The Mr. Porcupine Trial: Part Two

Mr. Porcupine’s lawyer, now serving simultaneously as his attorney, handler, publicist, and crisis manager had agreed to exactly one interview.

There was however, one complication.

The producer gestured toward the koala and the black cat seated on either side of Mr. Porcupine.

“You don’t mind if they participate, do you? They are his alleged accomplices.”

The jack-of-all-trades lawyer looked down at them.

Not metaphorically. They were just really short.

Mr. Porcupine had already made his position clear: trio or nada.

“Fine,” she said. “They can stay.”

The producer smiled.

“But blur them.”

“Excuse me?” the producer asked.

“Blur the koala and the cat. Completely. Especially the black cat. I don’t want him casting a shadow over Mr. Porcupine’s spotlight.”

The lawyer continued making ridiculous demands left and right… from having Jesus himself stop by to drop off a bottle of his best-selling wine to telling everyone on set how to do their jobs.

“We need to make Mr. Porcupine as attractive as physically possible.”

She turned toward the makeup artist.

“If you have any Botox in your purse, inject it into him. Anywhere you can find a place to poke him. Plump him up. Beautify him.”

Her eyes moved slowly over Mr. Porcupine’s body.

“And do something with the quills,” the lawyer said. “He needs more volume at the top. Maybe relocate a few from his butt to his head. We need him to look like he has a fuller head of hair.”

“And the wrinkles are extremely important. Every wrinkle we leave visible costs us an entire generation.”

“Make him look as young as possible. If you can make him look like a baby, even better. We’re trying to make everyone love him, and we know everybody loves babies.”

“Also, give him more wine.”

She paused.

“It’s common knowledge that babies and drunks always tell the truth.”

After hours of preparation, the highly anticipated interview with Mr. Porcupine was abruptly canceled.

According to production staff, Mr. Porcupine had undergone an extensive pre-interview makeover involving approximately one gallon of Botox. By the time the procedure was complete, facial recognition was no longer possible.

Witnesses reported that Mr. Porcupine no longer resembled the individual originally booked for the interview or, for that matter, the same species.

“He looked like a different mammal,” one producer said.

For security reasons, the interview could not proceed.

Mr. Porcupine’s face was so paralyzed that he could no longer move his mouth to speak his lying truth.

Meanwhile, the mysterious man and I showed up for Mr. Porcupine’s jury duty, only to be immediately disqualified because we had both arrived wearing inflatable sumo wrestler Halloween costumes.

“I guess unhinged minds think alike,” I said.

We tried to exit through the doorway at exactly the same time.

We got stuck.

“Suck it in,” he said.

“I am.”

“So am I.”

We both sucked in our stomachs as hard as we could.

Nothing happened.

He looked down at his enormous inflatable belly, then at mine.

“Stop thinking and acting like me. Now we’re both stuck.”

“It’s like we’re sharing one brain.”

I pulled a quill from my hair bun and poked him in the belly.

POP.

He slowly deflated until there was enough room for me to squeeze through the doorway.

“Problem solved.”

I left him there.

Or so I thought.

I had barely made it halfway down the hallway when I heard the unmistakable sound of deflated plastic dragging across the courthouse floor.

I turned around.

He was coming after me.

He pulled out his fangs and lunged at me.

His fangs sank directly into my enormous inflatable tummy.

POP.

“YOU PHEROMONE-FANGED ASSHOLE!”

I began deflating.

He collapsed on top of me, looking extremely pleased with himself.

“Now we’re both unstuck.”