Raincatcher (Part 2)

There was no absolutely no conceivable reason why there should be a house here, he told himself. The nearest city – or at least what was left of it – was over forty miles away. Everyone had long since left the countryside, sought refuge in the higher places. Mountains.

At the time, his parents had said there was no need to leave. God will protect us, they said. He is always watching.

He shivered, both from the cold and from the rage that now boiled from his belly. Lies. Blind, worthless lies.

There was no God. Anyone who had lived through the hell of the last twenty-two years knew that. And if there was, he certainly was not paying attention to anything going on down here. He certainly hadn’t watched over his parents well, either, now had he? Of course not. After their death he had remained in the countryside less out of a desire to stay near home than out of an enraged need to prove God – or whatever evil created these rains – would not drive him out. Bring your rain. You’ll have to drown me before I leave.

If there is a God, he thought, he hates us. He hates us all and now he’s drowning the whole world.

And yet, despite the certainty that everyone had long since fled to the mountains, there it was: a small house in the middle of nowhere – in the middle of a floodplain. No stilts. Impossible.

He coughed and began dragging his foot again. The pain was quickly becoming unbearable. Soon he would go into shock, either from the wound itself or from the loss of blood from the laceration in his chest. Air continued to whistle through the punctured lung. Breathing was becoming more difficult.

Just a little further, he prodded himself. Almost there. He grunted and hopped one step forward, dragging his useless leg.

And then he saw it, and his blood ran cold.

No. His mind screamed. It’s not possible.

There was no rain falling on the house.

No, that wasn’t quite true.

The rain was falling above the house, just as everywhere else. But it stopped several feet above the roof as if striking an invisible sheet of glass, rolling down the sides and flowing off unseen eaves in a sheet. A waterfall of liquid diamond.

How? HOW? He stared in awe. How was this possible? He blinked several times, certain he only had water in his eyes. But no – the small, wooden house was dry. Bone dry.

He stared at it for several moments, taking it in. It was an unpainted, one room cabin. The windows were small and square, and thin curtains hid the view inside. Warm, orange light burst from the window that had drawn him here, cutting into the dark night and piercing the blackness without hesitation.

He hopped once more, and finally he could go no further. Exhausted, he collapsed to the ground, landing directly on the wound in his chest. He grunted in pain as the wind was knocked out of his lungs. Lying there on the ground, soaking wet, mere feet from the front door, he gasped for air and began to moan.

And then the door opened.

A shaft of light burst from the threshold and blinded him as he lay sputtering on the ground. He tried to hold up a hand to shield his eyes and squinted to make out the immense figure in the doorway. It was a man, and he was big. He filled the frame.

The man wore large brown boots laced up over his trousers and a huge blue parka with the hood pulled up over his head. He stepped off the stoop and out into the rain. Slowly, deliberately. The mud squished out from under his boots and the rain quickly filled in the deep impressions left by his soles.

The tall man stopped inches from the man lying in the mud. Now the thick rubber soles of the boots were larger than ever.

Holding one hand over the wound in his chest, he turned over in the mud, peering up at the figure standing above him. His face was largely concealed by the shadows, except for his eyes. Two brilliant, bright brown eyes. The tall man leaned down closer and his lips spread into a thin, knowing smile.

“Hello, David,” he said softly. “I’ve been waiting for you."

Raincatcher (Part 1)

He could no longer remember the world before the rain.

It had begun, his mother and father told him, not long after he was born. He was only six years old as he stood at the window and pressed his nose against the cold glass, watching the first faint drops fall from the sky as thin wisps of fog formed on the window around his tiny, hot fingers.

The rain had not stopped in over twenty years.

It always rained. Sometimes it came in a torrent, a destructive flood that washed away entire cities. Sometimes it was only a soft mist, barely noticeable, a fresh and almost comforting coolness that seemed to come from the very air itself. But it was always there. The world was always wet.

His parents were gone now. Washed away by one of the later floods. He was thirteen then. He had stood at the window, watching the water carry them away. He did not cry. No one ever cried anymore. It was pointless to add more water to a world that had no need of it.

Recently, the rain had been merciful. It had been calm. He had used the precious time to work on the stilts that held up the house, high above the ground. Thirteen feet high. High enough and with thick enough beams to withstand most torrential floods that ravaged the area.

