Dick by Law E-Book

Robert Jeschonek

• Herausgeber: Pie Press
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

What if you could have someone legally declared a dick? Simon Bellerophon does just that! When pain in the butt Horne Shaw pushes him too far, Simon sues to have him branded a dick...and wins, in the craziest court case ever. But that's just the beginning of this out-there, in-your-face comedy. If you love TV shows like Family Guy and South Park or websites like Funny Or Die, you'll love Dick By Law. Don't miss this crazy novel by award-winning storyteller Robert Jeschonek, a master of unique and unexpected comedy that really packs a punch.

Leseprobe

dick by law

A Humor Novel

Robert Jeschonek

contents

Also by Robert Jeschonek

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Epilogue

About the Author

Preview: Day 9

DICK BY LAW

Copyright © 2023 by Robert Jeschonek

http://bobscribe.com/

Cover Art Copyright © 2023 by Ben Baldwin

www.benbaldwin.co.uk

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved by the author.

A Pie Press book

Published by Pie Press Publishing

411 Chancellor Street

Johnstown, Pennsylvania 15904

www.piepresspublishing.com

Created with Vellum

also by robert jeschonek

Day 9

Heaven Bent

Six Crime Stories Volume One

Day 9

chapterone

Tucker County Courthouse - Melville, Pennsylvania, 9:31 a.m.

"You guys have made my day!" Judge Jonah Bartlebaugh's rich, resonant voice boomed from the judge's bench in the vast main courtroom of the Tucker County courthouse. "Thank you for this!"

Simon Bellerophon, who was sitting at the plaintiff's table near the front of the courtroom, smiled. The happier the judge, the better, right?

Then why wasn't Simon's lawyer smiling, too?

Simon frowned as he looked up at Quinn Keegan, his attorney. Quinn was standing beside him, eyes fixed on the judge, face unreadable. He was doing a great job of keeping his feelings under wraps, hiding them even from Simon, who knew him better than anyone.

Because Quinn, after all, was his foster brother. Who better to help launch his mad quest for revenge?

"Your Honor?" Quinn's flinty brown features were silhouetted in the sunlight streaming in from the big arched windows ringing the courtroom walls. Swirling dust formed a halo in the multicolored shaft from the stained glass dome in the cupola overhead.

Judge Bartlebaugh chuckled and flapped a sheet of paper in the air. The crackling flap echoed through the giant, ornate courtroom, which was a remnant of the county's long-gone glory days. Tucker County had been a booming place twenty years ago, before the steel companies had pulled out of Melville, the big-money heart of the region, and shut down all the mills. "You do know this is a first-of-its-kind lawsuit, don't you?"

"Yes, your honor." Quinn spoke gracefully, as he always did in court...or anywhere else, for that matter.

"Well, thank you for cutting through the boredom!" Judge Bartlebaugh ran a hand up over his smooth, bare scalp and down the back of his silver fringe of hair. "So what's the gist of your argument?"

"We see this as a case of truth in advertising," said Quinn. "Dangers to society should be labeled as such."

Simon straightened in his chair, heart pounding as his brother made the case. There they were, going into battle side by side, kicking ass and taking names.

And the enemy himself sat thirty feet away.

Leaning back in his chair, Simon looked across the courtroom at the defense table. The enemy's enormous, beer-bellied attorney, Delroy Swope, blocked the view...all three hundred ice-cream-suited pounds of him.

As Simon watched, the enemy himself leaned back and met his gaze. With his curly black hair, ruddy, pockmarked face, and wild eyes, he looked like a crazed pirate or a member of the Manson family. His glare caught Simon like hot metal catching skin, radiating waves of pure cherry-red fury. He silently mouthed two unmistakable words in Simon's direction: Fuck you.

Ladies and gentlemen, the one and only Horne Shaw, so-called claims adjustor for the 5G5 delivery company.

Just then, Judge Jonah Bartlebaugh's voice snapped Simon's attention back to the front of the courtroom. "Oh, this is good." He chuckled as he stroked his impeccably trimmed silver mustache and beard with his thumb and forefinger. "How can you not love this case?"

