The Magic Pen
Weird legal fiction for your entertainment
Colin didn’t remember exactly when judges in America began wearing powdered wigs like they still did in Britain, but he knew it was sometime shortly after the discovery of the Magic Pen.
“The Lawgiver” was its official name, but “The Magic Pen” was the nomenclature used by the laity, the hoi polloi, those not in the biz. Not in the know. Colin was not a judge or a member of the bar, but in the know he certainly was. As one of the last remaining sketch artists in the Supreme Court, he knew a lot.
Still, the Magic Pen sounded better than the Lawgiver. Less stern, less Edwardian, more Mozartian. Der Zauberstift. That’s what they should call it.
This morning’s case was boring. Most of them were. Some procedural quirk nobody cares about but whose result can have serious implications (allegedly). Not much for Colin to draw here. The plaintiff’s attorney, a mousy little woman who looked fresh out of law school made for a mousy little sketch. He took some artistic liberties—leaving out the unkempt strands of hair and making it a glossy black, making her glasses a little more fashionable. “Art school will never work out,” his dad—a lawyer!—always said, but joke’s on you, pops. You’re stuck in small claims hell and every day I’m in the Supreme Court.
Yeah. Colin, like most Americans, liked the big cases. Gun rights (boo!). Abortion (yay!). The First Amendment (a mixed bag). Those sorts of things. Better fuel for the creative fire. Alas, hearing Justice Perlmutter drone on and on about the inner workings of the Paperwork Reduction Act nearly put Colin to sleep.
“. . . In essence, your argument is that the addition of only two additional lines of instruction on IRS form 1065 had resulted in over, what was it? Seventy five million additional burden hours? This is, if accurate, an ipso facto clear violation . . .”
The Latin! The Latin always killed him. Ipso fatso, E Pluribus Unum, whatever. Just speak English you pretentious twat.
But boring or not, the end result of these cases, the decisions, the sentencing part, was always spectacular. And frightening.
“Thank you, counsel,” said Judge Abdullah. “We will take this under advisement.”
Mousy attorney left along with her counterpart from the DOJ, a hot little number Colin had been trying to make eye contact with the whole time to no avail. He did make eye contact with her butt on the way out, and noted her name for future reference/cyber-stalking purposes.
Sentencing was next. A lot had changed since the Magic Pen, including the venerable SCOTUS dispensing justice like conventional Article III judges, lower ones from lower courts. The difference, of course, was that justice here was permanent. Supreme.
Nobody died. Nobody needed to. With the Magic Pen, it was any government’s wet dream: the people did what they were told.
The Crier banged her staff against the floor: “Oyez, oyez, oyez!”
The Court was already in session, but this call was not for the judges. Everybody stood, eyes on the crimson-robed woman with a powdered wig. She was middle-aged and svelte, fashionable glasses atop her snub nose. The staff looked too heavy for such a slender woman to lift, but Colin knew it was made of a lightweight, eco-friendly graphite composite painted to look like Brazilian hardwood. The bottom of the staff was gold-plated steel for an extra-resonant clang, but the top was the real deal, a glimmering sculpture of a feathered quill pen.
“All persons facing the sentencing of the Honorable, the Supreme Court of the United States, are admonished to draw near and give their attention, for the Lawgiver shall now be brought forth. May the Universe save the United States and this Honorable Court!”
This moment always gave Colin a chill. It was so weird. So much had changed in so short a time: “The Universe save us,” really? But who was he to judge? Colin voted for all of this. He was down with the Pen. He was a good American. He did what he was told.
“So what happened next?”
That was Janelle, the sexy DOJ attorney. Colin had a lawyer buddy who worked over there, Glen Levy, the Jew who sounded like the whiskey, who fired off his opinion as soon as Colin had given her name.
“Janelle Acevedo? Her? She’s crazy.”
But crazy was what Colin had wanted. So Glen had hooked him up with her contact info and Colin, never shy, reached out and asked her for a drink. Boldness: it was in short supply and beautiful women appreciated it when directed their way.
He sipped his IPA. “You’ve never seen the Pen?”
“No. Why do you say it like that?”
“Because you practice before the Supreme Court, maybe?”
The lounge was loud, but Colin could still hear her scoff at his disbelief. “It was my first time . . .”
