A weblog by Hao Lian.
A terrible secret guarded by golems.
A note that thanks you for being born, all those years ago.
The Watergate scandal almost never happened when Nixon’s cronies refused to break into the hotel with dry lips and an upcoming deadline for their podcast, Moisturizing with the President’s Right Hand(s). Fortunately, Nixon managed to kill both birds with one stone (via the U.S. Fucking Criminal Justice System).
He’s Chief Justice John Roberts, and his friends call him CJ John. Tom once tried to call him just “John,” and they still haven’t found his detainment facility.
CJ John felt a tug at his robes, which were his casual clothes at home. He looked down into the face of a small child.
“Daddy?” the boy asked.
CJ John put down his newspaper and gavel. “Yes, son?”
“Susie (This is his sister.) took my toy again. I want it back.”
CJ John frowned. This is not the way he taught his children. Perhaps some parents relaxed their standards in these hedonistic days, but not him. He still wore robes around the house when the other justices sometimes, in flagrant mockery of the most solemn process, wore slacks. Once a photographer put a picture of Stevens wearing a T-shirt, yes a T-shirt for Christ’s sake; there was hell to pay after that incident.
“Look, John II, is this how we settle arguments in our house?” he said, his eyebrows twitching with furious disappointment.
John (just John) turned his eyes to the floor. “No, Chief Justice Father.”
“That’s right. Susie and you will need to appoint counsel and meet in a civil suit at the lowest level before appealing your way up to the appellate courts. Only after that process may you submit a formal proposal to me via your counsel.”
“But can’t we just this once—”
“I said via your counsel.”
The period held slowly in the air before quietly exiting the room along with Just John. CJ John picked up his newspaper again.