The thick stench of rotting stomach fills the courtroom, as it does most days. Smells like a coupla people are dying on the inside, Bloomsday thinks. He will narrow it down to the exact culprit before the docket is over. This is because he, and he alone, finds himself whisper distance from each defendant. He, and he alone, talks rights, charges, and choices into greasy, clotted ears. In return, he'll feel their hot, moist breath on his own ear. Sometimes its the stink of booze or pot or cigarettes or cats or dogs. Mostly it's just the nauseating wave of the unwashed. Some days, it's a cocktail. Today, it's definitely, the smell of the dying. He will smell it on their breath. Death breath. The breath of death.
Bloomsday scans the crowded courtroom to narrow down the suspects.
"All rise!" the bailiff intones and the judge enters.
Bloomsday decides to hold his breath for the next four hours.
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