What appears to be a genderless black silhouette is standing up against a wardrobe , shuffling through a thick sheaf of papers, which totaled thirty-one in all. This is the author's self-insert, Thecrazyfanficcer, aka TCF or Fanficcer, as it preferred to be called. Thecrazyfanficcer is not normal, as one could guess by the fact that it is standing in the 'twisted abyss of my mind;' perched on the top of the wardrobe sits a calm Pikachu, watching as Fanficcer skims and leafs through the first few pages, traversing down the words with its luminous green eyes.

"Here I am with my first Simpsons fanfic on the site," it says with an evil grin, focusing its mad, demented look toward the Pikachu, seeing as there's no audience in sight. "But the weird thing is, despite the fact that I've been watching this great TV show about one crazed yellow-skinned American family for so long, the characters in this Simpsons story are (I think) out of character. Matt Groening, Matt Groening…" It smacks its forehead repeatedly, the slapping sound resonating through the twisted abyss of its mind. "How in the world do you do it?"

"Enough with the shenanigans, TCF!" calls the yellow pocket monster, whose name is Pikasqueaks. "We've had enough!"

"Now, on with the fanfic!" says Fanficcer, making an effort to ignore Pikasqueaks.

"Hear, hear!" Pikasqueaks exclaims, excited. "On with the fanfic!"

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Come gather round, children, it's time ye learns

Of a hero called Homer and a devil named Burns.

We'll march day and night by the old cooling tower;

They've got the plant, but we've got the power.

Relative calmness had settled over the town of Springfield as the afternoon's early rays floated down gently from the sky above, tingeing the rooftops golden and bathing a small, rotund figure down below in yellow light. That is to say, of course, if his skin weren't already yellow.

Whistling, Homer Simpson, local lard-chewing oaf of Springfield, USA, was walking over to his friend Apu's Kwik-E-Mart, his steps high and a song melting into his normally baritone voice. The gravel crunched under Homer's pointed gray shoes as he walked through the department's store's asphalt drive. The door clicked open and slid apart as he entered, his shoes clacking loudly onto the tiled floor. Apu Nahasapeemapetilon, the local shopkeeper, was bent somewhere under the counter, searching for something.

As it turned out, Homer, in his especially good mood that day, called, "Apu! What are you doing?" Under normal circumstances, the call for food would have gone something like "One beer and two gallons of double-chocolate ice cream." That was traditional Homer Simpson for you – but, for all the both of them knew, it was but the beginning of this fateful time in the life of every Springfielder.

Apu resurfaced, a tub of ice cream under one arm. He was straining with the weight, and Homer, suddenly and abnormally in a giving kind of mood today, reached over and relieved the shorter man of his burden.

"Thank you, Homer Simpson, sir," the Indian shopkeeper acknowledged gratefully as he leaned over the tubs, panting. "It will be the races in two days and Mr. Burns has ordered a large amount of ice cream."

"Ooh," Homer intervened without listening to Apu, his mouth forming into his traditional O of desire in the presence of food. He tried snatching the tub from the counter where he'd deposited them, but the shopkeeper got him first.

"No, sir! If you want some ice cream, you will have to buy some yourself."

The yellow-skinned oaf checked his pockets sadly, lifting out his wallet and flicking it open. The picture of his wife, Marge Bouvier Simpson, his ID and associated paraphernalia opened up at him, but there was no actual cash – not even a credit card. So, Homer thanked Apu, his feet dragging together as he left the general store. He carefully thought about what he had heard. Everyone knew that the Springfield Games, held by Charles Montgomery Burns, the aged owner of the local nuclear power plant – were scheduled late every June. As Homer pondered the question, he remembered hearing somewhere that the greedy old miser had set them up to increase his potential outcome.

He didn't know exactly what that meant, but he was pretty sure that it was for Mr. Burns' own egotistical reasons. (After all, Mayor 'Diamond' Joe Quimby would only let something like that happen if offered the right amount of money, or maybe girls. For a mayor, he sure drove a hard bargain.) Either way, he knew, he shouldn't be going to the games; he should be off warning Springfield's general populace of the miser's foolish greed, but – then again – Homer Simpson did not easily block off temptation. He knew he would be going this year, if only for the food.

Seeing as he'd only been gone half an hour and there was nothing to do at his house, save watching TV and drinking beer, Homer decided to walk over to Moe's the local tavern. He'd left his pink sedan at home, but the distance between the Kwik-E-Mart and his usual bar wasn't too great. So, saying goodbye to Apu, Homer walked the way there – strangely enough. He must have been in a really good mood that day.

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"Hey, Homer." Moe Szyslak, the barkeeper and tavern's namesake, was standing behind the counter, wiping a beer glass with his dirty rag as usual. Though he was only middle-aged, his curly hair was already gray and he looked…well, you know…kind of dangerous. He was tall and lanky, and even at the wee hours of the late pre-twilight afternoon, Moe was as busy as always. After all, managing a tavern is no easy task.

