The Final Trial of Our Hero

They came in the night. They always came in the night. This particular night, the police broke into Our Hero's small cottage, shook him roughly awake, and placed him under arrest. It took some time for Our Hero to realise what was happening.
'What's all this about, then?' he asked indignantly from his bed, after the two constables had burst into his room and sprung on the light.
'We've got some orders, to be placing you under formal arrest,' replied the tall, amiable-looking bobby who stood in the doorway, while his partner went through the rest of the small abode, turning on the lights and generally looking around. 'I'm afraid you'll have to come with us right away, sir.'
'Hang on, don't I have the right to be told what I'm being arrested for?'
'Oh, I'm sure you do,' laughed the bobby. 'I'm sure you do indeed. Personally, I'm not sure why you're supposed to be under arrest. All I've been told is to come out 'ere, get you, and get you on back for the court to deal with you. Just one minute. Hey!' he called out to his partner. 'D'you know why we've got to bring in this fine young genteel man here, then?' There was no response from the other room. The bobby did not appear fazed.
'Well anyway,' he grinned cheerily at Our Hero, as if nothing was at all out of place. 'Can't leave without having our man get dressed and have some tea now, can we? Just wouldn't be civil, would it? Just 'cos he's a criminal, doesn't mean we can't treat him with some respect now, does it?' Our Hero just stared at the scene in confused amazement. The polite, talkative bobby began to rummage through his wardrobe. He pulled out a two-piece suit, which Our Hero had bought not two months ago at some cost. 'This is a very nice piece, sir. Very nice. I think this'll do the courts very respectable indeed. Gives a good impression, it does. What say you put it on, and I'll get tea happening, eh? Give you some privacy. How d'you take it?'
'White, please, with sugar,' Our Hero said wearily, in spite of himself, he was put off guard by the civility of this constable. When the bobby had left, and closed the door behind him to go into the kitchen, Our Hero was left alone. He briefly considered jumping out the window and running away, but he found with some discomfort that some inexplicable force was restraining him, and compelling him to get dressed, which he did. He even combed his hair. It was in the very early hours of the morning, and Our Hero did not much feel like having any tea, much less with these two men who had come to take away his freedom, however polite they may be. But again, he felt the same sickly compulsion to enter into his kitchen, where the two policemen were already seated familiarly around his table.
'Please, sir, take a seat,' the bobby invited him.
'It's my own house,' Our Hero reminded him curtly. 'I'll sit if I want.'
The bobby looked hurt. 'Come on now, sir. There's no need for that. I've gone and made you a lovely pot of tea, treated you with the utmost respect, and this is how you repay our kindness? I swear, I don't know why I do it sometimes.'
'I'm sorry. I just¦ I'm not sure why you're here. Why am I being arrested? I'm sure this is just a big misunderstanding, or some joke being played on me by one of my friends.'
'I'm afraid not,' the policeman replied. 'We've been given orders by a Higher Authority to come down to this house, and take you in. We know what we're doing.'
'That's great then,' Our Hero said. 'Then why are you doing it? What have I done?'
'Let's leave that for the court to decide, eh?' the same bobby suggested. 'Don't you worry about it just now. Drink your tea, then.' Somehow, the mundane act of drinking tea seemed somehow foreign and unacceptable given the situation which had thrust itself upon him this late in the night.
'I don't want to drink my tea!' Our Hero burst out. 'I want to know why you're coming to my house in the dead of the night and placing me under arrest!' he strode around the small kitchen angrily.
'Now come on 'ere,' the bobby protested. 'You're acting like a child. We've already told you we don't know nothing about any of this. You'll just have to wait, won't you? We are just tools of the Higher Authority, alright? We are simply representatives of some function, in this instance we are constables of the Police. We are embodiments of a purpose, which is to place you under arrest and bring you to court. And, you know, it's really for the best not to question this now, because it's all going to be played out inevitably, regardless of how you feel about it.' The bobby, as if suddenly becoming aware of himself, quickly added, 'Although, we're really very sorry for you, you know.'
'It's best to just accept what's 'appening to you,' the other, hitherto silent constable advised brusquely. 'And right now, it's best to accept that you are dressed to appear in court, for which we are already running late. Let's go, eh?' Then they led Our Hero out of his house, and placed him in a police car, and drove him into the middle of the dark, empty town, where there stood a large stone building Our Hero took to be the magistrate's court. However, rather than taking him inside the shell in which justice was contained, the two policemen led Our Hero through certain half-deserted streets, until they reached the market square, squalid and filthy from the traffic and trade of the townspeople. He was led half-blind in the dark through between shops and stalls, until they at last came to an animal yard; empty now, but recognisable as such from the sharp odour of decaying faeces and rotting feed. Here he was locked in, and could not resist making the dry association between his current occupancy and those during the day. Much of the only light, baring a few lamps scattered around the square and mostly dimmed and blotted by obstructions in their way, came from a lofty church tower towards the other side of the market. At one time in the past, the parish had decided that the poor man's music would be replaced by the coldness of functionality, and in the belltower was now a large clock, illuminated at night by a light within it. The clock face cast a yellow pallor over the square.
