Justice Takes the Piss

TW: swearing, duh

“Speak now or forever hold your pee,” said a judge made of flame and the burning feeling that you have when you’ve just vomited samples of every meal for the last week.

“Don’t you mean speak now or forever hold your peace?” asked the defendant. He was the memory of a middle aged Caucasian man wrapped in a body of smoke and forgetfulness.

“No, Saint, I do not. Every punishment is fitted to the psyche of the defendant. Apparently you have a mortal fear of wetting yourself. Hence, if found guilty, you will be forever suspended on the edge of losing control of your bladder, unable to relieve yourself. Do you understand?”

“Not really,” said Saint. “Am I in Heaven or Hell? Wouldn’t I eventually get used to the feeling of being about to wet myself?” The courtroom had four walls that looked like grass tennis courts. The entire reality had seemingly been built on an intentional misinterpretation of every possible homonym. 

“A mind is unable to adapt within the constraints of its confinement.”

“Okay, is the sentence forever? Any chance of parole? Time off for good behaviour?”

“Your chance at good behaviour passed while you were in the mortal world suppressing unionisation of your overworked staff and voting for individuals you knew full well were guilty of sexual misconduct.”

“I only voted for him once,” Saint protested.

“You voted for the him in question twice and others like him on separate occasions. There is no heaven, nor hell, only justice followed by rehabilitation.

“How do I appeal my sentence if convicted?”

“There is no appeal. This is the last court. You will be judged by a jury of your piers.” The judge waved a hand made of recycled nuclear reactor rods to remote viewing screens. On each screen was a pier Saint knew from his childhood surfing the California coast.

“I’m high aren’t I?” The defendant laughed, producing a sound somewhere between a maniacal cartoon villain and a dog's squeak toy.

“No, Saint, you’re just about as low as they come,” said the judge. It wasn’t exactly a neutral statement, not fair in his opinion.

“Speaker for the jury,” said the judge, “how do you find the defendant?”

“He’s right there,” said the Santa Monica pier, pointing a railing at the ghost of the accused.

“No. I mean, have the jury come to a decision regarding the defendant’s guilt?” A sweat of exasperation poured from the brow of the judge. The sweat was composed of the tears of men whose favourite male characters are cast as women for live action adaptations. It smelled of the regret a student feels after handing in an exam paper and remembering that they didn’t write their name on it.

“We have your honour. We think he’s a complete dick. Real piece of shit that guy. Throw the book at him.”

The judge threw a book, Everybody Poops, which passed straight through Saint because he was an ethereal entity. Frowning at the jury speaker, the judge lamented the loss of her favourite book. “Your verdict?”

“Guilty.”

“Saint, who names their kid Saint? That’s just asking for trouble. You have been found guilty by a jury of your piers. You will now begin your sentence. For ten thousand years you will wait. When you reach the front of the line, you will complete the sentence and rehabilitation will begin.”

Saint found himself in a cramped corridor in a line of people. On the wall was the standard pictograph for male toilet with an arrow pointing ahead.

He was bursting to go. Immediately doing the dance, he pushed past others in the line, determined that he could wait out the millennia with an empty bladder. Much as he pushed and jostled he was never within sight of a door. Stopping, out of breath, he bit his hand. Blood welled from the bite mark as he slapped the hand against the wall.

“Don’t any of you care?” His voice echoed away.

Heads turned. One head on all of them. His head. His face with every haircut he’d ever had. Every outfit he’d ever worn. All of them were carved out of marshmallow. One had cucumber for his green eyes.

“What the fuck?” He pushed on past them, needing to get away from the ridiculous versions of himself that began singing.

“I can’t get no,

Dun dun dun,

Satisfaction,

Dun dun dun.”

Their impression of Mick Jagger was as awful as his own before they transitioned into Jimmy Hendrix.

“There’s too much confusion,

I can’t get no relief.”

Then came the rendition of TLC’s Waterfalls.

“Don’t go chasing waterfalls,

Stick to the rivers and the lakes that you’re used to.”

Saint rushed on, pushing and shoving with the ever present feeling that his body would betray him. 

“This is cruel and unusual punishment. Doesn’t hell have some sort of code against that?” He bent double. When he straightened up again he saw his bloody handprint on the wall.

No matter how far he went, he knew there was nowhere to go.

“Ten thousand years, alright. Might as well get started then.”

“Ten thousand and one years,” said a version of him as he’d been in his twenties, complete with a moustache which, in his own personal purgatory, was formed of bacon.

“Why is there another year?”

“You attempted to escape,” said the gastronomical doppelgänger with eyes of sincere celery.

“How long have I been here?”

“Three minutes,” said the pancake corduroy trousered tormentor.

Turning his head from left to right, there was nothing but him. Nothing but time.

Beat boxing, the army of he mimicked trickling water as he counted up to a thousand. He didn’t know how many seconds there were in a thousand and one years, but he’d count until he got there. Unfortunately for Saint, he lost count at three million one hundred and forty one thousand, five hundred and ninety two.

Without his own voice to distract him, the lyrics that referenced torment and water filled his ears again.

The line shuffled forwards one step.

“Has that been a year?” he asked, smiling.

“A day,” said the malicious manifestation of him wearing a full head of red string candy that represented a time he’d dyed his hair to impress a girl at a party. Said girl preferred not to be called a ‘girl’ and had a name. Saint couldn’t remember the name. It was just another reason he was there. She’d gone home with a woman and he’s insulted them both to salve his wounded ego, taking their sexuality as a slight to his physical attractiveness.

“Is this what passes for justice?” Saint asked.

“Yes.” One celery eye winked.

“It takes the piss.”