A story I am working on...

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.