The High Court of Halcyon is quite fancy. The whole gallery is full of spectators. Petal sits on her finest purple tulip at the witness stand. The Prosecution paces the floor, munching on his third pen of the afternoon. The Judge is lounging in his chair, trying to balance his gavel on one finger. The Defense attorney is reading “OP Weekly” with a picture of Krul in a European bathing suit, casually holding a Breaking Point in one hand and an Aftershock in the another, and a look on his face that says “Who, me?”.

Prosecution: Ok…(chomps down on pen)…On the night of…

Judge: Today, please.

Prosecution: Right, the Prosecu–(glares at Petal, who beams back at him)–Argh!

Petal: You’re doing great!

Prosecution: Thank you. No! Churn.

He collapses down at his table of scattered and torn pages and puts his head in his hands, messing his hair and wasting forty-five dollar mousse.

Judge (Noticing all action has stopped): Oh good, it’s over.

Head Juror stands up.

Head Juror: We find the defendant Not Gui-

Prosecution (in meek desperation): NO! Please, Your Honor, if I could just…finish.

Judge: Okay, okay. Make it quick, I got a hoagie waiting.

Defense: Salami on that?

Judge: Does the Jungle shop have scout traps in the bushes?

Defense and Judge air-fist pound. Prosecution is getting some good luck head bangs in on his table before he dives in again.

Prosecution: Here we go. (lunges from his seat and stabs a finger at Petal) Ms. Petal, the S.E.M.C. cannot abide your neglect of those entrusted to your protection, resulting in the persistent and remorseless slaughter of these poor, defenseless-

Defense (not looking up): Objection, turrets don’t stand a chance against Munions on overdrive. Everyone knows that.

Judge (gavel tumbles, exasperated sigh): Sustained, try again counselor.

Prosecution: Fine. But the slaughter is persistent and remorseless, right? Right?

Defense shrugs. Judge is in the balancing zone.

Petal: They always come back, mister!

Prosecution: No, Ms. Petal, as I tried to explain with three different diagrams. The Munions explode, at your behest, thus dying, and new ones are grown from the seeds you plant.

Prosecution holds up poster board with hand drawn pictures of Munions smiling, exploding and growing in a cyclical pattern. The pictures are actually quite adept, because the Prosecution always wanted to be a caricature artist on the beaches of Gythia, but was forced into law by his parents. They never believed in his ability, but the likeness is both accurate and comical. He would have made bank out there.



Petal: They tell me they’re the same.

Prosecution: They…the Munions talk?

Petal: Yeah! We talk about all sorts of things. Trees. Bushes. How Vox is probably balding under that hood.

Prosecution (rifling through papers stained with coffee and tears): Ms. Petal, I have nothing here about Munions talking, only nonsense growls and chewing noises.

Petal: Wanna see?

Prosecution: Why the churn not? Your Honor, the Prosecution calls the-

A small flash of light bursts from the witness stand, scattering flower petals all over the room. Head Juror snatches a petal from the air, smells it with a blissful smile and tucks it into his shirt pocket. Three Munions pop up around Petal and immediately start chewing on the wooden stand.

Prosecution: Ok…Munions, thank you for being here today.

Munion 1: Objection!

Prosecution: What, um, no. I was-

Munion 2: Objection!

Judge breaks his laser focus and looks at the commotion. Smiling, he winks at the Defense and goes back to his practice.

Prosecution: If I could just say to you, um, gentlemen.

Munion 1: How dare you! I’m a girl. Move to strike!

Munion 2: Court adjorned.

Munion 3 is too busy gnawing on the Judge’s “Best Grandpa” award on his desk to get in on the joyful banter.

Prosecution: No! Judge, perhaps under your behest…(waggles fingers at the unruly Munions)

Judge: Naw, I gotta–(waggles fingers at gavel)

Prosecution: Great. Ms. Petal, please control your pets.

All action stops. The Munions turn their heads toward the Prosecution with frightening synchronicity.

Munion 2 (with murder in his heart): Pets?

Munion 1 (double murder): He didn’t.

Munion 3 (skipped right past triple and into quadruple murder): He. Did.

Prosecution: I-I, uh. Have it right here (holds up a receipt for dry cleaning) that the Munions are commonly referred to by Ms. Petal herself as pets.

Munion 1: Oh, NO! He said it again!

Munion 2: That’s our word!

Munion 3: You don’t get to say that!

Petal: How fast are you, mister?

Prosecution: I pulled my ankle getting off the toilet this morning. Why?

Petal: Goodbye.

