Simpsons - Habits - Ch. 06

Musty air filled with tension suffocated Smithers as he clutched a glass of scotch with one hand and the bridge of his nose with the other. His glasses were pushed atop his head, frames intertwining with gelled sprigs that fell astray from his typical buzz-cut. He pinched his nose and his eyes tightened to the point of stars invading his vision.

Warm alcohol slipped over his lips, lined his esophagus with the fires of Hell as the dark liquid slithered into his gullet. He cringed a bit at the scorching heat, quickly shaking it off as he fumbled for his wallet. After cracking open the leather bi-folds, he slid a twenty across the sticky countertop to Moe, who was leaning upon the surface using his elbows.

The bartender leaned closer to Smithers, attempting to keep their conversation as low-key as possible.

"Hey, uh, look, Waylon," he began, turning to shout obscenities at Homer, who was attempting some shenanigan that would ultimately drive his business into the ground. "Ay, leave dat alone...! Sheesh, now, where was I? Oh, yeah! Look, Waylon, as much as I loves your money, don't ya think youse have had a little much?"

Smithers' eyes adverted to the tabletop as he sighed. He grumbled something beneath his breath as he collected himself. His voice was rather deep when he spoke in such a slurred whisper that pure, dedicated alcoholics would have struggled to decipher.

"Yeah…." He gulped down the original, harsher response his drunken tongue longed to lash. He bit back the words until they rolled with the waves of scotch in his stomach. "I've just had a rough day."

Moe smirked and cocked a brow, slipping the twenty off the counter and pocketing it before Smithers could change his mind. He leaned toward the well-suited man, offering another glass of scotch, and tried to read his emotions.

"Well, I ain't no therapist, but I am a bartender, and that's basically the same thing. Now, you just put that wallet downs on the counter dere, and tell Moe all about it."

Smithers groaned with an irritating combination of exhaustion and bile, unsure of whether to divulge the rough months that preceded his current pathetic state, "I don't know, Moe, it's kind of… personal. I'd really rather not get into it."

His trembling fingers curled ever-tighter around the grooved glass, swishing the dark auburn liquid around in a tauntingly slow manner, watching it as it swirled depressingly around the bottom. The liquid sloshed about hallucinations that clouded Waylon's vision, seeming to foreshadow the unfortunate events yet to pass. It danced about, forcing its victim to face the reality that he'd hoped to escape from – even alcohol had come to betray him it seemed.

The bartender watched as his former business partner sunk deeper down the spiral of depression that Moe had seen many times himself - a darkness that rivaled the interior of coffins. A troubled soul buried so deep within the confines of one man, so hidden away that it could be considered by outsiders to be nonexistent, but only between two of a kind could the dreads of that soul be seen reflected in the other's eyes. Of course, alcohol had a way of dragging those moments toward the surface, which always had a way of guiding two souls together – intentionally or not.

"Ain't dat what bartenders are fo'? Listenin' to dere customers deep, dark secrets so's they'll have somethin' to tell dere other customers about?"

Smithers was unable to suppress a groan, kneading the bridge of his nose between his fingers, "yeah, because that makes me feel easier about telling you my problems…." Sarcasm wittingly laced around his words, worsening the tension that swirled about the polluted air. He drew in a deep gulp from the glass, finishing whatever liquid remained, to wash down the bitter taste his cynicism had left at the back of his throat. "I'm sorry, Moe, it's nothing personal. You know me; I'm always stressed about something."

The clank of the emptied glass against the bar drew Moe's attention for a moment; he collected the glass in his hands, stuffing a questionably dirty rag within it to wipe away whatever alcohol stayed pooled at the bottom. He gave a carefree scoff and waved his hand at Waylon, "don't worries about it – s'not like a little sarcasm ever hurt anyones. But, uh, in all seriousness, what's on your mind?"

---

Hibbert held a stern yet bizarrely calm expression as sweat trickled from his forehead to the scrubs that covered his shoulders. He focused on the delicate procedure, wanting to make certain as much of the tumor as possible was removed before completing his work. He situated and re-situated his hands, steadying them as he searched through several clumps of matter; his heart pounded and his expression fell to show his concern as multiple other masses that had miraculously hidden from their scans appeared. The masses were small – nothing compared to the softball-sized tumor he had been scraping moments before – yet in the most inopportune of places, making it nearly impossible to manipulate them. Yet, Hibbert persisted with his work, thoughts heavily focused on the task at hand.

"You there," he nodded in the direction of one of his colleagues, unable to recall names through the narrow scope of his thoughts, "we're going to need more anesthetic on stand-by - just in case. This surgery is harder than what I thought it would be, and we don't want Burns waking up anytime soon."

"You got it, sir!" The appointed man responded dutifully, swiftly heading out of the room and to the nurses' station to make arrangements for the request.

---

"... So, that pretty much catches you up," Waylon finally finished the long-winded, gut-wrenching tale of how the man he so tragically, unrequitedly longed for had finally begun traveling down the path of old age as the years that had so often been kind to Burns were finally taking their toll. Smithers heaved a heavy sigh as his watery eyes pleaded the bartender for another drink, Moe only glaring at him with distain.

