Simpsons - Habits - Ch. 07

Marge was busy at work cleaning dishes, drenched with soapy suds and grimy leftovers up to her elbows, when the phone upon the wall of the Simpson's family kitchen rang. She gave a somewhat irritated glance to the phone and sighed to express the aggravation further. She withdrew her hands from the sink, bubbles and murky water dripping from her hands and splattering upon the floor. She quickly snatched a freshly-washed cloth from the counter, wringing it with her hands as she made a futile attempt to dry them completely before answering the phone, "hello?"

The well-curved woman rested hand upon hip and leaned against the counter, phone nestled between shoulder, jaw, and ear as she listened intensively to the professional voice on the opposite line, "um, this is his mother… is there something wrong?" A motherly concern laced about her words as her mind instantly flashed images of her eldest child in harm's way, only to be sighed away when the man assured her it was nothing of that nature. "Well, that's good…. Oh, well, I'll have to ask his father…. Uh-huh, yes, I understand; we'll be there soon."

She hung up the phone and returned to the sink that remained half-filled with dirty dishes and extraordinarily filthy water. The towel she held was carelessly tossed away to the countertop as she turned upon the heels of her tomato-orange shoes, the shoes clacking as she approached her youngest child's highchair. A beaming smile tugged at her face as the infant girl stared down at the boney dog, which rested lazily upon the floor and yearned for treats to rain from the highchair, and suckled happily on her pacifier.

"Alright, Maggie," Marge spoke with a grin as she wrapped her arms around her child, lifting the baby from the chair and clutching her to chest, "how would you like to go with Mommy to pick up Bart?"

A simple and abnormally noisy suckle of the binky was the woman's response. Maggie rested against her mother as she was carried about the house as Marge searched for her keys and took a brief moment to fix her hair. The infant rolled her eyes at the woman's fussiness over something so trivial, but was damned by young age with an inability to protest. Her eyes widened happily as the scenery no longer contained their reflections and had transformed to that of the outdoors.

---

Grumbled strings of profanity flittered about the air, hands clutching an almost ridiculously soft steering wheel. Moe's eyes skimmed from one futuristic feature of the stretch limousine to the next, his mind rendered unable to comprehend the various buttons, knobs, and levers. Even if he hadn't swigged back a decent amount of alcohol, the car would have been utterly foreign to him. There were bulky knobs where a radio would be in any other car, levers where window controllers should have been, and a series of flashy, neon lights were scattered here and there. What would have seemed a brilliant luxury worthy of murder to most, seemed a heinous waste of money to Moe.

"Alright," he groused through a sharp sigh as he pressed his back into the heated seat, tightening his grip on the wheel until jaundiced knuckles paled to white, "let's see how dis baby purrs." He turned the key in the ignition, anticipating the clunky sputters and noisy revving of his own car, a brow arching when none of those noises came to pass. "Da hells? Waylon, dis car's a piece of –,"

"For the love of God, Moe," Waylon spat with frustration as he clutched the bridge of his nose, angrily slamming his arm on the rest of the door as he lifted his head and readjusted his fogged glasses, "it's a brand new model, it's not going to sound like that heap of junk of yours!"

The bartender harbored a strong glare, shooting it toward the unfazed man in the passengers' seat.

"Ay, youse don't talks about her dat ways," he defended the ragged car that appeared to be pulled off the set of a broken down, abandoned nineteen-fifties' film set, "she's a classic."

"A classic piece of junk," the bespectacled man muttered the insult beneath his breath as he returned his head to rest upon his hand. He drew in a cleansing breath to no avail, only succeeding in raising his anxiety levels in the attempt to calm himself. "Look, just drive. Mr. Burns is probably in recovery now, and if he wakes up without me by his side, I'll be out of a job… again."

Moe gagged upon the man's name, "damn, Burns. Don't cares about no ones but himself."

An exasperated breath, "he's not that bad, Moe. Sure, he's done some…" Smithers paused and chose his words carefully and selectively, "questionable things in the past, but he has his moments."

