At Night She Cries, While He Rides His Steed by Ross Patterson

Author:Ross Patterson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Regan Arts

When we walk back into the judge’s chambers, I immediately spot a bottle of whiskey and begin to pour myself a glass without asking. The judge unzips his robe, exposing his nude body, including his dong. He sits in a hardback chair behind his desk and lights up a cigar as he wipes the sweat off his brow, exhaling deeply.

“It’s hotter than the devil’s dick in there.”

“I hear that, brother. There’s nothing but duck butter inside these old jeans,” I say as we have a laugh.

“What is this? What’s going on here? Are we going to have a trial or what?” Mr. Van Buren barks out.

“I’d rather not. This really will take forever, and it’s August. Let’s just see if we can hammer something out.”

Mr. Van Buren is outraged. “But he killed twenty-two people, including two marshals and possibly a sheriff!”

“Those boys killed his kid and a couple of clowns who provided nothing but joy to this town. As far as the marshals, he said it was an accident, and I believe him. You said yourself you haven’t located the body of the sheriff. So what do we got? Some eye-for-an-eye common-man shit, which isn’t worth going to trial for that long. I say we give him a day in jail for each man killed, minus his kid, and a fine.”

“Judge, with all due respect, that’s only a twenty-one-day sentence,” Prosecutor Van Buren thunders.

“With a fine,” the judge fires back at him.

Time to seal this deal. “Whoopsy,” I say, as I cough loudly and throw the remainder of my gold from my leather pouch on the ground.

The judge laughs so hard his dong bounces up off the chair. Mr. Van Buren appears outraged.

“I have never seen anything like this in my career! You will go down eventually, Mr. Street James, I can assure you of that.”

Mr. Van Buren slams the door and leaves. After he storms out, the judge and I end up having eight more glasses of whiskey, just rapping about life. He then picks up a tin can connected to a piece of yarn that is hanging out the window behind him.

“You want to share a prostitute?” he asks me.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

We laugh mightily, and he yells into the can, “Find me any prostitute off the streets, George!”

“Where does that line go?”

“I have no idea! I don’t even know a George.”

More laughter ensues, and at this point, I just assume he’s drunk. Five minutes later, the ugly prostitute who blew me on the street opens up the window and crawls in. After dusting herself off, she holds up her index finger, before sticking her arm back out and dragging in the piece of plywood with a hole cut in it. The judge roars in delight.

“Glorious!”

Indeed it is. I line up behind him, and we proceed to get properly blown. Twenty minutes later we exit his chambers and walk back into court. The judge bangs his gavel and announces to the court that we have reached a plea deal.

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