Giant Men and Violent Women

You Ever Hate Someone?

ASHLEY

There isn't a man alive I hate more than Date Channing. Right now, he sits opposite of my great-grandfather, Chap's, desk, showing no reverence, no hierarchical level of respect warranted to a man who's sat on New Hampshire's Supreme Court longer than Date's been alive. Uncut hair, blotchy beard, a contemptuous smirk. If I could, I'd walk over to that desk and choke this motherfucker with my bare hands. But I'm not Ashley right now. I'm Attorney Bragg.

I inhale slowly and let my breath out slowly before reaching for my mug of Black Honey and taking an even slower sip. There...better.

Right now, I should be at my office, finalizing the battle site for the next mock battle of Rebels for the Revelation. But I'm a lawyer first, a chairman second, and right now. Chap needs me.

I've been hired by Chap as his private counsel to deal with the mounting problem of Dickhead Date and his anti-slavery group, St. Abe's Army. We're just doing the work of Lincoln is its motto.

Fuck off. Honest Abe said himself that he would've kept slavery if it meant holding the country together, so why the fuck has Date created a program to tear it apart? But I can't say that because I'm not Ashley right now. I'm Attorney Bragg.

I take another sip of my Black Honey. Better. Don't get me wrong; the coffee tastes like shit. Chap might consider his admin a "fresh young thang"—she's sixty-two—but she's a horrible coffee maker. I take another sip.

For two months, I've had to sit by, in this office, with this coffee, and look at Date. Talk about a prison sentence.

Date has been attempting to persuade Chap, a state Supreme Court judge with thirty years of service under his belt, to reverse The Slave Program decision. Let me restate that. Date, a man who is from Massachusetts, has come to New Hampshire and is trying to do something no qualified lawyer in the entire state of New Hampshire could do.

We Darlings are the descendants of giant men and violent women who won The Great Righteous War of 1739 against an army full of Protestants and Roman Catholics who were both fighting for God Himself. And Date thinks he can win this war with Chap with his own army of college kids? The gall of this motherfucker. The balls of this motherfucker.

For two months, I've been told by Chap to sit by and say nothing. Just listen.

"You've now got a New Hampshire State Supreme Court judge on your client roster," Chap told me. "Let me do the talking. He'll be more receptive toward me, what with those pictures and videos of you and his girlfriend getting out. Just sit there and look happy."

My first reaction was to sound like a fourth grader: Presley Ann is not his girlfriend.

But business matters come first. I was basically told to sit here and look pretty—or, and let's be honest, sit here and annoy the shit out of Date—so that he will feel cursed to have met me. But my innate need to destroy Date has vanquished my happy face.

Chap's trying his hardest to keep this conversation with Date civil, but there's only so many times a man can talk in circles before he gets dizzy. Date is about to be placed on the chopping block. Chap looks at him. Date looks back. The grandfather clock in the corner ticks as the seconds pass, and the stare-off continues. Chanting outside the courthouse is the only noise we hear.

"Free the slaves in NH!" the activists of St. Abe's Army yell.

The clock ticks. The stares continue.

Date now looks at Chap with a slight grin; he knows this noise is driving Chap crazy.

Chap has been a New Hampshire Supreme Court judge for three decades, so everyone knows his idiosyncrasies. One thing that he mandates in his court is symmetry.