Simpsons - George Bush Returns

The Simpsons – A Return to a Bad Neighbourhood

'Bar, why would you want to go back there?' George Bush shuddered at his wife's suggestion.

'George, it's been fifteen years.' Barbara sighed. 'You were President of the United States, for heaven's sake. You should have more dignity than this.'

George sighed and sank back into his seat as their driver turned off of route 401 into Springfield. 'Do we at least have a different house?'

'No, George, we have the same house. Gerald Ford insisted on selling it back to us when he left. Poor man didn't seem the same.'

'It's the boy, Bar. The boy did it.'

'Oh, George, let it go.'

***

As George stepped out of his car, he stumbled back into the door, and let out a whimper.

'George? What is it?' She glanced across the street, toward the Simpsons house. Homer was tossing a ball with his son. 'Oh, George, you're not going to start this again, are you? With another Simpson son?'

'It's not another son, Bar. It's him.'

'Who? Homer?'

'No! Him! The boy!' George pointed at the boy.

'Oh, George, he'd be twenty five by now. Even if he's still living there, that's not him.'

'No, Bar. No. It is.' He pointed. 'Look!'

Barbara sighed, and looked. 'George it's not...' She paused and straightened. 'Bart?'

'You see? It's him!' George grinned.

'It can't be.' She started to turn back to the house, when Homer and the boy crossed the street.

'Howdy, neighbour!' He waved. 'I see you're moving in across the street. I'm Homer Simpson.' He held out his hand.

George peered at Homer, his eyes narrowed, then he extended his hand. 'It's nice to meet you, Homer.' He looked at the boy. 'And you are?'

'I'm Bart Simpson, who the hell are you?'

'Bart!' Homer reached out and grabbed the boy about the throat, shaking him. 'Don't! Swear! At! Ex! Presidents!'

George and Barbara frowned at each other.

'Well, we should be getting in. Come on, Bar.' George turned and took Barbara's arm, leading them into the house.

'You see, Bar? It's the boy.' George whirled on her after closing the door.

'But, George, that's impossible.' She nonetheless glanced out the window, at Homer still strangling Bart in their drive way.

'There's something wrong with that boy. And that man.' He stopped and looked out the window, peering across at the Flanders' house, where Rod was playing in the front yard. 'And it's not just them. It's this whole town.' He paced. 'Something is very, very wrong with this place.'

Barbara looked over toward the Flanders house, and shook her head. 'There must be an explanation.'

'Yes. And we're going to find out what it is.' George rubbed his hands together, and reached for his cell phone.

'George, is this going to be like the last time?'

'Nah, Bar. Don't worry. I'm going to stay well away from the Simpsons.' He started to dial his phone, then stopped. 'Bar, what's David's number? You know, that secret service guy, with the son in the IRS?'

'He's dead, George. You know that.' Barbara sighed.

'Oh, right.' George shook his head. 'Nevermind, I'll call George. If he doesn't know someone, Cheney will...'

***

'George you should get some air.' Barbara opened a window, then sighed as George slammed it shut.

'No, Bar. If I go outside, the boy will be there. Or the man. And they won't have changed a bit.'

'I know, George, it's strange, but...' She sighed. 'Never mind. I'll go start dinner.'

'Good. You do that.' George looked at his phone. 'I'll be here.' The phone rang, and he answered. 'Bush.'

'Mr President, this is Franklin Franklin from the Social Security Administration... I have the information you wanted.' There was a pause. 'I'm really not supposed to do this, but...well, the story your men brought me...'

'Thank you, Mr Franklin.'

'You can call me Franklin, sir.'

'Thank you, Franklin. What do you have?'

'Simpson, Homer Jay. Born 1950.'

'1950? Are you sure?'

'That's what it says, sir.'

'And the boy?'

'Simpson, Bartholomew Jojo. Born 1979.'

'But he's ten years old!'

'Not according to this. According to this he's thirty two.'

George leaned back in his chair. 'Thirty two?'

'That's what it says, sir.'

'Thank you, Franklin.' He shut off his phone, and leaned back. 'Bar!' He stood. 'Get my investigatin' coat!'

In the kitchen, Barbara sighed. 'Oh, Lord. It's Reagan's hair dye all over again.'

***

The regulars of Moe's Tavern hardly looked up when George and his Secret Service entourage entered. He raised an eyebrow. 'Definitely something not right about this town.' He sat at the bar.

'What'll you have, old man?' Moe leaned on the bar, wiping a glass with a dirty cloth.

'Information.' George leaned in trying not to wince at the hideous wreck of a man across the bar.

'Two drinks minimum.' Moe glared and turned away.

'Alright, I'll have a Duff.' He reached out and touched Moe's arm. 'In a bottle. My guards will just have Coke.'

After Moe brought them their drinks, giving the Secret Service men dirty looks, George leaned on the bar. 'So, Moe, how long have you been here?' He looked at Moe's face, and tried to estimate his age, though he couldn't get closer than 'anywhere from fifty years old to five years dead'.

'Eh, let me see, now.' Moe scratched behind his ear. 'Just before little Lisa was born, if I'm rememberin' right. So...' He counted on his fingers. '2003, I guess.'

'Lisa?'

'Lisa Simpson. Homer's daughter.'

'She was born in 2003?'

'Yeah. What of it?' Moe gave him a look.

George shook his head. 'And you weren't here in '96?'

''96? Nah, I wasn't here.'

'Another bar, then? I distinctly remember...'

'Nah, nah, this place was a toxic waste dump back then. For the nuclear plant.'

