Author's Note: I am so so so so so so so so so so so so so sorry about the ridiculously long delay! I wanted to get this chapter posted before Christmas, so please consider this my gift to you, my loyal readers.

MERRY CHRISTMAS, HAPPY HANUKKAH, JOYOUS KWANZAA, AND EVERYTHING ELSE AT THIS MOST WONDERFUL TIME OF THE YEAR!

Being Bob

Act XX, Scene I

"For we, which now behold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise." ~ Sonnet CVI

"Hey. Hey, Bob. Bob. Bob. Hey, Butthead. Butthead Bob. Bob. Hey, Bob."

The faint recollection of dancing lights, of music, and of himself, dancing, cold and exposed, under the predatory watch of a woman – of dozens of women, all screaming – trickled away toward the back of Bob's mind. Whether it had been the memory of an actual incident or the memory of a dream, he did not know. The only thing that was certain was the headache it left behind. With great reluctance and irritation, he opened his eyes.

Bart was leaning over the arm of the couch, grinning down at him. In the short time Bob had been living in the Simpson house, he had learned to be wary of the eldest child's intentions.

He sighed and sat up. "What is it now, Brat?"

"It's Bart. B-A-R-T," the boy spelled his name out in a condescending tone. "What are you, dyslexic?"

Bob frowned. "Wouldn't I need insulin for that?"

Bart rolled his eyes. "You're hopeless." He sprang away from the couch and gestured for Bob to follow. "C'mon, Butthead! We're gonna be late!"

"Bob. B-O-B," the man corrected in a deadpan manner. He didn't move. "Late for what?"

Bart smirked. "You know what B-O-B stands for, don't you?"

Bob's expression remained unchanged. "Enlighten me."

"Bart's Other Butt," the boy replied, as though it were obvious. "As I was saying: hurry up, Butthead, or we're gonna be late!"

"Late for what?" Bob asked again, still not moving.

"For school! The bus will be here any second!"

Bart grabbed him by the hand and tried to pull him off the couch, but to no avail. After a moment of watching him struggle, Bob stood up, causing Bart to stumble backwards and land on his rear.

"Oof! Very funny, now COME ON!"

Bart sprinted out the door just as the bus pulled up to the curb outside. Bob stared after him, unsure of what to do. Lisa walked past a moment later, following her brother. She paused and looked back at Bob, who turned his questioning gaze to her. She readjusted her backpack with a shrug.

"Eh, you might as well."

He followed her out the door.

It was an unusually warm spring morning, one that felt more like August than April. Though low in the sky, the sun blazed with the promise of a scorching afternoon. Bob squinted against its glare. He was halfway across the lawn when Marge appeared in the doorway.

"Bob! Wait! You forgot your lunch!"

She hurried over to him, waving a brown paper bag.

Bart gaped at her. "I didn't even tell you I was taking him to school with me! How did you –"

"A mother always knows!" Marge replied cheerfully, handing Bob the bag.

Before he could utter a "thank you", Marge began to straighten out the front of his shirt and brush his hair back from his face, humming as she did so. Bob cringed when she licked her thumb and used it to wipe a smudge of toothpaste from the corner of his mouth, but kept still and silent, enduring the motherly assault.

"Mama's boy!" Nelson shouted out the bus window, earning a chorus of laughs from several other kids who were now watching.

Bob blushed and pulled away finally, turning toward the bus to shoot a threatening glare at his hecklers.

"Oh! Don't forget your sunscreen!" Marge said, producing an orange plastic bottle from seemingly out of nowhere.

Bob glanced down at her slim figure and form-fitting, pocketless dress, wondering where on earth she'd been hiding it.

"Remember what your father said about going outside without protection."

"Relax, Mom," Bart said, leaning out of the open bus door. "It's not like he's going to the beach or anything. Just to school."

"Well, unless you plan on keeping him indoors all day, he should put on sunscreen," Marge replied. "Redheads are very sensitive to sunlight, you know. He could burn really badly if he doesn't –"

"Yeah, yeah," Bart muttered, swiping the bottle from her hand. "I'll make sure he uses it. C'mon, Bob, let's blow this joint."

In the driver's seat, Otto jolted upright.

