As always, nothing much was going on down at Moe's.

Long ago had the walk-in costumers returned to the safety of their happier life, and a short time ago even the husbands had gradually begun to retreat. There had still remained two or three regulars after that, but now, finally, Moes clientele had melted down to it's quintessential and most persistent core.

"Still here, Barney?"

It was a rhetorical question, Moe knew that the one spoken to had long since went to a place of fulfilled dreams and illogical happiness.

But nevertheless, the bartender got an answer, much to his surprise.

"I'll go ... just let me stay for about ... another minute ... or so ... I swear ... ", choked the semi-conscious Barney and made no great effort to suppress the following belch.

Moe only nodded, more to himself than anyone else, and weary sarcasm was written all over his face, as he wiped the same old filthy counter with the same old filthy rag.

And as he did so, slowly, all too familiar dark thoughts began to insidiously creep their way into his brain cells. He barely even noticed that his mood grew quickly from his usual slight melancholic feelings to a deep depression.

How many hours, days, months, years, how many countless times had he already sat behind this counter and had wiped with an old rag over it in the most sloppy manner? And most importantly, how was he going to continue this seemingly infinite loop, safe in the knowledge that he had no kindred spirit, to look forward to be with, when he finally got home?

He had to admit, the stages of his depression were still changeable, but if they once fell deep, they fell as deep as the cracks in the walls of his bar.

If only there would be someone, something ... he had tried so many times to start something with a woman; and now, these days, he was almost certain he could switch to a man, just for the sake of not being alone anymore. Moreover, after the experiment with this Mister Smithers a few weeks ago, he at least knew that a kiss such as this, felt rather OK - and everything else would surely unfold itself with time.

But even in the gay scene, I'd still be the same old troll. With the same fish snout, and gorilla face and much too unappealing figure. Accept it, Moe, you were never destined to be on this earth after all, if there isn't even one single little person that fits your qualifications.

Moe had a feeling, that talking would distract him from his steadily thicker becoming swamp, that was the conglomerate of his mind. He wanted to avert himself from getting not very well-thought-of ideas.

Somewhat distraught, he turned his gaze to Barney and was surprised to meet a pair of wide awake eyes.

"Shouldn't ya be lying on the ground, unconscious?," asked Moe, clearly surprised.

It took Barney a while, but at last he spoke, although a bit unsteady, and the bartender had the strange impression that his condition did not come from his mass consumption of beer that night.

There was nothing wrong in particular with Barney, as always.

He had woken up at twelve'o'clock, had made a short trip by helicopter whilst saving a child's life, as it had nearly fell to it's death, by accidentally plunging out of an unattended window; was afterwards invited for dinner in an italian restaurant by the mother of mentioned child; he helped Homer unearth a treasure on Mount Springfield and then finally shot another art film, with little Lisa and a few other scouts.

But even though Barney had received a medal of honor, a 12-carat gold amulet and an Emmy for all of his deeds on that day, at exactly seventeen'o'clock, he again had returned to Moe's as if it were another, eventful and unsuccessful day of his strange existence.

And, of course, every common idiot could come up with the idea, that the beer was the obvious reason for Barney's daily recurrence at the tavern.

But lately Barney harbored a different theory. Because he still kept sober most of the evenings, and recently he had even managed to restrict his coffee addiction a little. In the last few days, he had visited the bar for no apparent reason and had usually limited himself to one single beer.

But this day was different. On this day he once again had had a booze-up, just like in the old days, but for a good reason.

To be able, to reveal the things that he wanted to reveal this evening, it took a large amount of Duff beer. An enormous amount.

And now the time had finally come, he presumed.

Now Moe had begun to stare at him, confused and somewhat uncertain, and the bar was as good as empty.

Right now.

But somehow now did not happen.

And all that was left for Barney to do, was to continue to stare at this increasingly frantic face of his bartender, of his best friend, with both of them having not the slightest idea what was going on behind the forehead of the other.

"Moe," Barney began at last.

"Mr Szyslak -!", he was interrupted.

Nothing wrong with Waylon Smithers. As always.

It had been a rough day, and a new best day of his life at the same time. At least, until the moment where all his hopes, ambitions and dreams all went down the drain.

Twenty years he had occupied himself with a somewhat cautious approach - and all this was now gone, with three simple words.

"You are fired", Mister Burns had said. Very quietly and coldly. And unfeeling. Waylon had felt like the teeth of a few hundred hounds were caught in his chest and they had not intended to let go. And now, after a few hours of mindlessly wandering the streets of Sprinfield, now, he still felt that way.