Lenny and Carl, Homer's best friends, greeted him as he walked into the bar. The said alcoholic raised his hand in greeting before plopping down on one of the red bar stools and ordering a Duff.

"One beer comin' up," Moe said, putting down the glass he was cleaning with a dirty dishrag and walking over to a beer spout. Taking one of see-through mugs from a rack near the cash register, Moe filled it with honey-colored beer and passed it to Homer.

Homer was about to lift the foaming beer glass to his mouth, but by his own dutiful responsibility stopped it halfway. "I'm sorry, Moe," he intervened sadly, the glass drooping in his curled fist," but I can't pay you back. I don't have any money."

"It's all right," Lenny assured the other man, drinking from his own clear glass. "Moe is giving everyone beers on the house because it's the races in two days."

"Yeah, he's been doing it since yesterday," Carl added, his Buzz Cola can clinking as he drained it in one gulp.

Homer shrugged and chugged his own lug. "Are you guys gonna be there?" he asked, to change the subject.

"Yeah, we're going," Lenny replied casually. "But Barney's not. Too much beer there. He would go crazy,"

Homer glanced sideways at the shadowed form of Barney Gumble, sitting down at his traditional barstool. The man had been in much better shape since he'd started going to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, but even one can of Duff could backfire against all the hard work he'd achieved since deciding to stop his alcoholism. Yes, it was a good idea for Barney not to go to the races this year.

"Well, I'm gonna be there," Homer announced to his friends, slurping at his beer. "Even if it's only for the food."

He spent some time talking with the other men, then left for the night, his feet clomping loudly on the silent sidewalk.

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Homer pulled up the Simpsons' pink sedan at the lawn of Mr. Burns' mansion two days later. It was the races, and everyone was standing in little groups, chatting together excitedly. Balloons and streamers decorated a podium at the front of the wide, grassy lawn; for the moment, it lay unoccupied. No one seemed to think that the races were held for Mr. Burns' economic benefit, but on the other hand it was always that way. The Simpsons preferred it that way, as a matter of fact.

Homer parked the car and the Simpsons wandered out, his wife Marge holding baby Maggie. "Homer, I'm not sure this was such a good idea," Marge confided worriedly in her husband. She was shorter than him, about average height, but her tall blue hairdo stretched higher than his own bald pate.

"Why, Marge?" Homer asked innocently, though he knew perfectly well why.

Sure enough, the answer came:

"Because, Homer, Mr. Burns is only doing it for the money and you know it."

"Yeah, Homer," Bart added. "Even if no one seems to know or care."

Bartholomew J. Simpson, as was his real name, was the ten year-old junior terror of Springfield, local rogue of the small town and a general disgrace to the general adult population. Principal Seymour Skinner, the head administrator of the Springfield Elementary School, was -- in Bart's personal opinion -- the easiest guy for the cool dude to dish his bag of tricks and treats on. Though relatively cool and what's-it-to-you-man, Bart had been a nerd exactly once in his life -- complete with glasses, squeaky voice and high-topped shoes. But for now (and the rest of his preteen life, at least), he was do-badder extraordinaire, distinctly in his element with taunting his father. Bart sure loved his nonexistent career, all right.

"Why you little--" Homer was about to strangle his son, but was distracted by his other daughter, Lisa, pulling at the white top he always wore. Lisa was the second-grade genius of Springfield Elementary, and it showed, too. She was the normally model student -- vegetarian, though the staff hadn't liked it -- who had the annoying habit of always wearing the same red dress every day. Lisa probably had one of the top IQ's in the school and – according to Skinner – without her, its reputation would come crashing around his ears. So as it went, Homer glanced down to see his genius daughter's eyes sneaky and suspicious-looking.

"We have to leave." Lisa tugged hard on Bart's yellow arm. The trickster was about to protest, but then realization dawned on him and the trickster fell silent. "I'm sure it would provide a great opportunity for you and Mom to talk together."

Marge frowned at her daughter. "Lisa, I know what you want to do and it won't work."

"Yeah. We'll all go confront Mr. Burns together," Homer added, drawing himself up in a self-important way. With that, yellow can-shaped head facing the blue horizon, he marched like an army general across the yard, though not without grabbing a peach-and-cream pie to keep his energy for the two-minute walk.

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Mr. Burns was with his faithful assistant, Waylon Smithers, at the edge of the green grounds. "Excellent," the greedy old miser breathed as he stared at the happy jogging forms of the race competitors. "Their money is mine."

Smithers tugged his collar nervously and bit his lip. The way he saw it, Mr. Burns was going to round on him when he heard the news, but he had no choice. "You may not know this, but the people aren't paying." It had taken a lot of courage to say it, but once it he'd got it off his chest, Smithers felt relatively better. Relatively.

"What are you saying, Smithers? Why aren't they paying?"