"Joint? What joint?" he asked innocently, flicking something out the window. He turned to stare in awe at the wild-haired man that boarded his bus. Bob stared back. A moment of awkward silence fell between the two.

"Man, I think one of us is on something," Otto muttered, "but who? And what?"

A small hand grabbed Bob's wrist. Bart pulled him toward the back of the bus and he followed without protest down the narrow aisle, feeling increasingly self-conscious with each row of seats he passed. A cacophony of sibilant whispers seemed to swirl around him. Amid the hisses and murmurs, he thought he heard his name, along with a word that sounded like "sideshow" that was echoed by numerous children throughout the vehicle.

Bart gestured for him to take a seat at the back, next to a blue-haired boy with a large nose and thick glasses.

"Is that who I think it is?" Milhouse asked, staring up at the man in wonderment.

Bob gave a hopeful smile. "You know who I am?"

"Do I!" the boy exclaimed with a chuckle. His own gleeful grin suddenly slipped away. "Do I?"

He looked to Bart, who gave only a charismatic smirk in reply.

Bob sat down next to the two boys. As the bus gathered speed, his hair began to whip and billow about his face due to the open windows. A few kids noticed and snickered. Annoyed, Bob tried to alleviate the problem by tying locks of his hair together under his chin. The end result made him look like he was wearing a wooly babushka. He heard more snickering from the kids but ignored it, doing his best to retain his dignity despite how absurd he looked.

"Hey, Simpson!" Nelson called out from a few seats up. "What's with the ginger dweeb?" He nodded at Bob.

"He's my show-and-tell today," Bart answered proudly.

"Aw, man!" Nelson pouted. "If I'd-a known we could bring in actual people for show-and-tell, I would have brought that hobo from the park that looks like my – I mean, my dad! Yeah, my dad. 'Cuz he totally didn't walk out on me, ya know. He, uh, just prefers to sleep on park benches and eat cat food. Says it puts hair on his chest. Heh-heh."

He gave a nervous-sounding chuckle, then slumped low in his seat and was silent for the remainder of the drive.

When they arrived at the school, however, Nelson perked up again as Ralph Wiggum waddled past his seat. The moment they exited the bus, the bully grabbed the younger boy by the back of his shirt collar.

"Not so fast, dingus," Nelson growled. "You're coming with me!"

"Yay!" Ralph cheered as he was dragged toward the gym.

Scene II

Meanwhile, an eager Bart led an increasingly wary Bob into the main building and down a crowded corridor. Children looked up and gasped when his palm tree-shaped shadow fell over them. Some stared at the man in awe; others recoiled in terror, while still others looked thrilled, as if they'd just spotted a celebrity. All moved out of his way as smoothly as the Red Sea parting before Moses. And just like the sea, they spoke in a chorus of murmurs that ebbed and flowed around him, echoing up and down the corridor. It made Bob nervous.

Suddenly, Bart grabbed his hand and steered him through a door. The faded blue linoleum tiles and the reek of half-dissolved urinal cakes seemed to pry at something familiar in the back of Bob's mind, something… distinctly cold and unpleasant, but familiar nonetheless. Had he been here before? In the boys' bathroom of a public school? Sopping wet and struggling to break free from something? Or someone?

Before Bob could speak, Bart was pushing him into a stall and sliding the door latch into place, locking them both inside. He then dropped his backpack on the floor and began to rummage through it. Bob watched, trying to muster up the will to say something. Not that he even knew what he wanted to say. He had questions, sure, but none that he could trust this odd child to answer to his satisfaction.

"Why are we –"

"Here!" Bart said, pulling something out of his backpack. "Put these on!"

He shoved a bundle of items into Bob's abdomen with enough force to cause the man to stagger backwards until he felt his calves press against the icy porcelain of a toilet bowl. The sensation sent a shiver up his spine, along with another stab of déjà vu. This time Bob was certain he'd been there before. In that very room. In that very stall.

He must have dropped the bundle on the floor, because he was vaguely aware of Bart bending down to retrieve it. He must have zoned out for a moment, too, because the boy's tone had suddenly become quite urgent.

"Come on, Bob! We've got less than five minutes before the bell rings! Get out of those clothes, already!"

Bob gave him a quizzical look before fumbling at his belt buckle.

