They called it the Dump. It was a tract of land the size of Rhode Island filled to the brim with trash as far as the horizon could accommodate. Upkeep was long forgotten since the War of Inversions reduced any sign of civilization to ashes and made mincemeat out of history. Some say there was a victor in the War of Inversions, the rest didn’t know because they were unable to discern a lightbulb from a leg of lamb. The Smarties, they called them, were extinct, leaving their mental underlings to procure the mantle of statecraft, but even that failed to avert humanity’s inclination towards fratricide. The debate on who won the War of Inversions continued among the slow folk of the Dump, and, on this day, things got particularly heated, arousing the attention of the King of the Dump. He was fat, lazy and stupid like the rest, but he was the only arbitor who knew how to delegate some degree of council among the clans.
The King lounged in his chair with his feet resting on the table. Papers were scattered in desultory abandon, his clerk too drunk to show up for work that day. He wasn’t pleased, but there was something bigger on his mind.
“Read me dat last repawt.”
“I tink dat’s hi-ness. Maybe I’m rawng. Go ahead.”
“Over in…uh…you know that place with the broken airplane…yeah…they had another fight.”
“Like I said.”
“No. I mean wich clans an' fo’ wut reezin?”
“Oh…it was the Bup Bups and ‘Da Mofos.’” The squire had to draw out the last name of the clan to properly enunciate it. “Someone ended up getting their eye skewered after he said dumb people won the war while the other party said the Smarties won.”
“Wuddeah meen, the Smarties won? Ain’t dey all dead?” The King took a sip of a sugary beverage. He expressed his refreshment in a loud belch.
“That’s what I thought.”
“Dis ain’t gonna be eezy,” the King said, banging his fist on the arm of his chair. “Dey been fiting about dis fo’ yeas an' dair beginnin' to be a payne in da neck. It’s time we seddle diz wunce an' fo’ all. Brin' 'em both in, hell o' hi wawdda!”
The arraignment was met with some resistance, mostly from Da Mofos because they assumed they were on the right side of history and didn’t have to prove themselves in a court of law. However, after a little cajoling with a round of tasers, they complied.
The Royal Courtroom was recognizable from the ad hoc inscription scrawled above the entry. A mechanized rhythm pounded through the lobby; heads bobbed up and down while everyone waited for commencement. Once called, witnesses from both clans filed in, followed by a trail of crumpled snack wrappers and beer bottles.
The gavel hammered away. “Alwite evvywun, dis cawght’s now in seshin. Pweez be seeted, or whateva’. Who ca'es?” The King, chewing on a hot dog, called as he sat on the makeshift bench consisting of a discarded piece of vinyl siding propped by stacks of cinder blocks.
The crowds simmered.
The King belched again. “Boy, that wuz good. Uuh…good mawning, evvybody. Okay, we gotta pwoblem here. We’r callin' the case o' the Bup Bups vorses Da Mofos. Both pahteez…I like pahteez—wait, uuh—Both pahteez aar hea to give ev-i-dense to dair defense. Any jurors swayed by simp…siiim…simpithy…that’s it…yeah, you can all go ta hell. Now, regaaahding da Bup Bups, you have da burden of pwoof, so pweez stand and be counted.”
The Bup Bup clan rose in their motley band of garb. Their expressions showed blood-and-guts determination as several of the key witnesses gave the defending Mofos the stink eye.
“Got it. Pleez sit down.” The rustle of butts dropping and chairs scooting and scraping ensued. “Mofos, you too.” The same followed with Da Mofos. One witness stood out donned in a pair of underwear. They plopped back down. “Okay, now will da plaintiff rise an' state his name an' case?”
The plaintiff, with a spit jammed into his left eye socket, slowly rose. “Ma name’s Chud, an' ahm weally angwy! Ahm gonna beet thea hides,” he said pointing with his full arm at the defendants. “No one tweets me like a pin cooshin––”
“Shuddup, yoo mowon!” One unidentifiable witness from Da Mofos shouted, followed by a commotion of rabble. The bailiff looked up with a raised brow after picking his nose. Bored, he returned to his leisurely endeavor.
The gavel banged again. “Orda' in da cawght. Orda' in da cawght. May da plaintiff––I said shut up! Dere. Pleez reezume.”
“Thank yoo, y’ honna. Evvybuddy know how much betta stupid peeple awe than Sma’ties. Who yoo think won the waw?”
“Objectivashun, yoor honner!” The defendant from Da Mofos rebutted.
“Objecshun ovawooled. Mr. Chud stands.”
“That’s wight. Hea’ that?” He shouted at the other faction. “Well, y’ honna, we all disagwee on somethin’, but not when ya poke somewun’s eye out!” He intoned as he indicated his wound. A visible stream of blood gushed out, leaving rivulets of crimson stains on his clothing.
“Yoo dummer than a box o’ rocks! Yor honner?” The defendant interrupted again. “I objecticate!”
“Shove it, dum’wad!” shouted Chud.
The gavel banged. “Orda'! Orda'! Objecshun sustained.”
“Take that, yoo Bup Bup! That’s one for Da Mofos!” His clan erupted into obstreperous cheer. “Yor honner––”
“Uh, state yaw name.”
“Oh. Ev’rybuddy calls me Mussles, cuz I got lots of 'em. Da Mofos repreezent!” His clan followed in cheers again.
“Shut up!” The King didn’t bother with the gavel. The hooting and hollering faded into taunting whispers.