“That’s what they all say. Anyway, what happens next is pretty cool. But what happened after really bugged me. I can’t stop thinking about it.”
I can’t stop thinking my father. His stupid Old Spice-smelling crew-cut big ear head. I inherited those ears and had to get them pinned back so I wouldn’t be a lonely incel. Damn his genetics. Damn his talk-radio listening ass. “Colin, you’re gonna go to law school like your grandpappy and great-grandpappy and I did.” Who says “grandpappy”? What grown man says that? My grandfather and great-grandfather would’ve kicked his ass for saying that. Some paragon of traditional masculinity.
My father was the D.A. in our small town of Moore’s Creek, North Carolina. Like that meant anything. I had to rid myself of my father’s stupid accent like I did his stupid ears. Of that whole stupid place.
“You’re gonna do the family business, son.” He didn’t want me to be a “commie artist.” Always making fun of my drawing, my painting, my tastes in punk and goth and industrial, my dyed hair, my artist girlfriends. Always worried I’d be a “faggot” like those “weirdos” in Asheville. No need to worry, dad: I love women. More than you ever loved mom. And now I’m in the highest court in the land, laughing at what gets done to domestic terrorists like you while you got fired for creeping on a young ADA and now handle small-time collections cases for shady firms that pay peanuts. My, how the tables have turned.
But there are still people like my dad out there. Still embarrassing “Gods, guns, and glory,” Gadsen-flag weirdos who fuck their assault rifles and hate black and brown people and think women-folk belong in the kitchen. I know this because I see this. I see them reach the highest positions in the land.
Colin stopped breathing when he saw Judge Tremblay step out onto the bench. There were more than nine, have been for a while—now they’re up to sixteen—but usually there’s a bit of fanfare when they’re appointed. Not this time. Colin would later learn that P. Dalton Tremblay was appointed just one week ago as a part of the President’s attempt to reconcile with the rest of the country; no wonder it was done in a late-night session. Stupid initiative, Colin thought. The president should’ve just wiped them all out when he had the chance. But here they were. Face to face with a man that could have been Frederick Dickinson Neal, Colin’s disgraced father, right down to the big stupid ears.
Eventually, Colin’s respiratory system resumed normal operations. His hand started to sketch the newest member of the bench, stupid ears and all poking from under the powdered wig. His pencil captured the man in short, violent strokes that showed the thinly veiled malice behind his smirk, the way he looked at Colin like he knew him. He could almost hear the man’s drawling cadence call him a “commie faggot artist.”
The Bearer, a middle-aged black man robed and wigged like the Crier, came out of a door cleverly hidden in the wood behind the Justices’ bench, led and followed by others similarly dressed and sporting actual swords; a great look despite the violence it implied. The Bearer’s tabard bore the great and noble seal of the United States of America, as did the large wooden case he held aloft.
The short procession, so liturgical, halted before the bench. The Bearer positioned himself below Chief Justice Oyongo, facing the gallery, to let the judge open the case and pull out what looked to be an ordinary, white quill pen.
“Oh, wow,” said Janelle. “I like just missed it.”
“I know! You’ll just have to come again. Anyway . . .”
“Presenting the Lawgiver of the United States! Whosoever receives a sentence written with this pen shall face the compulsion of the Universe to fully comply with the duly enacted laws of this great nation!”
That was the Crier, crying out from her side of the chambers for all to hear. Colin made sure to capture the subtle swell of her bust in his sketch. Maybe he’d chat with her later, ask her to model for him. He had a gallery opening in two weeks and maybe could squeeze in one last picture . . .
Justice Oyongo held the Pen reverently with one hand and removed a few sheafs of paper from the case. Colin knew they’d been prepared beforehand, covered in eloquent calligraphy like the Declaration of Independence, with the sentenced’s names and offenses and punishments, awaiting only the signature of a Justice to ensure compliance.
“The sentencing in United States v. James Calhoun!”
From the back, bailiffs led orange-clad Mr. Calhoun shuffling in his leg irons before the bench. He was a generic-looking middle-aged white guy, close-cropped hair and pig-beady eyes peeking over splotchy cheeks. Disgusting. Colin could practically smell the stale cigarettes on his breath. His pencil worked to capture the sinister physiognomy.
