Tuesday, February 08, 2005

Beating Inmates Is Preferable to Beating Your Wives

Top of the morning gents,

Yer talking to a juror today. There's a first time
for everything.

I am the part of the Seminole Indun judicial process
called the 'trier of the facts', ya see, we sniff cat
snickers, canine butt biscuits, horse pucky, donkey
pies, and baggies of mashed up assholes with our BS
detectors on full auto.

Oh, and the judge is the 'trier of the law', it's his
courtroom, ya break a rule or overlook due process,
he'll hurt you more than Chief Nolton's famous
uppercut to the sternum, or Sgt. Waller's 6-pack tap
to the eyebrow and temple.

Whenever I fucked around in the hallway, chambers, or
in court by sneaking a quick smoke thus ditching all
my inmates, old man Erlich, Jeffreys, Farr, or that
crazy bitch down in Palmer, Judge Cutler sternly
reminded me the basic rules of order with scathing and
sharp syllables that to a gun deaf mute feral Finn
sound like 71 'fucks' and 'shits'.

No worries mates, I might've been born dumb, but at
least I'm ugly.

Erlich has more than once glared at me. I never fail
to get a good ragging and threats of spending a few
nights with my clients.

I bite my tongue and pinch myself, declining to reply
with, "Sure, ya mean old fuck, but ya gotta lend me
that queer ass robe."

Back to my jury duty. I'm scared. In my misspent
youth, this handsome lad wore the title of
'Defendant'.

For the last hunnert years, I've paraded my dumb ass
in every goddamned courtroom in the FAZ (remember?
Fetal Alcohol Zone) as jailer, CSO, narc, state's
witness, VPSO, contract agent, confidential informant,
and a slew of fucking sexy code names and moron
numbers.

I've forgotten how much fear and stress I shifted off
my plate o' shit and into the 'Denial' bin, or PTSD
file.

Never been a juror before, all those weird little
sober people, yikes. I'm not done re-creating myself
or re-newing my membership with the human race.

No shit maggot fucks; I admit I'm kind of spooked.

Rip Van Winkle is me name, if I drink too much and
oversleep, maybe they'll all simply go away. Sure,
and I'll wake up in jail cell surrounded by leaking
corpses with severed boners.

If you hear an announcement for Group 47, wake me with
a Westlake.

Exactly what the fuck do I mean by a Westlake?

Shoot a round within a foot of my left ear (my good
ear, green 6) and wake me. I'm a heavy sleeper, but I
usually jump out of bed when small arms ordinance
screech to a halt in my pillow, or ankle.

In a fictional drinking village with a terrible
fishing problem, I used to stroll out to the lagoon or
dick around near the graveyard and Devil's Lake; good
places to drink, smoke, and shoot.

Some mornings, I'd meander near the 400 block at the
same time K-4 was getting off shift, pouring tall
strong ones and shooting a fictionally suppressed
firearm out his window. Besides dropping fleabag
stray dogs, he'd also screech one past the port side
of a fleabag stray Finn.

Subsonic bullets may be a little slower than
hypervelocity rounds, but damn; they sure are quiet.

Being more than a mere serial killer, K-4 enjoyed
toying with armed morons too. If I ignored the subs
zipping past my face, our gray-eyed sniper would
scream a hyper past my Goldie locks, thus resulting in
me jumping into any available unnuk lake.

So, if you hear 'Jury Grope Number 47' on the radio,
do a Westlake, it'll wake me enough to tip a bucket of
delicious coffee, cream, and sugar down my pie hole.
Some mornings this recipe includes Alka (holic)
Seltzer and a packet of multivitamins.

Recalling fun and games with live fire still don't
ease my worry wrought puss. How weird, a juror.

Bun assured me that I won't have to testi-lye or
obfuscate, distort, or exterFabricate shit. For once,
I don't gotta stress a true bill or a favorable
verdict.

I remember a lecture from Max Garner, Kim Nay, and
Sgt. Von Clausen about legal theory, prosecutorial
effectiveness, oh, and dice throwing.

Rule 1. If it isn't in your notebook, it never
happened.

Rule 2. If you can't kill the defendant, than shotgun
him with every charge under the sun.

Rule 3. Never abuse an inmate, if anybody's looking.

Rule 4. If you can't kill the defendant in custody or
in transfer, kill them with kindness at trial.
Minimizes any chance of appeal if your annoyingly
alive defendant thinks he can get better treatment in
some other asshole's courtroom.

I'm starting feel better.

Matter of fact I'm starting to feel happier'n a dike
in Auschwitz.

Goddamn. That's a fucking good feeling.

As gunslingers we must follow the code:

"It is not my duty to judge these criminals, it is
God's. My duty is to merely arrange their meeting."

This ought to stir that passion for killin' you haven't
felt since, well, last Tuesday.

You boys in blue haven't signed any "died in transfer"
papers in a while. What? Too busy backing the patrol
car up to the crematorium disposing of kicking bags of
trash at night? Bite my dick.

Cheers mates. More boners. Fuck all.

Karl.

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