"Ew! Not right in front of me, SpongeBob Stripper-Pants! Jeez. Wait until I'm outside."

Bob locked the stall door behind Bart and proceeded to undress. The boy paced the bathroom impatiently, waiting for the telltale sound of the latch sliding back. When he heard it, he spun around just in time to watch the stall door slowly swing open to reveal every inch of Bob's naked body. Bart's jaw nearly hit the floor.

"Ay caramba!"

At that moment, Milhouse burst into the room.

"I heard your distress call, Bart! Where's the – OH MY GOD IT'S A SNAKE! HELP! THERE'S A PYTHON LOOSE IN THE B –"

Bart clamped a hand over his friend's mouth.

"Shut up! This was supposed to be a surprise!" Bart hissed in his ear before glancing over at Bob. "And you! I said take off your clothes and put those other clothes on! Hurry!"

Bob shut the stall door and locked it again. Bart took his hand off of Milhouse's mouth and the blue-haired boy gasped for air.

"Are you crazy, Bart? Sneaking that – that – thing into school? What if it's deadly?"

Bart rolled his eyes. "I'm pretty sure it only goes after girls. Mayyybe a few boys. Don't worry, you're not its type."

Milhouse, still completely oblivious to what he had just seen, and not completely convinced, moved to stand behind Bart. He looked over his friend's shoulder, watching the stall door nervously.

Just then, four boys entered the bathroom. Kearney came first, followed by Dolph and Jimbo, the latter two hauling a resistant Martin Prince between them.

"But I'm not the tinkle fairy!" Martin protested. "I'm Tinker Bell! But only in the play! Please! I'm going to be late for rehearsal if you don't put me down right now!"

Bart stifled a laugh when he saw what Martin was wearing: a pea green tank top, matching tutu, and white leotards. He clutched a cloth bag to his chest as if to protect its precious contents from the bullies.

Kearney kicked open a stall door and stood back with Dolph while Jimbo carried his victim inside. Dolph glanced up and noticed a very familiar 'mop' of red hair protruding over the top of the neighboring stall. He elbowed Kearney and pointed at it. The sound of a flush and Martin's high-pitched scream caught their attention and they shared an evil grin.

"Hold on, Jimbo! Change of plans," said Kearney.

Inside the stall, Martin dangled upside-down above a roaring toilet tsunami.

"Oh, thank heavens! A reprieve!" he exclaimed, hugging the bag in relief.

Jimbo, who was holding Martin by the ankle, looked crestfallen. "But I gotta baptize Tinker Bell in the River Styx to destroy the Horcrux inside him so he can go back into the Matrix and kidnap the Sandy Claws!"

"That's six different mythologies, and none of them sync up at all!" Martin complained.

"That's it," Jimbo growled, "you're getting double-dipped for that, nerd!"

"Wait!" Dolph spoke up, nodding toward the next stall over.

Jimbo finally understood. Without a word, he swung Martin upward, flipping him in mid-air and catching him upright. Martin flailed his arms and nearly dropped his bag. A powdery substance leaked out. Jimbo stepped up onto the toilet seat, hoisting Martin over his head.

"HERE COMES THE TINKLE FAIRY!"

Bob had finished dressing and had just unlatched the stall door when he felt something pour over him. He looked up to see a terrified boy in a ballerina costume being shaken vigorously by unseen hands. He held a cloth bag with a loosened drawstring, its contents raining down on the unsuspecting man.

Bob bolted out of the stall, but it was too late. The first thing that greeted him outside of the enclosed space was his reflection in the wide mirror over the counter. It sparkled and shimmered back at him like a magical nightmare.

Glitter. He was covered from head to toe in glitter.

Scene III

"And that's my show-and-tell for today," concluded Nelson.

An awkward silence followed. Annoyed, he shook a threatening fist at the class, earning a lukewarm round of applause from five or six students.

Mrs. Krabappel sighed. "Thank you, Nelson, for that rather… enlightening lesson on effective, low-risk bullying. Go ahead and put your… show-and-tell project… in the supply closet for now."

