Rope and Painted Bottles

The sun over Springfield wavered and dimmed, releasing a drifting darkness over the town. Rows of lit streetlamps shone down upon Moe's Tavern, illuminating the small, dank building with an eerie glow. Within its graying walls barflies buzzed, conversing over the events of the lost day. Among them sat Barney Gumble, hunched over the bar counter with bloodshot eyes, his dark sweater damp with sweat and alcohol. He took another swig of the nearly empty glass of Duff while he stared off into space, deaf to the idle chatter of Lenny and Carl beside him. His gaze wandering around the delicately painted bottles that decorated the back wall behind the bar.

"Aw, Jesus Christ…" a hoarse voice growled, "How many times do I have ta tell ya, Homer? Don't eat da bloody corks!"

Moe Syzlak, bartender by occupation and 'town madman number two' by popular vote (second only to Robert Underdunk Terwilliger), snatched a half devoured cork from Homer Simpson's grasping hands and tossed it violently into the garbage bin. Homer slumped onto the counter, mumbling with an annoyed tone.

Barney's drunken eyes skimmed over the familiar figure he had grown to associate with beer and the dictionary's definition of miserable. Barney felt something different about Moe tonight, as if something had changed inside him. Barney wondered if he should inquire, but decided not to when Moe did something strange and unexpected.

"Jeez, I'm sorry Homer…" Moe mumbled quietly, his hands clenched tightly, "I-uh…shouldn't 'ave snapped at'cha. Uh—crud…here. Have another cork, and…umm…drinks're…on me tonight, guys."

Shock dropped out of the sky onto the bar with a loud crash. Lenny had fallen off his stool. The barflies gawked at the bartender with disbelieving eyes, and then relaxed as they waited for the punch line of this off-color joke.

"W-what? Is there somethin' wrong with ya morons?", Moe snapped weakly, "I just…"

Barney decided to enter his question before someone else fell.

" Are you all right, Moe?", his warbling voice cut through the awkwardness like a knife, and Moe reacted as if it had stabbed him square in the chest. Moe stepped back from the bar; his hands started shaking violently, so he shoved them in his stained apron pockets. The flies stared at the new development, gawking at Barney, then at Moe and back to Barney.

"Why the hell do ya think I'm not all right, idiot?!" Moe gasped for air," I'm just…uh...taking some new-fangled drug that my doctor prescribed ta me.", he grinned innocently (causing the flies to wince with pain at the sight of it),"Why? Did I do something weird?" He started wiping down the counter with animated energy.

"You shouldn't do stuff like that, Moe." Carl said kindly," Remember what happened when Homer took drugs." He elbowed Homer in the gut good-heartedly, which the latter seemed to loath tremendously.

"Yeh, you're right Carl…" Moe said quietly, "I'll stop tomorrow."

"Jeez, you really are acting weird." Lenny said, "What are you taking, anyway?"

"Huh? Oh-um…I…don't remember what it's called." Moe mumbled, "What's wrong with ya, Barney?" Barney dropped his gaze to the floor. "Nothing…" he whispered. "Well don't stare at me like-Hey! Is that da time? We're closing up, boys, so scram awready!" Moe waved towards the door.

"What about our free Duff, Moe?" Barney voiced pathetically. Moe's hand froze on its way towards the shotgun and Moe's face went blank with thought and confusion.

"…Yeh, okay. Ya can 'ave one each...only one, though!" he said softly with a spit at the end.

"Woohoo!!" Homer threw his hands up in glee. Lenny and Carl exchanged puzzled looks momentarily before resuming their seats at the counter.

Barney sat with his eyed unfocused in deep concentration, but the large glass mug of Duff placed before him replaced those thoughts in a heartbeat, which was almost as fast as he consumed it.

" Ah. There it goes."

Moe sighed deeply, but it ended up making his chest hurt even more. His breathing was ragged and uneven, his face damp with sweat. He bit his lip, clutching at his chest and trying to ease the overwhelming pain he felt there. The now empty bar glowed from a single bare bulb that silhouetted the bartender's figure against the stained and crumbling wall.

He took a small bunch of papers out of his pocket and placed them beneath an ashtray. His hand stopped. He stared blankly at the empty space where Barney Gumble had been sitting only moments ago-- where he had asked him if he was all right. The pain seared through his chest as he remembered how he had lied. He lied to them, to Barney, like he had done so often. But he felt this time was different and the guilt that he had lied to them on the last day he would ever see them cut him through like lightning. He felt his breath crack and his eyes sting as he climbed up onto the counter and pulled the rope out of his apron.

Barney swaggered in the direction of his home in a drunken daze, his hands thrust in his pockets. He turned back to look at the dim light of Moe's Tavern's window, his brow furrowed in concentration. Barney sighed deeply and resumed his drunken swagger before he stopped again. Something flashed in his eyes and he started to run back to the tavern as fast as his thick legs could carry him.

