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The air inside the Springfield Dinner Theater is thick with the scent of overcooked prime rib and the floral, cloying musk of cheap perfume. It's a relentless Oregon drizzle that streaks the windows, blurring the neon lights of the strip mall outside into neon smudges. Homer, squeezed into a tuxedo that groans at the seams, scans the room with the frantic intensity of a man who has recently discovered he is responsible for the life of a public official.
"Look, Joe, it’s 'Guys and Dolls'!" Homer whispers loudly, leaning over Mayor Quimby. "It’s about gamblers and dames. It’s basically your life, but with more jazz hands."
Mayor Quimby sits slumped in his velvet chair, his face a pale shade of grey that rivals the theater’s weathered curtains. The weight of his betrayal—severing the lucrative, albeit nauseating, rat milk contract with the D'Amico family—presses down on him like a physical burden. He remembers how the mafia don had explained to him. They'd been feeding Wistar rats fermented milk containing Lactobacillus acidophilus to show that it could reduce cholesterol, improve iron absorption, and potentially fight colon cancer by breaking down lactose into lactic acid, yielding a tangy, digestible milk with potential health advantages over regular milk. Rather than directly providing the schools with the acidophilus, the mafia has instead been milking the rats for the laced milk.
Joe sighs. It's all over now. He's as good as dead. Beside him, Mark Hamill maintains a polite, professional smile, though his eyes dart toward the exits with Jedi-like intuition.
"Homer, please," Quimby mutters, his signature accent thick with exhaustion. "I am trying to, ah, enjoy the cultural enrichment while I still have a functional pulse. My nerves are shot to pieces. One minute I’m signing a proclamation for 'Be Kind to Squirrels Week,' and the next, I’m fearing a garrote because of some substandard dairy."
The house lights dim to a murky amber. The orchestra strikes a discordant chord, and that is when the temperature in the front row seems to drop ten degrees. From the shadows of the stage-left aisle, a silhouette emerges. It is a presence defined by the sharp crease of a silk suit and the heavy, rhythmic thud of polished Italian leather on carpet. Fat Tony doesn't walk; he glides with the predatory grace of a shark in shallow water. Behind him, Louie follows, his brow furrowed in its permanent expression of dim-witted malice. Tony stops at the end of Quimby’s row. He doesn't look at the stage. He looks directly at the side of Joe’s neck. The Mayor stiffens, his fingers gripping the armrests until his knuckles turn white.
"Mayor Quimby," Tony says, his voice a low, melodic rumble that cuts through the opening number. "A surprising choice of venue. I was unaware you had a fondness for the... theatrical arts. Or perhaps you are simply here to learn how to play a part you are no longer suited for."
"Tony," Joe breathes, his voice cracking. "I... I told you. The schools. The PTA found the whiskers. I couldn't keep the heat off you anymore."
Tony steps closer, ignoring Homer entirely. He reaches out a gloved hand and adjusts Quimby’s lapel with agonizing slowness. "It is a tragedy, Joseph. We had a rhythm. A certain... harmony. And now, you have introduced a sour note into our arrangement. Like the milk."
Legal negotiations aren't available in these situations. The violence erupts with the suddenness of a gunshot. Louie lunges forward, reaching for the Mayor, but Homer’s instincts—honed by years of tavern brawls and accidental heroism—kick in. With a roar of "Not on my watch, pal!" Homer hurls a plate of lukewarm mashed potatoes into Louie’s face. The bodyguard stumbles back, blinded by starch, and Homer tackles him into a stack of folding chairs. The crash echoes louder than the percussion on stage.
But Joe is left unprotected. Fat Tony doesn't use a weapon. He uses the cold, hard reality of his hands. As Mark Hamill tries to intervene, Tony sweeps him aside with a brutal shove and turns his full attention to the Mayor. The first blow catches Quimby in the solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him in a ragged gasp. Tony follows with a sharp, calculated hook to the jaw. Joe falls back against the table, silverware clattering to the floor. Tony isn't shouting; he is silent, his face a mask of disappointment rather than rage. He grabs Quimby by the tie, pulling him upward until they are inches apart.
"This is the cost of transparency, Joseph," Tony whispers.
He delivers a final, devastating strike to Quimby’s ribs. The sound of breaking bone is sickeningly clear over the actors' singing of "Luck Be a Lady." Joe collapses into a heap of blue suit and broken pride.