With a satisfied grunt, the boy nodded and walked toward the back of the classroom, leading Ralph on a makeshift leash made from a jump rope. Ralph, who was wearing only his socks and boxer shorts, followed happily. Nearly every pudgy inch of his exposed flesh was riddled with dotted lines, arrows, X's, and phrases, such as "punch here for screams," "punch here for silence," "tickle here to wet pants," and "for best results, apply purple nurple counter-clockwise," all scribbled in black Sharpie.

"Alright, Bart, you're up next."

Bart leapt up from his desk and turned to face the class.

"That's right, ladies and germs, the Bartman is here to entertain!" he exclaimed before heading over to the classroom door. He poked his head out into the hallway, speaking to someone outside, then propped the door open.

"Now give it up for my sidesplitting sidekick, the big B-O-B, a-k-a, Bart's Other Butt, and the butt of all jokes going forward, you all know him as… Sideshow Bob!"

A moment later, Bob stepped timidly into the room. He was almost naked, save for a green grass skirt that hung awkwardly off his narrow hips, and a necklace made from shark teeth and bones. Glitter from the incident in the bathroom still clung to his skin and hair, and when he stepped into the shaft of sunlight streaming in through the nearest window, he positively glowed.

Mrs. Krabappel looked him over appraisingly, trying to hide a predatory grin.

"HAW-HAW!" Nelson teased, pointing at Bob.

"Ooooh! He looks like a vampire out of one of those Tweenlight books!" said Sherri.

"Let's throw stuff at him like they do on the Krusty show!" said Terri, hucking an orange at him.

Bob caught it a split second before it hit him in the face. He stared at the fruit in his hand, stunned by his lightning-quick reflexes. Another kid threw a banana, and yet another threw a juice box. Bob snatched them both out of mid-air before he could even blink. He began to juggle the objects in a desperate attempt to avoid getting pelted by the sudden barrage of food and school supplies being hurled at him from various students. Within seconds he had caught an orange, a banana, two apples, a milk carton, a juice box, a textbook, a pair of safety scissors, and a pencil box.

All of these Bob managed to juggle without dropping a single item. That is, until Bart startled him with a shrill note on a plastic recorder from music class. Everything clattered to the floor.

"Dance, monkey! Dance!" Bart commanded. A nearly unrecognizable version of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" screeched from the instrument in his hands.

Bob bounced and skipped and twirled, feeling very much like a marionette with a poor excuse for music yanking his strings. Laughter filled the air. Bob missed a step and staggered backward, bumping his head against the blackboard behind him. The children laughed even harder. A dull pain spread from the back of his head, and with it, the nagging, gnawing, burning sensation of an almost-memory. He'd been laughed at before, mocked and tormented in a grass skirt to the tune of countless children braying like jackasses. This was not déjà vu. Bob was certain.

"Alright, class, you've had your fun," Mrs. Krabappel spoke up. "Bart, if you would please put your guest in the closet with the other show-and-tell projects, we can begin today's lesson on fractions."

"Aaaawwwwww!" several students groaned in disappointment.

Bart led a dazed Bob to the supply closet at the back of the classroom and shut him inside, grinning proudly all the while. As soon as the boy took a seat at his desk, Mrs. Krabappel stood up from hers.

"Now if you'll excuse me," she said, "I just need to fetch a, uh… hole punch… from the supply closet. And protractors. Lots and lots of protractors. Go ahead and get your math books out and turn to page number… wherever the fractions are. Five-eighths or something. Start working on that while I get the things I said."

Bob stood in the cramped space of the supply closet, under a dusty, dim bulb, its faint light partially obstructed by the man's hair brushing up against it. The smell of mold and mothballs was strong.

The door opened, and a woman slipped inside, closing the door behind her with a barely audible click. The teacher – Mrs. Crabapple? – stood before Bob with a sultry smile. She was so close that he could smell the cigarettes and coffee on her breath.

"Well hello there, handsome," she purred. "What's a stallion like you doing in a place like this? I thought you only danced for adult audiences." She walked two fingers up his bare chest seductively.

Bob gulped. "A-adult audiences?"

The sudden sound of a child's giggles caused both of them to jump. At the back of the closet, stuffed into the lost-and-found cubbyhole, along with grubby old sweaters and warped binders left unclaimed for countless months, was Ralph.

"Nelson said I'm a dolt too!"