"So's," Moe spoke with a voice of unreadable emotion – or lack thereof, rather. His eyes were transfixed upon the gummy bar as he refilled the scotch and water of the man that appeared as though he were on the verge of suicidal outrage. "Burns is finally on his ways ta kickin' da bucket, huh?" A glare from Smithers shot a chill of icy electricity down Moe's spine, scolding him without a word. "Uh, look, I'm sure he'll's be fine…."

Waylon's eyes were plastered to the surface of the bar, his hand sloshing about the glass in a torturously deliberate manner. His mind violently rocked upon the waves of the scotch in his glass as it tried to gather the sails of his thoughts. No matter the reasoning his logical-half tried to assure, his emotional-half combated with negativity and anguish – an amount of depression comparable only to those already dead and buried, formerly hung from gallows per their own freewill.

"Yeah…." A straight-forward, trailed off response that left an agonizing stretch for the imagination of anyone willing to attempt to decipher. Smithers took a fiery swig from the glass, burning his esophagus in a fruitless attempt to snuff out the raw acid that made his heart tremor, "maybe you're right."

"Of course, I'm right," the taverner was sly in his answer, a mood-lightening smirk curling at the edges of his lips. Despite the bubbling of distaste for Burns, the hope for the elder man's "untimely" demise, and an awkward twinge of jealousy over the amount of emotion Waylon expressed for a man who had never shown him much more than disappointment and grief, Moe kept up a relatively playfully mood to keep his customer's spirits from crashing and burning in the clutches of Satan's hands. "I'm's always right."

Smithers hated himself for the feeble smile that came to his lips, "agree to disagree, Moe."

---

Hibbert's calm and collected nature had slowly begun to deteriorate as the multiple tumors presented a more complex challenge than he had expected from a surgery he performed so routinely. Sweat that had beaded at his brow had started trickling down his vexed face, pooling at his chin before the perspiration was swiped away by one of his faithful assistants.

"We're going to need suction," the doctor's steady voice instructed as he choked back the clear concern in his tone and the desperate apprehension locked in his eyes. Copious amounts of blood hoarded at the flaps of flesh, pouring over the skin and spilling upon the steel operating table and the floor; Burns had once received a transfusion of his rare-typed liquid rubies, only to now lose that and a profound amount more. "We'll need to make arranges for another blood transfusion as well" was the troublesome addition as the doctor took note of the blood that stained the scrubs that covered his perfectly polished shoes, "someone get that Simpson boy and his family on the phone!"

---

The vibration of the cell phone tucked in his suit pocket didn't faze the drunken man, who rested his chin in his hand as he continued to converse with the bartender, who had joined him in the drinking endeavor despite the supposedly illegal nature of that act. Waylon, in his lack of sobriety, mistook the phone's desperate vibrations to reach him as flutters of his heart, forgetting the phone rested in the pocket just above the organ. The intoxicated haze that loomed over his mind and body created a rift between thoughts, emotions, and basic physical activities, further dampening his inhibitions.

Jokes were passed back and forth as were shots of scotch, whiskey, beer, and whatever other alcoholic contents that was stored within the bar. Laughter replaced sobs and self-pities, and smiles replaced broken frowns upon each of the men's faces. In that moment, there wasn't anyone else in the bar as the two carried on like old friends catching up on yesteryears – and quite honestly, the only other patron in the bar, Barney Gumble, was passed out and sprawled upon the sticky, filthy floor.

"Heh, ain't dats da truth," Moe cackled as he lazily ran a dirty dishrag over the bar's surface, responding to a rather morbid joke that Smithers had shot his way. A dull sound of the buzzing vibrations from the other man's phone slashed against the tavern owner's eardrums, causing him great frustration as he swatted near his ear, "damn flies, always gettin' in one ways or another."

A blithe chuckle passed Smithers' lips, which were coated with the taste and scent of alcohol, as he began rummaging into his pocket, "false alarm, Moe, it's just my…." Octaves were dropped, and Smithers' head hung with distress and an abnormally rapid sobering, "- oh God, Mr. Burns!"

"Where?"

"No – it… ugh!" Waylon groaned as he cursed himself and clambered off the bar stool, stumbling yet managing to stabilize himself with assistance from the bar. He swore beneath his liquor-laced breath as he stumbled to the door and fumbled for the keys in his pocket. "S-sorry, Moe, I… I have to go."

Moe's eyes widened as his brow arched, watching the typically composed executive's assistant splutter and stagger about. His first response was of jealousy, a response he dismissed as he ushered himself around the bar, stepping over Barney with disgust, "filthy animal." He shrugged off the stupidity of his regular and continued his stroll toward the frantic man at the door of the bar. "Hold ups dere, Waylon, youse's too drunk ta be drivin's."

Waylon's glasses slid to the tip of his nose and his eyes narrowed coldly, "I'm fine. Besides, you let those goons you call "friends" drive home drunk all the time."

"Yeah, but dey's don't really matt-," an awkward pause that sparked a rush of confused anger. Moe impulsively snatched the keys from Smithers' pathetically loose grip, "just shuddup, I'm drivin'."

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