It was a pattern he had grown accustomed to, and it took up the majority of his time. Since his parents had gone, he had done nothing else. On calm days – days when the rain was only a mist – he worked on the stilts, replacing rusted screws and replacing soggy, saggy beams with newer, only slightly dryer ones. On torrential days, he took shelter in the house, listening to the rain pound on the tin roof and hoping that the stilts held out through the night.

Two days ago a violent storm had blown in and, predictably, the rain had come with it. It came this time in a torrent, washing away the foundations of the house that he had so nearly secured. He hadn’t been able to finish them in time. And now the house was gone.

He hadn’t made it out in time. The rushing water snapped the stilts like toothpicks and the house settled into the current, groaning and creaking as though relieved. The water smashed through the windows and sucked him out, deep down into dark swirls thicker than blood.

Maybe it was blood, he thought. His blood. He was bleeding.

Then darkness.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. It was still night, and the moon provided the only illumination. He only knew that the waters had receded enough to give the river the opportunity to deposit him on a bank of land. He had come to with his lungs filled and vomited onto the grass, coughing until he could no longer breathe.

Darkness again.

Pain.

He gasped and opened his eyes, and for a moment thought he had gone blind. Just the night. Only the darkness. And the moon. His wet clothes clung to his shivering body, prickling with goosebumps.

He could feel the shard of glass now. Six inches wide, maybe five inches long. Deep in his chest. Thank God, it had missed his heart.

God? The absurdity of his own thought struck him even though the cold and searing pain. God…

Rolling over onto his side, he grunted and took hold of the glass with the tips of his fingers. He took a deep breath, inhaling the freezing rain that splashed down from above, and pulled.

The rushing wind carried his scream downstream for two miles.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been walking on the path. Two hours? Three? Time had stopped. The moon appeared not to move, and the night would last forever.

It could hardly be called walking, either. He was limping. The leg was probably broken, he decided. His breathing was short and labored and the air wheezed through the hole in his chest.

He cursed under his breath and kept walking, dragging his right leg.

The small path had started thirty feet from the water’s edge. It was only a few feet wide, and made of dirt. What had been here before?

The rain continued to pour. It flowed down his face and dripped off the tip of his nose. It was completely silent except for the sound of the rain hitting the ground and the leaves of trees. The wind had stopped.

And then he saw it, a quarter-mile off, through the fog and the rain. A small, glowing yellow light. The stars were low tonight.

No. He stopped. That’s not a star.

His eyes narrowed and he held one hand over his brow to shield his eyes from the rain, squinting into the distance.

It was a window. The light was in a window.

It was a house.

[To be continued…]

Court of Law

“Silence in the courtroom! I said SILENCE!”

The gavel’s incessant pounding on its wooden perch ricocheted off the 40-foot ceilings of the room and immediately brought the chatter amongst the jury and attendees to a stop. Somewhere behind the closed doors at the back of the room the woman’s hysterical screams and angry shouts could still be heard, growing ever fainter as she was dragged down the hall.

“This isn’t fair! This isn’t FAIR! I want to talk to my lawyer! Where the hell is my lawyer?!? I demand an appeal, right now! This is INSANE! Let go of me! LET GO OF ME! I didn’t do anything wrong! I didn’t even KNOW!”

The silence in the room grew heavy as her voice faded away, turning slowly to an ominous ring that filled the space, as though pressurizing it to fill the new void. Everyone knew full well that there would be no appeal. It was far, far too late for that.

The angel, holding the gavel and seated in an elevated tower at the left side of the courtroom, allowed this silence to linger uncomfortably for a full fifteen seconds. Then, coughing to clear his throat, he replaced the gavel and massaged his temples for a moment before continuing.

“Bring the next defendant into His Majesty’s courtroom!” he shouted.

The solid cherry-stained oak doors at the far side of the room swung open instantly and with such force that their full weight – over half a ton each – crashed against the walls and sent thousands of tiny splinters flying outward. Two new bailiffs emerged, dragging a limp man by the arms who appeared to be unconscious. His torn burlap rags were smudged with heavy, gray dust, streaked with mud, and stained with drops of blood from the fresh cut on his collarbone.

The bailiffs dragged the man to the center of the room, directly in front of the enormous throne that dominated the front of the court. He thudded to the floor, too weak to brace himself against the fall, and bounced like a toothpick before finally managing to force his arms underneath himself and feebly raise his head high enough to peer upward.

He stopped breathing instantly.

Occupying the throne was – he knew not what. There were no words to describe what he saw before him.

