Post Number Eleven

“How many WERDSPERTS Make One Good Legal Brain?”

busy, Busy, BUSY! That’s what some lawyers claim to be. Though personally I think this whole business of “busy-ness” is played-up for business reasons. Whatever the case, I’m lucky I didn’t have to pay that lawyer Uncle Mike recommended me to (or to me). His name (if you recall) is ALBIE WERDSPERT, and he was (and I’m assuming still is. Because I only saw him a couple days ago) a criminal lawyer– which in hindsight was obvious by the shape of his skull and his beady eyes. I have to say I was disappointed, though, because what I really wanted was a NON-criminal-type lawyer, gambling on the likelihood that one o’ them would be a bit more trustworthy. But Mike (having seen my unwanted blemishes first hand when I flashed ’em at the screw, Natasha De Nasha) said that what Neanderthal Man did there (to my man-boobs) was (quote) “a crime” (figuratively-speaking) and so (in his words) “should be punished far more worsely” (sic) “than victimless crimes like… oooo, I dunno… sausage smugglin’? for example?”

So I followed my criminal-type Uncle’s advice and went off to see his criminal-type lawyer– who told me straight away that, while it was indeed the case that vandalism of my man-boobs may well be a crime (non-figuratively-speaking) it was not (however) the case that he himself would involve himself in The Case. When I asked him “why not?” he replied.

“Well, obviously because you’re the victim and I’m always on the side of the criminal. Which means that if– and it’s a medium-sized “if”– but IF your case went all the way to a Criminal Court, then technically we’d be Enemies and I would have to badger you and be terse with you and interrupt you until your witnessing became unreliable, ending in tears.”

“I see,” said I.

“HOWEVER,” he continued. “If– and it’s a medium-to-large-sized “if”– but IF you’d be so kind as to recommend me to the Tattoo Guy who mutilated you (or whatever) then I would be happy to represent him against you in a Court of Law.”

“Great!” I said, struggling to work up some enthusiasm for this. “But, y’see, I was more interested in me suing that cunt.”

“Oh, I don’t do that,” said Albie Werdspert. “I mean, I’ve got some scruples…”

He then went on to recommend his own brother– DIGBY Werdspert– who it seems has NO scruples. Furthermore, he told me that if I hurried I could probably take advantage of Digby’s “free consultation” window-period of sixty minutes per month (or “Unhappy Hour”, as he called it) wherein he would consult with would-be clients, usually as a group (like a therapy group).

When I went into Digby Werdspert’s office I could see the abovementioned legal therapy group (or one very like it) sitting around, all cross-legged on the floor, in what the lawyer himself called a “Suing Circle”. Digby said the reason he could only chat with would-be clients in groups of twenty was because he had a backlog of cases. He was (quote) “up to his neck in slippery supermarket floors”, and therefore spent nearly all his time helping those who made a living out of them. Not floor cleaners. Shoppers, who do the splits and suffer that most punishing of injuries: Whiplash of the Groin. Slippery customers like those were always knocking on- (and sometimes banging into) his door.

Then, as befitted (or “befat”, or whatever the word is) the sheer socialness of the occasion, Digby passed around a plateful of high-grade sliced cabana that a client of his brother, Albie (uh-oh), brought into the country from overseas.

“Errrr… No, thanks, dood. Really,” is what I said, when the plate arrived at me.

After the ravenous ladies (and laddies) of the suing circle had gorged ’emselves on food that probably came out my Uncle’s ARSE, it was (finally) time to go ’round the circle and state our would-be cases, before Citizen Werdspert made the big decision re: which one of us he would represent. And so, for the next few minutes (which felt more like a few eternities) the victim-folk before me in the circle just waffled on and on (and on) about “lost limbs” and stuff, while I quietly zoned out– right up ’til the point where somebody shook my shoulder, told me to “stop snoring”, and said it was now my time to whine (at last!).

Wasting not one second of whining time by naming names (namely, my name), I launched into a moving speech in which I told the lawyer that I needed financial vengeance of a Tattoo Guy who had callously scarred my man-boobs with his Needles O’ Terror. To drive home the point of those needles to the suing circle, I ripped open my shirt (really got’a stop doin’ that. I’m running out of clean shirts) and exposed my unwanted Horror Buttons.

There was a moment of silence. It was clear the circle had been moved. I sat back down, dabbing the corneas of my eyes and expecting that soon there would be a Mexican Tidal Wave of sobs doing laps around me. That’s what I expected. What I actually got were a few unwelcome questions like this:

“Where are the scars? They look like normal nipples to me.”

Scoffing at these un-medical words, I said the nipples themselves were the scars. Before getting those (I told ’em) I had no nipples at all. At this, there was another silence. Then I finally got the Mexican Tidal Wave I forecast. It wasn’t a wave of sobs per se. It was more a kind of a weird, unexplainable anger. The first Circle Jerk who half-rose in his chair (I say “half”-rose because he had no legs, having lost {or misplaced?} ’em in a factory somewhere) shouted (unfairly) that I was a (quote) “FUCKING TIME-WASTER”. And it got worse from there. A guy with a missing arm screamed (ambitiously) that he would punch me on the chin if only he could throw a decent left-hook (his left arm was the missing one– hence ambitiously). Another person with bandages on her eyes told me that she would spit right in my eye, if only I’d be kind enough to put said eye up close to her puckered mouth (Offer Declined). Around and around in a similar vein went their bloody threats, until I’d had enough.

“ENOUGH!!’ I said, thereby proving that that was what I had had. “Your puny threats I can handle. In fact, I welcome those threats with a Mocking Laugh– nyar-HARH!– like that. But the insults you mingle your threats with are (I’m guessing) highly slanderous. Or libellous. Or whichever one it is when you mingle threats with it. Which means this whole sorry business (for which I am Absolutely Unapologetic) has now become (I’m sorry to say) a LEGAL MATTER.”

To prove I meant business, I immediately consulted a lawyer. Overlooking the minor detail that Citizen Werdspert was the loudest and most insulting slanderer (or libeller) in the circle, I wondered aloud if he could refer me to a decent anti-insult (or as he called them “defamation”) lawyer, so that I could sue the arses off those differently-abled folk (or at least the ones who still had arses). He angrily gave me the business card of his older sister, WENDY WERDSPERT, then he led the (very slow-moving) lynch mob that chased me out the door.

And as I left, I checked the address on the card, realizing (almost right away) that the office of Wendy Werdspert was located (conveniently) right near the University– and (coincidentally) right above the Neanderthal Man’s Tattoo Parlour!!


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