By: Steve Fite

The red rims of his worn and tired bloodshot eyes closed for what seemed like an eternity.  Even closed, they shook with a stress-induced twitch that seemed to lessen only when he opened them.  His brow hurt and his back slumped as he shuffled up the stairs to the courthouse slowly and methodically.

He looked through the top of his glasses at a directory to find:

“Ervin J Brickston, Attorney-at-Law Suite 310”

He reached in his back pocket to read the piece of paper he’d stashed…

“You are Ervin Brickston,” it read, simply.

“Huh,” he mused.  “Guess I’m a lawyer.”

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