One could only imagine what the sentence would be. The Court had gotten creative now that the Eighth Amendment had been found to include an exception for those who fomented insurrection and conspiracy to overthrow the government. Justice Oyongo was especially good at devising appropriate punishments for lawbreakers and enemies of the state. Colin couldn’t wait to see what she’d come up with.
Except she passed the pen to Justice Tremblay sitting on her right.
Justice Tremblay cleared his throat. When he spoke, it was not with a North Carolina drawl but a crisp, clipped northeast accent. Maybe he had some redeeming qualities after all.
“Mr. Calhoun, for the crime of illegal possession of a firearm with intent to harass and intimidate duly elected members of Congress, you have been found guilty.”
“I posted memes,” said Calhoun, who definitely sounded like he hailed from south of the Mason-Dixon Line, earning him a sharp elbow from one of the bailiffs.
Tremblay held up the Pen. “Your sentence, in lieu of life in prison, as freely agreed upon by you and the U.S. Attorney’s office and with your consent, has been to abide by the rulings written down with the Lawgiver, rulings which none are able to disobey or resist until their terms are over. Do you understand Mr. Calhoun?”
“Where’s my lawyer?”
“Yes or no.”
Calhoun swept his porcine eyes across the chambers in vain for an attorney, any attorney willing to take his case and, finding none, sighed heavily. “Yes.”
“Then I hereby sentence you to a lifetime of being unable to own a firearm. And furthermore, you will be Congresswoman Palacio’s manservant for the twenty years you were facing in prison. Whatever she asks you to do, you must do. So it has been ordered, and so it shall be written.”
Pen hit paper, the sentence was written, and it was as good as done. It made Colin think of someone he heard in church once a lifetime ago: “For I myself am a man under authority, with soldiers under me. I tell this one, ‘Go,’ and he goes; and that one, ‘Come,' and he comes. I say to my servant, ‘Do this,’ and he does it.”
Calhoun knew it. He felt it. The man stiffened as soon as Justice Tremblay’s pen stopped moving. His mouth worked but no sound came. His fingers clenched, pulling air triggers, knowing he’d never again get to squeeze the real thing. And all he could do was bow his head and be brought out by the bailiffs to enjoy his new life as a 24-year-old congresswoman’s slave.
“But it’s not, like, slavery,” said Janelle. She was pretty tipsy now, the way Colin liked them, laughing at everything and very happy, flushed cheeks and bedroom eyes.
Colin made sure to order her another Blue Velvet. “But here’s the thing: it basically is,” he shouted over the music that had gotten progressively louder. “But the old fuck deserved it.”
“No shit, right?” Colin found her vocal fry quite fetching. Leaning this close, her lips brushed his ear. He made his brush her lips and soon discussion about the day’s events was forgotten.
I’ll tell you why my father bothered me so much, made me volcanically mad. Not because we disagreed but because he wouldn’t listen. Never took me seriously. I was different than my older brothers. The baby. Mom babied me, that’s what he’d say, because I didn’t want to play tackle football and preferred to read or do crafts with mom or play around with the computer. Nothing I did was good enough, not even my good grades, so I just stopped caring. I tuned out.
He didn’t care why. He doubled-down. Tripled. And so we just talked past each other. Hardening our positions. I told myself I’ll never be like him. Never. I’ll listen to people. I’ll have empathy. Even for the indigent, mostly black and brown people he’d lock up and crow about it like a hero. And so here we are.
Here we are.
“It hurts me,” Justice Tremblay said when Calhoun was out of the courtroom, “because I respect the Second Amendment deeply. But the law is the law.”
Okay. So the guy didn’t have any redeeming qualities after all. He really was straight out of the Frederick Dickinson Neal mold. Probably a racist too.
“United States v. Kadarious Young,” called the Crier.
And on cue, in came a young black man in a jumpsuit and chains like Calhoun. This was surprising—had the Criminal Reform in Minority Enclaves Act been repealed when Colin wasn’t looking?
Seeing Mr. Young in chains was all wrong, like something from a period drama about the transatlantic slave trade. And they weren’t having a different Justice pass sentencing for Mr. Young, oh no, no passing of the baton here. This case was again before Justice Tremblay, grinning like a plantation overseer ready to administer a whipping. How could they let this happen?