“Yor honner, yoo know, an' I know the Smarties wun the war. Yoo know why?” He pointed at the plaintiff with the broadest accusatory gesture his shoulder could muster. “That’s why! Yor man, Chud ov'r they're and all the Bup Bups, are a bunch o’ Smarties, and we know what kinda trouble Smarties cause.” He turned towards the plaintiff. “Isn’t that right, yoo sack o’ door-nobs!”
“Look who’s talkin’––”
“Mr. Chud, it ain’t yaw turn t' speak. Next time you do dat in my cawght, it’ll be a contemp-or-ashun…or sumthin' like dat—I dunno—an' I’ll punch you 'n da face! Mussles, keep going––I mean, sustained.”
“Yeah, yoo shood see when I threw th' kitchen sink at that––oh, sorry. I was tawkin' to my buddy. See, the Smarties like ta start all kinds o’ stuff. Yoo know why? Cuz the Smarties won the war and hurt anybuddy who fites them. We dumb peeple know that an' wer workin' to save the world. So ther. I rest my casement!”
“It don’t meen yoo shove somethin’ in somewun’s eye like this––” the plaintiff rebutted, with the skewer still wedged in its place.
“Wait yaw turn, you half-wit!" the King paused a beat. "Neva' mine. You make a good case, Mr. Chud. Sustained.”
"Hey! I was talk—" Mussels began before being cut off.
“And wut’s this ‘bout conspiwa-shun theeeewiiiieeees,” Chud stumbled over the words 'conspiracy' and ‘theories,’ “Ain’t no way that’s pos-i-ble. Wen was the last time a Sma’tie was awound?”
The King rubbed his chin in deep thought. “Come t' tink of it, I have t’ agwee. Pweez reezume.”
“Thanks, yo honna. Natu’lly, the Sma’ties were too sma’t to compeet wit' the dumb peeple, and we dumb peeple awe waaaaaay strawnga. The sma’t peeple don’t even have baybies afta' they blow evvything up. That’s why it’s good to be dumb!”
“Oh yeah?” said Mussels. “Yer honner, if I may speak a li’l trooth here.”
“Clam it, ga'bage bweth!” Shouted Chud.
The gavel banged. “Ovawooled, Mr. Chud. Defendant has da flaw.”
“Take that, yoo ingrate! Now ware was I? Oh, yeah, th' trooth. If yoo think dumb peeple won th’ war, an' yoo got the ev-dinse, that proves yoo a Smarty! That meens Smarties are still around! See, yor honner? Smarties are tryin' to get us at each other's necks. Now arrest the Bup Bups conspires…cons-po-ra…co—before they start another commoshun!”
“Awe yoo kiddin’, musselhead?" Chud retorted. "Yo so sma’t, ya gotta shae yo brayne wit’ th' west of yo fam’ly––” The accusations devolved into ad hominem attacks while both parties lost track on who won the war.
“I’m gonna kill yoo, Chud!” Mussels said. "See my mussels?" He flexed his arm and pointed at his opponent.
“Butt’n it! Yo so sma’t, yo bwayne get stuck on wetha' t' make a left tawn o’ a wight tawn.”
“That nuttin like wut um gonna do wit yoo brayne!”
“Uh huh. Yo so sma’t, ya need yaw kids to do th' gwoce’y shoppin’!”
Mussels exploded in rage and bolted up, tossing his chair to the side. “Alrite. We gonna fight!”
"Bwin' it on, dingus!"
"That's it!" With a violent lurch, Mussels raced over to the other side and cuffed Chud into the second eye, knocking him onto the floor. Of course, that inflamed the Bup Bup Clan who, in avenging their kin, brandished their fists and hurled themselves into battle. Both sides clashed in a tidal wave of destruction. The sounds of unintelligible yammering dominated the room as fists flew, chairs flung, and heads popped.
The ruckus was entertaining to watch, but the King knew it was going nowhere. Besides, he had a football game to catch…and he wanted to knock some sense into the clerk's head for all those bottles of gin he swilled. So without further ado, he ordered the bailiff to taser the entire courtroom, including the councilors and stenographer, the latter of whose redactions came out as gobbledygook anyway, so they were useless for collation.
After a volley of bruises and ouches, the rumble died down, and the King was apt to wield his command with another slamming of the gavel. “Orda' in da cawght. Orda' in da cawght." He saw the room was already subdued. "I guess I didn’t need t' do that," he said to himself. "Awerite. Evvybuddy, I got sum news to tell you.” The courtroom stared out into the void, and it was anybody's guess if they were actually listening. “None o’ you…an' I mean none o’ you…got nuttin' ova me! It is ev-i-dent dat I am dumba dan any o’ you! You all wanna know why? Cuz I’m da King, dummies! How else did I get to be King o’ th’ Dump if I wah smarter dan you?”
The cold reality sunk into both clans who soon nodded in capitulation and made peace with one another before the court was adjourned. Chud's assailant even gave him a friendly pat on the skewer, flaring his pain enough that he stumbled around the room in an agonizing panic before he fainted from blood loss in front of the Royal Courthouse exit. The King sat in his bench in triumph and folded his arms over his chest. He decided to kick back on his usual mode of comfort and slapped his feet up on the table. Without warning, the bench gave out from the excess weight and tumbled over. The King of the Dump was taken off guard and staggered back up into his chair. He went to grab his soda when he realized it fell with his bench.
“Piece o’ junk!” he shouted.