The Judge

Nature has its laws and we see them in action everywhere. If tall trees block out sunlight to the undergrowth, the latter will feed forest fires which will burn off some of the cover. Females of various genuses have been shown to be able to reproduce asexually when males aren't present, just so they may perpetuate their genes. Packs, prides and pods (not to mention pits, parliaments and prophylactations. Gotta love Wikipedia) organise themselves in order to maximise survival.

We humans, at the zenith of the animal universe and as Mother Nature's most exquisite creation, have created our own laws to mold our world into that which we find most "just". The interpretation of justice does vary throughout our species' range, but one concept - nay, cornerstone - is ubiquitous.

Gape-assed, gonad-sucking judges.

I had my day at the courthouse, heeding my civic duty to own up to the damages inflicted upon our beautiful city's satellite dishes and prudish avian population by my gargoyle last week. Having taken the day off from work at a particularly hectic time (my boss, who has all of the traits needed to become a first-rate judge, will be secret-branding me next week), I faced the music. The insurance company has already taken my deductible and reimbursed those whose property had been harmed, so that part was settled. The proceedings centred on the legality of owning a phylum-busting creature previously unmentioned in the Napoleonic Code.

Upon entering the courtroom, I was told that my case would be the third to be examined. I was in the audience and sat through a welfare family's rant on how its landlord (and therefore, society) was forcing them to live in hellish conditions after it took four days to change the lock on their masturbatory teenaged son's bedroom door. This apparently justified their pyromania engaged upon the proprietor's four longhaired cats. The second case was less eventful, though the scorned spouse's creative use of a curling iron did allow me to strike an urban legend from snopes.com.

When my turn came, I walked to the defendant's table with my lawyer and the obese gentleman holding a gavel looked over a rather hefty-looking file. The thin line of slobber dripping from his right jowl betrayed his quasi-literate intellect's attempt to understand the case before him. When he asked the prosecutor to sum up that which he feigned reading, the lovely lady at the table next to ours stood up and spewed a litany of nausea-inducing acts of wanton gargoyle revelry. Our defense strategy was to argue that our civil responsibility has been established and that no criminal liability exists as property claims had been settled. Furthermore, we invoked labour laws to protect my rights as a businessperson, i.e. I can chain up a productive creature and exploit its unique skills if I damned well wanted to.

Luckily, this last argument seemed to get across the many layers of brain-protecting snot inside our presiding magistrate's skull, as it probably reminded him of his country club's HR policies. He mumbled something and, though utterly incomprehensible, it had quite an effect on the audience just by the cascade of saliva that soiled his lapel when he pronounced it. By everyone's reactions, I understood that I was to ensure that my gargoyle stayed properly incarcerated in my place of business for as long as he made me money. Once his productive days were over, he was to be deported or executed, whichever was more cost-efficient.

All in all, things seem to have worked out. The insurance company even sent a former penitenciary designer to advise me on how to avoid any further episodes and to keep the little green bastard indoors. For free.

Nevertheless, we need to make sure we keep selling ropes if we want to afford the quintupling of my premiums. Come on people. Get kinky.