Swope waved his thick arms and shook his head. "First of all, it's pure defamation, Your Honor..."

"The question was rhetorical." Judge Bartlebaugh chuckled. "But hey, great reaction time!"

Without another word, Swope dropped into his chair.

"Mr. Fluff-and-Fold!" Suddenly, Judge Bartlebaugh swung his gaze back to Simon. "This started over a washingmachine, right?"

"Yes, Your Honor," said Simon.

"So what if Strayer-Roland gives you a new washing machine?" said Judge Bartlebaugh. "Could we make this case go away?"

"No, Your Honor." Simon said it without hesitation. "There's a principle involved."

"Oh, good." Judge Bartlebaugh rubbed his hands together briskly. "And what principle is that?"

"People should have the right to know when they're dealing with someone like him." Simon hiked a thumb in Horne's direction. "They shouldn't have to find out the hard way, after the fact."

"'Caveat emptor,' Your Honor." Swope wobbled to his feet. "'Let the buyer beware.' That's what we say."

Judge Bartlebaugh rolled his eyes. "I never would have guessed."

"Motion to dismiss this frivolous lawsuit, Your Honor," said Swope.

"Is it frivolous?" Judge Bartlebaugh raised his eyebrows at Simon. "You don't want a new washing machine. You don't want money. You don't want any form of compensation for the damages you've suffered."

"Correct, Your Honor," said Simon.

Judge Bartlebaugh grinned and shook his head. "You just want the court to acknowledge officially that the defendant, Horne Shaw..."

"...is a dick." Simon nodded. "Yes, Your Honor."

chaptertwo

Ten Weeks Earlier - Melville, Pennsylvania, 10:15 a.m.

The old woman in a purple dress stood on the customer side of the counter in the musty antique shop. She watched expectantly as an overweight middle-aged man on the other side of the counter flipped through a stack of ancient comic books.

The overweight man had the comics propped on his ample gut, which stretched his lime green polo shirt to the limits of elasticity. Flipping to the last comic, he took a good long look at it, then flicked it forward to the bottom of the stack and shook his head. "I'm so sorry these aren't worth more, ma'am." The man, who owned the shop, dropped the stack of comic books on the counter. "Some comics just aren't as collectible as others, you understand."

The old woman in the purple dress sighed. "Just because something's old doesn't always mean it's valuable, I suppose."

"Sorry I can't help you." The man turned and started toward the rear of the cluttered, cramped antique shop...then stopped. "Okay, look." He reached into a pocket of his khaki trousers and tugged out a single twenty-dollar bill. "I'll take the lot of them. At least you won't leave empty-handed."

The old woman smiled. "Oh, thank you, young man." She reached for the twenty...

And someone leaped out from between the merchandise racks and swatted it away.

"Don't do it!" The person doing the swatting was in his thirties, with short black hair and a slender build. He wore bluejeans and a black t-shirt with the letters "LA" splashed across the chest in a bold font straight out of a comic book. "He's ripping you off, ma'am!" His tone was melodramatic, as if he were playing the role of a hero in a radio drama.

His name was Simon Bellerophon.

"What on Earth?" said the old woman.

The shop owner made a grab for the comics on the counter...but Simon was too fast for him. "Hands off, thou blackguard!" Scooping the comics away from the shop owner, Simon whirled and held them out to the old woman. "He would have given you a pittance for this treasure, milady."

"Treasure?" said the old woman.

"You hold a small fortune in your hands." Simon bowed as he gave her the comics. "And I am here to ensure that you get it."

"Get the hell out of here!" The shop owner sounded furious. "You're interfering with a business transaction!"

"Highway robbery is more like it!" Simon winked at the old woman. "Each one of those comics is worth thousands of dollars, ma'am."

The old woman looked at the shop owner. "Is that true?"

The shop owner locked eyes with her and shook his head. "He's a nutcase. Don't believe him."

The old woman nodded decisively. "You're a liar."

"How perceptive of you," said Simon. "What an excellent judge of character you are."

