The air inside Moe Szyslak's tavern clung heavy and thick, a tapestry woven from the scent of stale beer, forgotten peanuts, and the ever-present, slightly unsettling aroma of whatever mystery meat was sizzling on the hot plate. Dust particles danced in the faint, sickly yellow light cast by a single, flickering neon sign that proclaimed 'Moe's' in letters missing a crucial few tubes. It was a sanctuary, a dive, a second home – often the first home by the time the night wore on – for a certain segment of the Springfield populace.

Tonight, however, the usual tableau of slumped shoulders and vacant stares at the scratched-up bar was disrupted by a truly extraordinary sight. In a corner booth, nestled incongruously amongst worn pleather and cigarette burns, sat Simba and Nala. Not costumed mascots, mind you, but actual, majestic lions, radiating a quiet dignity that seemed utterly out of place. Simba, his mane still developing but already possessing a regal bearing, sat opposite Nala, whose sleek form exuded grace. They were sharing a generous platter of something that looked suspiciously like prime steak cuts, tearing into the meat with a focus that defied the mundane surroundings. The low, guttural sounds of their happy feasting mingled bizarrely with the tinny music from the jukebox and the clinking of glasses.

No one was saying anything, but everyone was looking. The regulars at the bar – Homer Simpson, Lenny Leonard, Carl Carlson, and Barney Gumble – had their eyes fixed on the peculiar couple, mugs paused halfway to their lips. Even Moe Szyslak, hunched behind the bar wiping a glass with a rag that had seen better decades, couldn't peel his gaze away.

Finally, Homer, never one to let bewildered silence last too long, broke the spell with a booming, happy exclamation that was far too loud for the hushed reverence of the moment. "Look at them!" he boomed, a wide smile splitting his face. "Going on a cute little date with meat! Aww!"

Lenny, ever the gentle soul, nodded slowly, a warm smile spreading across his face, softening his usually blank expression. "Ain't it just the sweetest thing?" he murmured, genuinely touched by the unexpected display of cross-species affection and dining etiquette.

Carl, nodding along, added a more thoughtful observation than he usually mustered after a few beers. "It's like they know it's a special night," he said, perhaps projecting his own hopes for a decent Tuesday evening onto the big cats.

Barney Gumble, surprisingly coherent for once, gestured vaguely with his half-empty glass. "Yeah, like a dinner date under the stars!" he slurred, his eyes twinkling with a rare moment of romantic insight.

Moe, however, had a different, more pragmatic, and frankly, terrified thought bubbling to the surface. His brow furrowed, and he gulped, his voice a low, anxious mutter. "I just hope... I just hope Mufasa doesn't come to attack us."

The others looked at him, their smiles fading slightly, replaced by expressions ranging from confusion to vague concern.

Lenny tilted his head. "Who's Mufasa?" he asked, genuinely befuddled. Animal names, unless they were hot dogs, weren't his specialty.

Carl's eyes widened slightly in realization, a rare flash of specific knowledge surfacing. "Oh, you know," he said, his voice dropping a touch, "just the big, scary lion that's his dad. The king." The implication hung heavy in the stale air. Big cat cubs were one thing; a full-grown, protective lion king crashing their Tuesday night would be... problematic.

As if summoned by the very mention of his name, a sound ripped through the quiet stillness outside the tavern. It wasn't just a sound; it was an event. A deep, resonant roar that seemed to vibrate not just the air, but the very foundation of the building, rattling the windows in their frames and making the worn floorboards tremble beneath their feet.

The atmosphere in the tavern shifted instantly, the earlier amazement and sentimental cooing vaporizing, replaced by a palpable wave of sheer panic. The lions in the booth stopped eating, their ears swiveling forward, their eyes now wide with apprehension.

Lenny's face went pale, the color draining away like beer down a drain. He squeaked, his voice barely a whisper, "What... what was that?"

Carl swallowed hard, his usual calm demeanor cracking. "Uh, Lenny," he stammered, "that's the sound of Mufasa... not being too pleased."

