Johnny Young Gets a Taste of His Own Medicine, Which Tastes Like Shit

 

Dr. Larry Nassar: His Medical License Was Suspended, But His Prison Sentence Was Not

 

Marcus Brock, Dirty Detective from "Virtuous"

 

Jimmy Fallon Has a Very Special Guest Tonight...

 

Brock "The Stanford Rapist" Turner: If He Wants to Swim Again, Make Sure There Are Cottonmouths in the Water with Him

 

Shayna Baszler vs. J. Edgar Hoover: Untapped Potential

 

You Can't #SayHerName If Nobody Remembers What the Fuck It Is (Rest in Piss, Cracker)

 

Jerry Sandusky: When He Needs Every Staff Member Available, He Says, "All Hands on Dick, I Mean, Deck!"

 

It's a Punderful World and The Joker Agrees

 

Luke Spencer (Rocked) vs. Ian Watkins (Lostprophets): No Sympathy for the Dead

 

Ian Watkins created and owned child pornography and was imprisoned because of it. He has since been murdered in prison and nothing of value was lost.

Tom Powell, Jr. vs. Aaron Pendergraph: Court Battle of the Ages

 

If Aaron Pendergraph threatens to sue you, just ignore him. He's all sizzle and no steak, all icing and no cake. Actually, he did have a cake, but he used cocaine instead of baking flour, so I wouldn't eat it if I were you.

Lance Storm vs. "The (Literal) Million Dollar Man" Ted DiBiase, Jr.

 

Jessica Kent vs. J.D. Delay

 

Strip You

 I hereby strip you of your freedom of speech

You fucked the conversation with the hate you teach

I hereby strip you of your right to bear arms

You could take a toy pistol and maximize the harm

I hereby strip you of your right to a trial

The shit you’re accused of goes on for miles

I hereby strip you of your non-prison clothes

In exchange for a jumpsuit and depressive woes

This ain’t no funhouse, people are dying

Yet you shrug off the complaints as babies crying

This ain’t no rally, you have nothing to be proud of

Count the dead bodies, if you’re generous, round up

I hereby strip you of your power over us

You’re drunk on your Kool-Aid, time to sober up

I hereby strip you of your gaslighting techniques

None of it’s romantic, even less of it is sexy

I hereby strip you of your traumatic excuses

None of them justify your emotional abuses

I hereby strip you of your entire legacy

And your purple cushion throne and royal pedigree

This ain’t no kingdom, I won’t fight for you

And your so-called rights to fuck over the truth

This ain’t no ballgame, I won’t bat for you

I’d rather take that bat and beat you black and blue

I hereby strip you of your bigotry

Brought to you by generations of idiocy

I hereby strip you of your ignorance

Everything you love lacks innocence

What gives me the right to take it all away?

You’d do the same to me anytime any day

Freedom for all loses all of its meaning

When the power belongs to the extremist-leaning

This ain’t no safe space for your prejudice

Defeats the purpose of human etiquette

This ain’t no graveyard for your victims

But a mausoleum for a broken system

We Love You, Alejandro Cherrystone

 Every last page of his love letter collection

Breathed new life into his bloody erection

“We love you, Alejandro Cherrystone!

We can do it in your cell or on the phone

We know you’ve skinned your victims raw

We know you broke a prostitute’s jaw

We know you mutilated neighborhood pets

It doesn’t make us lust for you any less”

