Date: March 11th, 2021 4:11 PM
Author: Unhinged degenerate feces
It's everything you'd ever hoped for and more. Your thoughts trace back to your salad days in the law hall, the whispered jurisprudential insights being passed between students taut and willing for the law, shrouded in thick woolen sweaters and four-in-hand Brooks ties in sedate colors that had been passed somberly from proud fathers to anxious sons the evening before they were to set off for campus by train or boat, each individual a future Star Lucifer shining in the constellation of the legal sky. Your beloved, favorite professor, Lord Dorado, would talk at length about the importance of judges in "the System." "They are our bulwarks of justice, holding up the edifice of civilization. Before their hands pass the currents of twined rivers, one of blood running hot, the passion of man, the other steel grey thrushwater, the logic of mankind. Judges sift the one and the other and, drawing the mixture upward to their lips in the cool cup of legislation, drink deeply, imbibing eternal wisdom." The class went silent at the end of his speech; two young men, first years, appeared to faint for a moment before recovering and steadying themselves against the time dark oak of the witnessing rail bordering the row of seats which lined the viewing theater.
You feel the keys of your Buick Envision in your good hand, their weight and honing. It's the Avenir line--you're a judge now, someone both in and of the community; people rise slightly from their seats when you enter George's Family Restaurant. America. 5pm is closing time. Another day of dispensing justice in the form of magisterial rulings and opinions, your discourse from the bench peppered with little bon mots and aphorisms that no doubt stick in the minds of the parties well after they've left the hallowed concourse of 200 West Second Street. Did Maslow's pyramid have a level for self actualization above self actualization? That's you. You're on that level. Each day sees the operation of your perfectly composed machine of judgeship, the inputs of your mind balanced against the outputs of the robes, you the center of that little universe, dipping your cup into its magically energetic currents, blood and logic, the two sides of mankind. Lord Dorado died seven years ago almost to the day. You watched them bury him on a high hill overlooking the Tennessee foothills resplendent in their polychromatic autumn coat, shovel to dirt in repetition until the ground swallowed him whole. He was a man of the law. Just like you.