The Devil and Brian Kinney

Twelve Angry Men---and One Nasty Judge

Setting: : A Courtroom. Could this be Hell? Or is it just Pittsburgh?

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Brian and Mel walked into a room that was located inside what appeared from the outside to be an abandoned building. They had been given the address the day before by a messenger, along with the assurance that any witness requested would appear instantly upon being summoned to the Devil's makeshift Courtroom, obviating the need for formal subpoenas. There was no way to prepare witnesses either, since individuals would not only retain no memory of what occurred in the courtroom when they left it, but other than the main participants, it was agreed that no one would retain a specific recollection of anything directly related to trial preparation, to avoid witness tampering. Since there was more risk of the plaintiff doing any tampering, Mel thought this was a worthwhile concession to make. It meant, however, that she would be questioning her own witnesses cold, as in the early days of trials. In some ways, it was exhilarating; in others, it was terrifying, especially considering the stakes.

Entering the courtroom now, Mel could not help but be impressed. There was nothing makeshift in its appearance, if anything, it cast the Pennsylvania Supreme Court's courtrooms in Harrisburg and Philadelphia in its shade when it came to sheer judicial majesty. She motioned for Brian to sit at the table furthest from the jury box. This was not from choice; she knew even pissed off tricks would not be immune to the Kinney sex appeal and would have preferred to have her client as close as possible to the jurors. Unfortunately, court procedure called for the plaintiff to get that privilege, and in this case, she grudgingly conceded the courtesy. The Devil was one of the few men who could match Brian in good looks, and he could be counted on to use the proximity to his advantage with a jury comprised of gay men.

Speak of the Devil. It took all of Mel's control not to jump as the previously empty seat at the table next to them suddenly was filled with their dark suited adversary.

"Good morning, Melanie, and I hope it is a good morning for you and Brian?" The gleaming white teeth were on full display as he extended his hand to shake hers. He stretched past her toward Brian, but his target seemingly didn't notice, as the chestnut haired man was looking up, ostensibly admiring the stained glass windows above the judge's bench, a small half smile on his face. De'Ville merely laughed at the snub. Mel got down to business.

"I assume your jury is ready. Will I get to meet the judge you selected before we give our opening statements?"

"Oh, Judge Stonewall does not care for such niceties. He prefers that he enter, then they bring in the jury and we can begin. In fact, he really prefers that one skip opening statements altogether, do you really feel one is necessary? I saw you submitted a trial brief, and after all, he has the contract. This is such a simple, please pardon the term, straight forward case." De'Ville smirked.

Brian looked up at Mel, who had paled noticeably. "Judge Hiram Stonewall?" She asked, her voice seemingly firm; to someone who did not know her well, that is. After the past three days, however, Brian did not fall into that category.

He had his tiny notebook computer which had a wireless internet connection in front of him on the table, so while Mel stared down the Devil, he quickly googled the judge. Shit, no wonder Mel was losing it. Judge Hiram T. Stonewall presided over one hundred and fifty sodomy trials in Texas in the late nineteenth, early twentieth centuries, ran up a 100% conviction rate, sentencing each defendant "to hang by the neck until he be dead." Not only that, one writer reported, the good Christian judge also ordered that the poor gay bastards be castrated so they couldn't enjoy their dicks in the hereafter, either. You have to admire a man who pays attention to detail like that. Obviously, Mel was aware of the guy's reputation. Who the hell knows things like that, Brian wondered? Talk about taking your gay rights' history seriously. He was willing to bet it wasn't part of the standard law school's curriculum, along with black history and women's studies.

Brian nudged Mel to get her attention. She looked down at him; he could see the grief stricken eyes peeking through the cool lawyer facade. He forced himself to grin up at her and wink.

"Hey, Counselor, look on the bright side, after all that prick did for righteousness' sake, he must have been one pissed off homophobe to wake up dead and find out whose jurisdiction he was in. Besides, who were you expecting him to give us, Thurgood Marshall?"

Mel stared at him, frozen for a long moment; then she started giggling. De'Ville frowned; this was not the reaction he wanted, obviously.

"Well?" He asked harshly.

"Thanks for your advice, I am familiar with Judge Stonewall's record, and his prejudice against certain openings, but I feel it is necessary in this case so I shall not be waiving mine. And you?"

