Mr. Porcupine’s Trial: The Semi-Responsible Adult

Last day of Mr. Porcupine’s trial…

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, if you still haven’t made up your minds about Mr. Porcupine, there is something else you need to know.”

He paused.

“Mr. Porcupine is racist.”

The courtroom erupted.

“What?!”

“Yes. Five years ago, Mr. Porcupine filled out a loan application. The application asked what color he was.”

“Mr. Porcupine wrote white in order to get a better APR. As you can see, he is chestnut.”

“Objection, Your Honor!”

The defense attorney jumped to her feet.

“Mr. Porcupine lived in Antarctica. And as everyone in this courtroom surely knows, at the South Pole there are approximately six months of the year when the sun does not rise.”

She pointed toward Mr. Porcupine.

“During those months, without direct sunlight, Mr. Porcupine’s complexion tends to fade to a dirty beige.”

“Therefore, when Mr. Porcupine identified himself as white, he was merely referring to his complexion during a very specific point in his life.”

“Your Honor! I need to interrupt these proceedings.”

Everyone turned.

A man hurried toward the bench holding a clear evidence bag.

“I would like Mr. Porcupine to try on this glove.”

“Wait. Isn’t that Michael Jackson’s glove?”

“Nope. It’s the glove from the O.J. Simpson trial.”

The courtroom went silent.

“We just want to rule him out. You never know these days. Sometimes killers aren’t identified until decades later. We just want to show the public, our constituents, their tax dollars at work.”

He turned toward Mr. Porcupine.

“Mr. Porcupine, would you mind trying this on? We just want to rule you out.”

Mr. Porcupine reluctantly slipped his paw into the glove.

His quills shredded it instantly.

Everyone stared at what was left of the glove.

The man looked down at the shredded evidence.

“Well… that did not work out the way I expected.”

He gathered the pieces and shoved them back into the evidence bag.

“Anyway. Thank you for your time, everybody.”

“Both sides have presented very convincing arguments,” the judge said.

“And I have to admit, I really enjoyed that PowerPoint presentation of Mr. Porcupine when he was a baby. He was very cute.”

“So I’m torn. And I want to be fair to everybody.”

The judge thought for a moment.

“I think both sides won.”

The courtroom went silent.

“Mr. Porcupine is guilty… and not guilty at the same time.”

Everyone looked at one another.

“Therefore, I hereby condemn Mr. Porcupine and his two accomplices to death.”

The courtroom erupted.

The judge raised his hand.

“Everybody calm down. Hear me out. Let me finish.”

The room went quiet.

“They will be put to death only if a semi-responsible adult fails to pick them up within forty-eight hours.”

There I was, back at Bates Motel 13 for the remainder of my stay, when my phone rang. Señor Raven picked it up and handed it to me.

It was the prison guard.

“You were listed as the emergency contact for three death-row critters.”

“What?”

“You have forty-eight hours to pick them up alive. One minute late, and you’ll still be picking them up… just dead.”

Ok, this is unfair, what if I refuse?

“You can’t. Once you’re listed as an emergency contact, it’s like putting ‘organ donor’ on your ID. It can’t be reversed.”

I walked into the Alcatraz prison lobby. Very luxurious, much like the entrance of the once-haunted Cecil Hotel: luxury in the front, decay in the back.

“Hi. I’m here to pick up the trio that’s on death row and get my broom-parking validation.”

The guard looked down at his paperwork.

“Oh, yes. Those critters.”

“I don’t understand. Why didn’t you call an animal welfare organization?”

“We did.”

“And they told us that they were going to compassionately euthanize them too.”

“Wait a minute,” he said. “You look very familiar.”

The guard lowered his head and looked me directly in the eyes.

“Have I imprisoned you before?”

“Perhaps in a fever dream.” I said.

“In order to pick up those delinquents, I need you to answer some questions,” the guard said.

“Okay.”

“Are you who you say you are?”

“Yes. I am who I say I am.”

“Okay. Next question.”

He looked back down at the paperwork.

“Are you a semi-responsible adult?”

“Well... I pay my bills on time.”

“Alrighty then.”

He yells at the other guard, “Bring out the caged critters!”

They open the cages and remove the leashes from their necks.

Each one is handed a souvenir T-shirt that reads: I SURVIVED DEATH ROW.

Mr. Porcupine got up on his tiptoes at the guard’s desk and demanded his last meal to go.

“Fine,” the guard said.

He grabbed a few fries from his plate, tossed the rest of the food into a trash bag, and handed it to Mr. Porcupine to carry out with him.

To be continued.