The tavern door gave way easily to pressure, the rotting wood cracking at the handle from the weight of the solid man, and swung back after allowing him entrance. Barney stumbled in gasping for breath and his hair plastered down with sweat on his forehead in an uncharacteristic way. His eyes darted around the room at the beer, counter, jukebox, stools, peanuts, the jar of pickled eggs, beer, ashtrays, letter, beer…

He went over and filled a glass with the cool, refreshing liquid and guzzled it down quickly. He then remembered why he was there and he carefully returned the glass to its place on the counter. He looked around the dimly lit room, scanning for his lost friend, when he suddenly hit his head on something hanging from the ceiling.

"MOE!!"

Barney panicked his hands grabbed for the knife on the counter that the man in the air had always used to threaten customers with. He clambered onto the counter, trying to stay balanced, slipping on the peanut shells that lay askew there; all the while waving the knife desperately at the rope the held his beloved friend captive. He grabbed Moe's arm, pulling him close to himself, and finally severed the rope. Barney's poor, drunk balance gave in and he fell heavily from the counter, holding Moe tightly in his arm while the other flailed wildly, upsetting the lamp which fell to the ground with a crash. Barney fell hard onto the hard floor between the back wall and the counter. His head hit something hard while Moe's added weight crushed him to the wall where he stayed, unmoving, breathing heavily while the world spun before his eyes. He closed them hard, trying to ease the throbbing in his head. He then opened them slowly and looked down at Moe, his eyes started to blur and sting. He tilted his head up and stared at the bottles that had been painted there so delicately by the pallid, non-breathing man he now held…

All was dark and quiet in the tavern. Broken glass littered the wooden floor and a piece of cut rope hung unwavering from the ceiling. The bar counter was strewn with remnants of peanuts, and the ashtrays were over turned; yet there remained a single tray left correctly that had some crumpled papers crammed beneath it.

Behind the counter sprawled the large body of Barney Grumble, breathing heavily and his hands trembling, he held the small, silent figure of Moe Syzlak close to his chest. Barney stared blankly at the silent man, his eyes clouded with shock, sadness, disbelief and terror. He felt the tears welling up again, his bloodshot eyes stinging as they broke free and streamed down his face.

"M-Moe…" he whispered hoarsely. "Don't you dare d-d..." he bent forward, holding the grey haired tightly to his body. "G-god damn it, Moe…why didn't…didn't you…"

Barney's voice broke and his breath shook violently, tears streaming down his face, as he clutched the limp man closer and closer.

"GAH!"

The dead man shot forward, gasping like a fish and clutching his throat. Moe Syzlak hacked and coughed violently, his body shaking and writhing.

Barney stared at him blankly with his now extremely bloodshot eyes; his voice seemed to have disappeared completely.

The bartender clutched violently at the air before him, as if blind. Barney took his hands in his own and held onto them tightly.

Moe's coughing stopped eventually, so he laid there on Barney's lap shaking and staring off at nothing for what seemed ages before he spoke in his trembling and gravely voice.

"B-Barney?"

"Yes, Moe…" Barney sighed deeply in relief.

Moe tilted his head down, a shadow covered his face.

"Am I… a-alive?" he breathed.

"Yes, Moe…"

The bartender flinched and his breath slowed, though remaining uneven and hoarse.

"What are ya doin' here anyway, Barney?" he coughed and his hands clenched tightly. "We're closed… I could sue ya for trespassin'."

Barney didn't answer and he felt his breath begin to tremble.

"W-why would you do that, Moe?" he whispered, "You've never actually… gone through with it to this point. Did something happen that you didn't tell us about?"

Moe stared at the floor before him, his eyes clouded and his fists shaking violently. Blood started to trickle from his mouth down his chin, dripping slowly onto his already stained apron. He realized this yet continued biting his lip with a painful determination, as if stopping would unleash a horde of demons onto the world. He turned his face away from Barney, though he was still sitting on his lap, and opened his mouth as if to say something, but closed it again just as quickly.

Barney stared at the bartender; his frame was darkened by the lack of light. Barney knew Moe very, very well; his life of being a boozehound included hanging around Moe's Tavern for hours, if not days, on end. Despite his distant familiarity with the notoriously angry, suicidal and psychotic ex-boxer, he never really had the chance to speak with him openly, for Moe was a very closed person.

"Did you call the...uh… hotline, Moe?" Barney inquired carefully.

No answer.

"Do you owe money or something?"

No answer.

"Did a girl dump you?"

He felt Moe flinch, yet he remained silent. Barney looked at him softly and put his hand on the bartenders shoulder, pulling his closer.

