Yeah, you know him. That lawyer who drinks.
The one who defended Daphne, that bitch with the feathers and fishnets, when she knifed that boozy redhead in the bar. Yeah, in the back. With a box-cutter.
‘Cos she called Daphne an “ugly cunt.”
“’I,’” Daphne said, indignantly, like she was a fucking princess, instead of a psycho slut in fishnets and feathers, “am not a cunt.’” Note: she didn’t deny “ugly.”
Huh? ‘Cos I was there.
Yeah, saw the whole thing. Whatever. So this lawyer who drinks we’re talking about, defended Daphne after she sliced the redhead.
Huh? I forget her name. Let’s call her “Red.” ‘Cos she had cherry-red hair.
No, she’s not dead. That’s the whole point, if you’d just let me talk.
Without even knowing her damn name, I just knew Red was nobody to be fucked with.
So, the lawyer shows up in court an hour late, smashed beyond human comprehension. Booze dribbling out of his mouth and nose.
Huh? Yeah, I was there, too. Let me finish.
Where was I? Oh yeah, booze dribbling . . . Anyway, Daphne just sat there, gnawing on a chicken leg . . . OK, drumstick. What? Probably from KFC. And I don’t know how she snuck food in past that fat-ass guard.
“Juss lookit her,” the lawyer said, slurring away, “Can’t’cha see she doesn’t know what she’s doing? That she’s not responsible for this crime?”
Look at her, he says. Look at him, we all were thinking.
By now, Daphne had finished eating, and was picking her teeth with a match. Right there, in court.
Red was glaring at both of them: the tooth-picking “cunt,” and the soused mouthpiece. I don’t know who she hated more.
“A box-cutter,” the lawyer said, sarcastically. “Really?”
The judge looked bored. And the prosecutor was trying not to laugh.
“All this fuss . . .” the lawyer went on. “Over just a . . .” Already, he’d forgotten the word.
I snuck looks at Red, to see if she was even sitting funny, after being “stabbed in the back.” She wasn’t. But the looks she was shooting made me feel she was out for revenge, even over “just a box-cutter.”
To make a long story short . . . Yeah, I know it’s already too long . . . Daphne got off, with like a warning. No big deal, the judge must’ve thought. Just two biker chicks knifing each other over dumb shit.
‘Cept neither of them rode, and only one had a knife.
Well, that’s what we thought.
Red left the courtroom first, in a huff. In the doorway, she suddenly turned and glared so hard at Daphne and that drunk lawyer, I expected thunder to clap. Then she split.
Hours later, at that bar up the block, there was the Gruesome Twosome, both so boozed up, they were falling off their stools. Mind you, it was the same bar, where Daphne had stabbed Red in the back. Is that balls, or what?
Huh? Oh, yeah, I was there. How else would I know?
Now, here comes the good part: The lawyer was so bombed, nobody would let him drive. Somebody called Uber.
And guess who was driving the fucking car?
They were both too smashed to realize it, plus she had her cherry-red hair up in a Yankees cap.
It wasn’t till they got there, that he realized it wasn’t his house. . . .
“Just a box-cutter,” Daphne had nicked Red with.
But Red had it all, man: butcher knives, switchblades, bowies. A fucking hacksaw. Ever see Hostel? Clearly, Red did, too.
Some people are just crazy. . . .
Like some psycho butcher, she got into it. Slicing, and chopping away, so the walls were painted the same color as her hair. Bloody feathers, too, like she’d butchered a fucking peacock.
What a sight, man. What a . . .
‘Cos I was there.
And if I were you, I’d shut the fuck up, right now.