Homer's initial reaction was a high-pitched, repetitive whimper that quickly escalated into a full-blown mantra of terror. "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God," he hyperventilated, his hands flying up to cover his ears, though it did little to block the impending doom.

Barney, despite his state of inebriation, managed to stumble towards the front window, peering out with blurry vision. His eyes widened further, clearing slightly with the shock of what he saw. "Guys," he croaked, his voice laced with dread. "I think... I think he's coming for Simba and Nala."

The roar grew louder, closer now, a physical force pounding against the walls. Bottles on the backbar clinked together in a frantic, chaotic symphony of terror. The entire tavern seemed to be vibrating, the very air thick with the approaching power.

Moe, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated fear, pointed a trembling finger towards the front door. "The roar... the roar comes from Mufasa..." he sputtered, stating the obvious in a tone of dawning horror.

Lenny's eyes were wide as saucers. "Uh oh..."

Moe's voice, usually a gravelly growl, cracked completely as he shrieked, the sound barely audible over the now thunderous roaring outside. "The roar! It's coming from Mufasa!"

With a sound like a small, wooden building exploding, the tavern's door was not just opened, it was torn from its hinges, splintered wood and twisted metal flying inwards. Framed by the night sky, silhouetted momentarily like a terrifying avenging deity, stood the mighty, imposing figure of Mufasa. His golden mane seemed to ripple with contained power, and his eyes, fixed on the corner booth, blazed with a fiery, protective rage that promised swift, decisive action.

He took a single step into the room, and the air crackled with his presence. He didn't hesitate. With a speed that utterly defied his size, he swung his mighty paw in a sweeping arc, a blur of muscle and claw. Before any of them – Homer, Moe, Barney, Lenny, or Carl – could even process what was happening, they were airborne. Sent flying through the smoky, beer-scented air like so many discarded ragdolls. The impact of his paw was tremendous, a force that seemed to defy physics and basic bar behavior. The wooden beams of the tavern groaned in protest, dust rained down from the ceiling, and a cascade of bar detritus followed them through the air.

Homer, the heaviest of the bunch, followed the path of least resistance – straight into the bar itself. He slammed into the polished wood with a deafening CRASH, sending glasses, bottles, and ice buckets flying in every direction. He landed in a heap on the floor amidst a sea of shattered glass and spilled liquor, his initial terrified yell devolving into a pathetic, high-pitched whimpering. The sheer, terrifying power of the creature that could do that to him, untouched by human hands before, was a sobering (even for Barney) realization.

Lenny, by some bizarre stroke of luck, managed a semi-controlled (or perhaps just accidental) landing in a large, fluffy heap of questionable bar towels that had been piled in the corner. The mountain of laundry softened his fall somewhat, but the sheer force of the impact was still jarring. He lay there, tangled in terrycloth, letting out a soft, prolonged moan.

Carl, less fortunate than Lenny, was sent spinning, his legs flailing wildly like an overturned beetle. He crashed into a rack of beer mugs, sending them shattering around him before coming to an undignified halt in a tangle of overturned chairs near the pool table. He lay still for a moment, stars definitely circling his head.

Barney, bless his inebriated heart, somehow managed to use his momentum, however involuntary, to somewhat tumble towards the relatively safer (or so he hoped) haven behind the bar. He scrambled on hands and knees, knocking over stray stools and spitting out loose change, desperately seeking cover from the golden furry whirlwind of destruction.

Moe, left standing alone behind the bar for a terrifying second, watched the chaos unfold, his face a mask of horror. His knees were knocking together so hard it sounded like castanets. "Good God! Please! Good God! No!" he begged, his voice shaking violently, clinging to the edge of the bar for support as if it were the only thing anchoring him to reality. The sight of his friends – his only consistent customers, his only companions in this miserable world – being tossed around like empty peanut shells was almost too much to bear.

Mufasa, however, was not finished. His fiery gaze, still burning with righteous fury, swept across the wrecked tavern and settled on the heap that was Homer Simpson. Homer, still sprawled amidst the wreckage, frozen with fear, his whimpering turning into a full-blown, ear-splitting scream as the lion's massive paw made contact. It wasn't a swipe this time, but a deliberate push, a statement of dominance. Homer flew across the room like a ragdoll caught in a tornado, bouncing off the far wall before landing in a heap of splintered furniture near the broken doorframe. A final, choked "D'oh!" escaped him before he lay stunned.