"Plaintiff will open first, of course," De'Ville growled.

"Why am I not surprised?" Mel smiled sweetly.

"All rise." With a puff of smoke and the distinct smell of brimstone, a burly Sergeant at Arms appeared in the room, followed by a small, somber looking, white haired man in black robes; he was wearing thick, wire-rimmed glasses low on a pointy nose. Beady eyes peeped shortsightedly over the glasses. He looked cranky, or constipated, perhaps both.

"Hear Ye, Hear Ye, this Court of the Depths of Hell and Dominions of Earth is now in Session, the Once Honorable Hiram T. Stonewall presiding. You may now be seated."

"Counselors, please enter your appearances." The Judge's voice was barely a whisper.

"Lucifer De'Ville, appearing pro se, as the plaintiff, Your Honor." Stonewall nodded as the Devil entered his appearance, his deep voice grandly proclaiming it throughout the large hall, a stark contrast to the judge's quiet tones.

"Mel Marcus, Attorney for the defendant, Brian Kinney, Your Honor." Again, Stonewall nodded, seemingly seeing nothing out of order. Acting on instinct, Mel did not use her full first name. She was wearing a pantsuit, and with her short hair and rather deep voice, for a woman, she was hoping to use the judge's apparent near-sightedness to her advantage, or at least avoid having her gender redound to Brian's disadvantage. She knew that the proper format for this judge's era would be to refer to each other by the title Counselor or Attorney, and she hoped De'Ville followed it. Thus far, he seemed to be following procedure to the letter. She hoped he was required to do so. She glanced down; Brian had written her a note. "Never thought I would be so glad that you're such a bulldyke...he actually thinks you're a guy." Mel swallowed a smile. De'Ville may not have seen through her ploy yet, but her client sure was up to every move on the board.

"Bring in the jury," Stonewall instructed the Sergeant. Another, larger puff of smoke erupted into the room, and with it, a bailiff, followed by twelve men. Brian's knuckles whitened just slightly on the Mont Blanc pen he held, as one by one, they filed past him, this jury of his peers.

Juror #1--Christ, that trick who didn't like Citizen Kane, the one he threw out when Jennifer, Justin's Mom, came over to ask him to take him in after the bashing. This was plucking from the loser's gallery.

Juror #2--That guy, who the fuck knows what his name was; Brian brought him to the Loft to give Justin practice topping and the jerk got all pissed off when Brian had to toss him out for being too rough on the kid. How the hell that trick qualifies as his, Brian Kinney's peer, was someone's idea of a joke.

Juror #3--Now that guy, his name he remembered; Marvin, the happy family man, the happy hypocrite was more like it, visiting Gayville on his business trip; he thought his account with Brian's advertising company entitled him to some action with Brian. It wasn't that attitude that pissed off Brian so much; you couldn't work in advertising as long as he had without whoring yourself out one way or another. It was the idea that there was Marvin, pretending to be Mr. Father of the Fucking Year one minute, with the pictures of the kids out for show in Babylon of all places. Then, next thing you knew, there he was, down on his knees ready to suck Brian's cock in the hotel room, when his kid called from a hospital needing her wonderful Dad because she broke her arm and she was scared and it hurt. What did he tell her? He said he was too busy taking care of business and she would have to wait until he got home. He was no better than Papa Kinney. Fuck, he was worse; at least with Jack, you knew better than ever to expect anything. Of course, in Jack's case, he more likely than not would have been the one to break your arm, but that was neither here nor there. Point was, it felt good calling for Marvin's car to take him to the airport, canceling the hotel reservation, and walking bare-assed out of that room, cock flying high and proud. Marvin still looked as pissed as he did that night, as he sat there in the jury box. Brian smiled at him sweetly.

Juror #4--Damn, what was that one's name? Never got it. Never wanted it. This one wanted to give it, wanted to make plans for another time, especially since Justin made some wise crack to him as he was leaving about being the guy Brian fucked more than once, Brian recalled, and the trick got pissed off. Guess he wanted to feel special, too. Oh well. Some people really needed to learn to get over things better; he was another one who looked like he held grudges.