'Now don't you worry,' said the bobby cheerfully through the wooden palings of the fence. 'I'm sure it'll all work out well for you. And to show you I don't have any ill will against you for that little outburst back in your kitchen, I've even arranged for your lawyer to come down, to save you the trouble of having to wait for him. Because we all know, waitin' for something is just wasted time, innit? There's no point to it if you can avoid it, is there?' Our Hero did not answer, merely nodded, and went to find a clean corner in which to huddle for warmth and wait for the proceedings to wind up.
Our Hero's lawyer was a grumpy, elderly man with a cold who did not share the bobby's optimistic view about Our Hero's innocence, although he too could not tell him for what crime he had been arrested.
'How can you defend me if you don't even know what I've been arrested for?' Our Hero demanded to know.
'Oh, I wouldn't worry too much about those sorts of questions,' the lawyer reassured him. 'There's not much point in putting up a defence; they're going to find you guilty anyway. So what does it matter what you're charged with?'
'I have the right to know what they claim I've done, you know.'
'Of course you do,' the lawyer patronised him. 'But you don't really matter in any of this. You're just a basic, unimportant type who can and will be manipulated and morphed by them according to any situation they want to make.
'What do you mean, I'm unimportant? It's my trial!'
'What's that got to do with anything?' the lawyer asked him impatiently. 'And anyway, you aren't as nearly important to the action as the action is to itself. And the point is, they're going to find you guilty whether or not you are guilty of the crimes, which may or may not exist, which you may or may not have committed.'
Our Hero was stunned. 'What? How can they do that?'
The old man chuckled, and it turned into a coughing fit. 'My boy,' he said once he'd regained his breath, 'the question you should be asking is 'how couldn't they find you guilty? I mean, you haven't done anything. Everyone agrees on that. And, from what I can gather, that's what they're going to pin on you.'
'What do you mean? How can they charge me with anything if I haven't done anything?'
The old lawyer looked at him quizzically, as one does a child when frustrated with explaining something to them. 'Well, that's exactly along the lines what they are going to be charging you with, I expect. Doing nothing. They can do that, you know.'
'But that can't be legal! I'm completely innocent! They'll have to find me innocent, I mean, truth and justice always prevails, right?'
'Come on, boy,' the lawyer scoffed. 'Don't give me any of that crap. You're going to be convicted regardless of what the charge is, and regardless of whether you actually committed the crime. It's all in the structure of how these things go. It's all a great big song and dance, with a lot of emotion and drama and all other sorts of nonsense, but when it all boils down, there's always the same result in the end. Every, single time.'
Then, a sneeze came upon the lawyer, before he had time to prepare his handkerchief, and he spluttered mucus and spit over Our Hero's face through the fence. 'There you go,' he said unapologetically. 'Now you're going to catch cold. That is my illustrious gift to you. Now get the hell into that court.' Presently, a court officer came to tell Our Hero to follow him to the court.
'I'm not going,' he replied stubbornly, 'until somebody tells me with what I have been charged. What this system is doing now is boldly unconstitutional, illegal, and just plain unfair play.' But then Our Hero felt that same, queer feeling which had come over him earlier in his house, when he had felt compelled by an unidentifiable power directing him in his reluctance to an end which he did not aspire.
'There you go,' the grisly old lawyer called out to him, making his own way to the exit at the other end of the marketplace, from where Our Hero had come not long before. 'I'd wish you good luck, although I'm quite afraid it won't do you a bit of good.'
'Where are you going?' Our Hero asked over his shoulder.
'Have you checked the time recently? Do you know how early it is? It's one in the morning, for Christ's sake!' He pointed up to the clock tower, as if to validate his assertion.
'Aren't you at least going to come in with me?'
'Of course not. I'm going back home, to get some sleep. It's cold, and I'm too old and sick to sit in on a case which I already know the outcome to. Maybe I'll come by later this morning, when they've convicted you.'
'This morning?' Our Hero was shocked at the revelation of his trial's impending celerity. 'Don't trials tend to go for days, or weeks even?' But the lawyer did not respond; he had returned to the night. At last, Our Hero's treacherous feet, guided by the court officer, carried him to the threshold of the courtroom, which was in fact not a room but rather an open-air animal auction yard. His arm joined his legs in the mutiny, and reached out against Our Hero's bidding to bear him through the liminal gateway.