Then Mufasa turned his attention to Lenny, who had barely managed to untangle himself from the bar towels and get shakily to his feet. Before Lenny could even form a coherent thought or take a step, Mufasa was upon him. Another tremendous force, a swift, powerful shove sending Lenny backwards over the pool table with a sickening thud. His beloved hat flew off his head in a sad arc as he sailed through the air, landing in a sprawled, groaning heap on the other side of the room, near the restrooms. His eyes were wide with shock, his screams echoing through the demolished room, a sound of pure, helpless terror.

Carl was next in Mufasa's line of sight. Seeing what had just happened to Lenny and Homer, Carl tried to scurry away on hands and knees like a startled crab, desperately seeking refuge under an overturned table. But his feet and hands couldn't seem to move fast enough, slowed perhaps by the residual effects of the initial blow and several hours of beer. With a powerful, almost disdainful swipe of his paw, Mufasa caught Carl on the backside, sending him tumbling head-over-heels into a pile of overturned chairs and broken stools near the jukebox. His legs flailed helplessly in the air for a second before he landed with a soft groan amongst the wreckage.

Barney, who had somehow managed to wedge himself behind the bar between a stack of beer crates and the ice machine, felt a large, warm, distinctly furry presence looming over him. His usual jovial, drunken demeanor had evaporated hours ago, replaced by sheer, trembling terror. He scrabbled deeper, knocking over more bottles and glasses in his desperate, futile bid for cover. But Mufasa's reach was long, his movements precise despite the chaos. With a swift, almost casual grab, he snatched Barney by the scruff of his worn jacket, lifting him high off the ground. Barney's eyes bulged with fear, his face turning a terrifying shade of purple as he dangled in the air, his legs kicking wildly, letting out choked, gurgling sounds.

Moe, having witnessed the systematic demolition of his friends, finally became the sole focus of the terrifying king. Mufasa, holding a dangling Barney like a misplaced sack of potatoes, took a single, deliberate step forward. The floorboards trembled under the beast's weight. Moe, desperate, seeing his inevitable fate, threw his hands up in a pleading gesture, a reflex born of pure, primal fear. "Good God! Please! Good God! No!" he cried out again, his voice now a frantic, reedy sound, cracking with the intensity of his terror. He braced himself for the all-consuming force.

But Mufasa didn't swipe. Not immediately. Instead, with a surprising lack of effort given the weights involved (and the fact that Homer was probably heavier than a small wildebeest), Mufasa repositioned himself. He held Barney aloft while simultaneously using his other paw to press down firmly on the back of the prone Homer, using the tip of a claw – just enough to prickle and terrify – on Lenny's chest, a heavy Paw pinning Carl's legs, and finally, placing a massive paw squarely on Moe's chest, pushing him back against the bar with immovable force. Five grown men, pinned to the ground, held captive by a single, impossibly powerful lion.

Homer's whimpering didn't stop; it intensified, turning into a full-blown, wracking sob. His eyes were squeezed shut in terror as Mufasa's paw pressed him into the floorboards, the weight of the lion king unbearable. Homer felt as if his lungs were about to be crushed, his body breaking at any moment.

Lenny's arms and legs flailed wildly against the floor, making pathetic, scraping sounds as he tried to escape Mufasa's grasp. His AAAHH's didn't stop either; they grew louder, more frantic with each futile attempt to break free from the immense, unyielding pressure.

Moe, pinned against his own counter, could only gulp for air. "Good God! Please! Good God!"

Barney, still dangling, choked out, "Oh dear God!"

Carl, his legs pinned, twisted his upper body in agony. "He's mad!"

Mufasa, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that resonated in their very bones, finally spoke, directing his words at the terrified men beneath him. "Silence! Shut up!"

The tension in the air was palpable, thick enough to chew on. They could feel the immense power of the beast, the raw, primal force that could end their lives with a single, effortless movement. Claws, just slightly extended, pressed into their skin, a searing reminder of their utter helplessness.

