Premium Priced Bullshitters

Premium Priced Bullshitters

Status: Finished

Genre: Thrillers

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Thrillers

Summary

A quick extract on a novel that I felt wasn't lifting off. Comments would be appreciated!

Summary

A quick extract on a novel that I felt wasn't lifting off. Comments would be appreciated!

Content

Submitted: June 02, 2012

A A A | A A A

Content

Submitted: June 02, 2012

A A A

A A A


 

Sometimes I look back at my life and embrace the events I have overcome, the people I’ve met, the emotions I’ve felt. It’s deep, but I envisage a grand oak, the steady branches of time spanning out, branches entwined to create new friendships and new family, before spreading outwards to new bonds. What would be most interesting is to see where these bonds would take us, and how long they’d last. I’d imagine a thick arm sprouting from the trunk, spiralling upwards as to denote the strong family bond; a semblance of incredible respect and cherishment. I then see smaller branches, extensions of that family, and entirely new alliances formed from that base. It would be strange to see that tree in full bloom, and at what time of life that would be, as well as to see the silent crumbling of older friendships as they make way for the new. We respect our lives as a timeline, but it is never specified where there is a beginning, and where there will be an end to these events in our lives which sculpt the way we dream, and the way we believe.

There are cataclysmic moments in the branching out of this gargantuan vessel, as false friendships are made and mistakes take their toll, extending to the regions of bad forestry, falling into the deadly trap of the illusion of friendship. And there are also times where branches are shrivelled by the natural dial, but as these flowers lose their colour, they sow a new seed, and a new branch for which a new life is born. It is hard to come to terms with just how complex the system of life and death is, but as we venture forward there is always another tree, and that despite our losses, the branches of other vessels have winded their way around the culture of our own, detailing that even as we lose fertility and die, our presence sculpts the many branches which jut out from the friendships others have made.

Despite this, some people have the ability to threaten the cultivation of their own seed, and on numerous occasions kindle the flame which could spark devastation great enough to burn their roots.  From this, I speak with experience, as although I haven’t yet succeeded in major damage to myself, I overlook and protect the people that have.

 

 

Being a lawyer is pretty simple; it’s just a matter of holding out until the lies at each side of the field do not match the documented sources and data accumulated for the trial. What is more concerning, is that the lives of the people in the courtroom all hang in the balance of representatives, who are all as eager to chat spiel and gamble away the lives of their client as the next. Strange to think but that fateful tree, and the forest of emotional wrecks that overlook the trial, all rely on the expertise of premium bullshitters. And so my job relies on gathering as much data as possible to be able to shroud the real core of my work, creating a bank of little white lies to use as barricades against the onslaught of red herrings from the opposition. I guess you could say that my occupation is similar to being a politician, but I can make a difference to the lives of my clients.

Yes, I guess you could say that I’ve had my fair share of mishaps, and I am often deterred from my job as it is painful to see a life wasted all down to a mistake made in the processing of deep-seated bullshit. It feels like my job is nothing but a recreational peel-back, years of training simply to stand next to a broken man and state his reasons to keep moral sanctity and civil liberties. Even in the courthouse, a cluster of jury duty speculators sit idly by and evaluate the defendant, their weary eyes translating to rage, and how they wish to condemn a possibly innocence man because of selfish qualms. In the restraint of the jury, we see that rather than evaluating the case, they are deciding on which flavour jelly they’ll have with the free coupon they gain from being present, or how they plan to abandon their brewing financial pressures and seek refuge at their mother’s joint. It’s a vicious cycle, seeing that at least one of the members of the jury is at a later time going to be sitting in the seat of the defendant, and yet they are allowed to evaluate a story they know nothing about.

At around 4:13pm, I lost the life of my client. That’s a tragedy I won’t forget, and even the time brings about a horrible feeling of angst as I paint vivid speculations of a man whimpering after lethal injection, or pouting under a wet bag before being electrocuted. I can’t imagine how it must have felt, and how the heart sinks, to hear the immortal phrase ‘I sentence you to death’. I went to visit him on death row, where I couldn’t help apologizing, saying I’m sorry and that it was my fault. It wasn’t, and I whole-heartedly believed that he killed two innocent girls, but as a partner to the defendant, I come to create bonds with them, reassuring them that my reckless spiel and chitchat at the booth will surely result in their victory. Usually most of these cases revolved around money, but this was no debate over who gets the house, this was a question of who keeps their life.

It’d often be the case that he’d just blankly stare at me, eating the gravel-like substance off the unsuitably fluorescent plates he’d been given. He used to look over to me with rigour before smiling, lurching forward to say “This plate makes me seem like a child, ya’know? “ From such a standpoint as watching the life leave his eyes, I couldn’t help but to think of his as wrongly accused. There, he spent three weeks aggravated in a cage, and before I entered his vicinity, the concrete walls and blank terror seeping from his lips often gave me time to eavesdrop, to hear what he’d never told me. Most of the time it wasn’t much, and out of curiosity I’d try to connect his feelings to my arbitrary findings, but it was merely rolling the dice to presume “blonde” and “dapper” had any connection with each other. I felt like family though, to look out for him in this way, but I carried with me a heavy heart of regret, punishing myself and questioning my actions.

“Goddamn, what if I redirected this accusation?”

“What if I retaliated in this way?”

“What if I called another witness?”

“What if?”

And to think that the entire time I spend seeing him in a cage, I was out with other clients parading around and committing to the same statements I told him; that “it’ll be alright”, and that “we’re experts in this field.” We’re fucking amateurs if we can’t save the lives of a single human, and to carry that burden, the guilt knowing that as I shook hands with the satisfied mother of two who had gained the three bed room flat, the man of the hour shook hands with death. I wasn’t allowed to see his execution, nor was I allowed to mourn for his loss. Attachments to clients were strictly prohibited, and soon it would lead to signs of bias. I thought fuck it, but even in my Mercedes I can’t look in the front mirror and glare at a man of heroism, but rather a greedy bastard who was nothing more than a double talker with stalling catchphrases and promises I couldn’t keep.

And so my client died, and I had no obligation to serve any longer. I could sit in my Mercedes, soak in the rays, and sit on edge knowing that I done all I could. But, of course, with every sacrifice there is aftermath, and before long I was at my service desk searching the records I’d been given for ‘Mr. Stenhelm’s’ residence and family. Funny, that in the eight months I had spent fighting his case, I couldn’t remember his name from memory. I think that accentuates just how thin the professional-client link really is. But after forty-seven minutes, I had found Tag Stenhelm and Joanne, both family members who were in the country at the time.

The process is pretty simple. Since our firm was rickety, acting on behalf of those with empty pockets but valuable credit ratings, we could consult them and come to a suitable arrangement. As such, Mr Stenhelm’s life came to £14,595, and that was including tax. Now, with him being six-feet under, it was up to us to search for relatives under the will who would be willing to exercise their powers to deliver us what we’re owed. In a way, we are yet again similar to politicians, but our money isn’t from the public coffers. Out on a loan shark duty, we’d take a trip down memory lane in our Mazda, in our Mercedes, in our BMW; find the target, and retrieve payment. I guess you could call us mafia, as 60’s New York lacked any discipline, any rules; leaving us totally open to headhunting and scalping. These people, those coming to us asking for help, had no real obligation to give us anything. After all, the trial resulted in shrieks of pain and a violent end. We didn’t save anyone, so why should they pay up? 


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