The throne itself, a deep ocean-blue seat made entirely of what appeared to be sapphire, was massive – at least ten feet in breadth and twice as deep. Its back was so high that touched the ceiling of the courtroom, and it seemed to glow softly from within, like phosphorescence of the sea at nighttime.

The being seated on the throne had the vague appearance of a man, but was clearly anything but human. Larger than a man – larger, indeed, than life itself – he had a form that was difficult to discern. Clothed in white robes so dazzling they seemed to shine with their own luminance, his body itself glowed as well, as though made of molten metal. Long white hair cascaded from his scalp to his shoulders, framing eyes that were like fire. The air around him glowed as though itself aflame from his presence. The light emanating from him was blinding – like staring into the sun.

The man suddenly knew he was staring at God himself. This was not a strange dream.

He was dead.

Fear gripped him. How did he get here? He couldn’t even remember dying.

The angel leaned forward, peering over the edge of his high perch at the courtroom’s left side, and looked down at the filthy man on the floor. He averted his gaze long enough to flip through the worn, coffee-colored pages of an enormous leather-bound book sitting in front of him, running one finger along its pages as though searching the contents of a list. Finally, his finger came to rest directly below the name he was looking for. The read the man’s name aloud – slowly and deliberately.

The man, now trembling from the effort of holding his head up off the ground, shuddered visibly as though struck. The angel, apparently not concerned with confirming his obvious identity, continued.

“Born in A.D. 1985, in His Majesty’s occupied Kingdom.”

The man remained silent.

The angel looked down at him with curiosity. “Do you know why you are here?”

There was no response from the man on the floor, who simply looked around with wide, terrified eyes. The fear in his face betrayed the fact that he did, indeed, know exactly why he was there.

The angel continued. “You are here to give an account for your life and to stand trial for all that you have done and not done – for the totality of the eighty-seven years that were numbered to you upon the earth as a citizen of the occupied Kingdom. When all the evidence has been presented, a verdict will be handed down and your eternal fate will be decided. There is no appeal once the verdict is handed down. Whatever the verdict, you shall be rewarded or punished accordingly. As I’m sure you’re now aware, you are in the presence of the Ancient of Days. The Alpha and the Omega. The I Am. He alone will give the verdict. He alone has the authority to judge.”

The angel took a moment to shuffle some wrinkled scrolls on his desk, as though searching for a particular piece of parchment.

“Now then,” he said quietly, “How do you plead?”

The man simply stared up, awed, still unable to speak.

“He is guilty – he knows it.” The low hiss came from a corner of the room, cutting through the silence. The angel said nothing, and the man on the floor looked to his right, toward the sound of the voice. Its source was hidden in a dark corner.

“He is guilty. He is the most vile of sinners, and must be punished accordingly … Just like the last one.”

The air in the courtroom instantly grew heavy, saturated with heat, and the man on the floor began to quiver. The faint outline of a form in the shadows began to emerge.

“Yessssssssssssss…” the voice came again, nearly giddy with anticipation, dripping with pleasure. Its sound was like metal scraping against concrete. “It’s too late for him.”

The figure stepped forward from the darkness, and everyone in the courtroom winced, leaning backward and as far away from his presence as possible. A foul stench followed him from the corner, drifting lazily outward and over the heads of the attendees, so thick it was almost visible.

The eyes caught the man’s attention first – like a nightmare given form. They were dead eyes, a pale, milky white, lacking pupils and colored irises, peering outward from a wrinkled and leathery face that looked equally lifeless. Darkened lips stretched thin over a set of yellowed, dirty teeth now grinding into a sickening grin of delight. What clumps of hair remained on his nearly bald head were black, stringy, and oily, as though they had not been washed in years. Oddly, this grotesque man – the walking dead – wore the finest, cleanest suit the man on the floor had ever seen. It was obviously extremely expensive, likely brand new, and perfectly pressed – black with subtle grey pinstripes and paired with shoes so shiny he could see his own terrified face in them as the dead man stopped not two feet from where he currently lay. His hot breath actually clouded and condensed on the dead man’s shoes as though on a cold window, momentarily obscuring his reflection in the polished leather.

The angel looked at the ghastly figure dead on. “And what evidence of this man’s trespasses do you bring to His Majesty’s courtroom?”

The dead man snickered and began hacking and laughing, obviously relishing the question immensely. “I have evidence,” he hissed, and he raised his hand and snapped his fingers. The crack ricocheted off the courtroom’s silent walls.