"Well -- you see, sir, I told them not to," the (cough –supposedly – cough) trustworthy assistant explained, taking a step backward when his boss's evil-eyed glare leered up in front of him. The greedy old man rose from his arm chair before taking another step forward, his head lowered so that his long nose made him look more like a vampire than an actual human being. His every step deliberate and dangerous, Burns advanced – a tall dark shadow above Smithers – who was cowering against the cream-colored wall.

"And why, Smithers? Why did you tell them not to?"

Smithers stepped away from the evil one until he could feel his back crunch on one of the graveled walls of his master's mansion. He threw his hands up over his head, quivering as furiously as a young child from the thirties about to be flogged for the first time. But he was saved; Mr. Burns never finished his tirade; with the next step, his black-shoed foot caught fast on a rock, and the old man came tumbling to his doom – or what seemed to be his doom, anyway. He fell right in front of Smithers, head-first on the emerald-green grass.

"Are you all right?" Smithers uncovered his face and peered at the stickpole-thin form of his boss before crawling forward, weeping. He began to stutter out a hasty apology, but – alas, to use a Dumbledore-ish word – he was stopped.

"Blast this grass!" Mr. Burns spat out a mouthful before facing Smithers face to face. "Of course I'm all right," Mr. Burns assured him suddenly, his head sticking up at an odd angle from the fall. He stared at his servant through eyes that were as livid-looking as always, round and glassy white as usual. He spit out another wad of grass and glared at his assistant through slit eyes.

Smithers helped the old man up, then turned at the sound of arriving footsteps and nearly dropping Mr. Burns in the process. It was the Simpsons, a family who had once helped Smithers in discovering why his father had disappeared over thirty years ago. Though he knew perfectly well the father's name, Homer -- he worked for the power plant -- it was common knowledge that Mr. Burns did not. No, not even after that fateful day when Homer, fed up and tired and supremely annoyed at his boss's incompetence, had attempted to graffiti his name in green spray paint all over Mr. Burns' office. ()

(I've seen way too much of this show, haven't I?)

"Smithers! Who is this fool?" Mr. Burns asked now as he was carefully being levered to his feet by his trusty servant and employee.

"It's Homer Simpson, sir, from sector 7G." The phrase, now uttered countless times through the ages, left a strange feeling in Smithers, one he hadn't had for a long time: annoyance with the boss of the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant. The few times Smithers did try to guide his boss away from the brink of insanity, it was because of this not-so-influential family that he usually prevailed.

"Simpson, eh?" Mr. Burns played greedily with the tie of his tailored suit. "Ah. And why is he, a mere insect in the path of supreme and ultimate power, of such importance to me for?" Burns asked spitefully, his eyes blazing. (Hey, don't ask me -- the characters' white, ball-shaped eyes, coupled with their yellow skin and annoying catchphrases are enough to make the Simpsons one of the toughest shows for me to fanfic out there.)

"He's angry with you sir," Smithers said, trying to rule out his options and figure out what to do. "His family wants to have a word with you, I think."

"Then let us listen," Mr. Burns decided in a most uncharacteristic way, leaning back against the wall of his manor and pressing two fingers against his lips. His head was lowered, giving him a shaded appearance and flashing eyes, like a vampire.

Smithers, for once scared of this now-fearsome being, backed up into the shadows. "Yes, sir," he replied, shakily adjusting his round glasses as he stepped back out of the shadows.

Once he was clear of the vampiric old man, Smithers sighed inwardly. It was an unusual feeling, this…this fear of Mr. Burns, though it wouldn't have been the first time. Nope, it didn't happen often, though there had been one time: when Mr. Burns had become so egoistic and megalomaniacal that he'd tried blocking out the sunlight; that way, according to him, the Springfielders would pay more for his power plant's electricity. Suffice to say, Smithers didn't know just what would happen, but he definitely cared. He had never forgotten what the Simpsons had done about his father some while back, and it was his duty to protect them from the tyranny of Mr. Burns.

As it was, Smithers motioned to the Simpsons to follow him. Determined Homer came first, followed by a nervous-looking Marge; Bart looked suspicious and Lisa slightly scared. Even Maggie, perched in her blue-haired mother's arms, was sucking her pacifier with less vigor than usual. The sucking sounds only resonated every two seconds instead of the usual once a second.

"So," began Mr. Burns, leaning forward on his desk so that his frail fingertips touched each other in a most characteristic fashion, "What is it you have come to tell me?"

"Mr. Burns," declared Homer bravely, stepping forward out of the shadows. An angry expression was on his face; his fists were balled, his teeth clenched, as his hulking figure neared Mr. Burns thin, suddenly tiny one. "Mr. Burns…"

His voice trailed off; his hands flew to his ears as the head honcho himself cried out in exasperation. "Confound it, you blubbering fool! You are one of the few who have dared to force my power from the power plant, and you shall pay! I say, from this day forth, Springfield will be removed of all its television! Blast it, you oaf Homer Simpson! Your beer-slurping, belly-grumbling, TV-watching days are over!"

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() (I've seen way too much of this show, haven't I?)