“Mr. Young, for the crime of child abuse leading to the severe injury of a four-year-old child, you have been found guilty. Your sentence, in lieu of life in prison, as freely agreed upon by you and the U.S. Attorney’s office and with your consent, has been to abide by the rulings written down with the Lawgiver, rulings which none are able to disobey or resist until their terms are over. Do you understand Mr. Young?”
Mr. Young licked his lips nervously. He likewise had no attorney present, which was surely a violation of his most fundamental civil rights. Colin tried his best to capture Mr. Young’s noble, dignified bearing, his attempt to maintain his composure in such a grossly unfair situation. “I do,” he said at last.
“Then I hereby sentence you to a lifetime of being unable to engage in romantic relationships with women and from being within 10 yards of any minor. And furthermore, for the remainder of the fifteen-years you were facing in prison, you shall henceforth crawl on all fours like the animal that you are. So it has been ordered, and so it shall be written.”
Colin put down his pencil, horrified. Weren’t any of the Justices going to say anything about this? This wasn’t justice. This was madness.
Like Calhoun before him, once the scritch-scratch of Pen-to-paper was complete, Young stiffened as if struck on the ass with a cane and then, shock in his eyes, got down on his hands and knees to the laughter of the other Justices! Only Tremblay kept a stoic expression. “You monster,” Justice Oyongo whispered to Mr. Young. Oyongo! She should know better!
Sweat dropped onto Colin’s sketch, ruining the face of Kadarious Young. Colin tried to blot it with the cuff of his shirt but only made it worse, a smudge where a human used to be. That was the power of art, he supposed. That was the power of the Pen.
She played with his chest hair. “So how does the Magic Pen work?”
Colin put his hand to his crotch and shook it around a bit. “Oh, you didn’t get the idea the first time?”
Janelle pinched his nipple. “Not that pen. The other one.”
“I just met you and you want to talk about work?”
“I just can’t stop thinking about it. I mean, I know about it, everyone does, but being this close to it, to someone who sees it all the time . . . there’s a lot we’re not told about it, you know?”
“Would you believe it’s magic?”
“No,” said Janelle. “Because that’s what the news says. But there’s no such thing as magic.”
“Is there?”
Janelle shoved Colin aside, straddled his chest with her knees pinning his arms, and bit his nose. “The only magic here is me. Is this.” She rubbed her naked crotch against his belly, and Colin was inclined to believe in all things fantastical. “Tell me how it works, blanco niño and I’ll give you more magic of my own.”
“I . . .” Colin cleared his throat. “I don’t know. But I want to find out too. What they did to that man was horrifying . . .”
Regrettably, Janelle rolled off him and onto her knees. He still had a view of her wonderful rack though. “The man they made a slave?”
“No, the other one . . .”
Her face wrinkled like she smelled something pungent emanating from Colin. “The child abuser?”
“We don’t know he did it. Could’ve been set up, you know? And what about the CRIME Act? I didn’t know it had a sunset provision or whatever.”
She clicked her tongue. “I don’t know about you, kid. That’s messed up.” She swung a leg over the bed and started to pull on her panties.
“Wait, what’re you doing?”
“I’m not in the mood anymore and work comes early.”
He propped himself up with an elbow. “It’s like three-thirty.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Let me walk you.”
“No.”
Colin respected women, so he let her go without trying to convince her otherwise. No meant no, after all. He just watched her dress and then leave, taking that wonderful ass out of his life for good and leaving him wondering what he did to provoke such a reaction.
I should have ended the story there. I should have just let it go, lying there with stickydick lamenting the exit of Janelle, maybe getting up for a drink or going to the gym for a run before attempting to squeeze in one last hour of sleep before the sun rose. But I did not. I pursued this train of thought because the Pen was stuck in my brain and I could not get it out. This is not what we signed up for. It is not. It wasn’t right. And if there’s one thing I know about things that are not right, you have to stand up against them.
That’s movie talk. Things never work out that way. Life is different. No matter what they said when we were kids, or in college, happy endings are not guaranteed. So here I am.
Here I am.
Compelled to tell you my story again and again and again.
He had to get the Pen.