Jurors #5 to 10--More of the same. Tricks who wanted to stay the night and he said no, who wanted to come, not just cum, again, and he said no. What was their problem, and why were they so damned pissed? It wasn't like he ever promised them anything he didn't deliver. If he ever promised anything, and quite frankly, he couldn't remember making any promises to this particular group, it would only be that they would have a good time, sexually. He was willing to bet his soul that each of them did. Did he promise that they wouldn't want more, that they wouldn't feel cheaper in the morning for giving something and not getting something back? And that was bullshit anyway, he was not a selfish lover, he defied any of them except Mr. "I Don't Like Citizen Kane" to say that he was not a unstinting lover, devoted to giving his partners pleasure, at least the ones he brought back to the Loft, and as far as the Citizen Kane guy, what can you expect from a man with such piss poor taste? Who the hell decided these losers were his peers? You wouldn't catch him whining about an unfair exchange when he was willing to bet each of them got more satisfaction from their encounter with him than he got from any of them, not to mention the value to their rep just from being able to say they had been with Brian Kinney. Just being seen dancing with him was known to improve your sex life; actually getting to the Loft improved the quality of fag's future fuck partners ten-fold.

Brian took a deep breath and calmed himself; he was letting this jury get to him like Mel had almost let the judge get to her. He almost didn't bother to look at the last two jurors but then decided to do so just for the heck of it. Shit. The Devil had a sick sense of humor. At least he didn't include Kip Thomas; he supposed he should be thankful for small favors.

Juror #11--The cop. Rikert. The one who was Stockwell's partner. Yeah, that was one faggot who hated Brian's guts. Hard to see how Mel could convince that one not to send him to fry in hell. He didn't look pissed off, if anything, the guy's eyes looked as dead as ever. Brian forced himself to look at the next one, and felt his stomach muscles clench.

Juror #12--Same greasy black hair falling over one eye, same stupid soul patch on his chin. Only thing missing was the fucking violin. Ethan Gold.

Mel scribbled a note, so as not to annoy the judge by talking out of order since he was giving his opening remarks to the jury.

"Well?"

"Let's just say there's no chance it's a 'hung' jury," Brian wrote back.

Then, as she made a face at him, he cocked his head toward the end of the jury box, where the last two jurors sat in the back row, and wrote, "Recognize them?"

"Shit, there goes unanimous, maybe Justin can sway him?" Mel obviously had only looked at the last juror.

"Don't get your hopes up, look again at 11, name Rikert ring a bell?"

Mel looked at him blankly until Brian drew a crude picture of a dumpster, a stick figure hanging out of it, and a pistol. Stockwell, she breathed, and he nodded. Just then, De'Ville stood to begin his opening.

As she turned glassy-eyed to watch the jury listen to De'Ville, she felt Brian shift in his seat so that he was closer, lips at her ear, "come on, Counselor, you didn't want this to be easy, did you? I have faith in you, you know." His voice was low, amused. She cleared her throat. How the hell could he be so confident, so cool? There was no way she was going to appear any less so. She was Melanie Marcus, for fuck's sake, and if Brian Kinney could do it, so could she. She crossed her arms and adopted a slightly bored expression as De'Ville commenced.

"Your Honor, Gentlemen of the Jury, Counselor, Defendant Kinney, I, the plaintiff, Lucifer De'Ville, intend to prove that the defendant Brian Kinney sold his Soul, a commodity for which he had no use, to yours truly, seven years ago this week, in consideration for three wishes, to be used at such time as he saw fit, in a manner of his own choosing. Now anyone who knows Mr. Kinney, and I believe that each of you gentlemen of the jury has had the fortune, or shall we say, misfortune," De'Ville chuckled warmly, pausing for the jury's own laughter, "of knowing Mr. Kinney in one manner or another, over the past several years. You can have no reasonable doubt that he has cashed in those three wishes. He has everything a man could wish for, one, the material wealth and possessions that come with professional success.

Two, undeniable good looks that curiously do not seem to fade with age," De'Ville paused meaningfully, to give the jury time to examine Brian like a prize stallion at auction, several of them actually growled with jealousy, while others, including the bailiff, looked him over with obvious lust. "Last, but certainly not least, there is his legendary sexual prowess, a skill that rivals the great lovers of history, Don Juan, Casanova…."