The lawyer's prediction of swift proceedings initially appeared erroneous, for as Our Hero entered the larger yard, lit now by two burning torches at either end, he found the magistrate and a fine, clean-cut looking gentleman ' whom he assumed was the prosecutor ' deep in jolly conversation. Supposedly, they did not see him, for there was no indication that either of the men at the front of the yard had registered his entrance. He had been abandoned by the court officer, with whom he thought he had attached some ' absurdly, he now realised ' connection of camaraderie based on their silent yet communal experience of the short walk from the holding enclosure to the court, an experience which he now understood was his alone. The fact of the court officer's accompaniment was not a tacit announcement of solidarity ' the court officer was simply doing his job; it was his lot to transfer prisoners from holding to the court.
It was only the magistrate, the prosecutor and Our Hero in the yard. The magistrate himself sat on a raised platform usually held by the auctioneer. Next to his seat was a cramped pen for holding one animal's life while it was on show. A makeshift courtroom had been constructed, with two tables on either side of the yard, although no attempt was made to have any part of the proceedings appear in any way dignified. The ground was dirt, strewn with trampled hay and seed, the evidence of a less exalted people who for now had been relegated to some background role, and were no longer present. Our Hero felt an overwhelming loneliness when he fully comprehended the emptiness of the place. Eventually though, Our Hero came to the assumption that he was supposed to introduce himself somehow to the court. His loneliness transformed into a furious embarrassment that he had been standing stupidly there for so long, just because some fool had neglected to inform him of what to do. He silently cursed the court officer, sure that he was part of some plot to make him look bad before the court. So, he approached the bench, and let the magistrate know that he was in attendance. The magistrate stopped mid-sentence, and his joyful attitude polarised immediately.
'It's about time you turned up!' he snapped at Our Hero.
'Have you checked the time recently?' asked the prosecutor, just as angrily, 'Do you know how late it is? It's two in the morning, for Christ's sake!'
'I'm sorry,' Our Hero replied humbly. 'I was only just led here by that court officer. Do you mind if I ask why a court should be held this early in the morning?'
The response was not a friendly one. 'Early? What do you mean, early? Didn't the prosecutor just tell you how late we're running? Get in the dock, you filth! Let's select the jury already.'
'Wait one minute,' Our Hero protested once again, and although from past experience he was sure that his question would not be answered, he persisted nonetheless. 'What exactly am I being charged with here? Just this night, I've been shaken awake by two intrusive police constables who tried to boss me around in my own house, told that I'm not going to be defended by my own lawyer, forced into actions by some mystery power, and manipulated by some vengeful court officer, and put on trial for some crime which hasn't been revealed to me, of which I am sure that I'm innocent. This is a gross miscarriage of justice, you know, and you can be sure that I am not going to take this '''
'Just shut up, would you?' the magistrate groaned. 'Bailiff, bring in the jury selection, would you?'
'What's happening now?' Our Hero asked the magistrate.
'Didn't he just tell you to shut your mouth, slime?' the prosecutor interjected.
The magistrate, however, still asked, 'You don't have any representation, do you?'
'No, my lawyer went home,' Our Hero sniffled. 'The only help he gave me was this cold.'
'That's a shame, really' the magistrate said, without sympathy. 'But at least it'll make things easier for us, won't it?'
'It sure will,' the prosecutor replied. 'Simplifies what we need to get done here.'
'What's all this?' Our Hero said, still confused.
'Look, kid,' the magistrate, 'you aren't a lawyer, so you don't get to speak or participate during the jury-selection process. And you don't have a lawyer, either, so it's really just up to the prosecutor to choose his jury, so just be quiet for a few. Can you do that?'
'I think I should still be able to choose my jury,' Our Hero said, 'or at least be told something about what this is all about.'
'Oh I shouldn't worry about that,' the magistrate said, echoing eerily the deterministic lawyer, 'we're going to find you guilty anyway, so we might as well not waste time with trivialities.'
'Guilty of what, though?'
The magistrate looked at him strangely. 'You mean nobody told you? That's odd.'
'I think you should tell him then,' the prosecutor said to him. 'Just to shut him up and let us get on with our jobs. That's all you people do, isn't it?' he addressed Our Hero. 'Just loaf around doing nothing, stopping people from getting on with the job.' In this yard, the light from the church clock tower threw a stronger luminescence upon the prosecutor's face, casting half of it into shadow; the other into the same sickly, yellow pallor.
The magistrate continued, 'Alright then, son. You have been summoned to this court by a Higher Authority, to face the charge that you have no right to exist within this story. Since you do not have any representation, and judging by the bewildered look on your face, I think it is safe to say that the prosecutor's case will revolve around the argument that you do not have the self-awareness to be entrusted with such an important, fabulous position.'