With a howl of rage, the shop owner reached under the counter and came up with a baseball bat. "Get out of here. Both of you. And don't come back, Bellerophon! I told you last time."

"And the time before that." Simon waggled his brows like Groucho Marx, and the old woman laughed.

The shop owner cracked the ball bat on the counter. "What part of 'banned for life' don't you understand, Bellerophon?"

"I'll stop coming back here," said Simon, "when you stop ripping off innocent civilians for fortunes in collectibles!"

"Get out!" Bat in hand, the shop owner started around the counter.

"Shall we, milady?" Simon hooked his elbow, and the old woman threaded her arm through the loop. "Allow me to tell you of a most scrupulous appraiser who will ensure that you receive more than fair value for yon comical booklets."

"And who might that be, o' knight in shining armor?" said the old woman as they headed for the door.

Simon opened the door and waved her through with a bow. "To tell the truth," he said, "in some ways, he reminds me a great deal of myself."

"In what ways?" said the old woman.

"In all ways." Simon grinned and squinted. The sun was in his eyes, glinting from the windows of the shuttered steel mill across the street. "For I myself am that man." He pointed at the big letters "LA" on the chest of his t-shirt. "I am the Lone Appraiser."

Then, laughing, he led her down the street past the mill, flipping through the stack of comics along the way.

chapterthree

Two hours later, Simon burst into the offices of In¢entive$, Incorporated...in other words, the living room of his house on the outskirts of Melville.

The living room, as usual, was a disaster area. The In¢entive$ crew--heavyset brunette Josie Coleman, green-haired Taiwanese Chip Maple, and slinky angel of darkness Ankha Fedalla--sprawled on the couch and floor amid piles of paper, pizza boxes, and crushed soda cans. It was like staring at the aftermath of a collision between an office supply store and a pizza place. In other words, home sweet home to Simon.

When Simon walked in carrying a brown paper sack, he barely got a reaction from the team. They'd been together too long; they knew each other too well.

Simon took a good look at his makeshift family, then cleared his throat loudly. He was glad they were all hard at work, but he needed their attention now. "He-e-e-e-ere's Johnny!" He said it like Ed McMahon on the old Tonight Show. "Who wants gobs?"

"Where from?" Josie, dominating the couch in her bright orange t-shirt and green shorts like a giant pumpkin, kept typing and clicking on her laptop. She was in her mid-thirties, the same age as Simon, and had known him since college. She'd been with In¢entive$ from the start, five years ago; she'd taken on the role of the big sister he'd never had. "Saint Stephen's, Amish Maid, or Fike's?"

"Only the best for my loyal staff." Simon scooped one out of the paper sack he carried and held it out like a bar of purest gold. "Glosser's Deli!"

Josie slid the laptop aside, jumped off the sofa, and snatched the wax-paper-wrapped gob from Simon's hand. "And the Lord said, 'Let there be light!'"

"You look like you could use some help with that." Chip, who'd been lying on his back on the beige shag carpet, threw aside the sheet of figures he'd been reading and popped up from the floor. The youngest of the group at 22, he was all about everything indie--indie music, indie movies, indie comics, indie clothes. Fresh out of college, he'd started at In¢entive$ as an unpaid intern and had never left; Simon joked that he couldn't remember ever actually hiring him. If Josie was Simon's older sister, Chip was his beloved kid brother.

"Allow me." Chip wiped his hands on his neon blue and black bowling shirt, then grabbed the sack of gobs from Simon's grip. Chortling, he marched the sack over to the coffee table, whose glass surface was buried in paperwork and fast food debris.

When Chip dumped the contents of the sack on top of the other junk on the table, Ankha shot out spidery fingers capped with black nail polish and snagged a gob without hesitation. Tucking the phone between ear and shoulder, she unwrapped the wax paper, exposing the gob--a clamshell of dark chocolate cake with a thick layer of creamy white frosting sandwiched in the middle.

