The Trial of Cliff Hanger

 

Long ago, in a courthouse in Virginia, a trial was held for a man accused of something so hideous and despicable that no one dare talk about it.  Even the attorneys involved refused to take notes.  One even began wearing fake nose and glasses, so as not to be recognized or associated with the case.

The judge, a stern woman with excessive nose hair, known only as Juris Prudence, presided with a gavel carved from petrified wood — a relic said to silence even the most unruly defendants.

Cliff Hanger, the accused, sat motionless, his eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses despite the courtroom’s dim lighting. Rumors swirled that he had once been a trapeze artist, a magician, or worse — a screenwriter for reality television.

No one knew exactly what he had done. The charge sheet was sealed. The bailiff refused to touch it, claiming it burned his fingertips.

The stenographer typed nonsense — recipes, limericks, fragments of forgotten nursery rhymes — as if the truth itself refused to be recorded.

Witnesses were called, but none spoke. One brought a box labeled “Exhibit A” and left it unopened on the stand. It hummed faintly. Another simply pointed at Cliff and wept.

The trial stretched on for days, then weeks. The courthouse clock stopped ticking. The calendar shed its numbers. Outside, the seasons changed twice in a single afternoon.

And then, just as the jury was about to deliver its verdict, Cliff Hanger stood up, cleared his throat, and said—

Well, that’s where the record of the trial ends.

 

 

 

The judge's sister, shown here during the 
trial, refused to give any interviews,
or comment on nose hair.