"YOUR HONOR, IN MY DEFENSE..."

The courtroom, a monument to the sort of beige bureaucracy that sucks the very color out of existence, hummed with the low thrum of anticipation. Unless, quite possibly, faulty fluorescent lighting was the auditory culprit. Truly regardless, all eyes were on the newly sworn-in witness, a young man named Reginald Pringle. Yes, Reginald Pringle, a name that sounds less like a bank robber and more like someone who collects stamps of extinct garden gnomes.

Mr. Pringle, looking rather like a startled field mouse caught in the headlights of justice, sat somewhat awkwardly in the witness stand. He was accused, as the introductory statements had made clear, of enthusiastically participating in a recent, and rather chaotic, redistribution of wealth from the First National Bank of Galena, Illinois. The prosecution, a Mr. Atticus Bramble whose face suggested a lifelong acquaintance with disappointment, was poised to begin his interrogation.

“Mr. Pringle,” Mr. Bramble began, his voice possessing the warmth of a tax audit, “you were apprehended at the scene of the crime, were you not?”

“Well,” Mr. Pringle began, nervously adjusting an alarming tie that in the current circumstance wasn't doing him any favors (a paisley monstrosity that seemed to defy the laws of color, good taste and plain physics). “That depends on your definition of “apprehended”. I prefer to think of it as… an unexpected change of scenery.”

Mr. Bramble sighed, a sound that could curdle milk at fifty paces. “Mr. Pringle, were you or were you not found inside the First National Bank of Galena, in the immediate aftermath of a bank robbery, with a rather substantial quantity of the bank’s money in your possession?”

“Again,” Mr. Pringle said thoughtfully, as if considering a profound philosophical conundrum, “it’s all a matter of perspective. The money, you see, was merely… in my vicinity. And the bank? Well, I was exploring its architectural nuances.”

Mr. Bramble pinched the bridge of his nose. “Mr. Pringle, let’s try to be a little more direct. Can you explain to the court why you were in a bank that was, at that precise moment, being relieved of its fiscal assets by a group of individuals wearing rather unconvincing Groucho Marx disguises?”

“Ah, yes, the Grouchos,” Mr. Pringle said, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. “Rather theatrical, were they not? Though I did think the mustaches were a tad… derivative. But as to why I was there… it’s a long and rather convoluted story, I’m afraid.”

“We have time,” Mr. Bramble said, his voice laced with a guarded resignation that suggested he had encountered this sort of thing before. Perhaps the criminal underworld of Galena was populated entirely by whimsical eccentrics.

“Splendid!” Mr. Pringle exclaimed. “Well, you see, it all started with the getaway car. Or rather, my lack thereof. After the… uh… events transpired inside the bank, there was a certain urgency to depart the premises. However, the designated mode of transportation seemed to have developed a rather severe case of non-starting. So, I was left… stranded, as it were.”

“And how did you come to be relying on a getaway car in the first place, Mr. Pringle?”

“Ah, yes. The car. That was courtesy of a chap named… Matthew? Or possibly Cecil. My memory for names has always been rather poor. Anyway, Matthew/Cecil suggested I accompany him. He said he needed someone with… “a certain flair for the dramatic” to assist with a “financial transaction”. He neglected to mention the dramatic flair would involve ducking behind potted plants and attempting to blend in with the cheque-sorting machine.”

“And why did you agree to accompany this Matthew/Cecil?” Mr. Bramble asked, the “why” lingering in the air like a particularly persistent smell.

“Well,” Mr. Pringle said earnestly, “he had a rather compelling argument about the socio-economic benefits of… well, he mumbled a bit. Something about “sticking it to the man” and needing someone to “hold the bag”. Figuratively, I assumed. Until the bag, rather literally, was thrust into my hands.”

“So, you agreed to participate in a bank robbery because a vaguely named individual mumbled something about sticking it to the man?” Mr. Bramble repeated, just to ensure he hadn’t inadvertently wandered into one of those experimental plays at the local theater.

“Not precisely participate,” Mr. Pringle corrected. “More like… be there. And the “sticking it to the man” rhetoric was quite persuasive at the time. You have to understand, Mr. Bramble, I was in a rather suggestible state.”

“And why were you in a “suggestible state,” Mr. Pringle?” Mr. Bramble inquired, his tone suggesting he knowingly, and most reluctantly, was playing into a Filibusterer's fantasy.

“Ah, that goes back a bit further. You see, earlier that day, I had a rather unsettling encounter with a pigeon. A particularly aggressive pigeon. It stole my lunch. My entire cheese and pickle sandwich, gone in a flurry of feathers and avian audacity. This left me feeling… vulnerable. Like the universe was actively conspiring against my digestive well-being. In such a state, one is more susceptible to… unconventional propositions.”

Mr. Bramble stared at Mr. Pringle for a long moment, his expression a fascinating fusion of disbelief and begrudging respect for the sheer audacity of Mr. Pringle's line of reasoning. “So, a stolen sandwich led you to participate in a bank robbery?”

“Indirectly, yes,” Mr. Pringle affirmed. “The sandwich theft created a void, a sense of existential hunger, if you will. Matthew/Cecil merely filled that void with the promise of… well, not actual food, but a certain sense of… rebellious camaraderie.”

“And why were you in possession of a cheese and pickle sandwich in the first place, Mr. Pringle?” Mr. Bramble warily ventured, feeling as though he was excavating precarious archaeological layers of the bizarre without a hard hat or general caution.

“Because,” Mr. Pringle said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, “it was lunchtime. And I rather enjoy cheese and pickle.”