Two more bailiffs appeared, carrying a weathered scroll so immense in diameter and weight that it was obviously straining both of their sizable forms to carry it. They laid it gingerly on the floor, directly in front of the glowing throne, and one of the bailiffs then untied the ribbon binding the enormous paper bundle, giving it a gentle flick with his index finger.

As though pushed by an invisible hand, the enormous scroll immediately began unrolling – straight down the center of the courtroom, past the man on the floor, past the dead man, down the aisle, and finally coming to rest against the far wall – not even halfway unraveled – with a dull thump.

The dead man grinned with pleasure. “Evidenccccccccce!”

Attendees in the courtroom seated on the aisles leaned out over the edge of the their pews, cocking their heads to read the writing on the scroll. Gasps of astonishment were heard that quickly began blending with hushed whispers as the dreadful details of the man’s life – now displayed prominently in large font right down the middle of the courtroom – were relayed from those on the edge of the pews down to the opposite end. The growing consensus – that this wretched man was almost certainly doomed – was palpable.

The dead man let loose a throaty cough, clearing his airway and commanding the courtroom’s attention once more. “I have spent eighty-seven years collecting this evidence and submit it to His Majesty’s court as clear proof of this despicable” – he pointed a pale, bony finger at the man on the floor – “worm’s guilt! Is it not written that the wages of sin is death? The Law requires that he be executed!”

The corpse stopped and directed his gaze to the man on the floor, stepping closer and bending down until his decaying face was only inches from the man’s nose. The man on the floor trembled in sheer terror, looking up into the most horrific nightmare he’d ever seen.

But it wasn’t the leathery face that frightened him this time.

The dead man’s eyes had changed from milky white to a deep obsidian black, so smooth and shiny that they reflected light like mirrors. And as the man on the floor stared up into those horrific black ovals, he saw something far more terrifying than the foul corpse before him.

His blood ran cold as he realized he was staring at a reflection of his own heart.

The dead man’s eyes pierced and searched the very depths of his soul, his motives, his desires – and reflected back at him everything within like twin mirrors.

The man on the floor burst into tears as the gravity of his situation – the complete, explicit, total knowledge of his unspeakable sins and their inevitable consequences – settled upon him. He could feel the wrath already, and the weight of the Law pressed down upon him with such power that it actually forced him to the floor. Hope died with one glance into those blackened eyes.

There would be no escape.

“Yesssssssss...” the corpse leaned down and hissed into his ear, just loud enough for the man alone to hear. “You know it, don’t you? You know what you’ve done . . . And now we all know what you’ve done . . .” He spewed the man’s name as though it were a dirty word. “You are a despicable excuse for a man, a pathetic waste of flesh and blood and bone. Filthy. FILTHY! You call this made in His image?!” he shrieked. “Imago Dei!”

The corpse spat directly into the man’s bruised face. “Look at that revolting heart! Does that look like the Imago Dei to you?!”

The corpse’s leathery, clammy hands grabbed the man’s face and shook it, nearly snapping his neck as it wrenched his head around to stare directly at the throne at the front of the room. He leaned closer and the man could feel his hot, sour breath in his ear as he whispered.

“You are not His image-bearer. You are not even His. You are a fake. A counterfeit. And you . . . are going to die. He is going to look down at you from that throne, cast you away from His presence, and you are going to die.” A gleeful sneer broke out across his wrinkled face as a string of drool – evidence of his anticipation – descended like milky liquid plastic from one corner of his mouth, puddling on the floor.

“He hates you,” The corpse sneered, his lip curling in disgust. “Did you know that? He hates you. I tried to tell you ... you wasted so much time trying to please Him. So much time wasted climbing a mountain made of gravel . . . all for nothing.”

And in a hushed tone, he whispered carefully chosen and oft-repeated words for what he knew would be the final time.

“You were always such a disappointment to Him.”

The corpse released the man’s face, slamming his forehead to the floor. Raising his voice, he pointed a long, bony finger at the now broken and sobbing wretch, his outstretched hand trembling with rage, spitting his words like something foul-tasting.

“This man . . . is . . . a TRAITOR! Idolator! Disgusting, pride-filled worm! Thief! Murderer! Liar! Sexually immoral! There is more than enough evidence to convict him! I can scarcely even LOOK upon him without the most vile of tastes rising up in my throat!” The corpse half-scowled, half-smiled down at his prey, knowing what was coming, trembling with expectant glee and muttering to himself in excitement. “He lost this one … Oh yes, He lost this one. His own Law declares it. It’s too late.”

