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The air inside the Bloodbath & Beyond gun shop is thick with the scent of Hoppe’s No. 9 gun oil and the metallic tang of spent brass. It is August 2, 2013, a sweltering Friday in Springfield, Oregon, but the heat outside is nothing compared to the nervous warmth radiating from Marge Bouvier. She stands at the end of the shooting range lane, her towering cylinder of blue hair lightly dusted with gunpowder residue. She isn't wearing white; instead, she sports a modest, pastel-green dress that complements the rugged, tactical vest she’s donned for the occasion. Across from her stands Ruth Powers, forty years old and looking every bit the outlaw queen in a dark denim jacket with the sleeves rolled up to reveal the steady focus in her forearms.
They aren't exchanging rings first—they are checking their sights.
"You ready for this, Marge?" Ruth asks, her voice a low, raspy velvet that still makes Marge’s heart perform a frantic gymnastics routine. "Once we pull these triggers, there's no going back to the way things were in February."
Marge grips her pink-accented Beretta, her knuckles white. "I've never been surer of anything, Ruthie. Since you moved in next door back in 2011, I think I was just waiting for the world to stop spinning long enough to see you."
Behind them, the gallery is packed with the local NRA chapter. Herman stands as the unofficial officiant, his prosthetic limb replaced with a ceremonial bayonet attachment for the day. Krusty the Clown sits in the front row, looking uncharacteristically somber as he cleans a gold-plated revolver with a silk handkerchief. Moe Szyslak shifts uncomfortably in a suit that smells of mothballs and desperation, while Barney Gumble tries—and fails—to keep his heavy breathing from echoing in the acoustic tile.
Further back, the couples of the Springfield social scene lean against the display cases. Lenny and Carl, who have been inseparable since that crisp October in 2009, stand shoulder-to-shoulder, Lenny’s hand resting casually on Carl’s lower back. Seymour Skinner and Gary Chalmers stand with military precision. Gary’s gaze occasionally drifts toward the back of the room, checking on his daughter, Shauna, who is trying to look bored despite the high-stakes romance in the air. Gary and Seymour's relationship has weathered the scrutiny of the school board and the trials of the Springfield educational system since late 2012, and today, Gary looks particularly proud, his hand occasionally brushing against Seymour's sleeve in a rare public display of affection.
Cletus and Brandine Spuckler, veterans of the matrimonial arts since '99, watch with teary eyes, Brandine clutching a tattered camo-print Kleenex. Even the underworld is represented; Louie stands with his partner Johnny, the two of them looking sharp in pinstripes, having gone public with their romance just this past January.
"By the power vested in me by the Second Amendment and the State of Oregon," Herman barks, "Fire at will!"
The roar is deafening. Marge and Ruth fire simultaneously, their bullets tearing through the center of a heart-shaped paper target at twenty-five yards. The smell of sulfur blooms like a wedding bouquet. They turn to each other, the echoes of the shots still ringing in their ears, and seal the deal with a kiss that tastes like copper and liberation.
The transition to the Spinster City Apartments’ courtyard is like stepping out of a war zone and into a sanctuary. The sun is beginning to dip, casting long, amber shadows across the cracked concrete and the overgrown hibiscus bushes. The heavy weaponry has been left in the trunks of cars; here, the atmosphere is quiet, punctuated only by the clinking of glasses and the distant hum of a window A/C unit. Marge sits at a small, circular patio table, her hand entwined with Ruth’s. The guest list has thinned to the inner circle. Moe is here, looking remarkably human without a bar top between him and the world. Lenny and Carl share a single chair, whispering jokes that make the other grin.
"I gotta tell ya, Marge," Carl says, leaning forward. "After that divorce in February, we weren't sure if we’d see you smile like this again. You look... lighter."
"I feel lighter," Marge admits, her eyes drifting to her children.
Across the courtyard, the next generation claims their space. Laura Powers and Shauna Chalmers, nineteen and radiant in the glow of their relationship which blossomed back in June, sit on the edge of the dried-up fountain. There is a newfound softness in Shauna’s posture, a stark contrast to the rebellious edge she usually maintains around her father. They share a single cigarette, passing it back and forth with practiced ease, the smoke curling into the Oregon twilight.
Fourteen-year-old Bart watches them with a mixture of awe and adolescent posturing. He’s grown tall, the baby fat of his childhood replaced by the wiry tension of a teenager who’s seen his family break and rebuild. When he thinks Marge isn't looking, he snatches a stray Marlboro from a pack left on the table by Shauna. He ducks behind a large potted palm, the flare of a lighter illuminating his defiant expression for a split second before he exhales a shaky, hidden cloud.
Twelve-year-old Lisa doesn't notice. She is far too busy supervising five-year-old Maggie. They are sat on a checkered picnic blanket, a massive chocolate cake between them. Lisa carves out a sensible slice for herself, but Maggie is already elbow-deep in the frosting.
"It’s a different kind of life, isn't it?" Ruth whispers, leaning her head against Marge’s shoulder.
Marge watches the smoke rise from the adults' table as Moe and Lenny light up their own celebratory cigarettes. The scent of tobacco replaces the gunpowder, a domestic sort of haze. She looks at her new wife, at her thriving children, and at the strange, beautiful community they've built in the wreckage of her old life.
"It’s the only life I want," Marge says. She reaches for a cigarette herself, a rare indulgence for a woman who spent decades playing the role of the perfect homemaker. As the match strikes, the flame reflects in her eyes—bright, steady, and finally, completely her own.