I like this story better so I am replacing the old one with this new one. I'm not sure if I will continue on this story but I might try.
Judge Damien Goldman was
plastered to the fifth power when he attempted to sentence a habitual
shoplifter to death by hanging. The shoplifter, who stole for the sheer thrill
of it, got himself in more trouble when he responded to the sentence with an
indignant “Have you lost your fucking mind, your honor.” Judge Goldman then
ordered that the shoplifter be killed immediately. Right outside the
courthouse. No one knew what to do. When the defense lawyer objected to such
lunacy, he was sentenced to 30 years. The prosecutor stood up and questioned
Judge Goldman’s insanity and was promptly sentenced to a public flogging and
six days in the stocks. Bailiff Jorge Torres decided this shit had gone far
enough and attempted to forcibly remove the judge to his chambers. Bailiff
Torres was rewarded for his efforts when the judge stabbed him through the hand
with a small Swiss Army knife. Bailiff Torres then came to the realization that
he should head to the bathroom and clean himself up. He would’ve gone for his
gun had his shooting hand not been impaled.
Judge
Goldman pinged his gavel off the head of the court stenographer when she asked
him to repeat what he’d yelled to the bailiff. The judge did in fact repeat it,
his words slurred and soupy, but it didn’t really matter since 81 year old
Madge Frtiz was unconscious and bleeding from the head; she was still slumped
over in her chair.
“I said
get the fuck away from me you taco bending bastard.”
A look
then passed over the judge’s face. It was the look of a man who had been
grabbed by the balls. He had not been grabbed by the testicles but the vodka
had finally caught up with him. The judge had elected to sentence the
shoplifter after a lunch of a burrito platter, chips, and a half gallon of Grey
Goose. The judge vomited his lunch all over Madge Fritz, farted, and pitched
over the bench to land at the feet of Mayor Niles Rademacher. The Mayor spit on
the judge’s back and sighed.
“Well
we got ourselves a clusterfuck here, yessir,” he said and burped.
A
clusterfuck indeed.
The
drunken judge was not arrested out of professional courtesy but he was sent
home for the day while the city council and mayor figured out what to do about
him. As it would turn out, sending him home was a very bad thing to do.
First,
the judge didn’t bother to open the garage door before he drove his BMW inside.
The door smashed down as the car powered its way in, still managing to stop
when the little dangling tennis ball touched the window. No one thought it might be a wise idea to
drive the judge home. Or at least, no one wanted to risk getting stabbed. The
judge stumbled from his Beemer, pushing the crumpled garage door out of the
way. The door to the house was unlocked and he slammed it open.
“Honey!
I’m home,” he said a la Jack Nicholson in The Shining.
The
Judge lumbered down the hallway to his den, hearing his wife’s hurried
footsteps as she came from the third floor sauna, a robe wrapped around her
plastic surgeried body. The judge went to his wet bar and poured himself a huge
knock of MacAllan. He drank it in three swallows and hurled the glass into the
fireplace. His wife turned the corner into the den, her face puffy from a
chemical peel. Her teeth whitening strips made her speech comical.
“What
the fuck is going on here Dame? It sounds like a dumptruck drove through the
house!”
“I’m a
fucking dump truck you whore,” he said swaying on his feet.
“You’re
drunk,” she said flatly.
“Correct,
I’ll take really fucking obvious answers for six hundred, Alex.” He cackled.
“Get
out, you bag of shit,” she said angrily.
The
judge laughed and went to a small cage in the corner of the den. His wife’s
Parakeet, Tinkerbell, lived in the cage. The judge swung the door open,
laughing manically, and removed the bird.
“Oh
shit,” he said in a falsetto meant to represent the bird’s voice, “the big mean
judge has got meeee! Oh nooooo!” The judge eyes were on fire with evil and
malice.
“I’m
hungry, no time for the Colonel,” he said seriously.
The
Judge’s wife watched with horror as he raised Tinkerbell to his lips and bit
the bird’s head off. He tried chewing it, broke an incisor on the skull, and
spit the head in his wife’s face as she ran to him and her poor bird. She
didn’t see the wooden figurine in his hand. He bonked her on the head with it
and she went down. He dropped the bird on her back and went to his bedroom.
Twenty
minutes later, fortified with 5 Vicodin and 3 Valium, the Judge sat in the
sauna with a whiskey sour in his hand. He drank the sour slowly, savoring the
citrus taste that only a fresh squeezed lime could provide. The pharms were
really cooking now and he was cruising higher than the fucking Concorde. He
leaned his head back and closed his eyes. His iPod played the Goldberg
Variations and the music sent him riding on waves of ethereal pleasure. Of
course, they masked his wife’s approach. She stood outside the sauna for ten
minutes and watched with disgust as he began to pleasure himself. When he
called out Claudia Schiffer’s name, she’d had quite enough of Damien’s antics.
She
raised pistol, pointed it at the glass, and placed his gut right in the sights.
A sneer came across her face as she flicked the hammer back.
“Goodbye,
Damien,” she said and fired.
She
lowered the gun to his penis and fired. She raised the gun to his head and
fired. Finally the realization that the glass was not broken and Damien was
still alive crossed her mind. She eyed the gun suspiciously and was going to
open the cylinder when she looked back toward the sauna. Her husband was still
in the same position but the sliding glass door was now open.
“Blunnngs,”
he mumbled.
“What?”
She said, so freaked out she was unable to grasp the situation.
“Blaangs,”
he said, suppressing a giggle of childish triumph.
She
crept a little closer.
“What,”
she said again, crying now.
“Blanks,”
he said clearly and without emotion.
His
hand slowly emerged from under his towel and he raised the .45 caliber pistol
with a long silencer on the barrel. Her mouth dropped open, the Colt Python
fell from her hand and thumped to the tile, she goggled at him stupidly. The
drunken, drugged out, philandering, dangerous bastard had bested her. Her!
She’d been sober and lucid and yet: she’d been beaten. She’d been
Valedictorian. She’d been popular. She’d been beautiful. Damn it, she’d gone to
Vassar college and-
The
judge blew the right side off her head. Her hand went to what was left of her
skull and then her brain, well what was left, realized she should no longer be
standing. She, like the judge earlier, farted and then fell in a heap. The
judge eased the door closed with his foot and went back to his music. The bitch
had fucked up his buzz.
The
Judge was pissed. He had been enjoying his buzz and booze in the sauna when his
watch beeped. He had set it right before getting in to remind him of the
housekeepr’s pending arrival. It would not be prudent for her to see his dead
wife. They lived in a large house in the country and there were no neighbor’s to complain
about the shots, the garage door, or any other noise. The judge dressed in a
track suit and went down the driveway to wait for the maid.
Eight
minutes later the maid pulled into the drive. The judge silently crept from
behind the gate pillar as the maid entered her gate code. The judge had
disabled it so she would not be able to get in. As she cursed in Russian at the
gate and typed in her code for the third time, the judge bonked her on the head
with a small lawn gnome. He’d had a fun time today, bonking people on the head
with small statues. It was springtime and bonking was a spring activity. He
felt like a schoolboy again. He dropped the gnome to the ground and pushed
Helga out of the way as he got into her car. The judge drove the car around to
the back of the property. He drug Helga’s limp body out and stuffed her into a
garden shed. The judge was not a rapist despite the fact that the Russian maid
was beautiful. He had some decency. He locked her in the shed, smiled at the
sun, and went back toward the house. He
was whistling Dixie and eating a granola bar.