Sugardick, good old sugardick Colin Neal. That’s what they called him, Glen Levy, the Jew who sounded like a whiskey, and Bryan, Bry the Guy Dinwiddie, who DJ’d at The Park at 14th and Black Cat, and Colin’s art school buddy Kenny Hanson. Whether it was because Colin was a sex addict or women were attracted to Colin’s member like it was coated with the sticky stuff, Colin wasn’t sure, but he knew after the debacle with Janelle he needed an ego-boosting conquest, STAT, and he needed the Pen, and ergo he thought the attractive middle-aged Crier would fill both needs at once. “Work smarter, not harder,” is what the smart set said, and though but a humble artist, who was Colin to disagree?
Her name was Larissa Lyons. She was married, and was also over 50, but since when did either of those things matter when seduction was for a good cause?
Over drinks the next day after the session, when no black or brown people were subject to a misapplication of so-called “justice,” Larissa told Colin her theory of how the Magic Pen worked:
“You’ll think I’m crazy tin-foil hat cuckoo bananas, but you know that the government has a DNA database on everybody, okay. So what I think and I’ve heard from people higher up than me is that there’s something in the Pen that transmits signals to nano-machines in everybody’s blood put there by the mandatory vaccination programs from when, oh gosh, they started from before you were born, probably.”
“That does sound cuckoo bananas, Larissa,” Colin said, “but you know what? It’s makes more sense than magic.”
Larissa got excited at that word. “But it is magic, honey. You can’t see it happening. And the Judges are sort of like wizards, aren’t they? They dress like them, right?”
The lady was out to lunch—figuratively and literally; they were eating lunch—but she gave Colin much to think about.
He didn’t press the issue of how to access the Pen until after he had accessed the contents of her panties. They somehow did not get interruptus despite getting it on in Larissa’s office before the afternoon session was set to begin. It felt good on multiple levels, Colin’s relief that he “still got it” competing with his need to keep chuds like Justice Tremblay from ever having power over the powerless. The Pen was for chuds and Nazis, not their innocent victims.
He didn’t tell Larissa this, of course, but he did keep talking about his interest in the Pen. “You’re really into it,” she said. “You know, maybe the Bearer could show you around. Rashid. He’s a real nice guy.”
Colin gave his most boyish smile. “Show me around the Chamber of the Law? You’d do that for me?”
She touched his nose. “You’re cute. Like a little kid seeing the cockpit of a plane. Of course I’d do it for you. Just, you know, don’t forget about me.”
“How could I?”
Larissa winked. “Just don’t tell lots of people about this, or I’ll be in trouble.”
He winked back. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” Sometimes it was good to have a conspiracy nut in your corner.
There was only one problem—Colin would have to subdue the Bearer in order to claim the Pen for himself, and the Bearer was black.
Colin wondered if he could convince Rashid Collins to help him keep such a powerful artifact from the hands of monsters like Justice Tremblay. But what if Collins refused and alerted the Court? Did he want to implicate an innocent bystander?
Things were moving fast. I can barely remember the small talk I made with Collins. I do remember he wasn’t all that talkative. It’s hard to tell his age; could be in his thirties, could be in his fifties. Tight-lipped. Virginia drawl. “Larissa says you’re all right,” Rashid told me. “If she says so, then I trust her. Nice lady.”
“Sure is,” says Colin.
Rashid opened the door to his office. “I’ve seen you ‘round here for a while son but you never said hi.”
I felt so awkward, so horrible. It was a class thing, I guess. It wasn’t conscious, but that made it worse. “I guess this is hi now?”
“Guess so. So this is it, son. Not much but it’s home, you know?”
Small office. Cramped. Desk pushed against wood-paneled walls. The dark stain made it feel more claustrophobic. A few pictures, Rashid with various government luminaries. No windows. Good. Where was the Pen?
Then I saw the safe against the wall.
“That’s where it is?” I remember saying. Something like that.
“Sure is, son. You probably expecting something a bit more grand, yeah?”
“Yeah, honestly.”
Rashid went to the safe and knelt. I stood behind him, wondering what I was going to do. I mean, I had a plan, but I didn’t want to put it into action.
“Biometric lock,” Rashid said. “You don’t have to turn away; can’t steal my fingerprints or my damn eyes.”