A low hiss rose from the corpse – but this time it was not his voice. A black serpent emerged from the breast pocket of his suit, winding its way slowly around the corpse’s waist and down his leg toward the floor. Its green eyes sparkled as the forked, red tongue darted into and out of the air, tasting it as the snake turned its head side to side.

Smelling.

The serpent reached the floor and slithered slowly toward the terrified rag-clad man. The corpse reached out and grabbed the man’s arm, yanking him forcefully to his feet.

But the angel seated in the tower raised his hand. “Stop! You are right in what the Law requires. But only His Majesty may pass judgment. Let the man go.”

The dead man growled but released his grip, allowing his prey to thud to the floor for the second time. The serpent – now entwined around the man’s left leg and squeezing tightly enough to cut off his circulation – stopped too, resting its head on the floor.

Crumpled, the man sobbed quietly with his face buried in his hands. “Oh God . . . Oh God! Oh God, what have I done . . .”

Flustered murmurs and whispers rose up immediately from the audience, quickly enveloping the room. The angel slammed the gavel forcefully on the wooden podium.

“Order! We will have order in this court!”

The room was instantly silent as the audience bristled to attention once more. The angel massaged his temples as though exasperated and replaced the gavel in its holder.

“Does the prosecution rest its case?” he asked in a flat tone.

The corpse grinned slowly and stole another glance at the all-but-condemned man. “But of course.”

“Very good. It is time, then, for you to enter a plea,” the angel said to the man on the floor.

The man broke, lowering his forehead to touch the floor and convulsing with sobs as he desperately tried to maintain what little composure he had left. “Guilty! I plead guilty! Oh, God! Oh God!”

The dead man shrieked with delight. “Mine! Mine! Guilty! He’s guilty!”

But the angel slammed the gavel again and instantly quieted the corpse’s celebration. “The verdict has not yet been handed down! It is time for the defense to present its case. The court calls the defendant as its first witness.”

Stupefied, the man on the floor stood weakly and looked around. The light from the throne bathed his face with the strength of the sun at midday, instantly causing his dirty and tear-soaked face to cake and dry.

“I … I … I have no evidence to present, Your Honor,” he croaked weakly. “I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell among a people of unclean lips! I … I am what he says!” he motioned to the dead man in the corner, who again screeched with glee.

The angel pounded the gavel.

“Do you have no attorney?” he asked the man with curiosity.

The man shook his head. “No, Your Honor.”

Scarcely had the man spoken these words than the doors at the back of the courtroom flew open with a crash, sucking the air out of the room as though in a vacuum. The startled audience and everyone else in the room turned immediately to see a man standing in the enormous arched doorway, his face resolute.

He had the appearance of a man, but like the Alpha seated on the throne, he too seemed to be glowing from within and was clothed in white robes. His dark eyes were set in a strong face that appeared at once kind and fierce. When he opened his mouth to speak the sound of his voice, although not raised, filled the entire room.

“I will speak for this man.”

He stepped over the dead man’s scroll – still unraveled at the doorway – and directly onto the parchment that covered the entirety of the center aisle. His bare feet tore holes in the parchment and crinkled its surface as he walked slowly and deliberately toward the front of the courtroom, every step deafening in the silence.

The dead man stiffened as though struck each time the sound of a rip in the parchment reached his ears. His eyes, once again dead and white, now popped with anger. “Who is this man?! He has no authority here to spe-“

“SILENCE!” The man in the aisle bellowed. The stained-glass windows of the courtroom flexed from the force of his voice and threatened to break. The corpse went silent instantly.

The new entrant finally stopped at the courtroom’s bow and turned to face the audience.

“I am I Am,” he spoke softly, and the audience gasped. “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. I am the Beginning and the End, the Author and Perfector. For me and by me all things were created and hold together and have their purpose. I am the Firstborn among the dead. I am the Root of David. And I am the Advocate. This man’s Advocate.”

The audience – and the man in filthy rags – stared in stunned silence. No one dared so much as breathe. Even the angel seated in the tower moved not a single muscle.

“The defense will make its case before the court,” the Advocate announced.

Again the courtroom’s side doors swung open with a mighty and splintering crash. A line of bailiffs entered the courtroom, one after the other, in single file, each carrying an enormous leather-bound book. Eighty-seven in all, they encircled the entire courtroom, standing against the walls and facing inward. Each held his book closed and flat in front of him, with its cover facing up.

For the first time, the Almighty on the throne moved. He stood from his throne and spoke, his voice like a cascading waterfall. “Begin.”