'This is crazy!' shouted Our Hero, 'What story?'
'That's exactly our point, magistrate,' the prosecutor said. 'Doesn't even know where he is.'
'I agree,' said the magistrate.
'You aren't allowed to say that!' cried Our Hero.
'Says who?' the magistrate asked. 'Convention? Convention's done nothing but screw us around with people like you for the last four thousand years. I'm done with convention. If I want to be partisan, then I'll damned well be as partisan as I want. And anyway, we're running terribly behind schedule, no thanks to that snotty bastard of a defendant. I think it's time to push on, so we'll have a two-hour recess. Court resumes at six.' There was no further mention of a jury selection, or indeed of a jury.
Back at his animal yard, Our Hero found the tall, friendly bobby who had arrested waiting for him outside the door.
'What are you doing here?' Our Hero asked.
'Oh, never you mind me,' the bobby replied with an affable grin. 'I'm just doin' me job. I've got my functions to see to as well, you know.'
'Wasn't that to arrest me?' Our Hero sneezed, his nose running like a water pipe.
'(Bless you, my boy.) It was, firstly, but there can be more than one purpose for everybody, you know. Mine just isn't realised yet.'
'But what's the purpose of a purpose?' asked Our Hero. 'All I've seen so far tonight is illogical, crazy behaviour. There doesn't seem to be any reason to it. It's just absurd.'
'Oh, there's a reason for all this, alright,' the bobby assured him.
'And what's the purpose for that reason?'
'Well, to further the event, make all the action flow, of course.'
'But the purpose for that purpose?' Our Hero persisted.
'Ah, let's not too analytical, now,' the bobby warned him.
Our Hero tried a different tact. 'What's my purpose in all this, then?' He wondered why he was asking deep, philosophical questions of a simple police constable, whose diction did not reveal him as the brightest spark at the best of times. His answers, however, were the most satisfactory he had received thus far.
'Your purpose?' the bobby repeated. Our Hero nodded, sniffling. 'Why, your purpose is to not have one, so far as I can tell. I guess what this whole trial's about. And before you ask, the purpose of having no purpose is to allow for a situation or something to be contrived by some mysterious figure, in Higher Authority, I'd expect '''
'The one who made my legs walk on their own!' Our Hero cried.
''' and around this situation, real things can happen, and things are said and explained. Ostensibly to you sir, of course, but also to whomever's listening. But never mind, since you don't really have no real purpose, you aren't exactly supposed to understand what's happening. That's all part of the contrivance of this little set-up: all us other functions ' coppers, court officials, judges and the like ' get to tell you what's really going on. And that is the point. For us to tell you what's really going on.'
Our Hero was mystified by the bobby's insight, such as it was, but was more surprised to hear a reference to a mysterious personality he was sure was controlling the events which were revolving around him, and yet barely involved him at all. It all gave a physicality to the object of his paranoia, simply from the shared recognition that there was some abstruse power controlling events without revealing itself.
'But what's the point in that situation?' he finally asked. 'Would my life be any better for knowing? Was my existence missing anything important before this shadowy bastard decided to say where and when my own legs would be going? It's not as if it's gotten any better over the last few hours. You know,' he stated with an air of defiance, 'I'm not sure self-awareness is all that it's made out to be. It's done nothing but cause a lot of trouble to me, and frankly, I'm sick of it.'
But the bobby didn't get a chance to answer, because a different court officer came to the cells and told Our Hero to follow him back to court, as it was about to recommence.
'But the magistrate said two hours! It hasn't been ten minutes!' Our Hero exclaimed.
'Mate, you must've lost track of the time,' the court officer said, pointing up to the church steeple and its radiant clock. 'We're running even later than we were before. It's been three hours. It's past six-thirty already. Let's go!' Our Hero decided not to protest anymore. He already had the idea that something frighteningly peculiar was going on, something too sinister to be a joke. He wondered at the seeming inconsistency people in this marketplace court had when it came to telling the time. Before he had left, his lawyer had told him that it was one in the morning. Ten minutes later, the prosecutor had said that it was two. Now, after what Our Hero thought could not have been more than half an hour, he was being told that three hours had passed, and that it was six-thirty. But that would have made the time he had left the courtroom at three-thirty. Something was going on, and he had an idea that Higher Authority was behind it. There was, however, nothing he could do about the time-altering conspiracy at present, and there was still the court case which had to be won.
