Story A:
“Order! I will have order in my goddamned court!” the bellowing voice of the judge rings out in symphony with his gavel slamming into the rotting wood of the table in front of him. Each time he did it you could almost hear the old table groaning in pain, begging for a reprieve after God knows how many years of abuse
The judge’s yelling seemed to have the desired effect, as the gathered gaggle of housewives, farmers, old women, and the occasional old man stopped cursing and spitting at you. Now, they resigned themselves to stare menacingly at you, complete with angry sighing and scoffing every now and then. Perilous as your situation might be, you were glad to have been brought here before the judge instead of the mob of angry citizens outside. Perilous was still better than torn apart limb from limb.
You quickly realize you might have been too hasty to praise the judge’s crowd control skills, for a wiry man in a patched shirt broke the silence by smacking you across the face with a large, slimy fish. The situation was bizarre enough to make you doubt your next move. Usually, a slap across the face merits a similar one in return. But a slap with a fish? Then the smell hits you, dragging you out of your thoughts. Not just from the fish involved in the attack against your person, but from the entire basket full of fish the man is carrying. Struggling not to retch you turn to the man and point at his basket. “I wouldn’t eat those if I were you. They smell diseased.”
“I’ll show you fucking diseased, you prancy fat fu –“ he yells, preparing his smelly weapon for a second strike before he is silenced by another slam of the gavel. “Idiot! Have you lost your damn mind?” the judge exclaims as he stands from his chair. It gives you the opportunity to appreciate just how short the man really is. Combined with his large, fleshy neck and bulging eyes it gives the man an admittedly comedic look. ‘Very out of place, such a boisterous voice coming from such a frog-like man.’
“Miss Tiller! Remove this man and his… ugh,” the judge falters as he covers his mouth and nose with one hand, “his… catch. Remove them from the court room now!” he forces himself to finish while jamming his finger into the air in the direction of the exit. In answer to his words, a shuffle behind you that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention and your arms feel wobbly and heavy at the same time. You had almost forgotten she was behind you. You see through your peripheral vision as the tall figure walks by your side, too scared to turn to look at her. Once she positions herself in between you and the fisherman, you look upon her again.
Tall, lanky, spindly, awkward, and dangerous looking. Lorena Tiller was a bounty hunter who usually worked for the courts of the southern territories, and she happened to be the one who caught you about a two-day ride from this ugly little town. She shot you in the knee, which was the reason you were facing this trial sat down in an old stool. She also beat the crap out of you, tied you up like a pig and threw you on the back of her horse in such a way that your balls were crushed against the damn animal every time it bounced a bit.
Granted, you did try to run but there was no need for all the extra punishment after she had already expertly shot at the side of your knee from several feet away while you were running. Seriously, if it had been anyone else getting shot you would have congratulated the bitch for such an impressive feat. As it stood, your knee was swollen and hurt like hell, your ribs and face were both massively bruised and tender, and you were pretty sure you would no longer be able to sire any children. And yet somehow, the indignity of being slapped with a spoiled fish was much more painful than your collection of injuries.
When faced with the author of your woes, the fisherman seemed to shrink before her. Still, he thought it wise to open his mouth. “I… I have a right to be here!” At this, a barely audible chuckle from your tormentor. The levity, however, was soon followed by a lightning-fast strike from her gloved hand directly into his abdomen. The loud thud that echoed across the room would have made you believe the fisherman’s belly to be hollow. The fishy slapper let out something between a whimper and a croak, doubling over immediately. The bounty hunter wasted no time in grabbing the crumbled man by the armpits, dragging him to the door, and promptly throwing him and his fish outside. Lorena Tiller finally slammed the door shut and walked back to her place behind you with a small smile. Her face reminded you of a bird.
The judge settled back on his chair with a sigh. “Now, if the townspeople are done playing the fools, we can continue. We were just about to hear from the accused before… whatever that was.”
You weren’t particularly anxious to continue. Your guilt had been decided already and a noose awaited you. These trials in the southern territories were famously impossible to win. They were mostly a way to have a record of the executions and to give the backwater towns that practiced them some sense of legitimacy. And yet, implausible and unheard of as it was, you have to find a way out of this. You certainly didn’t sell all those fake life insurances just to be hanged among this collection of dirty hovels before you even have the chance to enjoy your money!
“Your honor, I maintain that I did not sell any sort of life insurance to anyone,” you say with the most solemn countenance you can muster. The judge sneers while looking at the documents he has at hand, which you’re pretty sure don’t even pertain to your case. “And I maintain that you did, as do all the people who have accused you,” he says calmly without looking away from the papers towards you, only gesturing towards the gathered folk with his other hand. They respond with nods, grunts of affirmation, and by shaking their fists at you.