I shrugged, said something stupid: “The medical establishment might. Experiments, you know?”
He looked at me over his shoulder then turned back to the safe. Eye scan, fingerprint scan, voice recognition, a hiss, a whirr, a click, the safe was open. There was no magic, no effulgence of golden light, no heavenly choir singing. Just the case that the Bearer always bears the Pen in.
Disappointment is too strong to describe what I felt just then. Disappointment implies some sort of need or desire being unfulfilled. This was akin to the feeling of growing up, realizing there was no Santa and it was just your parents putting a few bucks under your pillow. Maybe disenchantment was the word, the falling away of the scales from your eyes. That things actually are what they seem. That the world is a more boring place than you used to believe.
Rashid straightened and opened the case right in front of my face. “So there she is. Take a look but just a little bit. I shouldn’t be doing this even for a friend of Larissa’s.” His look was fatherly. “Don’t you hurt her now.”
“Mr. Collins, what do you think of Justice Tremblay?”
The question took him aback. “He’s all right. Knows his stuff. I’ve seen them come and go, all right? They all belong here one way or another.”
He shut the Pen case. I had to act fast before he put it away. “No, I mean about Kadarious Young.”
Rashid stopped. “Who?”
“The defendant Justice Tremblay made crawl like a dog.” I was whispering, knowing everything was probably on camera, being recorded. I had one shot, one chance to take out the king and be a hero.
“The child abuser? What about?”
“He was the first, uh, African-American the Pen was ever used on. The point of the Pen was to punish the Chuds.”
A chill hung in the air.. Rashid’s face stayed the same. His voice sounded no different. But something had shifted in the air, a tightening pressure. My scalp felt full of spiders. “Things change, son. Times change. Way I see it, one less bad guy on the street.” He turned.
“Can I hold it?”
“Uh, I know you’re a friend of Larissa but I can’t do that.”
I put a hand on Rashid’s shoulder. “Please.”
“I think you should get your hand off of me, son.”
“Please. This is important.”
I didn’t wait for an answer. I didn’t think. (Why am I writing this? Why can’t I stop writing this?) I pulled Rashid around until he faced me and I snatched the Pen case from his hands. He tried to speak. I shoved him and ran. He grabbed my shirt. I spun. My elbow caught him in the face. I didn’t mean to, I swear, I didn’t put a little extra into the backswing, didn’t say to myself “I’m doing this to save him.” I didn’t see myself as arbiter of right and wrong, no!
He fell without a scream, the crunch of bone on cartilage still heavy in my ears. Hands on his ruined face. Dark blood seeping through the dark fingers on his dark hands. So much blood. I wanted to apologize, I really did, but I had to move.
Move.
Justice Tremblay’s chambers were across the building. Colin knew he’d attract attention running at a full sprint, his necktie trailing like a dog’s tongue, but everyone would understand later.
Pen case held tucked under his arm like a football, high and tight, the way fucking dad always yelled at the TV like a doofus when some player fumbled the ball. Maybe nobody would see, Colin thought, but their eyes felt like drill bits in his back. Or knives.
Dress shoes were slippery on tile but Colin managed not to fall on his ass cartoon-style until he got to Justice Tremblay’s door. There was a security guard outside, someone from the Marshal’s office. A middle-aged white man standing with his thumbs tucked under his belt. His eyes widened as Colin drew near.
“Back there! The Bearer!” Colin was huffing. Hands on his knees, playing it up. Another lie. “Something happened . . . he needs help!”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down . . .”
Colin pointed behind him. He’d tucked the pen into his waistband and under his suit jacket. “For real . . . it’s bad.”
The Marshal reached for his walkie talkie. “Show me.”
“Of course. This way.” Colin stood, and once the Marshal took a step in the direction Colin indicated, he bolted for Tremblay’s door, skidded to a halt once inside the office, and slammed the door shut behind him.
He locked it too and then turned. It was an imposing space, all light wood paneling and subtle blue carpet. Books of law filled the shelves on every wall, thick hard bound volumes containing the legal history of the United States, freely available for anyone with the patience to slog through derailed arguments on arcane, outdated legalities.
But the most arcane, outdated legality was the old man now standing up at his desk, bewilderment across his fat big-eared face.