Back in the courtroom, Our Hero was called to the stand, an ignominious position to be in, as he was forced to squat on a stout stool beneath the magistrate's piercing gaze. Here he was interrogated by the prosecutor, who appeared to regard him with a mixture of pity and relieved aloofness. As there was no defence counsel, there was nobody to object to any breach of convention or rules. As the prosecutor began 'Now, you know why you're here,' Our Hero repressed the urge to interrupt him to the contrary. 'You are here because you have committed a crime, and because there is no reason for you to be anywhere, since you carry no purpose, you have no function in this story. I ask, do you agree with this statement?'
'No, I don't, actually.'
'Your existence,' the prosecutor continued, ignoring him, 'has up until this moment been characterised by a repetition of instances involving you getting into some sort of trouble, caused only by your own stupidity and ignorance, and subsequently getting out of it. End of story. I put it to you, that our life is a pattern, and that pattern is simple. Do you agree?'
'Well, what you just described is a lot like everybody's life. I mean, every'''
'Do you believe in reincarnation?' the magistrate interrupted suddenly.
'Excuse me?'
'Reincarnation. The transmigration of the "soul, or to put it simply, the metaphysical transmission of the basic qualities of one fundamental, incorporeal existent from one atomic being to another, without too much loss of the archetypal characteristics of the said existent.'
This confused Our Hero even more. 'Well, I don't think I've ever really considered '''
'No, of course you've never considered,' snapped the magistrate. 'That's why we're all here.'
'Achilles, hmm?' said the prosecutor. 'David? Aeneas? Galahad?'
'What are you talking about?' asked Our Hero.
'You know damned well!' shouted the prosecutor. He pointed at him, and turned to the jury. 'This man here, ladies and gentlemen, is nothing but a mercenary, a rogue, a trouble-maker and a ruffian. His only aim in life is to seek mischief, and under the guise of various names he invents for himself, spreads trouble and maladies wherever he goes.'
'Now listen here, I've never been anyone but myself! And I don't traverse the countryside spreading trouble!'
'Who said anything about the countryside?' the magistrate asked, suspicious.
'He is guilty, then!' cried the prosecutor, exalted at trapping his defendant. 'Everything he does under all disguise of all these pseudonyms all have common traits, and they all act in a similar manner. The philandering with maidens. The violence. The ignorance, which makes everyone have to explain every insignificant detail to you as if you were a child! See! He's doing it even now; you ignorant bastard! You think we didn't see you getting advice off that old bastard earlier this evening ' probably your partner in crime, or something. You've even got that stupid look of incomprehension about you!' It took some time for Our Hero to realise of whom the prosecutor was speaking.
'That was my lawyer!'
'Then where is he now? Isn't it customary for a lawyer to attempt to defend his client? No, I put it to you that he was some old man, who gave you some secret ability to cause more trouble and mayhem for everyone around you!'
'All he gave me was a cold!'
'Hah hah! You couldn't even do that bit right, then!' the magistrate laughed. 'You know, of all the characters in this story, you are by far the most useless. You don't know the bottom from the top of the situation you've suddenly found yourself cast into, and you find you need the help of others to bumble your way through every situation. And you barely even do that well!'
'Can't you do anything by yourself?' asked the prosecutor viciously, moving his face threateningly close to Our Hero's. 'You whole state of being is to be in some sort of strife! Even now! You can't do anything without stirring up a hornets nest and changing the whole bloody world, can you? That's all you are, a troublemaker. Bailiff, add "Disturbing the Peace to the list of charges against him, would you? I'm done.' With that, the prosecutor returned to his desk. The magistrate, in the spirit of fairness, gave Our Hero the chance to defend himself. As there were to be no other witness, the magistrate told him, this more or less amounted to his closing argument.
Our Hero stood in the witness box. He cleared his throat, swallowing some phlegm which was building up there. He thoroughly wished his lawyer hadn't made him ill. 'Ladies and gentleman of the jury,' he wished to begin, but there was nobody present in that embodiment of function. Even those words were fundamental fallacies, and there was seemingly no way he could make right a wrong. 'I stand here accused,' he spoke to nobody in particular, 'of an apparently grievous crime, the likes of which I have never heard of. It is the belief of the prosecution that I have no purpose in this story; that I am useless. I wholeheartedly reject this charge. To say that I am useless, simply because there is no function for me to perform is a gross contradiction of the rights which we hold sacred in our society.
'I cannot be punished simply because I have no function, which is indeed preposterous to begin with. I can only view myself as the voice of reason in this whole situation, and although ' as the prosecution has been so apt in declaring ' I do not know exactly why or how this is all happening, I do know that it is not right. This is all an insane situation, contrived by some malignant, cruel, conniving Higher Authority, who wants to see an innocent man suffer. And yet, I see that I do indeed have a purpose in all this absurdity, and that is to make my own purpose. That function is simply to be, because if it weren't for me being here, none of this would be happening, and there would be no chance for good to prevail. Indeed, if ''' He faltered, unsure of how to continue.
