Free Vernon God Little by Dbc Pierre

Lori-Bethlehem Conner, passed away this morning, Judge.’
    ‘I see. What about the boy’s teacher?’
    ‘Marion Nuckles didn’t mention the suspect’s whereabouts at the time of the tragedy.’
    ‘He didn’t mention, or you didn’t ask?’
    ‘His doctors say he won’t be able to talk until the end of March next year. We couldn’t get more than a few words, ma’am.’
    ‘Well dammit Vaine. What were those words about?’
    ‘Another firearm.’
    ‘Oh good Lord.’
    Vaine nods, tightening her lips. She can’t fucken stop herself glancing at me as she does it.
    ‘We apply bail your honor,’ says Abdini.
    ‘Is that right,’ says Gurie. ‘Judge, the boy has a history of absconding, from before he was even in trouble …’
    Abdini throws out his arms. ‘But little man is part of family home, with plenty things in the house - why he won’t stay?’
    ‘It’s a single-parent family, Judge. I don’t see how a woman on her own can override the will of a teenage boy.’ She ain’t seen the fucken knife in my back.
    ‘It’s nothing short of tragic,’ says the judge. ‘Every child needs a man’s hand. Is there no way to contact the father?’
    ‘Gh - he’s presumed deceased, Judge.’
    ‘Oh my. And the boy’s mother couldn’t make it to court today?’
    ‘No, ma’am - her car is under repair.’
    ‘Well,’ says Judge Gurie. ‘Well, well, well.’ She leans back into her throne and makes a church with her fingers. Then she turns to me. ‘Vernon Gregory Little, I’m not going to turn down your application for bail at this time. But neither am I going to release you. In light of the facts here presented, and commensurate with my responsibility to this community, I am remanding you in custody pending a psychiatric report. With reference to any recommendations in that report, I may consider your application at a later date.’
    ‘Bam,’ goes the hammer.
    ‘All-a rise,’ says the officer.
    Muzak plays near the cells tonight. It fucken lays me out and buries me alongside my friends. It goes: ‘I beg your par-den, I never promised you a rose gar-den.’ Hot weather always brings these fucked ole tunes, always in the background, in fucken mono. Fate. Like, notice how whenever something happens in your life, like you fall in love or something, a tune gets attached. Fate tunes. Watch out for that shit.
    I lay on the bunk and imagine this tune playing at a Greyhound terminal. In the TV-movie of my life, I’d be the crusty, mixed-up kid, all rugged and lonely, older than my years; dragging long shadows to hop a bus out of town, a bus with Mexico written on it. ‘Pssschhh,’ the crusty ole driver opens the door of his motor-coach, and smiles like he has a secret, that everything turns out fine. The kid’s boot steps out of the dirt. His guitar swings low. A cowgirl with blond hair and Levi’s sits alone, halfway down the aisle, probably wearing blue cotton panties under. Bikinis, or tangas. Probably bikinis. Nothing crusty about her. See what I mean? It’s this kind of strategic vision that separates us from the animals.
    My ole lady calls, but I can’t make my imagination deal with her. I have until fucken Wednesday to do a little dreaming. That’s when the shrink can see me. I survive two and a half days with Jesus’ leaden soul in the shadows, and three rubber nights a-twanging with soundbites of his death. In the end, I pass the time practicing faces for the psychiatrist. I don’t know if it’s better to act crazy, or regular, or what. If the shrinks on TV are anything to go by, it’ll be fucken hard to find out, because they just repeat every damn thing you say. If you say, ‘I’m devastated,’ they go, ‘I hear you saying you’re devastated.’ How do you deal with that? All I know is what I learned last week, that a healthy life should feel spongy, like a burrito. This Tuesday night, the first-week anniversary of the shootings, my life feels like a fucken corn chip.
    I hear