And all because of those stupid love letters. Waylon had always assumed that Mr. Burns knew of his ... "choice of lifestyle". After all, it was the worst kept secret in Springfield, and even if it weren't, Waylon knew, he wasn't always this careful with his behaviour.

But on the other hand, he could still understand, why his former boss would react in such a way, after accidentally coming across one of Waylon's many unsent love letters. The old man had grown up in other times, and he simply was allergic to human feelings. To Mister Burns' imagination it might have seemed uncomfortable to know that Waylon knew what he knew and maybe he just wanted to avoid embarrassing situations during working hours.

Either way, Waylon knew that soon, he would no longer be able to reflect on the various reasons of his dismissal so clearly. Soon, anger, hatred, despair, grief, and finally a depression, persisting for months, would show their ugly faces. He knew how he had felt when Mister Burns was shot.

Within only a few days he had become a wreck, from the inside as well as from the outside and he shivered miserably at the thought of having to return to that state.

And before he realized it, his steps had directed him along a certain road.

Waylon's face was dimly lit up by the flickering lights of the sign above him, the sign that said "Moe's" in big faint red letters and he remembered the time he had spent together with the owner of this establishment. Actually not too bad a time, when he quickly reflected on it. Although, it had cost some time to get used to Szyslak's stubborn nature and his exceptionally bad habit of being able to do just anything for money. And then there was this unexplained kiss ...

A little shaky, he glanced at his watch and was surprisingly only mildly shocked. One'o'clock was a personal record minimum time under the given circumstances. The last time he had got fired, he hadn't found the way home and had eventually stayed in a cardboard box.

The face of his watch now dimly reflected the red light above him and Waylon suddenly got a strange idea for an even stranger plan.

It was weird, crazy and doomed to fail.

But he could always try, couldn't he?

Nothing interesting going on at C. Montgomery Burns' manor.

And that was not usual.

Now, at one'o'clock, Burns had finally managed to tuck himself in with his blanket. It had been an ordeal to him, that had seemed to require inhuman strength, and he did not intend to repeat it the next night.

A replacement for Smithers was desperately needed, and it had to happen fast.

Unfortunately, the word "replacement" (which the new Smithers would ultimately be) suddenly got a strange sound to it. It left an uneasy feeling in Burns and echoed ominously in his skull after thinking it.

He mused for a while about it, hoping that there could be another explanation for these circumstances, besides sudden remorse because of Smithers' all too sudden dismissal, but he couldn't find one.

Thus sighing, he directed his thoughts to his now former assistant.

Of course he knew what was "cooking" regarding Smithers. And precisely because of that it had been so much fun, to expose Smithers at every opportunity, to humiliate and oppress him. And of course, trample on his feelings too, without dispensing even a hint of pity or empathy.

Over the years, this massive help in reducing his hidden aggressions, had made all appointments with psychiatrists redundant and thus had also helped Burns to save a lot of money. Smithers submitted his entire devotion to Burns, who then it return exploited and stomped on it as best he could.

But if Smithers and he had made a clean sweep, as it had now accidentally (and unfortunately) happened - Burns was certain, that the fun would have ended then and there.

And these love letters really had been the pinnacle of idiocy. A powerful man like Mister Burns had no use for a wimp such as this in his drone army.

"Captivating rose that never wilts ..."

"Noble owl that never sleeps ..."

Such feeblemindedness ...!

...

Of course it would be hard to have to find a replacement now.

Yes, and even if Burns found a suitable replacement, it would take months to form a human mind in a way that was sufficient.

And even then, this replacement would never be as dedicated as Smithers was. No other living being in the entire city, if not in all of America, if not the world, loved him.

For crying out loud, on whose feelings could Mister Burns now trample, without having to worry about any consequences?

Yes. That was it, exactly. Burns needed a lapdog, that was all.

Never would he be foolish to such an extent, to actually develop feelings of friendship for this young, talented, passionate man he had already held as baby in his arms, had drove to school as a child, had helped as a teenager in his career choice and in fact, over the years, had received as his personal assistant, since that lad had become a young man. But all of that didn't matter, even if Smithers had sold his life twice to Burns. Never, and not at any time would there ever be a time of reciprocating between them.

And with this firm conviction Burns finally managed to fall asleep.

It was not about feelings.

It was about reobtaining possessions.