We Now Return To Judge Hooty.

I miss breathing.

The Anti-People's Court

You take a building that was built back when everyone thought asbestos was good to eat off of and refrigerators ran on blocks of ice, you put twenty-five or so folks in it, most of them shedding, and you leave em in there until August. Perfect recipe for smothered fox, and in your own homemade pressure cooker.

Who is your next witness, counsel? Who? Who? the judge is saying.

I don’t want to be here. I want to be not-here so much I can taste it. What am I doing here? What good can I do? As far as I’m concerned, the only way to make this case come out good is to just give both plaintiff and defendant a good kick in the pasty tailless butt on their way out the front door.

And th-th-then he c-crushed my hand! stutters, ahem, Count Weirdly, whose real name I couldn’t give scratch about.

The local nut accuses some small time wrestler of personal injury. Fine. What does that have to do with me? So what if I ‘have experience’ with the guy, that doesn’t make me a lawyer! I need to work on the case of that couple that got grabbed off a boat by the pelican yakuza. I’m a detective, I should be out detecting! Not sweating my brains out in a room that smells like eggplants. I hate eggplants.

Hr. Don know whut he’s talkin’ bout. Never met him ‘fore. Hr. mumbles the wrestler. The court, realizing it isn’t gonna get anything better out of the pink blimp, accepts it as testimony.

I look over at Max. He’s staring his eyes out at a sheet of paper, has been ever since we got here. I look over his shoulder. ‘Kyle glanced over his shoulder at the sexy nurse. He had his shirt off because it was Doctor Rat’s office, and he was getting an exam. But he would soon get a different kind of exam. The sexy nurse explored his muscular chest with her eyes. Kyle grinned at her. Doctor Rat did not see.‘ Well, that explains it. It’s got to be the dregs of internet porn, but at least it’d be a distraction from the court. Wish I’d thought of that.

Plaintiff, who do you call as your character witness? Who?

I c-c-call Slylock F-fox!

…what?

Next thing I know, I’m up in front of the stand, being asked to vouch for the honesty of the plaintiff.

We want to know who this mean really is! says the judge, Who is he? Who!

“Frankly, your honor, he’s a nut.” I glance at Weirdly, who’s just grinning at me like he taped a ‘kick me’ to my back. “He’s barely able to take care of himself. He can’t tell fantasy from reality. He thinks he’s a comic book supervillain. I wouldn’t be surprised if he firmly believed that the defendant injured him–even if they’d never seen eachother before. Judging by the way he’s grinning right now, he can’t even tell that I’m hurting his case.”

Hehehe. Y-you t-t-tell em, he giggles, still grinning.

“I mean, this has to be one of the least convincing scams I’ve ever seen. This bandage, for instance! It’s obvious no doctor did this, unless this guy’s hand is actually the size and shape of a bowling pin-”

Gyahah! he suddenly shouts, and jumps up, now that I lured you here with my f-fake lawsuit, Slylock, taste my r-revolutionary Mind Controlling Serum! I see him ripping the bandage off out of the corner of my eye, and the next thing I know there’s something that smells like grape juice and weeds and compost drenching my face.

By the time I get my eyes clear, the bailiff is dragging him off. He’s still cackling and dragging a squirt gun from his now unbandaged hand.

Geez Sly, says Max, dropping his porn, did he trow acid in ya’ face or sumthin?

I shake dirty grape juice out of my ears. “I’m sure he thought he did. Idiot.” He set up this whole charade and ruined my entire Sunday just to get me wet and stain my tie. I sigh. “C’mon, lets get out of here before that wrestling marshmallow decides to be grateful or something.”

As I’m walking down the steps outside, with the judge’s shrieks of WHO LET HIM BRING THAT IN HERE?! WHO LET HIM INTO MY COURT WITHOUT CHECKING FOR CONCEALED WEAPONS?! WHO?!?! echoing around me, I bump into one of the guards.

Sorry about that, Sly.

“It happens,” I shrug, as the grape juice drips down my back.

You gonna sue him? Maybe get the cost of you dry cleaning out of him?

“Nah.”

Oh, well… see you at the station.

Why not sue ‘im Sly? He sprayed you wit… wit…

“With some weeds he pulled out of his front yard, boiled in grape juice. Bet he thought it was a mystic potion or some nonsense. And yeah, that pisses me off, but if I sued, I’d have to spend another weekend in that courtroom.”

Oh.

“Besides, I bet his assets total like 32 bucks and a shoe.”

The Final Word.

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