Before the grand and impossibly high bench sat Judge Alien Cannonball, a handpicked gem of the throne of Lord Trumplestiltskin. Her woolen brows furrowed, nostrils flaring akin to a perplexed bull in a china shop, she eyed the fidgety special counsel. It was apparent that her judicial prowess didn’t frolic merrily in the desire of the special counsel, which yearned to initiate the people’s court trial in the frost of December.
There she sat in her high-backed chair, Alien Cannonball, steeped deeply in the gravitas inherited from Lord Trumplestiltskin’s reign. Her gavel, carved from a single hunk of polished joke oak, sat poised in her hand. Hitching up her robe embroidered with a motif of metallic gnomes, she reclined, steepled fingers bringing focus to a face wrinkled with deepened intent. A metronomic silence fell, the only sound the muffled humming of an old bomb-squad-defused grandfather clock languishing in the corner of her courtroom.
The special counsel, a jittery rag bundle of sweat, nerves, and fading perfume, dared to make eye contact. His shifty eyes behind Coke-bottle glasses darted toward that dread month of the year – December, that infernal December! The chilling wind prowled outside the courtroom, whispering tales of trials yet untried.
Yet, the gaze of Judge Alien Cannonball was as stony and unreadable as hieroglyphs on an advent calendar. Our wig-topped counsel hoped to light a glowing advent candle of justice, burning bright in the icy darkness of December. But Cannonball, the stout and sturdy milestone in Trumplestiltskin’s kingdom, saw little charm in his counsel’s winter wonderland dreams. Her sympathy, like her tolerance for double parking, was notably absent.
Will December dawn with the opening statements of a new trial, or will it merely flicker and sputter out like a half-baked Yule log? As unpredictable as those Radio City Rockettes’ choreography, the frostbitten month loomed low, awaiting the final tap-dance step of Judge Alien Cannonball.
In the rehearsed rhythm of her court, it was cannonball’s decision that would mold the outcome. To give into the counsel’s whim and let the final act of the year be painted in the frozen hues of justice? Or allow the icy secrets of the kingdom to continue snowballing against the long night of December?
In the frozen catacombs of Lord Trumplestiltskin’s reign, where Judge Alien Cannonball presided, the demand for a December trial sounded about as comforting as a Christmas carol sung by a cat choir. Sure, the audience might chuckle, but this cat wasn’t going to budge. One thing is certain, though. It’s going to be one chilly justice served, if ever. Woe to those awaiting their day in the court of the Cannonball.