The Munions spill over the barrier of the witness stand and charge the whimpering Prosecution. They start on his shoes, biting tiny holes in the faux leather before moving up the pant legs, tearing out the cuff that he did himself, then digging through his pockets, throwing aside four kinds of breath mints and a keychain for a car he doesn’t own.



Judge: Bailiff!

The Munions assault is halted by a flash of claws in an unmistakably circular pattern. The three creatures are torn apart in moments, sending their remains somersaulting through the air. One bit was caught by the Head Juror, who also placed that in his pocket. Seven pieces were splattered all over the Prosecution. Munion bits are exceptionally sticky – it’s the pollen. When the twirling ceases, Koshka is standing in the courtroom wearing a skimpy, blue bailiff’s uniform, complete with an official badge and a very official “Sheriff Pepperoni Pie’s Deputy” badge for eating 13 slices of pizza in one sitting.



Judge: Thanks.

Koshka: Thank you, “Your Andre”! (has worked there for years) I haven’t killed anything since breakfast!

Petal: Do it again!

Koshka: Yay!

Petal brings her Munions back the life (or are they new?) and the three charge Koshka again. She slices, she dices, she makes julienne fries from their beige little radish-looking heads. Munion 2 playfully escapes into the audience. Koshka dives into the crowd after him and begins to kill spectators in an attempt to catch him. The cat and massacre zig-zags through the aisles, leaving bloody destruction in its wake and rousing cheers from the jurors. Body parts cascade through the grand hall, most of which land on the Prosecution, littering his suit with gore and a surprising amount of dismembered mustaches.



Prosecution (full of 33 years of regret): Ob-ject-tion!

Munion 2 (popping his head out from a lady’s frock): Objection!

Head Juror (caught up in the moment): Objection!

Koshka (painted like a hemoglobin nightmare): Contraption!

Prosecution: Enough!

The entire hall goes silent at this most un-lawyery exclamation.

Prosecution: This is madness! Does no one else see it?

It’s instantly apparent that no one else sees it.

Prosecution: These people (wild gesticulating to point at both Koshka and Petal simultaneously), they run the show around here, taking what they want, doing what they want, killing what they want. While the rest of us have to sit back and what… hope we get turned into a hero ourselves one day?

Defense: I’ve got a mean roundhouse kick.

Judge (rubbing rib cage): I heard that.

Air fist pound times two.

Prosecution: That’s one person a month maybe. And the rest of us slave to keep order in this part of the world that no one ever sees. We make sure the shops are stocked. We have to see that the Vain Crystals are cut perfectly only to be destroyed 20-30 minutes later. You know, that jungle doesn’t trim itself into a perfectly symmetrical pattern.

Juror #9: I got poked by a thorn in there once.

Prosecution: Stormqueen’s varicose veins, people! We’re dealing with thorns here! And not only are we not thanked, but we have to suffer at the behest (it was on his word-of-the-day calendar) of these egotistical glory hoarders! Is this fair? Is this balanced? Is this the kind of world we want to live in?

Koshka (flicking a nose off her forearm): This is an oligarchy, counselor.

Prosecution: Oooggguuhhh?

Koshka: We run the show because we’re the only thing bringing money into this economy.

Petal: Money that is spent on us.Just to have the privilege to play with us.

Koshka: Or dress us in adorable outfits.

Petal: Without us, there would be no need for the thousands of jobs required to maintain the Fold.

Koshka: Do you ever read about anyone who isn’t a hero making headlines? I’ve got better things to do than compete all day; smells to smell which I would subsequently kill, but I take time out of my day to give you people purpose.

Petal: You wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for us. Literally.

Head Juror (tear wrapped eyeballs): I exist.

Petal: Yes, you do.

Koshka: Because of us.

Petal: Deal with it, counselor.

Envision a man losing all sense of purpose and identity in one devastating moment that shatters his every nerve, fiber and synapse. The impact is so great that the very fabric of the universe seems to shiver around him, wavering as if it too might just give up all together, but holds on out of morbid curiosity as to what will happen next. That is the Prosecution’s experience today before the dozen or so spectators still living and the jury. He crumbles to the ground in a human puddle of apathy and three for the price of one suit.

Judge (looking disgusted at his son on the floor): Let’s take a recess.

Petal: Yay!

Koshka: Let’s play tetherball! (holds up ball)

Petal: That’s a lady’s head.

Koshka (peers at head, head stares back with dead eyes.): Let’s play Heather ball!

Petal: Yay!

THE PROSECUTION RESTS