"Doubt it," Moe scoffed and his eyes rolled before refocusing upon the lonely stretch of road. By some miracle, he managed to shift the car into drive with an accidental turn of a knob, which took the place of a traditional gearshift.

---

Blood continued to gush profusely from the paling elder, who was lolled upon the bitterly-cold operating table. Despite various efforts and well-conducted slight of hands, Burns' rare scarlet fluid ceaselessly spilled and coated medical instruments, gloved hands, and scrubbed bodies that all worked diligently to stop the madness.

Hibbert's brow knitted with determination as he clamped possible sources of the spouting, holding his breath over the stitch of hope he had to stop it. After delicate motions and multiple readjustments and tool replacements, the doctor accomplished what he had begun to fear was impossible – the bleeding episode was over.

The closest colleague to the doctor instinctively vacuumed over the area with a tube, suctioning the double O-negative blood that was so crucial for their patient's survival.

"Damn it," Hibbert muttered the infrequent profanity despite his success, "that Simpson boy needs to get here now, or this man's going to die right here on this table!"

"But, Dr. Hibbert," a timid, feminine voice of a scrubbed-up nurse flitted to the head surgeon's ears, "you stopped the bleeding. I-isn't that what you wanted?"

Hibbert's characteristically happy mood was replaced with an emotionless glare to the woman, who hadn't been in her field longer than a few short years, "are you new here? Mr. Burns has lost a significant amount of blood – considering his age, weight, and his current medical state, if we don't perform a transfusion immediately, all this is for nothing."

---

Marge hummed along with the quiet tune that drifted from the radio as she drove along the road. She occasionally let her eyes wander to the rearview mirror to check on little Maggie, who was nearly asleep in her car seat. The proud mother-of-three softly chuckled at how adorable the baby was, her mind being brought back to reality as her eye caught glimpse of her eldest child skateboarding on the sidewalk just dashes up the road from where she drove. She beamed, glad to not be forced to hunt him down at one of his many friends' houses and perhaps even happier that he wasn't wreaking havoc upon the small town, speeding up just enough to catch up with Bart.

"Bart!" She called as she rolled down the window; the car slowed to the speed of the child on his skateboard. "Bart, you have to come home now."

"Mom?" A stunned reaction that caused an imbalance between immovable child and unstoppable skateboard; the board flew out from under the youngster, who landed firmly and squarely upon the concrete. "Gah, not cool, Mom!"

Marge's eyes had expanded in motherly concern for her injured child, her attitude changing as Bart took a rather displeasing tone with her, "hey, don't yell at your mother. Anyway, get in the car; we've got something very important to do for Mr. Bur- erm, something very important to do."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Bart stammered as he clambered back to his feet, brushing dust and pebbles from his clothes and skin, "that bag of bones already got my blood; what more could Mr. Burns want from me?"

The woman nervously chuckled as she shifted the car into park and unlocked the doors, "funny you should mention that."

The Simpson boy was one foot in the backseat of the car before he paused, his eyes narrowing and his lips pursing, "no way! Nuh-uh! There is absolutely no way that I am ever doing that again!"

---

Two cars – one a simple family vehicle, the other the transportation of the rich and famous – were set on a collision course as they each entered the vast parking lot of Springfield's hospital. The one that carried the quaint family of five pulled into a cramped parking space between two other unfortunate souls that had to be admitted to such a grim place, while the car that carried two drunken, bickering men pulled into a wide space that was reserved for those on the higher spectrum of the food chain.

The chubby father-of-three, Homer Simpson, hopped out of the family's car with excitement in his giddy steps.

"Oh boy, one more chance at Mr. Burns' riches! Dreams really do come true!"

"Oh, Homer," his tall-and-blue-haired wife groaned as she gathered her purse and climbed out of the car, "we're not in this for the money. Remember what happened last time?"

"Pfft, yeah, but that was then. Old Burnsie's on his death bed, he's probably so out of it that he'll agree to anything," Homer ecstatically rambled before lowering his voice to a greedy, sinister whisper, "like leaving all his money and estate to the Simpsons family."

The two elder children followed their parents' leads and exited the vehicle, Bart's eyes frantically searching for escape as he planned to bolt to his freedom. His younger sister, eight-year-old Lisa, watched him with steady, vigilant eyes, making certain his escape would be foiled instantly.