Every last page of the dirtiest magazines

Is filled with beauty nobody’s ever seen

Long black locks and androgynous lips

Tight black Speedo clinging to his hips

A six-pack that he worked hard to sculpt

Smooth legs that could start his own sex cult

It’s easy to forget his towering body count

Even when formaldehyde assaults your snout

Every last page of the stenographer’s notes

Crushes every baby girl’s romantic hopes

A heart like his could never be warm

Neither could his corpses left out in the storm

A life behind bars is what he so deserves

Not to be sexed up by the youngest of pervs

Not to be a wet dream for teenage queens

There’d be no debate if he looked like a fiend

Every last page of his death certificate

Makes claims of innocence insignificant

Stabbed to death with a rusty shank

While making a deposit in the sperm bank

Shower water washed away his blood

And the mess left by his supermodel butt

Never mind leaving flowers on his grave

Unless it’s necrophilia which you crave

Every last page of his docudrama script

Now smolders in a pyromantic abyss

No glory for killers, no cinematic thrillers

But compensation for his victims’ tear-spillers

They don’t have to forgive for Jesus’ sake

If Alejandro was alive, he’d continue to take

Never giving back to the world he bloodied

Except for hybristophilia to his favorite honeys

Rest in piss and we’ll see you in hell

This is the only story we should tell

Until the next killer casts a horny spell

Until the next cult forms, oh fucking well

Matthew Must Die

My voices tell me that I am hope

I forgot to take my dosage of dope

Smoke wagon tucked in my pocket

Blast off like a motherfucking rocket

Roll into this rundown ghost town

The birthplace of slanderous sounds

My old foe has a price on his head

Bring him alive, but I prefer him dead

Some things are more important than coin

Like never forgetting that kick to the groin

Like never forgetting his evil laughter

And the bigoted slurs shortly thereafter

Has anyone seen my man Matthew?

I promise it’s all I’ll ever ask you

Drunk in the gutter is what you tell me?

Criminal rap sheet loaded with felonies?

Shoplifting and trespassing while stoned?

Burglarizing other people’s comfy homes?

Easier than shooting fish in a barrel

It’s time to make his gene pool sterile

Sure enough, he was a cinch to find

Drowning in a bottle of cheap wine

Scraggly beard no different from Chewie

The cigarette odor so thick and dewy

Every drug on the street in his system

Let’s find out if anyone will miss him

Pull out the smoke wagon and aim

Should I shoot to kill or shoot to maim?

Ah, who cares? He’s already dead

Among the living, but not in his head

He fucked up his life so very badly

That nothing else could be so damning

I give him another twenty-four hours

Before he dies in his own golden shower

I’m going home for the rest of the day

To my feline friend with whom I lay

"Souls of the Reaper" by Markie Madden

BOOK TITLE: Souls of the Reaper (Undead Unit 2)

AUTHOR: Markie Madden

YEAR: 2015

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Paranormal Crime Drama

GRADE: Pass

I can say with utmost certainty that this novel is an improvement from the last. Sure, it still has its fair share of typos such as quotation marks that don’t end, but those are little things that can be easily fixed. Colton’s werewolf anger was perfectly justified this time around. His truck gets egged, his suspects are uncooperative, technology malfunctions from time to time, and doing paperwork is still a pain in the neck. As for the shifter newbie, Kazz, her passion for learning is evident as it should be for all rookies, especially those in law enforcement. Marcell comes off as a sweet and gentle soul as does Niall, which makes sense since they’re both in the business of healing people. Lacey Anderson is a believable main character in her own right. She’s tough on crime, sensitive to the victims of said crimes, and vulnerable during her moments of weakness. Being immortal creatures doesn’t make any of these protagonists Mary-Sues, because they still have to rely on police procedure and their own wits to get the job done. The overall team is effective in their duties and that’s something they had to earn throughout the Undead Unit series so far.

I only have two minor complaints when it comes to this book and this is just nitpicky stuff. I would have liked for Lacey’s adopted dog Morgan to get more page time, especially since it would’ve kept the fighting kennel raid scene from becoming a mere side story. Plus, I enjoy stories of former fighting animals finding love in their forever homes. It warms my heart. The other minor complaint I had was the way the final chapter (not the epilogue) concluded. The criminal reaper who’s been stealing souls to satisfy his lust for power, Su Xiong, was billed as this dangerous warrior who could snap at any minute. While I won’t give away what happens to him as this is a spoiler-free review, it was just a tad underwhelming for a guy who’s supposed to be as dangerous as he is. Granted, the path to this ending was by no means easy or pain-free, but the streak of agony should have continued into the final encounter. But again, these two complaints don’t ruin the entire story for me. I’ll always cherish Markie Madden’s way of bringing her worlds to life.

Think of your favorite TV crime show, whether it’s NCIS, CSI, Law & Order, or The Shield among others, and pair it with supernatural themes such as soul reaping, astral projection, and undead racism. That hodgepodge is what you can expect from Souls of the Reaper. It’s fun, clever, creative, and you’ll love it so much that you’ll want to see it on TNT or CBS one day as a full-time show. Even Syfy would love to get their hands on this story if it meant turning it into a well-crafted TV series. Four out of five stars will go to Markie Madden’s wonderful police procedural. I hope to one day finish the Undead Unit series!

