Reminder: See the series introduction for the crossover and also the author notes if you're not familiar with the crossover.
Sitting comfortably at the kitchen table, Marge Simpson drank her morning coffee and read today’s newspaper, enjoying the quiet of the house. Maggie was in her high chair placidly sucking on her pacifier, Homer was at work, the other children were at school, and a nearly-naked man dressed solely in his soaked underwear had just run into the kitchen through the tv room, having entered this by the backyard door, to then spin around, hastily dropping into a crouch to huddle in the corner between the dishwasher and the lower cabinets, hopefully out of sight of anybody outside looking through the kitchen window.
At the same time, a rampaging mob passed down the street in front of the house. Marge paid no attention to this. After all, rampaging mobs occurred in Springfield at least three times a week, though never on trash day.
Instead, she sternly reproved the young man with an eyepatch and dripping on her just-waxed kitchen floor, “Excuse me, but why are you in my house, why are you holding a very large double-bladed axe, and could you please stay on the floor mat?”
“What?!” blurted out the drenched man still gripping his massive weapon as if he was expecting to defend himself at any moment, with his attention now diverted from the baying of the mob outside to gape at the woman with a really strange hairstyle presently glowering at him. Maybe the hairstyle was glowering at him, too. You could never tell with blue hair. His face suddenly brightened in hope, he continued, “Look, lady, could you just hide me for a while? I promise I won’t be any trouble, and I’ll sneak out of here when I can!”
“You still haven’t said why you’re here in the first place,” sensibly pointed out Marge.
“I DON’T KNOW!” yelled the one-eyed man. Continuing at a slightly lower volume due to Marge’s disapproving look, he attempted to explain, “Listen, it all happened when I stopped for gas while passing through town. After I finished, I went into the convenience store to pay and also pick up some Twinkies, when all of sudden, I got blasted by dozen of bright lights. When I could see again--” The man broke off, shuddering, as his face now showed absolute terror. “The most horrifying creature I’ve ever encountered in my whole life was right in front of me, and then it doused me with some kind of vile fluid from a blasphemous container! Well, I defended myself with Junior here--” the man brandished his axe at those last words, “--but instead of anybody feeling grateful because I protected them against that monster, they all went berserk and started chasing me, with more people joining in! I was only able to throw them off my trail by stripping and using those wet clothes as decoys! Now, will you please let me stay?”
The sad part that it wasn’t even the strangest thing that had happened to her for this month alone, glumly reflected Mage. That doleful mood was presented in the slow shaking of her head, as the mother pointed out to her intruder, “I’m afraid not. My husband will be coming home soon, and my children, too. But….wait a second!” Marge brightened up, anxiously watched by the young man seated in his growing puddle. “My sisters live nearby, and I’m sure that if I ask them, they’ll be happy to have a guest over. Is that all right with you?” She looked inquiringly at the other adult sitting on the floor.
“Uh, yeah, thanks a lot!” replied a relieved Xander Harris, who then twisted his body to warily peek over the bottom edge of the kitchen window for any sign of his pursuers. While he was occupied by this, Marge left the kitchen, casually gathering up Maggie from her chair along the way, and went to the living room phone.
After dialing, and then hearing a very familiar voice, Marge said, “Selma, I need a favor-- What?!” She brought the receiver to her face for a moment to stare at it in absolute disbelief, before putting it to her ear again, to say just a trifle sharply, “NO, I haven’t killed Homer and need your help to get rid of the body!” After a few moments’ pause, she snapped again, “You both don’t need to make those disappointed sighs!”
Held in her mother’s left arm, Maggie thoughtfully sucked on her pacifier several times.
Shaking her head in exasperation, Marge tried again, “Listen, a young man came into my house, and he needs a place to stay for a few hours. I told him I’d ask-- What?” A look of confusion now appeared on the woman’s face. “Oh, I’d say in his mid to late twenties, no missing limbs -- well, he’s got an eyepatch -- no, he didn’t say how he lost it, yes, he’s in very good health. Yes, I’m positive! Because he’s in my kitchen in just his underwear, that’s why! Hello? Hello?”
Marge Simpson stared at the now-silent phone in her hand with utter perplexity, only to be suddenly distracted by the front door slamming open to frame her son standing in the doorway, a terrible expression upon his young face. Staring at Bart, Marge inquired, “Honey, why aren’t you in school?”
“SCHOOL?!” shouted Bart in absolute disbelief, gawking at his mother, to then go back to his grim look of a moment ago when he growled, “The whole school was let out today, so we could help look for the guy who did the worse thing that’s ever happened here!”
Marge lifted an eyebrow.
“Besides me,” said Bart a little sheepishly, before he became serious again, looking his mother right in the eye, as her child passed on the horrible news: “Krusty the Clown’s been murdered!”
“Good heavens! What happened?” asked the alarmed woman.
“Krusty was at the Kwik-E-Mart today to present the lucky millionth visitor with their winning ticket for a lifetime supply of Squishees, and a guy came in who won! All the press guys there took his picture, flashbulbs popping away, and then Krusty sprayed him with his trusty seltzer bottle!” Bart sadly shook his head, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye, as he went on telling his fascinated mother, “I just know that’s the way Krusty would’ve wanted to go, even when the guy took out a big axe from under his jacket and chopped his head off! That jerkface then ran away, but he won’t get far! We’ll make sure of that!” Bart glowered off in the distance as the young boy contemplated what his fellow schoolmates would do to the killer of their favorite entertainer.
Marge was about to reprove her child about his naughty language, until she had another thought, to be then asked, “What about Krusty?”
“Oh, Doctor Hibbert was there, getting a dozen cartons of cigarettes for his wife. He said that after sewing Krusty’s head back on and doing some experiments forbidden by the AMA, he’ll be as good as new,” beamed Bart. The boy’s good mood didn’t last long, as he vowed under his breath, “This insult shall be avenged!” After saying that, Bart then dashed past his mother and up the stairs to his room.
Marge Simpson just stood there, putting a couple of things together, until a tremendous crash back in the house, accompanied by a man’s despairing scream abruptly muffled into silence made her jump straight up in absolute fright, and when she came down, the woman in her panic hugged to herself Maggie, the phone, and the lamp resting on the phone cabinet.
Still laden with her burdens, an immobile Marge watched as Bart now thundered down the stairs, waving a morning-star around his head, all while ignoring his mother, to then throw open the front door and bawl to the rampaging mob in the street that had doubled back, “DEATH! DEATH! DEATH TO KRUSTY’S SLAYER!”
As the mob roared its agreement, Bart dashed outside, slamming the door behind himself in the middle of his mother calling after, “Honey, be home before dark!”
A few moments later, warily holding Maggie on her hip while noting the shattered back door of the tv room, Marge Simpson peeked into her kitchen, noticing the drag marks of someone’s heels on that room’s floor, the desperate scrapes caused by fingernails hopelessly clawing upon the kitchen cabinets during a failed attempt to prevent their owner’s unexpected departure towards an awful doom, and the faint but lingering odor of Selma and Patty’s cigarettes hanging in the air of the kitchen.
Sighing, Marge returned Maggie to her high chair, and then that child’s mother sank back into her own chair at the kitchen table, and once more sipped her cup of coffee. It was still warm.
Maggie pensively chewed upon her pacifier a few times, and then the baby burped.
Which pretty much expressed it all.