'I think it's best you sit down,' the magistrate suggested quietly, before calling on the prosecutor to make his closing argument. 'And make it a ripper too, eh?' he added cheerfully.
'Straight from the horse's mouth,' the prosecutor commenced, turning to address a non-existent jury, yet continuing nonetheless. 'There you are, esteemed jurors, unfortunate peers of this filthy criminal: a stupid, paranoid, ultimately ignorant fool, who requires assistance from all sorts of people to get out of trouble. What's more, his very existence perpetuates these dilemmas: if it weren't for people like him, then everybody would be able to live in some peace and bloody quiet. The irony now, is that the trouble he is now in requires your help to get him out. And you all know, that he doesn't have any purpose in his miserable life, but to cause a lot of problems and sadness for everybody, all in the name of "goodness of all things, and if that isn't a reason for finding him guilty, then I guess that I'd better be struck down right now by a heavy object falling inexplicably from sky.' He paused momentarily, glancing up to the ceiling, as if expecting something to actually happen.
'If it weren't for people like this purported good-doer, then we wouldn't have any bad, now would we? After all, good and evil are all entirely relative, and there requires the one for there to be the other. Good begets evil. And anyway, once you start looking at the world in black and white like that, it gets dangerous. Self righteousness, like the sort that this bastard here is feeling right now, is the most destructive force of human nature. Especially when it is accompanied with a desire to change the world in one's own perception of morality, particularly so when even that is skewed with ignorance about what one is actually doing.
'This stupid bastard's only real purpose, no matter what he seems to think about it, is to just be confused about everything! His purpose, and his crime, is to have no purpose! So then everyone else has a reason to be forced to go out of their way to explain things to him. The harsh implication of this, ladies and gentlemen, is that anyone else who happens to be eavesdropping on his story can also gain understanding, and then, all because of this "hero's complete ignorance, some dangerous sort of ultimate, universal, propaganda message is disseminated. And what the hell is the point of that? Who the hell cares about universal truths? If we weren't told about them by people rehashing the adventures of people like this bozo sitting right here, would we even know about them? Would our lives be any less rewarding or fulfilling without you having come into it with all your chivalry and bravery? They'd certainly be a lot more peaceful, and with a hell of a lot less trauma and drama. Convict this son of a bitch; it's the least he deserves.' When he had finished, the magistrate broke into applause and cheering, an act Our Hero thought revealed an unwarranted bias.
He was returned once more to his pen for the duration of the deliberation, which ' judging by the magistrate's reaction to the prosecutor's arguments as well as the jury's intrinsic lack of presence during the trial ' promised to be quick. When the festering stench of the holding yard emerged from the shadows, he again found the tall, friendly bobby waiting for him there, although now, instead of being on the outside of the fence, he was inside, sitting upright on the edge of a half-empty feeding trough, still grinning as if nothing was wrong.
'Why are you here?' Our Hero cried in surprise.
'Same reason you are, sir,' the bobby replied, still politely and amiably, as if unaware that he was in gaol. 'I've finished with my functions, so I figured I had to put myself under arrest. It's the law, after all.'
'But you haven't done anything wrong,' Our Hero told him. 'Why did you still follow the law, if it's only out to hurt you?'
'Oh no, it's not like that,' the bobby explained. 'I know the law. I've been a constable for more'n ten years. I've got a respect for the law, you know. It keeps the peace, keeps people without means from causin' too much trouble.'
'But I haven't caused any trouble,' maintained Our Hero, 'and neither have you. So why is the law like it is?'
'Well, it's quite simple, isn't it? Everybody's got to have some sort of reason for being here or there or wherever at any given time, don't they? Otherwise, they just wouldn't be there, eh? I mean, I'm not a religious or superstitious man or nothing much really, but I think there's got to be someone, y'know, up there, controlling how everything runs an' all.' Again, Our Hero noticed the obscure reference to the Higher Authority.
'So, why's he got you and me in a cattle pen, then?' he asked.
'Oh, no sir,' the bobby said, 'I don't like to question the mysterious ways. But I'm sure there's a logical reason for it all, anyway. There's the law, for one. We just ain't got no purpose no more.'
'Why does this law exist, anyway? It hardly seems like justice, to me.' It had not occurred to Our Hero to question whether such a law even did exist, and it never did; the effects upon him were manifesting themselves in much the same way as if the law was in the right. So, he simply asked why.
'No sir, and no again. It's an entirely justworthy law. It's for Society, y'understand. Society don't tolerate people not having a purpose now, do they? It's frowned upon. Which is funny, I guess, because people do a lot of funny and peculiar things for no reason, and not accomplishing anything. There's just not any respect for tradition and convention nowadays. It's a tragedy, I tell you sir, a real tragedy.'
