Chapter Text
The late-afternoon sun on November 6, 2010, casts long, sickly orange shadows across the shag carpeting of 742 Evergreen Terrace. The air inside the house is thick, not with the usual scent of pork chops, but with a frigid, unspoken resentment that seems to vibrate off the walls. Marge Simpson moves through the kitchen like a ghost, her movements mechanical and precise, her eyes avoiding the slumped, pathetic figure of Homer at the kitchen table. The wound of his recent infidelity with Lurleen Lumpkin is a raw, jagged thing between them—a breach of trust that has left Marge’s voice thin and Homer’s usual bravado replaced by a desperate, fawning silence.
The doorbell chimes, a sharp interruption to the domestic cold war. In the living room, eleven-year-old Bart Simpson perks up, his thumb rhythmically clicking a handheld gaming device.
He doesn't look up as he speaks, his voice dripping with the casual cynicism of a boy who has seen too much. "Cool," he mutters, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "A convicted felon right in our own home. Maybe he’ll show us how to make a shiv out of a toothbrush."
Marge emerges from the kitchen, smoothing her apron with trembling hands. She shoots a look at Bart—half-exasperated, half-pleading for a moment of normalcy. "Bart, please," she says, her voice strained. "He’s paid his debt to society. Selma says he’s a changed man, and we are going to treat him with the dignity any guest deserves."
Bart finally looks up, his eyes narrowing as he gestures toward the table. "Then how come we’re not using the good silverware? You know, the stuff with the fancy swirls that isn't bent?"
Marge’s jaw tightens. The "good" silverware is locked in the buffet, and they both know why. "We’re just not," she snaps, the finality in her voice ending the debate.
Homer lingers in the background, looking like a man trying to disappear into the wallpaper. He wants to support Marge and earn back an inch of the ground he lost, but he feels like a stranger in his own skin. He remains silent as Marge approaches the front door. With a deep breath, Marge turns the handle and swings the door open. Standing on the porch are Patty and Selma, clad in their usual drab lavender and turquoise, but Selma’s face is transformed by a terrifying, giddy glow. Beside her stands a tall, lean man in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit. He carries a charcoal felt fedora in his gloved hands.
As they step into the foyer, the man removes his hat with a flourish. A massive, eruptive shock of deep crimson hair—shaped like the fronds of a palm tree—springs free, demanding the attention of the entire room. He looks down at the family, his eyes sharp and analytical, glistening with an intelligence that feels entirely out of place in Springfield. He opens his mouth, and a rich, operatic baritone ripples through the hallway.
"Good evening, all," he says, the vowels rounded and theatrical. His gaze shifts downward, landing squarely on Bart. A slow, chilling smile spreads across his face. "Why, hello, Bart."
The reaction is instantaneous.
"Aaah! Sideshow Bob!" Bart and Lisa scream in a ragged, terrifying unison.
The two children scramble backward, their sneakers screeching against the linoleum. They dive behind Marge’s green dress, peeking out from behind her hips like soldiers in a trench. Lisa’s eyes are wide with panic, her breathing shallow, while Bart’s face has gone a pale, dusty yellow. Selma rolls her eyes, shifting her weight and letting out a cloud of cigarette-scented breath.
"Forgive their manners, Bob," she says with a gravelly sigh. "The poor things haven't had any kind of a father figure lately. Just a loud, balding cautionary tale."
Homer, jolted out of his self-pity by the insult, snaps his head up. "Hey!" he barks, though the protest lacks its usual "D'oh!"-infused energy. He looks at Bob, then at the kids, then back at Bob.
Bob ignores Homer entirely, maintaining his focus on Bart. He leans down slightly, the movement graceful yet predatory. "Do not be alarmed, Selma," Bob says, his voice like velvet over gravel. "Bart here is simply reacting to our... checkered history. He is, after all, the grade-school gumshoe who sent me to the cold, grey embrace of the state penitentiary."
Marge, desperate to move past the stand-off, begins ushering the group toward the dining room. "Let’s just... let’s sit. Dinner is ready. We have plenty of food."
As they settle into their chairs, the clatter of plates provides a temporary shield against the awkwardness. Homer sits at the head of the table, staring at Bob with a look of slow-burning realization. It takes a few moments—his brain gears grinding audibly—before the memory finally clicks into place.
"Oh! I remember now!" Homer exclaims, pointing a greasy finger at Bob. "You’re the guy who tried to frame Krusty! Gee, if some snot-nosed little kid sent me to prison, first thing out, I’d find out where he lives, sneak up behind him..." Homer grabs a steak knife from the table, his eyes widening with a sudden, manic energy. He makes a violent, downward plunging motion into the empty air. "...and EURGH! Right in the back! Unh! Take that, ya little snitch!"
The table goes dead silent. Bart scowls at his father, his fear momentarily eclipsed by pure, unadulterated annoyance. "Hey Homer, why don't you just paint a bullseye on my chest while you're at it? Maybe hand him a map to my bedroom?"
Bob doesn't flinch. Instead, he lets out a low, melodic chuckle that vibrates the water in the glasses. "Ahh, Mr. Simpson, you are a creature of pure impulse. You’re forgetting the first two noble truths of the Buddha."
Homer bristles, shoving a piece of bread into his mouth. "I am not. I know all the truths. Like... don't eat the yellow snow."
"Hardly," Bob purrs. "One: existence is suffering. Two: the cause of suffering is desire."
Lisa, who had been huddled in her chair, suddenly sits up straighter. Her intellectual curiosity, always her greatest strength and her greatest weakness, begins to override her terror. "I understand! Your desire for the love of Krusty’s fans—the validation of the masses—made you desert the honorable, albeit silent, life of a mute second banana. You traded your soul for a laugh that was never yours to begin with!"