"I have to get him to write my next resume," Brian murmured. "Sssh." Mel warned him, looking at the judge, who, thankfully, seemed to be sleeping.

"Yet, despite enjoying all of this, the fruit of his undeniable gifts, indulging to excess, many would say, in the benefits of his bargain, the defendant, a man who doesn't even have a use for his soul, is refusing to tender it up as legal tender for what he been enjoying so much with so many for so long. Gentlemen of the Jury, what I ask you is quite simple, make Brian Kinney pay."

With that, De'Ville flashed his gleaming smile, and sat down. Judge Stonewall twisted his mouth sourly, and rasped "Counselor," in Mel's general direction. Her cue.

Mel stood crisply and walked over to the jury box, standing at an angle between it and the Judge, with her back to De'Ville, blocking him from the jury as best she could with her small frame.

"Your Honor, Gentlemen of the Jury, Mr. De'Ville, thank you. My client and I appreciate the time you are giving to this matter today. My opponent is a Master of Smoke and Illusion, but a Courtroom, even one designed by the Devil, is supposed to be a place for truth, where illusion is stripped away. This isn't Babylon, where strobe lights, pretty cascading paper and thumpa-thumpa music, not to mention the drugs and the booze, can combine to distract your five senses. Here we have bright clear lights, and the only special effects will be courtesy of my adversary. My client and I have only the truth to work with, but I submit that the truth is enough. This may be a court of hell, but it is one of Earth too, and here on Earth, we believe that twelve men, good and true, can still find truth, given the guidance of a judge who remembers what those black robes require him to do, which is to be fair, and guide you in your search for the truth."

"Yes, you all knew Brian Kinney in one context or another, and while you may think that he is, pardon my language your Honor, but we are speaking the truth here, and some situations call for strong language, you may think Brian Kinney is an asshole, a selfish bastard, a conceited prick… you name it, and I have probably called him the same and worse." Brian looked over at her, smiling faintly. Good thing Mel wasn't writing his resume, he thought. But she was getting that jury of twelve angry tricks to smile again, and it was a more genuine humor than that generated by De'Ville; even the judge was paying attention now, which was more than he did to De'Ville's opening. So maybe the outcome was not a foregone conclusion? At least the Devil's teeth were no longer showing. Mel continued."

"But there is one thing I can not recall anyone ever calling Brian Kinney, and that is a liar. If each of you, none of you friends of Brian's, is honest with yourself, you will have to admit, and this trial will prove it again, the man tells the truth. Often painfully so, and when you don't want to hear it, and he sure doesn't sugar coat it, does he, but always the truth." A few of the tricks were shaking their heads ruefully; even Gold was looking uncomfortable with his memories. "

"Something else you can count on is that the Devil lies. He is the Prince of Lies, nobody does it better. This trial isn't about whether Brian Kinney is good looking, or good at his job, or even whether he is good in bed. When the plaintiff suggests to you that it is, he is tricking you. No one is denying that Brian Kinney made a deal with the Devil, Brian admits it; what is at issue is whether the Devil kept that deal. Because Brian is perfectly within his legal rights to make the Devil prove he granted Brian's wishes, and the Devil has not even told you what those three wishes were, has he? I can't believe there is a man among you that thinks that Brian Kinney needed to sell his soul seven years ago to become good in bed, or good at his job, or even to become good looking. You'd have to have been living under a rock in Pittsburgh more than seven years not to know that he has been the ruling stud of Liberty Avenue for far longer than seven years, and that he didn't get to the top of his profession in just seven years. So, my challenge to the plaintiff is, make him prove to you what it is he did for the defendant that warrants Brian giving up his soul, because if he claims Brian Kinney wasn't handsome, sexy and successful more than seven years ago, that's a crock of horse manure."

The jury looked thoughtful. De'Ville looked pissed. Brian squeezed Mel's hand as she sat down. There, they had overcome that tiny bit of small print in the contract that prevented Brian from revealing what his wishes were. De'Ville was going to have to spill the beans. At least, Mel hoped so. The Judge looked at De'Ville and stated, "your first witness Counselor."

After a pause, De'Ville stood up and with a smirk over at Melanie and Brian, called out:

"The plaintiff calls Michael Novotny to the stand."

What the fuck?

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