Just like last time, a court official came, and told Our Hero to follow him back to the court's auction yard, since they were running late ' it was now four in the morning ' and the jury was ready to give their verdict.
'Good luck, then,' the bobby called out through the bars of the fence.
Our Hero was taken back to the mouldering floor of the court, where his formal charge was finally read to him by the magistrate. 'For failing to have a Reasonable Function within the Story, except to profess ignorance, disturb the peace, and gain understanding so that the audience can be party to some highly partisan message on the state humanity. When the verdict is read, one of two things will then occur. Guilty, a Higher Authority will impose an appropriate sanction upon you. Not guilty, you will be sent back to your ordinary life and allowed to tell everyone about your ordeal here, although,' he stifled a laugh, 'I very much doubt that outcome will eventuate.' With this said, he opened an envelope containing the verdict, and promptly declared Our Hero guilty of all charges.
'Yes!' cried the prosecutor, victoriously.
Our Hero was again taken back to the yard, from which the bobby had been taken, in the five minutes since his departure, to go to his own trial. Our Hero hoped that his affair would be a more logical ordeal than his own, although he knew that good fortune would do no good for him. The wooden gate had just been locked when, surprisingly, his sickly lawyer appeared, out of the gloomy shadows cast by the church lights. He looked significantly more pallid than he had the last time they had met, and was not surprised to hear about the court's verdict.
'Aren't you at all shocked that I was found guilty?' Our Hero asked him.
'See? You see? That is exactly why you're guilty. You're supposed to be guilty, because it's you're supposed to have no purpose. They've manipulated you, boy, just like I said they would. They've put you through hell and brought you back out again, and for all they know you haven't learnt a damned thing along the way, no matter how many people have tried to help you. They're going to make an example of you, just to prove some sort of point that I'm not entirely sure anybody cares about, to be honest. But that's the law. It's all very complicated and confusing, but that's essentially it. I should know,' he added, 'I'm a lawyer.'
He then put on his coat, pulling the large collar up around the back of his head. He pulled his hat down over his brow, and wrapped his thick, black scarf up over the rest of his face.
'What are you doing?' Our Hero asked.
'Always asking questions,' he chided. 'Can't you just accept that things happen? Never mind why. But seriously, are you kidding? I'm not going to let those bastards get me. I'm not letting what's going to happen to you happen to me. I'm going on the run.'
'What's going to happen to me?'
'No time to explain. Arrivederci!' And then, for the second time in that night, his lawyer, the only one who had tried to help him, abandoned Our Hero again. He felt helpless, betrayed. He half hoped that they would catch the fugitive old man, simply to make him go through what he had just been through; Our Hero relished the thought of the other's similar suffering.
The wait in his dark, malodorous yard took about a half an hour, at which point the original court officer, from the first incidence of his leg's insubordination in the courthouse hallway, brought him back into the court. The clock on the wall still said three o'clock. The magistrate had left his seat, and was now sitting next to the prosecutor's desk with him. They both scowled at Our Hero as he entered. Our Hero was perplexed; never before had he met anyone who hated him so ferociously without actually knowing anything about him.
Then Our Hero, seated alone in his own corner of the auction yard, conceived of something strange, and turned to the magistrate, 'If some other judge is going to pass down my punishment, why didn't he just sit in on the whole trial? What did you do?'
'Me?' said the magistrate. 'Oh, my job was to make sure that you were declared guilty.'
'That doesn't seem like a very reasonable way to run a court.'
The magistrate thought about it. 'Seems better than your way,' he concluded wisely.
'So who is this Higher Authority who's going to be sentencing me?' asked Our Hero.
'Don't ask questions, son. It's that sort of thinking which got you into this trouble in the first place. Can't you just wait?' He spoke angrily, and after that didn't speak to him again.
Presently, the bailiff called for all to rise, as The Writer was entering the auction yard to pronounce judgment. The torches burning in the wings flared. The Writer was a short, somewhat fat man with greasy, unkempt brown hair, with repulsive patches of unkempt facial hair. He had a bulbous nose which somehow stood out from the rest of his squalid appearance. He wore a dark blue coat, on the brink of being completely black, and a black shirt which was on the brink of being dark blue. His clothes were covered in food and dirt and other filth. He did not wear a tie. He had a bellicose countenance, his eyes burning with a fierce, bitter passion. As he slowly made his way through the courtroom, Our Hero thought that he could distantly hear the brass chorus of the third movement from Beethoven's Fifth Symphony playing somewhere. The Writer stepped up to the judge's chair, a Charon usurping Hades seat of power, like a burnished throne, rubbed his eyes wearily, then began picking his nose. The yard was silent, while all waited for him to begin.
