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Rufus Ridiculous
by John J. McNally

"Your Honor, we are here today to determine the mental competency of the defendant, Mr. Ridiculous. My client, William Smith, is his brother, and seeks to get legal control of Mr. Ridiculous’ affairs."

The judge glanced over to the defendant sitting, without counsel, on the defendant’s bench. The man certainly looked his name. He wore a pastel blue shirt with an oversized red bow tie, and a bright yellow blazer. Judge Harold Bartholomew frowned; he was not going to set off this loose cannon in his court without someone to leash him, or lash him down if necessary.

"Mr. Ridiculous, please rise." The judge was tired from too much whiskey the night before, and that blazer wasn’t helping his hangover.

"Call me Rufus, Your Honor." The man stood, revealing pants that matched his shirt exactly, and a belt that matched his tie.

"Sir," the judge patted himself for sidestepping the issue. "Where is your counsel?"

"At home, Your Honor. They don’t like to travel much, especially in the rain."

The judge tried not to grab his head. Fortunately he would be able to get this over with quickly.

"Just exactly who is your counsel, sir?"

"Why, Mr. Feebles, of course. Prescott C. Feebles - the finest feline felony you ever met! Here’s a picture."

This drew a chuckle from the room, including the judge, though he tried not to show it, therefore further encouraging the man.

"This case will be held over until county psychologists can assess Mr. Ridiculous, until such time he will be placed into a state facility for observation. Is this acceptable to you, counsel? The judge looked directly at Mr. Sirrus, the counsel for Mr. Smith.

"Yes, Your Honor."

"Excuse me, Your Honor, but you forgot to ask me." Mr. Ridiculous had maintained a simplistic grin on his face throughout the proceedings, it didn’t waver now.

"Mr. Ridiculous, it is my opinion that you are not currently competent to defend yourself. I am putting it into the record that you are to be represented with a public defender next time you appear in this court room."

"Well, I certainly respect your opinion, after all, you’re a very snappy dresser, but I have not yet ascertained what my place is here, and I’m not sure that you can make that decision for me. How do I know that this will not interfere with my work?"

"Will counsel please approach the bench." The thought that this man even held some sort of job seemed unlikely to the judge, however there were always programs.

"Is Mr. Ridiculous employed?"

"We don’t know, Your Honor. Because of a prior restraining order, my client is not allowed on the defendant’s premises. Because of the defendant’s obvious mental imbalance, we are in the process of having that order removed."

The judge sighed deeply; this was getting worse and worse. "Counsel, I’m finding myself getting more than a little confused here. I would like to see a copy of that restraining order, please."

Mr. Sirrus went to his desk and pulled some papers out of his briefcase, and brought them to the bench.
The judge glanced quickly at the papers before him, it seemed that Mr. Ridiculous had filed a report with the police for an assault by his brother several years ago. Since that was a different branch of the courts, however, it didn’t prevent Mr. Smith from taking legal action now, nor could the defendant use it as part of his defense.

Judge Bartholomew decided to bite the bullet and call Mr. Ridiculous forward.

"Now sir, I’d like to ask you a few questions."

"Yes, Your Honor." Mr. Ridiculous beamed.

"You mentioned that you are employed. Who do you work for?"

"Oh, lots of people. I don’t know them all by name. Lots of kids too, I love kids. They’re the only ones who make sense."

Stifling an inward groan, the judge plowed on. "Do you get paid for this work?"

"Of course! Sometimes I get hugs and kisses too, that’s the best part!"

"Mr. Ridiculous," the judge winced inwardly as he said the name. The remains of his hangover dug in deep, causing pain to shoot through his temples. "Is there anyone who helps you with your money, someone who manages it for you?"

"Oh yes, Your Honor, that would be Mr. Piddleman, he’s real good with money."

"Excuse me, Your Honor." Mr. Smith stood up. "For the record sir, Mr. Piddleman is the name of Robert’s teddy bear."

Unfazed by the interruption, Mr. Ridiculous turned to his brother like a correcting parent. "It’s Rufus, dear. I had it legally changed - remember?"

"Order!" the judge rapped his gavel once. "Mr. Ridiculous, I’m sorry for any inconvenience that this may cause you, but I’m holding to my original assessment. Furthermore, since there is obviously a history of disagreement between you and your brother, after you have been examined we will hold a formal hearing. Adjourned!"

The bailiff came to lead Mr. Ridiculous away. "This wasn’t in the script," said Mr. Ridiculous, he looked down at his shirt as he was led away. "Oh, I see! Sure I can do that! But will you help me with the tough ones?"

The bailiff just shook his head in wonderment. Despite the outlandish clothes and strange behavior, he rather liked this guy, so he decided to be easy when he cuffed him.

* * *

"Hello Rufus. I’d like to ask you a few questions. " The man was Dr. Ettas, a clinical psychologist.

"Sure, Doc! They have some really great stuff here, but the food is awful! Why won’t they let me cook my own food?"

Dr. Ettas smiled, "Well they can’t risk any of the patients getting hurt in the kitchen. Now Rufus, do you know what year this is?"
"By which calendar?" asked Rufus. "I can give it to you in western, Hebrew, Egyptian, or Incan."

"Um, western would be fine." Dr. Ettas wondered if Rufus was a pathological liar, or an idiot savant.

"The year is 1998, the date is March 30th, and the time according to your watch is 11:35, which I’ll assume is based on Eastern Standard Time. If I was home I could give you the local mean time as well."

Dr. Ettas studied Rufus’ smiling face and made a note on his pad. He was betting on some kind of savant at this point.

"Rufus, do you know how to read?" Dr. Ettas was fairly sure that Rufus did read at some level, but this was a standard competency question.

"Yes sir, in six languages, including Latin and Tolkien’s Elvish script."

"Oh really? And how did you learn that?"

"The elves taught me, of course. Tolkien misinterpreted a lot of it, but the basics were there to get started. The elves taught me the rest themselves."

"So you don’t believe that Tolkien’s works were fiction?"

"To be more precise, Doc, there’s no such thing as fiction. Everything is real."

For the complete short story of
Rufus Ridiculous
by John J. McNally
just drop a quick e-mail to John at stick@hollinet.com
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