If Josie was Simon's surrogate older sister, and Chip was his little brother, Ankha was his weirdo cousin. Always dressed in black, she was either 29 or 29,000 years old, depending on which Goth personality she was channeling on a given day. She'd joined In¢entive$ two years ago, after a fender bender with Simon; instead of wracking her for the damage she'd caused, Mr. Good Samaritan had hired her for the team.

"So, Simon." Chip took a bite of gob and talked with his mouth full. "What are you gonna eat? Tofu shreds on a bed of lettuce?"

"The sweet taste of victory is all I need." Simon opened the front door and leaned out to pluck mail from the mailbox. "I just saved another civilian from the clutches of Screw Lou."

"Oh, Simon." Josie shook her head, making the brown pigtails on either side bounce and flounce emphatically. "You didn't sneak into FesterTreasures again, did you?"

"It's a free country." Simon shrugged. "If YesterTreasures is where some son of a bitch is scamming little old ladies, then that is where the Lone Appraiser will go!"

"Just so's you stuck it to 'im good, Boss," Chip said around a mouthful of gob.

"Did he get out the baseball bat?" said Josie.

Simon laughed as he sorted the mail. "Of course he did! Sadly, he didn't get around to swinging it."

"Aw, gee." Josie slumped and stuck out her bottom lip. "Dat's my favorite part."

"Enough about me!" Simon slipped one white envelope in the back pocket of his jeans and tossed the rest of the mail on the coffee table. "Tell me what trouble you've been up to, loyal minions...and it better be good!"

Chip popped a last bite of gob in his mouth and rubbed his hands together like a mad scientist. "Oh, it's good, isn't it, Josie?"

"What if we told you..." Josie leered and cackled. "What if we told you we gave away money to teenagers for volunteering at the nursing home?"

Simon gasped and clutched his chest. "No!"

"And then," said Chip, "we got a verbal commitment on a sizeable donation from a major corporation."

Simon shook his head in mock disgust, though he was secretly proud of his team. It wasn't always easy finding sponsors for a non-profit based in a struggling Rust Belt mill town. "I knew I shouldn't have left you three to your own evil devices!" He shook his fist at Josie and Chip.

"Do you know what we did after that?" said Chip.

"We gave more money to another bunch of teenagers," said Josie, "for setting up a homeless shelter!"

"How dare you!" said Simon. "How dare you fulfill the mission of this community-minded not-for-profit organization!"

Suddenly, Ankha spoke up. "Keep it down!" She shook the phone handset overhead. "I'm on the phone, in case you hadn't noticed!"

"Sorry, Mistress of Darkness." Simon tiptoed into the kitchen.

Chip followed. "It's almost W-M time, Sime." He reached up and scrubbed his spiky hair, a pincushion of black roots and bright green highlights.

"What time is that, Chip?" Simon opened the fridge and drew out a pitcher of lemonade. "W-M as in Whack-a-Mole time? Water Making time? Whipping Mutton time?"

"W-M as in washing machine," said Chip. "As in they're delivering your new Apex front-loader from Strayer Roland in one hour."

"You weenie." Josie laughed in Simon's face as she squeezed past him. "You don't know how lucky you are. You'd be such a mess if it wasn't for us."

"That reminds me," said Chip. "I need a raise."

"Me, too," said Josie.

"Me, three!" Ankha said from the living room.

"One raise, coming right up." Simon smiled as he pulled four glasses from the cupboard and filled them with lemonade. The truth was, he did know how lucky he was; other than his foster brother Quinn Keegan, the In¢entive$ threesome were his best friends in the world. Josie, Chip, and Ankha knew him better than almost anyone.

"So how does it feel?" said Josie.

Simon handed her a glass of lemonade. "How does what feel?"

"This is a big day for you." Josie put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "You don't realize it yet, but today will change the rest of your life."

"Why's that?" said Simon as he handed Chip a glass.

"Switching from a top loader to a front loader." Josie nodded and winked. "Who knows where that could lead."

"All I know is, I can't wait to find out." Simon raised his glass. "To the start of a wonderful new adventure!"

Chip clinked his glass against Simon's. "Laundry...the final frontier!"

"You're entering a whole new cycle." Josie clinked her glass against Simon's and Chip's. "From this day on, you will never be the same."

