D.I.L.F Dad I'd Like to Fight

The flow of perfunctory prosecutorial poppycock came to an end, and it was then time for me to nuke the entire farce.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” I said, getting to my feet.

It was beautiful. The words flowed like water, twisting and turning into elegant poetry, pointing out the no less than five previous occasions, with dated documentation to come up later if needed, that the character and general storyline in question, had been used. Showing the work, and the elements there of, to be functionally vernacular, a term for a work with no known creator that is so embedded in a culture as to be part of it, if not public domain. So, if my client was in violation of copyright, so was the plaintiff.

The prosecution went next, forgoing the right to call a witness, knowing it to be pointless.

“I have no witnesses, your honor,” I said, collecting my documents, “but I do have dated documentation corroborating my assertion.”

“Bring it forward.”

It really was funny how often legal dramas showed lawyers just wandering into the well in front of the bench, without permission. Try that in real-life and the bailiff would tackle you. Fortunately for me, I had clearance and approached, with all due, feigned respect for the slumbering octogenarian who claimed to have never heard of Punk.

I wish I were able to use cameras in the courtroom. The expressions on the other lawyers when the case was dismissed in just under an hour worthy of immortalization.

Still tasting victory, I strode out of the courthouse, doing my best not to strut, not wanting to look unprofessional while still within those hallowed halls. The sidewalk was quite a different story. As soon as my feet hit pavement, my jacket was off and over my shoulder, as I went full Bee Gees back to the office.

“Good day?” Kate asked.

“Glorious,” I beamed.

I hung my jacket on the coat rack by the door, tweed still a bit of an overestimation when it came to weather. The fan spun, mostly silently, filling the room with sweet, cool air. The air-conditioning had been turned off the month before, in preparation for the coming of Fall.

Basking in the cool breeze, I tilted back in my well-designed chair and closed my eyes, letting my mind wander. It was a nice thing to do on occasion, especially with a lot going on. A good brain vacation could be just the thing.

The beach was a new one. Likely a call-back to the guided transcendental meditation course I went to, under some duress in college. Always with the calm, rolling sea, the meditation directors. At least in my admittedly limited experience.

Beaches were plentiful in the area, so it was difficult to decipher exactly what exact stretch I happened to be on. Most sandy stretches in direct sun looked remarkably similar to each other.

From what I could tell, the beach was empty. A vacant, somewhat derelict stretch of ocean that almost definitely put it in Huntington Beach. Home of homicidal surfers and modern skater culture. Except none of that was immediately apparent.

The ambiance carried a sense of times past. A long time ago, back then long before even surfing was thought of. Far more conducive to relaxation. The fact I’d need actually been to Huntington, at any point in history, had little bearing on the proceedings. What I believed was referred to as ‘dream logic.’ I never knew it applied to daydreams as well.

She looked like a goddess, wading toward me across the damp sand. Low tide coming up to hug her ankles every so often. Her high heels clutched in one hand, the hem of her dress in the other. She held it up well above the playful waves. Sure as a train on the rails, she came right toward me. Her gaze as fixed as her soft smile.

“Hi,” Emilie said, towering over me as I lounged on a blanket in the sand.

I nodded my greeting, the power of speech fleeing from me like a spooked kit of pigeons at the sight of her. Anything I might say felt like it could only do harm. Where had I heard that before?

“It’s okay,” she said, reading my mind, “may I sit?”

I nodded again, a rhythmic movement of my head coming to be my primary source of communication. Eat your heart out, whale song.

Adjusting her dress just so, she wafted her way down beside me. Her legendary ass was beautifully outlined in the newly taut lower half of the dress.

We sat in silence for a moment, just watching the tide come in. I wanted to touch her so much, but didn’t have permission so refrained. I may have been a player, but consent was still vital.

“It’s okay,” she said, again out of nowhere.

Tentatively, I put an arm around her. Emilie’s scent filled my head, making me slightly dizzy in the most wonderful way. It wasn’t perfume. She never wore any. I’d noticed at least that much in our passing association. We really should have known more about each other, being office neighbors for so long. Not quite what had been meant by ‘love thy neighbor’ but there it was.