Joker

MOVIE TITLE: Joker

DIRECTOR: Todd Phillips

YEAR: 2019

GENRE: Psychological Thriller

RATING: R for violence, swearing, and disturbing themes

GRADE: Extra Credit

Humanizing a violent criminal is a tall task in and of itself. Getting sympathy for any kind of character is harder than it looks (trust me, I’ve tried). When you watch this movie, not only will you have sympathy for Arthur Fleck a.k.a. The Joker, but you’ll cheer for him as well. There’s more to building a sympathetic villain than throwing in a tragic back story and calling it a day. This movie went above and beyond in developing the Joker character. He’s mentally ill, he’s rejected by society because of his awkward behavior, he’s impoverished, and he’s the target of violence just as much as he’s the instigator. While people wouldn’t under any circumstances condone his violent behavior, they will at least understand it. They might even learn to treat fellow members of society with respect. Nobody starts out as an evil person. They’re slowly built into one by the forces around them. Again, it doesn’t excuse Joker’s murders nor does it give the incel community an idol to look up to. But the more we see each other as human beings, the more we act like human beings.

Of course, none of this sympathy would have been possible if not for the brilliant acting work of Joaquin Phoenix, who played The Joker. In fact, Mr. Phoenix might be telling Heath Ledger to hold his beer (no disrespect to Mr. Ledger). The pathological laughter, the nervousness around strangers, the poor cadence of his jokes, the sadness when he’s alone, they all looked believable coming from Joaquin Phoenix. Mental illness is a lonely obstacle for someone to overcome. Nobody wanted to be around The Joker when he was at his worst and the actor brought that loneliness to life through his character work. It took a lot of studying and reading in order to get this villain down perfectly. Mr. Phoenix’s passion for what he does is obvious in his roles. If he doesn’t get an Oscar for this performance, I’m going to be very surprised and upset. Granted, I won’t give the Army nervous fits with my level of disappointment and nor should anybody else. You hear that, terrorists? Be nice!

Somewhere in this nature vs. nurture debate, there’s a modern day dystopia happening all around The Joker. Garbage is piling up, rats are infesting the city, the disenfranchised are being bullied, social programs are being cut, and poverty is at an all time high. When politicians and oligarchs use their influence to enrich themselves at the expense of others, distrust starts to build between the social classes. It doesn’t always end in riots and violence, but sitting down and doing nothing doesn’t cross their minds either. In many ways, the dystopian politics of this movie reminds me a lot of what’s going on in the real world under the Trump administration. So we have a realistic Joker and a realistic political system. Superhero movies get a bad rap for being cartoonish and comical, right? You know what Joaquin Phoenix and the rest of the crew says to that? “Hold our beers.”

Everything that could go right with this movie did go right. It’s gritty, it’s real, it’s dark, and nothing was out of place. Keeping a smile on your face all of your life is close to impossible. It’s okay to feel bad sometimes. Toxic positivity did nobody any good. But if you must rage against the machine with a nihilistic point of view, don’t cross the point of no return like The Joker did. An extra credit grade will go to this modern day masterpiece. Now THAT’S something worth smiling about!

Sexy Lunch

“One…two…three!” SMASH! “Go, go, go! Move, move, move!”

These were the orders Detective Joey Roberts barked to five other police officers after kicking down the door to what used to be the Dam Hill Apartment Building. In one hand was her trusty cold magnum. In the other was the breast pocket of her black trench coat as she held it over her face to keep the foul odor from assaulting her senses. To her it was no different from performing a raid on a bus station bathroom. Filthy diapers, empty liquor bottles, rotten food, and buzzing flies covered every square inch of this dilapidated nightmare.

“Clear!” one officer after another hollered from distant corners of the abandoned trash heap of a building. The more Joey heard that word, the more her rage bubbled to the surface. To think that three years of mind games and false hope would lead to a big waste of time killed her inside worse than a dagger to the heart.

“Come on, Sanchez, where are you?! Show yourself!” barked Joey as she continued bolting down the various corridors with her eyes bloodshot and her pistol packing heat. “That smell better be your dead corpse!” Her wishful thinking led to even more spilled trash covered in every human fluid imaginable. She almost tripped over a dead cat being eaten by maggots. One dead cat led to another. And another. And another. The trail of blood brought her to apartment 12A, the door barely hanging on its hinges. One elbow strike was all it took to knock the motherfucker down.

There he was laying on a mattress with his baggy pants around his ankles and his striped shirt pulled up to his chest. Wearing a nearly toothless grin with an unkempt Mohawk was the man of the hour, Matt Sanchez, who smiled at Joey coldly and with psychotic intentions.

