Lefty Loosy
Which way leads to the salvation of your peoples? Seeds of doubt germinate deep inside you, watered by the tears of despair; these seeds threaten to become great trees blocking out the light of hope burning inside your black heart. In your darkest moment, a spectral voice echoes through the blackness: “Your bindle stick will provide in your greatest moment of need…”
“That’s it!” you exclaim and draw the hobo-sword. Taking a moment to appreciate its fine craftsmanship, to feel the perfect balance of its form, you point it toward the forked tunnels. “Mighty sword,” you command, “Show me the way, that I may fulfill my destiny as savior of the loveable tramps.” With baited breath you wait for the legendary weapon to move or give some kind of sign. You concentrate so hard that a little urine escapes into your pants unnoticed. After a few minutes your arm begins to tire. Lowering the sword, you sink weeping to the floor: “I… just… want to… help the homeless”, you stammer between the sobs racking your body.
Countless tears form a puddle at your feet, and somehow you can see your reflection in it. The source of the unexpected light emanates from the neatly-tied bundle at the end of your sword. Using your sleeve to wipe the snot of failure from your face, with trembling hands, you begin to undo the knots holding the kerchief together. Inside lies a magnificent orange compass/whistle utility tool. Clutching it greedily, the needle on the glowing face of the compass points toward the left tunnel. Gratefully, you reassemble the hobo bundle-o-plenty and head in the ordained direction.
The tunnel leads downward and the walls begin to narrow. Soon, you are squeezing through sideways, the rocky walls grabbing at your tunic and threatening to trap you in the darkness forever. Squeezing through the tightest crack yet, you emerge into a small cave. At the far end a small windowless door stands blocking the only exit. With trepidation, you clutch the antique doorknob and turn. With a squeal of ancient protest the door swings open and a pale white light blinds you as you step over the threshold…
“Order! Order!” is shouted to the accompaniment of a pounding gavel. Bleary-eyed, you stand in a chaotic courtroom. The accused is comprised of hobo-royalty, while the rest appear to be some kind of human-animal hybrids. Off to the side, a jury box of owl-people twitch and hoot nervously. The presiding judge, who might be part sea-lion asks: “Are you the replacement attorney representing the defendants?”
Confused, you fall back on what your mother taught you and say: “Yes.” The judge nods solemnly and gestures for you to sit at a large oaken table. A man resembling a ferret in a suit and tie rises from another table and faces the expectant courtroom:
“Ladies and gentlemen, you have heard the evidence against the so called hobo-kingdom and their many offenses against society, your fellow man, and women,” he says, pausing to wink at an elderly female jurist, “Now I don’t see any point in subjecting you to their list of heinous and disgusting crimes again, but I urge you to do the right thing, the moral thing, and move to eject these criminals from their illegal camp under the sewers.” With a flutter of his furry hands he bows and scrapes back to his table. From his seat, he sneers and shows off his impressively sharp teeth. The jurors are ruffled by his closing remarks; you’re pretty sure a number of them are repeatedly hooting the word “guilty”.
Pointing at you, the judge says, “Do you have anything to add before the jury reaches their verdict?”
You’re unprepared for this Kafkaesque spectacle, and you’re sure the jurors are prepared to evict the hobos you’ve been sworn to save. Alright, there are two options: the nice way and the nasty way.
PLAY NICE – CLICK HERE
THE NASTY – CLICK HERE