The Ancient of Days again took his seat, and the books were opened.

Each book’s cover lifted as though by an invisible hand, its pages turning without its bearer’s assistance. The contents of the books flashed at lightning speed in images above each bailiff’s head in midair.

Scenes from his life. All on display for the world to see.

The court stenographer – armed with what seemed to be an endless scroll which cascaded from his cherry desk across the floor and snaked around the edges of the courtroom – watched intently and scratched furiously with an enormous feathered quill without even looking down at the parchment.

The Advocate spoke. “Each book contains the entirety of one year of this man’s life in every detail. Every thought, every word spoken – both planned and careless – every motive, every dream, every deed – both those done and left undone.”

For the first time in several minutes, the corpse spoke, stepping forward and sputtering in anger. “This is no defense! Your Honor, I move that the defense’s case be thrown out! This man is clearly guilty! The defense’s own evidence confirms this! Look at this man’s innumerable sins!”

The Alpha’s eyes blazed like furnaces in righteous anger at what he saw reflected before him eighty-seven fold. He addressed the Advocate for the first time.

“My Son, what evidence do you bring of this man’s innocence?” he demanded.

“Yes! What evidence!” the corpse shrieked.

The Advocate was silent for a moment. He turned and faced the courtroom’s audience and the jury for a moment. Then, without a word, he turned to face the glowing throne and raised his arms, palms up, from the folds of his white robe.

“Here is my evidence.” He said softly.

The entire courtroom exploded with a gasp and flurry of cries at what it saw. The corpse, too, shrieked in rage.

An immense and jagged circular scar was visible on each of the Advocate’s palms, directly above the wrist. In shock, the audience looked immediately down at this feet, now uncovered by his robe and which also bore twin puncture marks.

“It is written that I was wounded for this man’s transgressions and crushed for his iniquities. Upon me was the chastisement that has brought him peace . . .”

The corpse screamed now in shrill protest, but the Advocate did not stop.

“. . . and by my stripes he is healed.”

“Noooooo!” the corpse howled, convulsing with anger.

The Advocate looked at the leathery dead man. “He is among those whom my Father has given to me, and he remains in me. His sentence has been served. It is finished.”

The angel seated in the tower slammed the gavel. “The defense therefore rests its case! Let the verdict be handed down!”

All eyes turned immediately to the throne with expectation.

The Alpha, his eyes still burning, spoke only one word.

“Innocent.”

Instantly the eighty-seven books around the courtroom burst into flame in their bearers’ hands, consumed by fire in a matter of seconds. The parchment covering the aisle, too, was instantly alight, transforming the aisle way into a white-hot river of heat. Those in the seats closest to the aisle recoiled in terror, their clothing singed by the flames that licked the edges of the pews.

After a few moments of commotion gasps rose up anew from those seated in the audience – this time directed toward the front of the room.

As the entire court watched, the man on the floor was transformed.

The bruises on his face, arms, and legs melted away, replaced by healthy, unblemished skin. The bloody gash on his collarbone slowly closed, leaving not a single trace of a scar. And his tattered robes, as though dipped in invisible dye that rippled upward from the bottom hem, were changing from muddy, sullen brown to a brilliant white that matched those worn by the Advocate. They reflected the light coming from the throne with such intensity that the corpse had to shield his eyes.

But the corpse sputtered with rage.

“He is mine!” he shrieked, darting for the man on the floor with gnarled hands extended, eyes white-hot. The serpent, now coiled near its master, hissed ferociously at its prey, opening its mouth to reveal razor-sharp, glistening fangs dripping with poison. It lunged to strike.

With unbelievable speed, the Advocate’s heel slammed down with such force that the shockwave from the impact with the floor reverberated off the walls of the courtroom. Blood and venom flew in all directions and the snake’s head was instantly crushed from the blow.

The corpse stopped short, wailing as though he had been stabbed. In horror the court looked on as the dead man’s body began to break apart – finally completing the decomposition that had obviously begun but was never finished. His already stretched and shriveled skin flaked and cracked as his skeletal frame disintegrated piece by piece. A final moan of rage escaped his sinking, wide-open jaw as his face fell away.

In a matter of moments nothing remained but a pile of dust upon which sat an empty crumpled, pinstriped suit.

Silence settled upon the court once more. As before, the absence of any sound left a void that seemed to fill the room. But this time, the void of was left unfilled by screams for mercy or protests of indignation.

This time everyone knew full well there would be no need for an appeal.