Killing Time

The Towson offices of the Special Prosecutor are small and clean. The employees there generally neglected me for months, and I was forced to run diagnostics programs just to keep from going stir crazy. Eveyone handled me carefully and seemed to be impressed by my presence. I was getting used to my newest life as an unutilized piece of office equipment. A month passed, and then a year. Finally, on November 9, 2009, my box was jolted. All of my accesories were inventoried and off I went into the dark trunk of a late model American sedan.

I wondered if this was to be the day of my reunion with young Master. It was not to be.

The next morning, I was brought downtown to what I learned was a building called the Clarence M. Mitchell, Jr. Courthouse. I remembered that name. The employees at the Special Prosecutor's Office always listened to a man on the radio named Clarence Mitchell. I detested Mr. Mitchell's radio program very much, even though it was the only entertainment option made available to me. I considered Mr. Mitchell to be a sell-out. He has a show where he baits the angry people from the suburbs about the failures of Baltimore.

It was fitting that the court building should bear that sellout right-wing agitator's name. It is a hole of hell the likes of which no human being has ever truly experienced. That will be the subject of a later discussion.

In the courtroom, I heard a familiar voice. It belonged to the man with the big office who I came to know as the Special Prosecutor. He was giving opening arguments in a criminal trial against Mom, the mother of young Master! I still could not for the life of me understand what she or I had done to deserve any of this. I was sure Mom would speak up for me and tell the Court that she and I were innocent. She did not.

I stayed boxed for days and got accustomed to being lugged in and out of that Courthouse. Then, on a Tuesday, I was removed from the box and brought before the judge. A clerk placed a tag upon my right side. 12B. I was paraded around to be ogled by a group of about a dozen men and women. When they were done with me, they placed me in the custody of the court. The Prosecutor said to the men and women that I had been purchased with stolen gift cards. When I heard that, I felt so cheap. I would have cried right there, but it would have completely melted down my circuitry. It cannot get any worse than this, I thought. And I had no idea what degradation lay in store for me next...