This should have been an open and shut case for the detective. However, she lowered her gun slowly and gazed at the wall behind Mr. Sanchez with wide, horrified eyes and quivering lips. Photographs were pinned to the wall, not just of ordinary people, but of Joey and her two elementary school-aged daughters. All three of them were at the beach enjoying a sunny day and…wearing bikinis. Joey’s saucer eyes morphed into angry slits when she saw the words “Sexy Lunch” scrawled across these photos with what appeared to be and smelled like old, crusty feces.

“Were you masturbating to me and my family?!” Joey growled.

“Yep,” said Matt Sanchez matter-of-factly, his lips smacking and tongue clicking as he chuckled insanely.

This would have been the perfect time to put a bullet in her stalker’s brain and get it over with. Joey’s finger edged oh-so-close to the trigger while sweat poured from her palms like a fine mist. That obnoxious laugh of Matt’s echoed through her mind much like the smell of this apartment complex burned her nostrils. Ultimately, she decided to sheath her weapon…but not out of a sudden change of heart.

Joey ripped a hardcover bible away from the bookend on the nightstand and started pounding it relentlessly over Matt’s head, arms, and back. As stiff as each blow sounded, not even the savage beating could drown out the serial killer’s girlish screams as he attempted badly to cover up. Detective Roberts wouldn’t stop. Her eyes flared up like burning gasoline. Drool splashed all over the already filthy carpeted floor. Every strike became more brutal and faster-paced the longer she went.

It took three police officers to clutch her around the arms and waist and yank her away from the beating while two more officers yanked a bloodied and bruised Matt to his feet to cuff him. Even when pulled away, Joey wouldn’t stop thrashing around, growling loudly, and swinging the bible. “Detective, that’s enough!” she heard one officer say, but it was the understatement of the year. She had to be restrained against the piss-stained wall in order to calm down just a little bit.

“What the hell are you doing, Detective?!” asked one of the cops. “You’re not supposed to be doing shit like that!” Holding his body cam, he said, “You’re going to get us all in a whole fuck load of trouble if you keep that up!”

Joey’s thrashing slowly diminished into heavily-breathing calmness at the realization of what she did. Her eyes and thoughts still burned at the sight of Matt Sanchez’s shit-eating grin superimposed on the unwanted photos on the wall. “You’d better listen to your friends, Detective. Your sexy daughters won’t have mommy to come home to otherwise.”

“You son of a bitch!” shouted Joey as she broke free from the officers’ grasps and spear tackled Matt in the ribs, knocking the rotten wall behind him over. Scandalous photos splattered over the two of them as Joey rained down the heaviest fists she could muster, slashing the serial killer over and over again. This time all five officers had to restrain her to the floor and shout orders for her to calm down. Out of the corner of her eye, Detective Roberts could see Matt Sanchez spitting out some teeth (not that his ugliness changed with them in his mouth). Still was that sadistic grin.

“What the hell are you holding me down for?! Get him before he gets away! That’s an order!” belted the Detective. Sure enough, Matt tried to get back on his knees (cuffed hands be damned), but two officers held him down once again and ordered him to shut his “filthy hole”.

Dripping with blood from his mouth, nose, and fresh cuts, Matt was hauled to his feet and carried from the door, still smiling arrogantly at his “sexy lunch”.

“Now, Miss Roberts…can I trust you to not go berserk this time? Is it okay to let you up or are you going to go ballistic some more?” asked an officer. Just as the glassy-eyed, saliva-mouthed detective was about to answer, a resounding thud echoed throughout the building. The three cops and detective headed out to the lobby and found Matt lying on the ground in a pool of blood and vomit. How much of it was his was up for debate. The two cops attending to the serial killer called for a medic while looking disgustedly at Joey.

“Do you not give a shit if our jobs are on the line?” asked one of the cops. It was hard to tell them apart due to Joey’s blurry tunnel vision and traumatic ghosts haunting her mind. “Hey, are you listening to me?! Our suspect just collapsed and it’s all because of you! The captain is going to have our balls for this! What the hell were you thinking?!”

Attempting to form a sentence through her jittery stutter, Joey said, “Did you…see those…pictures? Did you…see what…he called me and my girls?”

“Detective? And I use that term loosely,” said another faceless officer. “You should know by now that this job isn’t supposed to be personal. We need your head in the game and here you are beating the shit out of our suspect. You know how many times my family has been threatened by this asshole? What about the rest of us? Do we get to pound the hell out of him too? No, we don’t! This is a job! Take it seriously!”

