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Head of The Table Three stones
Tensed, just one week, he nearly lost it all, he was this close, this close! So get your shit together or you might as well kiss this case good bye and watch the court nail you instead of the tyrant. Pondering, his cigar was fading with every puff as it gave an ember glow, ashes of what it used to be, brown with a more gold touch from a far, the suit reconciled fashionably with his cigar’s texture and furnished outline, the black curved raised chair with grey like cushioned but cushions. Despite being a work day, he was not in the mood of going by the book, so he did what he does when his under pressure, tension, or is fixed under someone’s grip, which in his case he was under both so he had every right to do as he pleased to relieve this overwhelming mental baggage. He smoked one cigar till it was in ashes, the scent of smoke and it’s density filled the room, but still no idea, no thoughts, no tips on just how he could flip this sinking ship to his favor. So the inspector, Mr. Zod,
Head of The Table All or nothing
One died another grew in place, repeatedly day in and out, as the dawns and dusks elapsed so did the judgement of the case court near to see the length determination crosses to, to make his point in bold and seal the case having buried the defendant in his coffin. Just whose will power outgrows the other, if the defendant Goliath enough to stomp his plaintiff like a bug and finish it of with ease or will the giant slayer the plaintiff muscle his way and out wit the enemy in sight and bring death in a blistering swift maneuver. No more guessing, sure the suspense and tension is killing all in court but it’s time we got things by the book, the day finally dawned, July 20th, the day of reckoning. Quarter to 10, more accurately, 9:45 am, there and then the public entrance bust open flooding in the speculators of the awaited day for the case at hand in court. As press workers set their cameras at the edges of the far end of the walls of the court where they couldn’t interrupt the movement
Head of The Table Article 42B
From his father, to the father of his father and the father to the father of his father…since time memorial the curse was handed down, imprinted in their blood and from the generation to the next it was passed. Living in mud huts, some the more grassed thatched huts handed down from millennials, accustomed to the notion set from conception that this was their life this was what it will ever be, imprisoned in the heavy shackles of poverty, a curse inevitable to all of their kin. Life revolving around taking care of cattle, farming wild fruits and natural edible vegetables, marriage, circumcision, all summarize under one roof, tradition it was what they had that truly belonged to them. Tradition was their compass, their map, the line that defines actions as good or bad, the judgement to all those who defied the customs and which spoke of the consequences. Yet amidst this enriched traditional inhabitance was a man whose luck outshone the others in the community, lucky to be baptized in
Head of The Table Unpredictable fate
Teal blue, with a shady sky blue texture from a far it was more of teal than sky, nailed here his most prized possession which he held dear more than his family, to the far left nearing the edge, framed and an additional glass protector, his degree, bachelor of laws, visible signature from the minister of London to ascertain that he, holder of the degree, had completed his educational time frame and passed and a graduate of the University of Stamford. But this was only the beginning of his triumphant journey in the field of law, unsatisfied and eager to be more outstanding, he moved on to Manchester School of Law, where he proved yet again after four years that he was the stronger of the two. A hand distance from the first framed degree, another hang, the one from the school of law where he graduated and termed as the best lawyers in the law firm. Besides his fiery urge to climb the impossible steep mountains of law, he was into art, the more abstract kind of art to be precise. Some
Head of The Table It’s all family
Adopted from the ancient British law system, passed and instituted in almost every court located under the satellite, the symbol that represents justice, fairness it’s also implicated as, Lady Justice holding the Scales of Justice. It’s believed that this symbol unifies the court and ensures that every verdict passed across is truly by this symbol. But in some situations this scale is sometimes paused, held back, or muted if it’s preferable, and at that point the verdict may not be by the scales of justice but by that of man, selfish, greedy, and inconsiderate man. Unlike other court adjournments where there was no wig, this time the judge appeared with a wig, the bench wig it’s called, this meant business and in his black gown and white collar, this was no ordinary case, well not anymore. After the plaintiff, Mr. Zod Kong, and his attorney, Mr. Tim, implicated the act of article 42B, the court was in dilemma. They had come to a verdict that the defendant was innocent and the plainti
Head of The Table Warm welcome!
Three clear glass shatter proof shielded the equally circle windows on each side of the plane, three on each side, all could be seen, the sky blue as it was, clouds all puffy, dots of what could be assumed as houses, green everywhere were confirmed as the dense canopy thousands of kilometers below. Beige and cream decorated the inner walls, walking on brown fur carpet, four seats placed in two’s, one facing the other opposite sides one pair on the left another on the right, big dense white cushioned seats the more luxurious kind but not too classy just those comfy to give that comfortable feeling and absorb the stress. In between these seats, crafted to the wall of the soaring mechanical 4 passenger machine, hand craft furniture the more brown crystal but a little darker than the carpet, often acts as a hand rest for those fond of gazing through the window, it’s enticing connection with the décor of the wall made the space more peaceful, some positivity energy lingered monks may say.
Head of The Table What just happened
Murder, that’s at least 50 years that’s first degree, third degree that’s around 40 years so doing the math that’s 90 years, adding public harm and government property destruction that’s around 5 million fine and 20 years jail time, so judging by the looks that’s 100+ years jail time. That was the verdict awaiting the new third party, Mr. Ben, in court that daunting day. Hell started when he step foot on his mother soil, and now it was just getting worse. Alone, with no attorney to stand up to him he sat on the assigned bench alone, cuffed, wrists aching, back sore as of the constant forward lean back at the station, in the cruiser, and here in court, but his physical problems were the least of his troubles. Dazed and confused like a shark flipped to it’s belly in subconscious mind still trying to draw the dots of the caging in barbed wires that were fatal to rip him to shreds, Ben just glared at the ceiling of the court, studied the embroidery of the judge’s bench, the eye catching
Head of The Table Time for change
Tear down those curtains they are all dusty and peasant like!... You… I want those windows clean and I better find my car washed or else… who left the coffee maker uncovered!... Reinvention, old torn down, years in the making replaced, it was time for change and about time because this was historical embodiment of the Hitler reign, no more past crap it’s boring, predictable, time his own reign stood up. With the notion of remaking everything from the ground up, construction workers worked overtime day and night, taking shifts and 20 minutes break after every four hours, against the WHO health care program but within Brian’s turf throw that bullshit to the trash. Whereas the interior was renovated full time, clear expensive glass widows, digitalized security systems, modern automated doors, a pool wide enough for a trailer to park and depth sea divers are authorized, was in work outside. Simply put there was nothing short of the constant daily vibration of mechanical engines, the tox