“Your honor, there is no evidence. Surely you can see that –“ you try to reason before his booming voice silences your own. “Listen, young man. Do you know how many years I’ve been passing judgements in here?” You’re not sure if it’s rhetorical, but you shake your head. “38 YEARS!” he suddenly and unexpectedly yells, making you flinch. What the hell is wrong with this old man?
“And not ONCE, have I seen a scoundrel like yourself weasel his way out of paying his dues!” he continues in his elevated tone of voice. “You will not be the first.”
“Your honor, please. I have proof that these people signed off their rights to complaints and takebacks! Please, just look at it!” you plead rather unceremoniously while extending your bundle of contracts towards him. The judge motions towards one of his lackeys who takes the documents and hands them to him. The judge silently reads over the first couple of them. Abruptly, he grabs the entire bundle and burns them over a candle, quickly throwing them into a clay pot nearby afterwards.
“What the fuck!” you manage to stand up through the pain out of sheer anger. “Those were proof that I am innocent!”
Your momentary feat of strength lasts little, as a pair of familiar bony hands grasp you by the shoulders from behind and violently slam you back down onto the stool. The judge smirks. “Control yourself, sir, or I will hold you in contempt.” But his words are hollow. “FUCK YOU!” you yell. His eyes seem to bulge out even more. His gavel falls into the table so hard you think it might finally break. “Order! This is your last warning sir!” As if on cue, you feel cold steel pressed against your cheek. The hollow, cylindrical feeling against your skin leaves little to the imagination.
Dry lips brush against your ear. “Come on asshole,” her raspy, almost sickly voice sends shivers down your spine, “just give me a fucking excuse.”
You will. You must fight the fear. There is nothing you can’t talk your way out of. No argument is impossible to win. No trial is impossible to weasel your way out of. You will find a way out of this. You muster all your courage and fight through the visceral fear this woman causes in you. “I don’t have to!” you yell as you stand, grimacing, and turn to look at her. In her face, where you expected to see surprise, you see… nothing. That fact drains some of your newfound energy, but you soldier on. “You may as well just kill me now because this entire trial is a sham. I have no lawyer; I had no time to prepare a defense… The judge fucking burned my proof of innocence in front of all our eyes!” you gesture wildly as you turn towards the people. Where there was once anger in their eyes there is now something else. Doubt. But you intend to bring them back to anger soon. Their anger, you realized a minute ago, was the key to your unlikely victory.
The judge calls for order with his gavel once more, but you ignore him. Your captor has remained where she was, not following as you approach the people. She has her arms crossed and is watching you with something approaching interest. “Who is to say, this won’t be one of you tomorrow? Accused for something you didn’t do, and with no hope to defend yourself!” The anger is coming back. Good. “I am not your enemy. He is!” you point at the judge, whose frog neck inflates with rage and surprise. “Him and his like. They sit with their little hammers and send everyone straight to the gallows!” Nods and angry looks, now directed at the judge. “They hang you and your kin for stealing bread to survive, for an honest mistake, for a completely made-up fantasy! And you cannot defend yourself, cannot fight! Well, to that, I say bullshit! Who judges him and his abuse?”
The people seem ready to explode. They look at you intently, waiting for the answer. You raise your hands dramatically. “YOU! THE PEOPLE! You are their judges!” At this, a communal shout of rage. The crowd-turned-mob rushes the judge, trampling court officials. The judge tries to run but his townspeople catch up to him and carry him away, no doubt to grim ends. Lorena Tiller is nowhere to be seen. You use the chaos and slip away.
Outside, you breath a sigh of relief. Impossible to not be found guilty, these trials? Ha! Nothing is impossible for you. You begin walking towards the road, but a loud bang makes you freeze. Immediately a warm, wet feeling spreads from your lower back towards your buttocks. Your feet and legs feel cold, and you collapse. You’ve been shot, you surmise. Lorena Tiller walks into your view.
“Gotta hand it to you, never seen anything like that,” she says, sounding like pestilence itself. “Unfortunately, your little show means I wasn’t paid. Fortunately, you are wanted for the same crime on another court. They want you dead, though. Dead pays less, but I can’t afford to be picky. You understand.”
‘Fuck, no! I was so close!’ You want to curse her, but she raises her gun towards your face. “You were fun. People like you make me love this job.”
A bright flash is the last thing you ever see.