"You know what I do when I lose the will to live?" Barney said in a mater-of-fact, his familiar warbled voice cutting through the rising tension. Moe turned slightly, though not enough for Barney to see his face.

"I try to remember all the good times I had in my life. Did you know most of them happened at this very tavern, Moe? Things like re-uniting the Barbershop Quartet on the roof, or the time we had that secret meeting when Homer was taking drugs and Lenny got poisoning, or just getting plastered and falling asleep on the pool table. I've never really fallen in love with a girl that didn't dump me or run away screaming when I came back from drinking. But, I don't really mind, y'know, I enjoy just spending my time here with you guys and the beer. I don't even mind the rats and cockroaches any-"

Moe turned towards him, tears streaming down his face; and, wrapping his arms around Barney's thick torso, pressed his face to his chest and cried. Barney looked surprised for s moment, but that quickly subsided gently held the bartender close to himself as he let out the pain and sorrow that had accumulated in his mind for so long.

"Are you alright, Moe?" Barney asked after Moe's tears had subsided.

"Yeh."

"Do you want to tell me what happened?"

"…U-uh. I don't…"

"I promise I won't laugh."

Moe looked up at Barney's face, distress written in his eyes as he turned away again.

"I-uh-don't know how ta begin. The only time I ever talk ta someone 'bout my problems is over da phone when I call da suicide hotline." He glanced back at Barney, whose bloodshot eyes showed only patience, alcohol overdose and lack of sleep.

"Fine, fine." He sighed," I guess its just accumulated ova' time. I've never been in successful relationship with a dame, y'know. They all just end up leavin' me, like Renee…" Moe's voice trembled at the mention of the name. "U-uh, I-umm… and I got a lot of financial issues right now, too. No one ever pays their tabs, and it really builds up ova' time. Uh… I hate myself, and I feel like I'm never gonna get anywhere in life. I don't think anyone actually cares if I live or die…" he looked into Barney's eyes sullenly, "…With an exception, of course. I don't know how ya did it, man. How did ya manage ta save me anyway?"

"Um. I heard the beer calling me.", Barney mumbled, "The beer saved you."

Moe stared at him with an amused expression and suddenly noticed something about the half drunken man's eyes.

"Were ya cryin'?" He breathed quietly.

Barney's brow furrowed and he broke away from Moe's inquiring gaze.

"You cried for me? You cried for me? I…you…didn't…"

The bartender started to shake violently and fresh tears started to gather in his eyes.

"Shit…I've got somethin' in my eye again…" he whispered,"…I-I…don't…" He gripped Barney's sleeve tightly, pressing his face against his arm. "You… you're such a idiot. A big, drunken idiot."

Barney wrapped his arms around the quivering man, holding him tightly.

"I love you guys so much… you, Homer, Lenny, Carl, Maggie, the cat, the jar of eggs, the rats, the tavern…"

Moe laughed quietly.

"I was so stupid to not realize that ya might've cared about me too."

Epilogue-

"Homer! Don't eat the goddamn corks!"

"But I'm hungry, Moe…"

"Hey Moe! What's that mark on your neck? Did ya get it caught on something?"

"Yeh. My head got caught in da dryer…Barney saved me though."

"Good one, Barney. Hey, can I eat one of the eggs instead, Moe?"

"Go ahead Homer. Ya have ta pay for it though."

"D'oh!"

The bartender glanced at the figure sitting next to the ashtray; drinking his Duff like there was no tomorrow. Barney Gumble returned the look with a drunken grin and motioned to have his glass refilled.

"I got some money to pay some of the tab today, Moe."

"Thanks Barney. This one's on da house though."

As the sun over Springfield wavered and dimmed, releasing a drifting darkness over the town. Rows of lit streetlamps shone down upon Moe's Tavern, illuminating the small, dank building with an eerie glow. Within its graying walls barflies buzzed, conversing over the events of the lost day. Among them were a barfly and a bartender. Barney Gumble, hunched over the bar counter with bloodshot eyes, his dark sweater damp with sweat and alcohol. He took another swig of the nearly empty glass of Duff while he stared off into space, deaf to the idle chatter of Lenny and Carl beside him. His gaze following the movements of Moe Syzlak, the second most psychotic man in town, resident dictionary definition of the word miserable, frightening and unloved by most. But he loved and was loved by a few, and he was alive. Moe noticed Barney's wavering gaze and approached him.

"Do ya need somethin', Barney?"

"Duff."

"Comin' right up."

The boozehound took a swig of the newly filled glass of Duff as he stared off into space. His gaze wandering around only to settle upon the delicately painted bottles that decorated the back wall behind the bar. The bottles that had been painted there so delicately by the ugly, miserable man he loved so dearly.