The Judge

A tale for Easter… and again hearty wishes to you all.

The Judge took another puff on the cigarette he had lit after ‘asking permission’ from the individual in custody. Then he resumed interrogating the Sausage: “What were you doing in Mabley Street in the company of a Frankfurter, yesterday evening?” His question fell on dead silence.
The Sausage was covered with cold fat sweat. It wiped its wet forehead quickly and muttered in a trembling voice: “All I did was accept an invitation—”
“What kind of invitation?” pressed the Judge with his stern swine frown.
“An invitation … well, just an invitation—”. The Sausage felt a distressing surge of anxiety.
“I repeat the question once again. Answer this: What kind of invitation?”
The Sausage dropped its head, as if resigning itself to its inescapable end. “It was an invitation to the table.”
The Judge straightened up in his armchair. He grunted imperceptibly. “So, an invitation to the table.”
“Yes—” admitted the Sausage, while the first teardrop rolled down its rind.
“An invitation to the table … from a carnivorous entity, one must suppose.”
“Yes Your Honour, an invitation to the table from a carnivorous entity.”
The pig, that is the Judge, made a cold gesture to the guard waiting for orders: “Take it back to the cell.”
When the guard had gone out with the Sausage, who was by now shaking with sobs, the Judge, that is the pig, got up and went to see himself mirrored in the window, which reflected everything with the evening’s darkness behind it.
As he contemplated himself in the improvised mirror, an overwhelming sense of admiration enraptured him.
“This is not a swine’s appearance,” he smilingly paid himself homage in a low deep tone. “A Judge is standing here in his high authority instead, a benefactor on the verge of receiving nationwide acclaim. But what do I see down there?” he suddenly gasped, and his snout turned pale.
Looking at a corner of the yard, he had noticed the presence of a pure white lily, which must somehow have eluded all controls.
“That li—” the words choked in his throat.
With his heartbeat going mad, he collapsed on the shiny polished floor. It was his last hour.
He did not even have time to call for help.
He died like that, like the swine he was.

Taken from Isidoro D’Anna, A Book of Curious Tales, CreateSpace, 2013. All rights reserved.
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