“Care to sit?” said Tremblay.
Colin did, ignoring the banging on the door behind him.
“It’s okay!” Tremblay called. “I was waiting for him! Relax, Steve!”
The banging stopped. “Yes, Your Honor. Just holler if you need anything.”
“You want a coffee? Tea? Water?” The Judge gestured to a sideboard.
Now back to his senses, Colin took out the Pen case, opened it up, and held the Lawgiver before its main malfeasor.
This finally got Tremblay’s attention. He looked like he wanted to say something but synapses failed to fire.
“It’s mine now,” said Colin. He felt big, powerful, with a dick a mile long. “You think it’s okay to make the vulnerable crawl around like an animal? We’ll see how you like it.”
“Give me that and I’ll let you go. I won’t even call Steve in.” Tremblay pointed at the door.
Colin held the Pen with both hands and exerted pressure. The gold started to bend. “I’ll break it. Give me some parchment.”
Tremblay smiled, one of those “I hope noticed notices I just farted” half-smirks. He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a sheaf of the same dark parchment the Justices wrote their sentences on and planed it in on the desk near Colin. “You know, we have the budget for more drawing paper.”
“This isn’t about drawing. It’s about justice.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I told you I’ll break it.” Colin’s heart beat so fast he thought he’d lose his breath. Glaring at Tremblay, he took the small ink pot from the pen case, dipped the Lawgiver, and began to write:
I sentence Justice P. Dalton Tremblay to call a press conference and tell the nation how racist and evil he is before resigning. I further sentence Justice P. Dalton Tremblay to a lifetime of illiteracy. Forevermore shall he have the intellectual capacity of a handicapped four-year-old with no bowel control who speaks only in seal barks. So it has been ordered, and so it shall be written.
Colin signed the sentence and looked at Tremblay, enjoying the old racist’s flinch when Colin wrote the final period with a slam. The Justice stiffened, stood, “Oh no,” he said, before bursting out in laughter.
Shame. Anger. Confusion. Colin didn’t know which emotion to embrace. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. He’d won. He was on the right side. Things were supposed to work out. The good guys always won. Always!
Tremblay kept laughing. “Oh my goodness. You, you think this thing actually works? I shouldn’t be surprised.” A few more Hehs and Hahs then he was all business yet again. “Oh man, I needed a good laugh. Listen, what’s your name?”
“Colin?”
“Colon, right. Now listen, Colon: there is no such thing as magic. No such thing as a magic pen. I’ll tell you what there is: belief. With the right foundation, laying the groundwork, you can make people believe anything. Do you understand me, Colon?”
Colin nodded. His heart had slowed, down down down, like it knew his time was up.
“Do you understand how bad it would be if any of this gets out? That’s right, isn’t it Carmela?”
And then from under the desk came Justice Oyongo. She wore the smile of a schoolgirl caught in a very naughty act but fixed her hair and stood next to Tremblay with her hand on his shoulder.”
Colin wanted to puke. There was no way she . . . but she was. They were all in it together. It’s a big club, and so on. “You didn’t see any of this” she said.
“The country needs this, Colon,” Tremblay went on. “Belief in the Pen is the only thing keeping it together.” Tremblay reached into his desk, pulled out a bottle of something dark and 40-proof. Two tumblers came next. He poured and set one glass in front of Colin. “Enjoy one last pleasure before your life is over, Colon. Because you can’t just walk right out of here after what you’ve done.”
Colin still held the Pen. “I’ll break it.”
“Then we’ll break you. And then we’ll make another one. But this conversation does not leave this room. One way or another. Give it here, Colon.”
Colin did.
Tremblay drained his glass and then took a piece of parchment from the pile. He wrote and when he was done, Colin felt himself stiffen. It didn’t matter that he knew the Magic Pen was a hoax, a scam. Colin knew he would comply.
No, he didn’t just know it. He believed it.
- Alexander
I hope you enjoyed this story. I was thinking about writing another post about current events, but nah. Anyway, if you enjoyed this, please subscribe, like, comment, share, etc., snag some of my novels here, or buy me a coffee at Buy Me A Coffee. Thank you and God bless.
That was really fun. Colin was very easy to hate. But also to understand in a weird way.
Well done
Damn! 👏🏻💯👏🏻