"I knew I did the right thing, buying this washer." Simon sipped his lemonade. "I am so glad I didn't spend the money on something boring and non-life-changing like a trip around the world."

Josie squinted and bowed her head. "You'd be surprised how far a washer can take you. They don't call it the 'spin cycle' for nothing."

chapterfour

Hours later, Simon gazed at the mint-condition front-loader washing machine newly installed in the laundry room, a converted sun porch at the back of his house. The white skin of the washer gleamed and sparkled in the sunlight streaming into the room, and Simon's pulse quickened. He felt a rush of pride.

Then, he stared down at the beat-to-hell pedestal that had come with it.

Josie nudged the pedestal with her toe, as if it were a pile of road kill. "Did they let a gorilla loose on that thing or what?"

Zeke, one of the two grungy delivery guys who'd hauled in the washer and pedestal, scratched the back of his tattoo-slathered neck. If his neck and arms (left bare by his sleeveless black Harley Davidson t-shirt) were any indication, a high percentage of his body was covered in tattoo ink. "I wouldn't even put that in my house, man."

Zeke and his partner, Greg, had just carted the pedestal off the truck, but it looked as if they'd tied it to the rear fender and dragged it all the way from the warehouse.

The pedestal was a two-foot-high box, a metal platform on which the front-loader was meant to sit. It matched the washer in color and shape, but its condition was as battered as the washer's was pristine.

Three of the pedestal's four sides were severely dented. The mounting brackets were gone from two corners, and the remaining two brackets were twisted and cracked. The top surface of the pedestal was smeared with black grease, and the whole thing was coated with some kind of brownish film.

Simon shook his head in amazement. "But I ordered a new pedestal."

Zeke checked his clipboard and snorted. "You sure did, dude. That's exactly what it says here."

"You call this new?" Simon laughed, though he wasn't amused. He looked at Zeke, and Zeke just shrugged.

"New in some mirror universe, maybe." Chip scrubbed his fingers through his spiky green hair. "Some alternate reality where everything sucks."

"New in that we've never actually seen it before," said Josie. "It's new to us."

"New in the sense that when it comes to palming off junk on paying customers, this is a new low." Ankha folded her slim arms over her chest and glared at Zeke.

"Well, I think it's just beautiful." Simon smiled and hunkered down beside the pedestal. "It sets off the new washing machine perfectly." He lovingly ran his hands over the dents and black smears. "Really ties together the whole laundry room."

"For real?" said Zeke's partner, Greg, an emaciated specimen with a dull gold nose ring and ratty ponytail. Simon stared at Greg in disbelief. He couldn't tell if he and Zeke were in their forties or just in their twenties with wear and tear beyond their years.

Simon got to his feet. "Nope. Please take it away now."

"Are you sure?" Josie tipped her head to one side and tapped her lower lip with a fingertip. "I kind of feel sorry for it."

"I'm sure," said Simon. "When can you bring me a new one?"

"Hold on a minute." Zeke grabbed the cell phone off his belt clip and flipped it open. He dialed a number and waited. "Hello, Leila?"

As Zeke stepped outside with his phone, and Greg followed, Simon leaned against his new washer. "What I want to know is, where'd they get that thing? A junkyard?"

"I can't believe they had the nerve to send it out here," said Ankha. "Did they actually think you'd take it?"

"You might be surprised," said Chip. "People trust Strayer-Roland."

"'We're family.'" Josie quoted the Strayer-Roland slogan.

"But not in a good way," said Chip.

"Okay, here's the deal." Zeke flipped his phone shut as he ambled back in. "We'll take this pedestal away, but you'll have to go to the store to order a new one."

"Wait, what?" Simon frowned. "It wasn't my mistake."

"Right," said Zeke. "Some kind of mix-up at the warehouse...but you'll still have to go to the store. Bring your receipt, and they'll cancel your order, issue a refund, and place a new order for a new pedestal."

"That's just crazy talk," said Chip.

Zeke shrugged. "It's how they do things now."