Taking longer breaths and lowering her guard, Joey said with quiet anger, “It’s too late now. He’s already dead. What’s done is done. The world isn’t going to miss him and neither are any of you. Those body cams can record whatever they want for all I care. Hopefully, they recorded all of those…pictures…those pictures…those goddamn pictures!”

An officer leaned Matt up in a seated position, the killer’s body fading in and out of consciousness. But still there was that smile, like he had eaten the world’s sexiest lunch and had a comfortable BM afterwards. “What are you smiling at?!” burst Joey. “What the hell are you smiling at, you little rat turd?!”

Spitting blood on the floor, Matt said, “Looks like I’ve got one more kill under my belt. Well…much more than that if the whole police department gets taken down. My life…is complete…my work…is done!”

With a mile-long stare into Matt’s soulless eyes, Joey said, “You heard him, boys. His life is complete. His work is done. There’s nothing left for him to do. We’re all screwed one way or another. Hell, he probably put those pictures up just so we’d find them and commit career suicide. Mission accomplished. Now that we’re dead, let’s go have a few beers.”

Seeing the writing on the wall, the cop that was attending to Matt Sanchez pulled out his gun and blew the killer’s brains out, doing no more damage to the apartment complex than already stated. The legal shitstorm would come quickly and destructively. But the joke was on the DA because the cops and detective didn’t have any money to give to the plaintiffs. They spent it all on hot wings and beer!

Silent Warrior, Chapter 19

Scott could have spent eternity in the blackest of visions. His body could have numbed out until time itself stood still. Death was his most welcome visitor. If there was a heaven, he wanted a limousine ride to the pearly gates. If there was a hell, at least he could stay warm when everyone else’s hearts were cold as shit. In his mind, not even hell could match up to the evilness of this green and blue earth. Was the devil a cool guy to hang around? Scott banked on it since a lot of the “sinners” hung out in that fire pit apparently.

But instead of a poker game with the devil, he survived another round of Russian Roulette in the real world. As he awakened in his hospital room, his head and nose ached with explosive pain. His ribs stuck out further than his skin would allow. His depressed and anxious mood destroyed his brain like a forest wildfire. His wrist was purple with tightness as he discovered he was cuffed to his hospital bed. The pounding feeling in his head and nose was because he had an IV tube stuck in one of his nostrils (presumably because of malnourishment). To Scott the IV tube was just a clear-colored worm from a Floydian nightmare.

The judging eyes never took their gaze off of him despite the courtroom backdrop being replaced with hospital whiteness. A uniformed police officer stood over his bed and scowled at him, nearly making Scott empty his bowls of the worms that invaded his system. “Just so you know,” said the cop. “That stunt you pulled in the courtroom isn’t going to get you out of this mess. The trial is going on without you, which is smart on your part since your lawyer has advised against you taking the stand.”

“But…but…” stuttered Scott. “Don’t I get to see what’s going on at least? Don’t I have the right to defend myself?”

The cop gave a smart-assed smile and said, “I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you. Your lawyer is quite the standup guy for someone as low on the totem pole as him. Not bad for a public defender. But for every point, there’s a counterpoint. The prosecutor is running circles around him. It doesn’t help matters that all of the witnesses in this case can’t save your sorry ass no matter what they say.”

“W…witnesses?”

“Oh yes, Scott, there are plenty of witnesses to your crime even though you and that little girl were probably alone wherever it was you did the dirty deed. Some interesting characters, to say the least. Principal Linda Williams? She can’t even put a sentence together without that MSNBC bullshit filtering through her lips. Adrienne Simpson, the girl you slept with? She had so many tears in her eyes that it was amazing she didn’t flood the whole damn courtroom. Now Tom Simpson, her father, that guy’s a true character if I’ve ever seen one. He gave quite the Oscar-worthy performance. Too bad you couldn’t see it. I would have loved to see the look on you face after all the things he called you.”

Tugging on the handcuffs in vain, Scott’s expression turned angry when he said, “Why are you taking so much joy in this?”

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, the cop said, “Because it’s my job to take pride in my work, which is bringing justice to a place that doesn’t care about it. All these people cry and whine that you’re not getting a fair shake. Well, guess what, toots? Life is unfair. The sooner you accept that, the less disappointed you’ll be with your own failures.”

