[Nepharski]

The courts of the Magog Cartel (With the notable exception of the Grand High Magog Courts) are amongst the most inefficient, dishonorable, and tasteless in all the history of Oddworld, if not then THE most. Over the decades, countless verdicts have been changed, altered, swapped, lost, found, redirected, burned, incinerated, handed out as flyers, and used for compost, based solely on whether the defendant or the accuser had the larger, more generous pocketbook. This twisted system would have been cast aside years ago, if not for the undeniable entertainment value. The masses of the Magog craved spectacle, and the courts delivered it in such ways that had not been seen since the infamous, now illegal, meat circuses of the ancient days. Drama, lies, confrontation, and violence; the grim crowds feasted upon such, and formed quite the fan base for late night viewing of publicly sponsored hangings and grindings.

All in all, the whole lot was quite nicely summarized by the motto of the courts of the odious Magog Cartel, which was visible from the outside and upon the stationary of every courthouse in the land:

In fraud we trust.

Virgil glanced at these immortal words on the courthouse structure. They appeared below three giant Glukkon head statues, the eyes glowing yellow, the mouths contributing filth to the air. Of course, he had little time to ponder this, as his cage shook and began to move. The BigBro carrying his birdcage-ish transportation devise shook it madly as he lumbered over to the door of the courthouse, electro-rod in his beefy, manicured hand, just in case. He swaggered into the defiled temple of law, and made his way down the hallway. Mudokon attendants had to be rushed out to smooth out the carpets afterwards (BigBros were not designed with stepping lively in mind). All this time, Virgil simply hummed an operatic tune to himself. When in prison and faced with almost certain death, the condemned often resort to many differing activities. Some try to reconcile with some previously unknown god they had managed to completely ignore throughout their life until now. Some write out a last message. Some think calmly to themselves. Some contemplate escape. Or suicide.

Virgil…he composed operatic ballads in his head. Epic ones, of at least 3 acts each, complete with prefered casting lists (Were he ever able to produce any of his shows).

Finally, they entered a vast chamber. At the far corners, the Mudokon janitorial staff could be seen removing a recent execution, whilst the Sligs responsible for the mess cleaned their rifles and laughed. The Chroniclers were shuffling their papers, making paper airplanes and the like, usually setting fire to them first with their cigarettes. And at the end of the hall, there stood the Glukkon justices, each one more hideous than the last, and all leering. Virgil fought off the inclination to sneeze. The BigBro stood before the council and held for the cage.

“Virgil the Slig,” said the central judge, who seemed to suffer from both a thick (What we would refer to as) Russian accent and a head cold, “The Grand, Holier-Than-Thou Justices of this most grand court…find you guilty of high treason.”

A Slig standing in front of a group of cameras held up translation cards for the legal-lingo inept of the populous watching from the discomfort of their own homes. It read simply: “He’s screwed.” Virgil cast a wary eye towards his (court-appointed) defense attorney. “Oh well, that’s life isn’t it?” shrugged the Chronicler, who then hastily finished his notes and hopped out the door. The condemned attention was drawn back to the central pulpits, however. “And as such, you’re sentence must fall as thus.” The Glukkon took a deep breath for emphasis. Too deep, perhaps, for he passed out, and a suitable substitute was arranged for instantly. This new judge straitened himself up, and continued off the key cards. “We have discussed your situation amongst ourselves, and believe we have a rather…unique solution to the problem.” The executioners groaned. Unique meant it would most likely be some tastefully job, probably preformed by those butchers the Vykkers, or perhaps someone else. The main problem was, it wasn’t them. Really ruined the day for them, and they thought it quite inconsiderate that they not be given the chance to further improve their marksmanship. Virgil highly doubted that they would loose sleep over it, though.

The Glukkons on the council simply leered. They leered at Virgil, the cameras, the firing squad, the Chroniclers, and (No doubt for a change of pace) at each other. The tension was thicken enough to be cut, quite literally, with a knife, although a chainsaw would have faired better and been more efficient to boot.

Virgil waited for his sentence to fall.

To Be Continued…