I must have been walking across campus when it happened.

It was a small bible college on the edge of Appalachia - pretty scenery, naïve girls, stolid minds. I hated the place, and it hated me, it and I were a poor marriage from the moment we’d met, but I’d made my bed and had no choice but to lie, cheat, and steal in it. I’d gone to a bigger, better state school before a nervous breakdown landed me here, the victim of loving parents who felt a Christian environment would be better for me than a secular one, I’d meet a better class of people, I’d get in less trouble, my mental wounds would heal more quickly here.

Jean Paul Weeks woke up with two girls and eight breasts, duplicates being the fashion of the day. He got up, put in his beard extensions, put on a conservative pair of crotchless leather pants, kissed his wives goodby, and headed off to work. It was a morning like any other.

There is no way in hell you people aren’t going to throw the book at me. There’s no way you’re not going to send me up the river, so what’s the point of a trial? Just to pretend that you’re honorable people? You’re not. A sham show of justice? If there were any Justice left here, you’d give me a medal, not try me. It’s all just a kangaroo court, and I don’t care to explain myself to you, so you can just try me in absentia, ok? And then you can just got to hell, ok?

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