"You're not planning on running, are you, Bart?" Lisa pressed in such an accusing manner that it made the question obsolete.

The question was answered with a scoff and sprinkles of spit flying upon her face, "no-o-o-o," came the elongated and obvious lie, "why would I do that and miss out on getting another giant, useless statue?"

"Well," the young girl remarked as she swiped away the saliva from her face, "I hope not. Sure, Mr. Burns is an evil, crooked, tyrannical man, but he doesn't deserve to die because of that. You have a long life ahead of you, Bart, and Mr. Burns… well, we all know he's about as close to death as you can get."

"But, what's in it for me?"

"Riches, my dear boy!" Homer cried and clicked his heels together as he strolled happily into the waiting room and up to the front desk. "Hello, madam – Simpson, Homer J., proud father of Bart Simpson – the Bart Simpson."

---

Waylon staggered over his own two feet as his head hung, eyes transfixed on the ground and mind left at the bar owned by the man who followed him step-for-step. Firm, quick hands grabbed onto his broad shoulders and roughly tugged his body aside, sending the broken man's mind reeling and spinning as his ears were assaulted by blaring horns and angry swears from a disgruntled driver.

"Sheesh, Waylon!" Moe spat irritably as he held steady to the other's bulky shoulders, his own heart pounding as fear throbbed in each pump. "Youse tryin'sta get yo'self killed or whats?"

"Ah, h-huh?"

"Youse almost gots hit by dat damn maniac!"

"Oh…." Smithers trailed off with lips agape, his mind still incapable of registering the events that almost led to his own demise. His eyes were ample behind thick-framed lenses as his vision swam upon seas of alcoholic worry and chaos.

The thickly-accented yelling coupled with the sheepish, distraught murmurs drew Marge's attention, the voices impossible to mistake for anyone other than their owners. She turned upon her heels, Maggie dozing in her arms and bothered by the sudden movement, and noticed the two men standing in close proximity. She gestured for her other children to shadow their father while she approached Moe and Waylon, a tense frown upon her face.

"Mr. Smithers," her greeting being that of a sympathetic woman, "I'm so sorry to hear about Mr. Burns. But, they have great doctors here, and I'm sure everything is going to be just fine."

Smithers tormented eyes simply stared upon the woman's face, angered at the way she spoke to him with such pity. He breathed heavily as his lips parted to speak, only to be interrupted by the man that drove him to the hospital, "uh, no offense dere, Marge, but Waylon ain't exactly in da moods ta talk."

"O-oh? Well, that's okay. Um, mind if we keep you two company while you wait?" Marge asked with an apprehensive smile, nudging her head toward the sleeping baby in her arms.

"Whatever!" The frustrated assistant shouted with unintentional spite as he hurriedly advanced toward the automatic doors. "Just… it doesn't matter. Do whatever you want."

The bartender gave a slight smirk and light chuckle at the other man's spat, and he leaned closer to the woman that towered over him, "told youse so. So's, what are youse doin's here? Da rugrat gots a cold or somethin'?"

The woman gave him a befuddled glance as she unsurely responded, "you mean, neither of you know?"

"Know what?"

"Moe, we had to bring Bart here for another transfusion. Apparently, Mr. Burns took a turn for the worst during surgery and needs blood."

Panic struck the tavern owner as he shook his head with a pitiful respire. His already scuffed shoes kicked at the pavement and one of his hands worked nervously at the back of his neck, "Aw jeez… uh, do me a favors and don't mentions dat ta Waylon."

---

Bart was forcefully held down in his chair by his father, unable to flee the building if he tried.

"C'mon, Homer, let go. I'm not going to do anything."

"Ha, I don't think so, boy. Can't take any chances, you know."

The ten-year-old lowered his head into his hand and grumbled, pinching at the bridge of his nose, "I can't believe I'm doing this again."

And with that final feeble protest, a pointed and unnervingly cold needle prickled its way deep into the vein of the boy's arm, ravenously sucking at the liquid and storing it in an external unit.

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