Bob turns his gaze toward Lisa, a look of genuine, if condescending, respect appearing on his features. "Precisely, Lisa. A child of your intellect is a rare bloom in this... desert of the mind."
He leans back, his expression darkening as he reflects. "Prison, however, is a much more literal form of suffering. My recent stay was... cramped. The state of our correctional facilities is a national disgrace. At one point, I shared a cell with five other men—mostly Neanderthals who thought 'literature' was the back of a cereal box. We had only two beds between us. One learns very quickly that a bed is not a right; it is a prize won through... creative negotiation." He pauses, the malicious undertones of his words hanging in the air like a foul odor. "I will willfully admit, in those dark, sweating hours, I wanted nothing more than to feel my hands around the neck of the boy who put me there."
Bart swallows hard, his voice cracking. "Hey, just so you know, I didn't catch you alone. Lisa did most of the legwork. She’s the one who noticed the shoes!"
"Bart!" Lisa cries, smacking his arm.
Bob’s eyes flash. He stands up slowly, looming over the table. The light from the chandelier catches the sharp angles of his face. "Bart," he says, his voice dropping to a menacing, guttural whisper. "If I wanted to kill you, I’d have choked you like a chicken as soon as I walked in that door. I’d have turned your windpipe into a closed accordion before Marge could say 'appetizer'." The room holds its breath. Then, Bob breaks into a wide, jovial laugh, sitting back down and smoothing his napkin. "But then, what kind of a guest would I have been? It would be terribly gauche to murder one's nephew-to-be before the first course."
Patty and Selma cackle, and even Marge lets out a nervous, fluttering giggle, choosing to treat the threat as a piece of dark, sophisticated wit.
Bob’s face then sobers, the theatricality dropping away to reveal a man who looks suddenly, deeply tired. "In all honesty, I reached my nadir three months ago. I had a plan involving a sharpened spoon and the femoral artery. I was prepared to exit this stage permanently. But then... I received a letter. A letter from a woman who saw the man behind the makeup. Selma." He reaches out and takes Selma’s hand, kissing her knuckles with a devotion that seems almost religious. "I became the prison's unofficial 'Mr. Fix-It'. I fixed the library's cataloging system, the warden's plumbing, and eventually, my own legal standing. I filed a Post-Conviction Relief petition. A judge in Marion County finally reviewed the trial transcripts and agreed that the evidence regarding the 'big shoes' was handled with the grace of a dancing bear. My seventy-month sentence was vacated."
He looks around the table, his voice steady. "Since I had already served twenty-seven months—from August 2008 until now—the prosecutor offered a 'Time Served' deal to avoid the embarrassment of a new trial. I was granted parole last week. My final letter to Selma was not a request for a pen pal, but a proposal."
Selma beams, thrusting her left hand into the center of the table. A diamond, large and slightly yellowed, glints on her finger. "Look at the rock, kids. It’s big enough to choke a horse."
Bart leans in, his eyes narrowed. "Where’d you get the money for that, Bob? I thought you were broke."
Bob waves a hand carelessly. "A gift from a former associate. My ex-boyfriend—a lovely man who specialized in high-stakes embezzlement—saved it from his last 'con'. The serial numbers are filed off, ensuring its history is as unique and untraceable as our love."
"Oh, Bob," Marge sighs, her hands clasped to her chest. "That is so... resourceful. And romantic." Patty nods in grim approval, a rare moment of solidarity with the Simpson household.
Lisa smiles, her fear finally replaced by her belief in human growth. "What a beautiful story, Sideshow Bob. You’re living proof that our revolving door prison system can occasionally produce a genuine success. I forgive you, and I strongly urge the rest of my family to do the same."
Homer, however, isn't quite there yet. He frowns, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes darting toward the last pork chop on the serving platter. "Excuse me, little girl. I was born in Springfield, right in the heart of the 'I'll believe it when I see it' state. It’s gonna take more than a fancy vocabulary and a shiny ring to regain the trust of Homer Simpson."
Marge sighs, reaching for the platter. "Would you like the last pork chop, Sideshow Bob?"
Bob looks at the meat, then looks at Homer’s longing expression. He smiles—a genuine, calculating, brilliant smile. "Give it to Homer," Bob says softly. "He clearly needs the sustenance for his arduous task of judging me. And please, call me Bob."
Homer’s face undergoes a total transformation. The suspicion vanishes, replaced by a radiant, greasy joy. As the pork chop is deposited onto his plate, he lets out a triumphant "Woo-hoo!"
"Welcome back to society, brother!" Homer shouts, his mouth already half-full of meat. "All is forgiven! You’re a prince among men!"
As the tension breaks, Marge brings out a bowl of fresh strawberries for dessert. The atmosphere shifts from a standoff to a celebration. Bob picks up a strawberry, dips it delicately into a bowl of sugar, and begins to hand-feed it to Selma. He does so with a focused, intense intimacy that makes Marge flush and Patty smirk. Lisa watches them, convinced she is witnessing a miracle of rehabilitation. Maggie, sitting in her high chair and chewing on a plastic block, is too young to remember the man who once held her brother at knifepoint; to her, he is just another tall, colorful adult.
Only Bart remains silent. He sits at the end of the table, his arms folded, his eyes never leaving Bob’s face. He watches the way Bob moves, the way he smiles, the way his eyes occasionally dart toward the kitchen door. He doesn't trust the reform. He doesn't trust the "Time Served." And most of all, he doesn't trust the way Bob is looking at the carving knife Homer left on the table.
The wedding is in three days. And Bart knows that in the world of Robert Terwilliger, the third act is always the bloodiest.