Simon shook his head. His sense of humor was fading. "This is ridiculous. Can't you call a manager or something?"

"Wouldn't do any good," said Zeke. "5G5 is just the delivery company. We didn't sell you the pedestal, and we can't exchange it for a new one."

"But you're acting as representatives of Strayer-Roland in the field," said Simon.

"I'm not even an employee of 5G5," said Zeke. "I'm an independent contractor working freelance for a subcontractor. I barely represent myself, dude."

Simon sighed. "So if I go to the store right now, I could still resolve this today?"

"It's worth a shot." Zeke handed over his clipboard and pen. "Now just initial by the red X's, and we can get that hunk of shit out of your house."

Simon signed where he was told. "This is all gonna work out, right? I don't need to worry?"

"All I'm saying, dude," said Zeke, "is there's no need to make a federal case out of it."

chapterfive

One week later, after Simon had jumped through the right hoops at the Strayer-Roland department store, Zeke and Greg returned to his house. They brought him a brand new washing machine pedestal, a vast improvement over the wreckage they'd delivered the first time around.

Everything seemed to be squared away, and everyone was happy. But then it happened.

One minute, Simon was admiring the new pedestal on the laundry room floor, all gleaming white and perfect in every way. He was feeling good now that Strayer-Roland had finally sent him what he'd ordered.

The next minute, Greg the emaciated delivery guy was screaming his lungs out.

"The fuck?" Tattooed Zeke, who'd been fussing with some paperwork, whipped around with clipboard in hand.

At first, Simon couldn't see what the problem was. Greg was hunkered down behind the washing machine, disconnecting the hookups in preparation for installing the pedestal.

But the problem soon became clear. Still screaming, Greg leaped out from behind the washer, clutching his left arm. Blood poured from his left wrist, streaming onto the floor.

"What the fuck did you do?" said Zeke.

"I was...using a box cutter...to slice off those zip ties." Greg clenched his teeth, sucking back another scream. "Fuckin' thing got away from me!"

Suddenly, Josie loomed in the kitchen doorway in her blinding pink t-shirt du jour. "Holy shit!"

"Call nine one one!" said Simon.

"Fuck that!" said Zeke. "I'm drivin' him to the emergency room!"

Greg stood in the middle of the room, dripping blood on the new white pedestal. "Finish the installation. I'll drive myself." He choked back another scream and headed for the back door.

"Just wait for the ambulance." Simon saw Josie in the doorway, pulling her cell phone from a front pocket of her bright yellow shorts. "And hurry up with that nine-one-one call, Jo!"

"Forget it!" Zeke shook his head. "This isn't your problem."

Simon pushed past him and scooped a towel from a laundry basket in the corner. "Too late for that." He wrapped the towel as tight as he could around Greg's arm. "Now hold this in place."

"It fuckin' hurts!" Greg let loose a piercing cry and fell against the side of the washing machine.

"Boss!" Josie flipped her cell phone shut. "Ambulance is on its way!"

"Hang in there." Simon tied a shirt around Greg's upper arm and cinched it tight.

Greg sank to his knees. Tears were flowing from his eyes. "I don't wanna die! Please God, don't kill me!"

Simon heard the ambulance siren in the distance. He turned to look out the window...and Zeke thrust his clipboard in front of him.

"Before we go," said Zeke, "could you just initial beside the red X's?"

"What?" Simon was distracted by Greg's latest round of screams.

Zeke raised a black pen and clicked the button with his thumb, popping out the tip. "Beside the red X's, please. Just acknowledging we were here."

Greg was still wailing. Simon took the pen.

"Just a formality, dude," said Zeke. "CYA makes the world go round."

* * *

Two hours later, Greg and Zeke were gone. So was most of the bloody mess, thanks to the In¢entive$ crew.

Josie, Chip, and Ankha had all pitched in to help Simon mop and wipe up the blood Greg had left behind. By the time they'd finished, the only trace of the incident was the heap of bloody towels in the drum of the washing machine.

"Awesome work, you guys." Simon closed the washer's glass door and set the controls on the digital front panel. "I can't thank you enough."