'You know,' he said suddenly at last to Our Hero, 'I've never really liked you. There's just something¦ I don't know¦ superficial about you. Have you ever noticed that? Never mind that, you probably haven't. I've always seen people like you as some sort of out of place, superfluous addition to things that just messes up a good story. I mean, always having to explain everything to you, like you're that important! It just gets on the nerves, you know. Sure, I know you've got all the best intentions, but¦ that's another thing I don't like about you. You're too good. I mean, sure, you might start off as one of those "too selfish for anyone else, "John McClane bastards, but you always end up doing the right thing in the end. It's so sickeningly predictable.
'But at the same time, this court that I've written here is right in saying that you really don't have any social function, except to act as a tool for some talentless story-teller out to deliver some empty moral. And there's no point in that now, is there? Oh, I know what you're thinking; of course I do, I wrote your thoughts. You're thinking "But why can't I just be given some purpose? Why can't you just make me fit in with this well-ordered chaos? More questions. If you stopped asking questions, perhaps we focus on the problem of purpose that is you. You cavort all over the place, spreading chaos everywhere you go, what with your adventures and all. It's rather disturbing. But, in order to answer your question, I need a paradox. The prosecutor, a gentleman of much more agreeable character, whom nobody will ever sympathise with because of readers' ridiculous abhorrence to anyone they regard as a villain, was right when he said that your purpose is to have your lack of purpose proven against you. After all, it's just how these things go. I should know, I wrote it all. Now, don't get angry, it's not your fault; somebody had to be the victim, otherwise we wouldn't really have a story now, would we?'
'So, my whole purpose was to be roughly awoken in the middle of the night, dragged down to court by that strangely philosophical ' but very polite, thank you ' constable '''
'Well, I didn't find it necessary to treat you with superfluous disrespect.'
'''in my nightgown without anything being explained to me, forced by some means devised by you into this cruel parody of a courtroom, where my very right to exist has been questioned and negated by people I've never met? And you orchestrated all of this?'
'More or less, correct. I suppose there was also some point I set out to prove, some inspiration that made me want to do all this to you, but basically, that is your function. You have been a tool for commentary. And you always will be.'
'You're a sadist, do you know that?'
'Of course. Wouldn't be a very good storyteller without making horrible things happen to fundamentally good people, now would I? Take your prosecutor. Do you really think he wants to be in the position he's in? You never thought of him as a person beyond the function he is required to fulfil, did you?' The prosecutor looked on, seemingly ambivalent to his Creator's diatribe upon Our Hero's facility of empathy.
'Do not think of the prosecutor as inhuman simply because he happens to have been put into a role which isn't convenient to you! Is it so very difficult to see that he is just as much an unfortunate victim of the circumstances I have devised as you are? Are you so selfish that you cannot comprehend that his suffering is your own? What person would be involved in such a role as his if not for his being forced into it? Who are you to question my power, I who could destroy you with a flick of my pen; I who create all equal in their suffering? Who are you?' The flames flared, and subsided to near nothingness. The prosecutor looked on, and Our Hero fleetingly met his eyes. They betrayed a pity and sympathy where before there had been but condescension.
'We are both but fleeting creations of your thought,' Our Hero realised, grief and clarity flowing upon him. 'It has been said that the Creator can make, but can also unmake.'
'You said it,' the Writer said. 'Are there any requests you'd like to make, before I write you out? Any final questions?'
'Just one. Why? Why put me through it all? Why mess around with time, and everything else you've controlled? I know you can do all things: why do this?'
The Writer's answer was brief: 'Why not?' Then, he took up a pen, and bent over a sheet of paper on the desk in front of him, and as the orchestra rolled over into the triumphant Allegro, began scrawling some words down on paper. Then, there was a deafening crash, as part of the ceiling above Our Hero gave way, crushing him beneath its mass. The Writer looked up, saw the carnage with a look of discontent, and began to write again. Soon after, the pile of rubble under which lay Our Recently Deceased Hero began to burn, a small flame which quickly grew into a blazing inferno. Then, the straw- and dung-covered ground opened up, as a trapdoor beneath the demolished auction yard gave way, and the burning pile fell down into an unseen pit. The Writer looked up again, smiled to wryly himself. Then he stood, and with a brief nod to the magistrate, left into the dark in the same depravedly regal manner in which he had arrived. Behind him followed the magistrate, like a loyal dog. Only the prosecutor remained in the yard, next to the slowly burning rubble.
'I am Job,' he said aloud, though there was nobody left to hear.
There was nothing left to his purpose, this Job contemplated. He was released from his bonds. I had given him freedom in his suffering.