Scott clenched his fists and gritted through his teeth, “You sound just like my bastard history teacher. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the two of you were gay lovers at one point.”

The cop wagged his finger and said, “Careful, Mr. George, you’re bordering on the edge of slander.”

“I don’t care!” shouted Scott. “And as long as I’m all out of fucks to give, let me lay some more truth on your sorry ass! You know why life is unfair?! It’s because jackasses like you intentionally make it that way! You beat the shit out of minorities and then turn around and say that they shouldn’t have broken the law, even though most of the time they fucking didn’t! The whole world is onto you and your kind! I don’t care how poorly I’m doing in history and I don’t care what generation I come from: I’m not stupid enough to believe your horseshit! I’m more than mediocre! In fact, between the two of us…I’m the only one who makes any sense at all!”

The cop gave a sarcastic golf clap and said, “That’s a pretty ballsy statement coming from someone who’s cuffed to a bed. But you know what the sad part about all that is? You’re dead on, buddy. We do keep people down. You know why? Because that’s how we maintain order around here. Without order, society would spiral into chaos and you liberal hippie rebels would only have yourselves to blame. Besides, why do you care so much about what I do to minorities? You’re a white guy. You don’t have much to hide other than the fact that you’re a fucking pedophile. Why all the fuss?”

“Fuss? Fuss?! You want to know what the fuss is all about?!” Scott’s eyes glowed with rage as he stared a hole through the cop’s soul. “It’s called having empathy. You may want to try it sometime. I know other people have hopes and dreams different from my own, so I try my best to either nurture those dreams or stay the fuck out of those people’s ways! I don’t see any benefit in conforming the population into one zombie mind. But that’s just my opinion, of course. You’re entitled to your own even though you’re an ass clown.”

The cop smiled and shook his head before saying, “You’ve got a mouth on you, pal. If I had some medical tape around here, the only letter coming out of that sewer hole would be M. Lots and lots of M’s. And then I could make a joke about how your favorite candy is M&M’s. And then I could also make a joke about how you like to say MMMMMMMMM after you’ve eaten them.”

“You have the IQ of a packet of ketchup. No wonder you hate thinking so much: it’s not your strong suit.”

The cop stood up and slammed his knight stick against the railing of the bed, sending a fearful jolt throughout Scott’s body. Instead of sarcasm and corny smiles, the uniformed “ass clown” was all business and sneers. “By the time this trial is over, you’re going to be found guilty, mark my fucking words, dip shit. And when you put on that orange jumpsuit for the very first time, it won’t be a matter of if you get your ass beaten. It’ll be a matter of when. Prisoners and CO’s alike don’t care for smart-mouthed little bitches like you, Scott. The minute you start preaching about anti-conformist BS, your bones will crack so fucking loudly that the whole world will go deaf.”

Undeterred and unafraid, Scott leaned closer to the cop’s face and said, “If you’re so certain I’m going to die, why don’t you finish the job yourself…ass clown!”

The cop backed off, smiled, and said, “Nah, I’m not going to do that. I wouldn’t deprive my colleagues at the big house of their feast of fresh meat. And that’s what you are, Scott: fresh…fucking…meat. And speaking of meals, enjoy the nose buffet you’ve got going on there.” With a final chuckle, he exited the room and left Scott in a cesspool of his own rage and hatred.

“What a fucking jerk,” Scott muttered out of earshot of the cop. He believed that statement could apply to anybody who spoke out against him in that courthouse so many blocks away. He didn’t want to dwell too much on what they were saying behind his back. After all, that was when anybody was truly safe from his wrath: when it was all behind his back.

Alan Young couldn’t hang with Scott. Aloysius Striker was a crocodile tear away from loony land. The prosecutor’s bar exam results might as well have come back negative. Tom Simpson? He couldn’t control his own daughter, let alone a classroom full of free thinkers and wild dreamers. Beth George might as well be called The Artist Formerly Known as Mom. The undertaker guarding Carter George’s grave probably related more to corpses than he did living human beings.

“Is there anybody I’m leaving out?” asked Scott to nobody in particular. “Eh, I’ll think of them later.”

Knowing he couldn’t be touched even when he was at his lowest moment, Scott closed his eyes comfortably and attempted to get some shut eye before he would eventually hear his final verdict. If there was any truth to what the cop said about a guilty verdict, then Scott might as well have taken a one of the doctor’s stitching kits and sewn his eyelids shut. No sense in waking up to another nightmare. No sense in contending with people who were and will always be full of shit.