SIXTH TRIAL

[splitaseam]

[The whole trial thing must feel like the norm to everyone right now, and one can't help but wonder if this will keep happening until everyone has died.

There are three new epitaphs for Star Butterfly, Maui, and Fiddleford.

Here lies Star Butterfly
One of our most toughest girls
Went out with a pretty twirl

Here lies Maui
Claimed to be a great demigod
But it turns out he was a fraud

Here lies Fiddleford McGucket
He tried to wipe his mind
And ended up getting left behind

Well you all know what to do by now, huh?]

Don't spare any of the gory details.

Comments

[sixfingeredstan]

So is my husband's death.

[whistlenotchirp]

[He can feel the words coming out of his mouth before he can stop them.]

WELL MAYBE HE SHOULDN'T HAVE DRINKED SOMETHING THAT DIDN'T BELONG TO HIM!

[sixfingeredstan]

Drank.




[....Wait.]

WHAT?

[kindaruledatit]

[Stares at him.]

[whistlenotchirp]

[shut up shut up shut up

Not every bit of moonshine was meant for him, you know?! He didn't invent alcohol!

[sixfingeredstan]

It....It was his moonshine! What the hell are you saying?

[whistlenotchirp]

Me?! You're the one running around making these-these wild nonsense circus shows without a lick of-

[Fed up and angry, he throws his suit jacket at Ford.]

[sixfingeredstan]

[Yeah, Ford is getting pretty damn fed up. He snatches up that suit jacket, ready to rip it in half out of sheer frustration.]

What has gotten into you?! Explain yourself. I don't want to waste another God damn minute.

[whistlenotchirp]

[Yeah what a crummy suit. It even smells weird.]

I don't have to indulge your horsehockey for another second! You're barely part of a real country yet!

[Man still on that anti-non-italian bent.]

[sixfingeredstan]

[He catches a whiff of...something. Frowning, Ford raises that tiny suit jacket to his nose for a sniff test.]

[grimgrinningghosts]

[It smells like alcohol.]

[sixfingeredstan]

Holy Moses.

[He lowers his hand.]

You've been boozing. And after all your moralizing.

[whistlenotchirp]

And more random theories from the resident genius!

[sixfingeredstan]

Your jacket is soaked in booze. It's hardly a random theory.

[whistlenotchirp]

Its- wha-

[He freezes.]

...Oh.

[sixfingeredstan]

Yes. 'Oh.'

[aboyandhiscar]

[Mike's listening, trying to piece everything together, and then--.......]

Wait, hey! Hey, Jim!

That biiiig bottle beneath the sink? Did you think that was your stash?

Did you. . .add it to some others?

[whistlenotchirp]

What I do with my business is my business!

[aboyandhiscar]

[Mike gently places him back on his tombstone.

And then slams a fist right next to him.]

Dude! Your BUSINESS was a bottle of bleach!

[sixfingeredstan]

[Ford's breathing has gone rather funny, erratic and jerky, and his face is slowly draining of color. He has to lean forward heavily on his tombstone; suddenly, what little composure he'd managed to regain is slowly deteriorating. He squeezes his eyes shut, and when he speaks, his voice is hoarse and deathly calm.]

Did you...poison my husband.

[whistlenotchirp]

[He's about to yell some more until....]

[sixfingeredstan]

[Ford is waiting for the answer to that with bated breath because holy fuck.]

[kindaruledatit]

[Fucking wincing? Holy shit, she's not drinking the booze here ever again]