A satire of dysfunctional politics and economic disparity.
Chapter IX: Day/Page 99 CONTINUED FROM YESTERDAY. . . . The clever judge knew that the debauched harlot had enticed another to traipse through her marital garden and dip his wandering wick in her blooming scented flower. And nothing frightens a man like the judge, whose own wick so often wanders, as the thought of another man’s wick being tempted by a flower. And so, believing all men to be weak-willed like him, and unable to tame their untamable wick, he seeks instead to shame and wither the flower.
Knowing what he believed to be true, the clever judge found the monstrous couple guilty. And for their dastardly roles in the heinous crime he sentenced the villainous husband to death, and sent the wicked wife to prison for eight long years.
Justice was rightly served, proclaimed the judge and his KKK friends. And a clear message sent to all the strumpets, trollops, hussies, floozies, bawds, tarts, hookers, hustlers, whores, vamps, tramps, trulls, and sluts out there who might get funny ideas about who actually controls and makes decisions over the female body.
The sentencing of the husband to death, however, was more than the ailing grandmother could bear, since he was her son. And so when the old woman died a few weeks later, the judge packed off the two daughters to a state-run orphanage—filled with babies of thankless parents who didn’t appreciate god knocking them up—conveniently wrapping up the government’s case in a neat tidy package, adorned with a cute little bow.
But all is well that ends well. A higher-court commuted the husband’s death-sentence to life-without-parole instead, because of the mitigating circumstances involving his wife’s torrid illicit affair, which, they said, did not excuse, but might help explain, why the villainous husband did what he did.
The wife was released two years early on account of “good behavior,” since all she did all day was sit torpidly in the corner, staring blankly at the wall, picking long strings of imaginary cobwebs out of her thinning grey hair.
The younger daughter was adopted after just a few months, and gained marketable skills while working as an indentured-servant cooking and cleaning for a religious family down south, until late one night after the step-father snuck into her bedroom she inexplicably ran away.
And the elder daughter was released from the orphanage a few years later after turning eighteen; and ended up on the streets working as a prostitute to keep from starving, by renting out to rich old men the one and only thing she owned—or thought she owned—her body; until one night she recognized the rich old man who wanted to rent her bodily services as the clever judge from her parent’s trial. After he dropped his pants down about his knees and stood there excitedly waiting to be serviced, she opened his throat with a straight-razor, like a blushing crimson rose, and left him there naked on the floor for housekeeping to dispose of, along with the rest of the hotel’s garbage and waste.
But at least she didn’t get pregnant.
Others, however, did.
Birth rates soared around the globe when . . .
TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Gregory James All rights reserved