Mufasa's fiery gaze swept over them one last time, a look of utter contempt and warning, before he finally released Barney, who fell to the floor with a wet thud near Moe. He then turned his head, his eyes softening just slightly as they settled on the two young cubs who had been watching the scene unfold from their booth, wide-eyed and trembling, the half-eaten platter of meat forgotten.

Mufasa's gaze settled back on the cowering group of humanity pinned beneath him. "Simba and Nala," he said, his voice a thunderclap in the stillness of the wrecked tavern, a voice that carried the weight of kingship and fury. "Simba and Nala are coming with me." The command was absolute, final.

Barney, gasping for air, managed a weak, "Uh oh."

Homer, still sobbing, echoed, "Uh oh."

Then, for seemingly no reason other than to emphasize his power and their insignificance, Mufasa rears his mighty head and let out another earth-shattering roar. This wasn't directed at the hyenas; this was a pure, unadulterated blast of sonic force aimed squarely at the five men. The sound was like a sudden, localized tornado, a physical wave that slammed into them. It knocked the wind out of their lungs, vibrated their teeth, and sent their already bruised bodies flying again in different directions, like bowling pins struck by a very large, very angry, furry ball.

They landed with painful thuds outside the tavern, scattered across the cracked, dirty sidewalk and the dusty street. Their whimpers and cries, pathetic after the overwhelming roar, echoed through the sudden quiet air.

Mufasa, having made his point with brutal efficiency, turned back to his son and Nala. His gaze softened further, the fiery rage dampening, replaced by a stern, commanding yet undeniably paternal look. "Simba," he said, his voice still deep but no longer a threat, "Nala, you are coming with me." The two young lions exchanged a look of terror and uncertainty, their earlier date forgotten, replaced by the cold reality of their father's absolute authority. They knew better than to argue.

With quiet murmurs and lowered heads, the cubs exited the shattered doorway, meekly following the massive form of their father.

The townsfolk, who had been drawn by the commotion and were peeking through nearby windows and around the corner, scattered instantly at the sight of the lion king leading his cubs. The sound of their panicked footsteps faded quickly as Mufasa led his children away from the wrecked tavern, disappearing into the Springfield night.

Homer, Lenny, Carl, Barney, and Moe lay sprawled out on the dusty street, their bodies aching from the multiple impacts. Each one of them was too stunned to move, their minds reeling from the surreal, violent encounter. Their eyes were glazed over with a mixture of pain, fear, and utter disbelief. The tavern door creaked softly in the cool night breeze, a gaping, broken maw that served as a stark reminder of the terrifying beast that had just been among them. The scent of spilled beer and splintered wood hung heavy in the air.

Lenny, tangled awkwardly on the sidewalk, let out a low, pained moan. "Ooohh..." He slowly managed to roll over onto his back, his body feeling like one giant bruise.

Barney, somehow still marginally conscious, winced. "Ow," he muttered, his voice hoarse. He gently touched his swollen nose, gingerly probing a new lump on his forehead. "What the hell just happened?" He felt like he'd been run over by a stampede... and then maybe the stampede came back for seconds.

Moe, propped painfully against a lamppost, stared at the ruined doorway of his life's work. "Mufasa..." he breathed, his voice a mix of awe, dread, and profound loss. "He found us..."

Carl, lying in a heap near a fire hydrant, managed a weak, sarcastic cough. "Well," he wheezed, pushing himself onto his elbows, "that's a first. Getting thrown out of your own bar by a lion."

Homer, the furthest away, lying next to a garbage can, let out a final, agonized sound. "D'oh... Ouch. My everything." He didn't even have the energy to attempt to get up. Getting mauled by a lion was definitely worse than getting hit by a car... or falling down the gorge.

They lay there for a long time, five broken men under the indifferent stars, the silence of the night finally settling over Springfield, broken only by their pained groans and the gentle creaking of the ruined tavern door. The date night was over. The King had arrived. And Moe's wouldn't be opening quite on time tomorrow.

The End.