He closed his eyes, expected his punishment, but none came.
"No matter," Bob breathed. "I would have untied you, in time. I wasn't going to spoonfeed you, after all. Although, with that slip-up, you won't get a meal for now."
"My leg's still shackled, though."
"Yes, it is," he replied in an obvious tone as he started circling him like a vulture. "Don't expect me to help you with that."
"Why are you doing this?" Bart asked, waiting for his next opportunity.
"Don't you understand? I'm giving our beloved Springfield a true favor," the former comedian began dramatically, in his customary thespian ways. "Ridding its good people of the disagreeable nuisance that thought himself the king of pranks. The only shame in it all is that they'll never know who to thank for it. But I shall remain humble and take no credit for your fortunate disappearance."
"You just love to hear the sound of your own voice, don't you?" Bart sassed, unable to contain himself at the sheer annoyance of the criminal.
His rude remark seemed to have an effect on Bob who sent him a death glare and grabbed his hand. He pressed hard on the bruised skin of his wrist, right where the rope had been digging in not too long ago. The sharp, burning pain made Bart groan loudly, but he tried with all his might to restrain himself and to tear his hand away.
"Not nearly as much as the sound of your screams. You, the bane of my existence..." Bob spoke softly, lost in his own inner thrill. "In my grasp. All I want is your fear. Your despair. That look in your eye that-"
Bart decided he would get none of that. There was nothing to lose, so he pushed his hand away, and balled up his fist into a punch. But the older man was taller, faster, and apparently prepared to handle him. The young Simpson teen just ended up on the cold floor after failing to hit Bob right in the face.
To think that, many years back, Bart had worshipped Krusty's duo with Sideshow Bob. That silly man in a grass skirt being ridiculed by his hero had made him laugh more times than he could remember. Now, his life was in peril by his hand, his safety hanging by a thread. He got back on his feet, huffing and ignoring the pain, and retreated back to the bed as Bob brushed the short commotion off.
"Mph... All you need for now is a nice taste of loneliness. To know what it's like to rot in a cell," he grumbled as he began to leave.
Watching him walk up the stairs, Bart remembered what he had showed him so proudly.
"Can I ask you a question?" He asked him, choosing his words carefully.
"Go ahead," Bob replied.
"What's the key next to the door?"
Bob briefly glanced at the object of his quiery and raised a condescending eyebrow.
"That's the key to your chain," he replied matter-of-factly. The door was opened and he disappeared once again into what was unreachable freedom.
So, Bart would need both keys to break free. Damn near impossible, then.