Mr Bramble blinked. “Oh.”

Taking a brief moment to catch his bearings, Mr. Bramble continued. “And why were you having lunch in that particular location; a location that apparently placed you in the flight path of a sandwich-pilfering pigeon?” By now, Mr. Bramble had seized to sanity-check his questions pre-utterance. He had somehow become invested in the outcome of this story, his queries no longer governed by intellect but rather an urge to peel off all the layers of this story for closure.

“Ah, that was due to a rather unfortunate incident involving my bicycle,” Mr. Pringle explained. “A rogue wheelie bin, you see. Sent me careening into a rather fragrant flower bed. My trousers were left… compromised. So, I was forced to seek refuge in a nearby park to attempt some rudimentary stain removal with a damp handkerchief.”

“A rogue wheelie bin led to your trousers being soiled, which led to you having lunch in a pigeon-infested area, which led to you being in a suggestible state, which led to you assisting in a bank robbery,” Mr. Bramble summarized in a voice that trembled with the uniquely odd mixture of professional exasperation and personal curiosity.

“You’re following beautifully, Mr. Bramble!” Mr. Pringle said encouragingly.

“But why were you cycling in that particular area, Mr. Pringle?” Mr. Bramble asked with no hint of sarcasm left in him whatsoever.

“Because it was the most direct route to the haberdashery,” Mr. Pringle said. “I needed to purchase some rather specific thread for a… well, it’s rather technical. Let’s just say it involved a minor sartorial emergency.”

“A sartorial emergency that necessitated cycling through a wheelie bin obstacle course?”

“Precisely! You see, my favorite cardigan had developed a rather alarming snag. A structural weakness, if you will. And the haberdashery on Elm Street has the only thread that perfectly matches its… autumnal hues.”

“And why did your favorite cardigan develop this “structural weakness,” Mr. Pringle?” Mr. Bramble asked, grappling with this suspicion that he was trapped in an infinitely regressing loop of causality.

“Ah, that was the fault of Mrs. Higgins’ cat,” Mr. Pringle said with a sigh. “A most mischievous creature. It took rather a liking to my cardigan and, during a moment of… feline exuberance, managed to inflict a rather significant pull.”

“Mrs. Higgins’ cat attacked your cardigan, necessitating a trip to the haberdashery, which involved a bicycle, a wheelie bin, soiled trousers, a stolen sandwich, suggestibility, and ultimately, a bank robbery,” Mr. Bramble recited, as if performing a cautionary nursery rhyme.

“The chain of events, in its tragic yet oddly compelling entirety,” Mr. Pringle agreed.

“But why were you in the vicinity of Mrs. Higgins’ cat?”

“Because I live next door to Mrs. Higgins,” Mr. Pringle said. “A geographical inevitability, really.”

“And why do you live next door to Mrs. Higgins?” Mr. Bramble asked uncertainly, not sure of the direction he was taking this story next.

Mr. Pringle looked genuinely perplexed by this question. “Well, because that’s where my house is. Number twelve, Acacia Avenue. A perfectly respectable semi-detached.”

“And why is your house at number twelve, Acacia Avenue?” Mr. Bramble pressed on, a faint glimmer of desperation as he was clinging on to whatever common sense was anymore.

“Because that’s the plot of land my parents… acquired,” Mr. Pringle said slowly, as if explaining something to a particularly dim-witted toddler.

“And why did your parents acquire that particular plot of land?” Mr. Bramble asked with a shrug of defeat.

Mr. Pringle paused, a look of profound contemplation on his face. “Well, you see, that goes all the way back…” He took a deep breath. “To my birth.”

A hush fell over the courtroom. Mr. Bramble blinked. The jury members exchanged bewildered glances.

“Your birth, Mr. Pringle?” Mr. Bramble said, his voice barely a whisper.

“Yes,” Mr. Pringle affirmed. “If I hadn’t been born, my parents wouldn’t have needed a house. If they hadn’t needed a house, they wouldn’t have acquired number twelve, Acacia Avenue. If I didn’t live next door to Mrs. Higgins, her cat wouldn’t have attacked my cardigan. If my cardigan hadn’t been attacked, I wouldn’t have needed thread. If I hadn’t needed thread, I wouldn’t have cycled past the rogue wheelie bin. If my trousers hadn’t been soiled, I wouldn’t have had lunch in pigeon territory. If my sandwich hadn’t been stolen, I wouldn’t have been so suggestible. And if I hadn’t been suggestible, I wouldn’t have ended up… architecturally appreciating the First National Bank of Galena, Illinois, during an unscheduled redistribution of its assets.”

He spread his hands, a picture of saintlike innocence. “You see, Mr. Bramble? It all comes down to the fact that I was born. And I couldn’t possibly be held responsible for being born as this was not my decision? It was, if you will, a pre-existing condition. To find me guilty would be to indict the very act of existence itself. And I hardly think that’s what you’re here to do, are you? Think about it. It all comes down to that fundamental, unavoidable fact: I was born. And for that, I can only plead… well, not guilty. Obviously. Now, if you’ll excuse me, this witness stand is doing absolutely nothing for my posture.”

Mr. Bramble stared at Mr. Pringle, his mouth slightly agape. With the perplexed look of someone just confronted with the utter absurdity of existence and who now needs a hug, he moved aside to allow Mr. Pringle to walk past him. As Mr. Pringle continued past the public gallery and was heading towards the door, he called over his shoulder as he was walking.

“Atticus, are you coming? I think some tea at Gilli’s across the street would do you very good. Shall we?”

And with that, off they went, never to be seen again.