'Heh.' Carl raised his glass. 'I could tell you some stories about that place.'

George looked at him. 'Oh, do tell.'

***

George and two Secret Service men – all dressed in black – stood outside the power plant's fence.

'Sir, I'm not sure this is a good idea.' The first Secret Service man looked around and pulled the hat he was wearing down over his eyes.

'No, it is not.' George pulled a black stocking cap over his hair. 'Certainly not prudent. But this is the centre of the weirdness of this town. I just know it.' He gestured to the second guard, who pulled a pair of sheers from the car trunk, and set to work cutting a hole in the fence. Tossing the sheers back he shut the trunk quietly, and George slipped through the hole. He held up a hand as the guards started to follow. 'No, you fellas stay here. Watch the car, and the fence.' He turned toward the plant.

The grounds were quiet, and the moon hung ominously over the cooling towers. George looked at it, and started in that direction.

As he got near the building, he spotted a worker heading toward it. Returning from a break, no doubt. He smiled, and slipped into a shadow as the worker got close. As soon as he was in arm's length, George grabbed him, one hand around his mouth, the other arm around his throat. After a brief struggle, the man dropped unconscious in George's grip, and he lowered him to the ground, taking his access card. Heading toward the door, he swiped the card and stepped through the now unlocked door, into the employees' locker room. He turned toward the clean coats, hard hats, and dust masks hung on one wall. 'Well, this is my lucky night.' He suited up and turned toward the plant, proper.

***

An hour later, he was not so sure about that. He'd seen nothing that would lead him to...

He blinked, as a man in a radiation suit wheeling a barrel out of the depths of the plant. The barrel was badly sealed and leaked a glowing green ooze. After the man passed, George stroked the bridge of his nose, and mumbled to himself. 'That is not standard nuclear waste.' He looked the direction the man with the barrel came from, and headed that way.

The corridor sloped downward, and after a time, it began to...change. Corners seemed too sharp, angles  not adding up. Colours seemed to fade, or brighten, subtly. George closed his eyes, and shook his head to clear it, but he continued on.

What he saw when he came to the end of the tunnel – when had it become a tunnel? – left him in awe. A huge, vaulted cavern nearly the size of the actual plant, its walls coated in the green ooze. The centre of the room was dominated by a deep pit. George shuffled forward and peered into the pit. A large creature – a three eyed fish? A squirrel? – sat at the bottom, exhaling a fluorescent green mist. He pulled his mask down, and gaped at the creature.

'What have we here? An inspector from the nuclear regulatory commission who's lost his way?'

George spun at the sound of the voice. Mr Burns and Smithers stood at the entrance to the cavern.

'It appears to be former president George H W Bush, sir.' Smithers looked awed.

George looked back at the creature, then at Burns. 'Is this it? Is this what powers this city? It makes sense, now. The stran...'

'Oh, no, nothing like that.' Burns chuckled. 'This city really is powered by nuclear energy, which my plant provides.'

'Then what is this?'

'This? This is what powers me!' Burns spread his hands. 'I'm an old man, Mr President. I've known most of your predecessors. I've owned most of your predecessors, for that matter.' He frowned. 'I'm a very old man. And afraid to die.' He stepped forward. 'And that is what this is.' He laughed. 'The rest of the town benefits, too, but that can't be helped. But the waste has a side effect, at least. It keeps anyone from questioning it, if they've been exposed long enough.' He looked at Smithers. 'It appears Mr Bush has not been exposed enough.'

'It seems so, sir. Perhaps we could feed it to him? It would be a quick exposure, but a big enough dose.'

'No, I will not eat that stuff. It reminds me of broccoli.'

'Too bad.' Burns shrugged. 'But I suppose it's been too long since Nukthulhu's fed, in any case.'

'Nukthulhu? What kind of name is that?' George started toward the mouth of the tunnel.

'Not since Maude Flanders, sir.' Smithers frowned, sensing where this was going.

'Good. I think it's time that we correct that, don't you?' Burns wandered back to Smithers, putting a foot in front of George's as he did. He smiled as the other man tripped. 'Oops. So sorry.'

'Sir, don't you think it might be time to stop? It's been twenty two years. I'm sure with all the energy that's been stored....'

'Either he goes in, or you do, Smithers.'

Smithers shook his head. 'Sir, think about what you're saying...'

'Smithers, is it?' George struggled to his feet, the slime on the floor making it difficult for him. 'We're both good, sturdy men. If we rush him...' He went down again, as his foot hit a puddle of ooze.

'Do you want me to die, Smithers?' Burns laid a hand on Smithers shoulder. 'Your dear Mr Burns?'

Smithers looked at him. 'I'm sorry, Mr....' He trailed off.

'Oh, thank god, someone's talking some sense.' George finally managed to pull himself to his feet.

'What was that?' Burns smiled at Smithers, ignoring George completely.

'I'm sorry... Mr President.' Smithers turned toward George, and with a casual shove, knocked him off the ledge, and into the pit.

George landed with a thud at the bottom of the pit. He groaned and tried to stand, but the thick coating of ooze on the floor of the pit kept him from moving. He looked up as Nukthulhu towered over him. 'Funny. I always thought it would be a vengeful Dukakis.'

Smithers turned back to Mr Burns, after one last glance into the pit. 'Now, about those third quarter profit projections.'

Burns smiled. 'We can talk about them later. Join me in my office for a drink.'

'Yes, sir.' Smithers nodded and the two of them started off down the tunnel.