Monday Rewrite: Knock, Knock, Knocking on Heaven’s Door

The curmudgeonly judge wakes and snarls to himself. Another day. Another day of putting up with claimants and lawyers and insignificant, unpleasant people whining and grumbling about things they don’t like, people they don’t like, situations they don’t like. He sighs, and puts his strong feet on the floor, walks to the mirror and admires his well-fed, pampered features. He’s too good looking for this job. Should have been a movie star or a model. He turns sideways, appreciate his profile, ponders on what a wonderful specimen of manhood he is. He stretches his toned arms and flexes his manicured fingers. What was his last case yesterday? Oh… he groans and slumps a little. Yes. THAT woman. How many times has he seen her now? Dozens? More than dozens? Every day, week after week she’s been there. Going on and on about how bad things are, and when will he do something? When? When? When? He shudders, he can hear her now in his head, bashing on and on. Couldn’t wait to escape her nasty clutches and down a few extra whiskeys last night. Will she show up today? He smiles to himself. Nope. He placed the restraining order he should have placed six months ago, when she first showed up. From the moment he saw her he had a hunch she was trouble. And boy, was he right. Still. That’s all over now. No more nag, nag, nag. No more feeling like his head will explode because she won’t give up. He walks to the blinds and presses the button. The electric whirr sounds as they peel open. His jaw drops. What the… he stares. Is he dreaming? Has he not yet woken up? He stares some more, reaches up with his manicured right hand and pushes his gaping mouth closed. He grabs his discarded clothes and hauls them on, jabs the wrong leg into the wrong side of his trousers, trips, falls and has to start again. Eventually, his sweater on back to front and his trousers inside out, he tears out of his house and stands on the lawn. He thought there were just three, but now it’s more like 30. Or more. 60? 100? 200? He paces the vast lawn surrounding his mansion and starts counting. He stops at 300. 300 Billboards. Everyone of them a blazing red. Every one of them huge and proclaiming: How long? How long? Before Justice comes? I’ll never give up. Never. How long before you listen and do something? How long? He stands in the middle of the towering throng. Gasping, overwhelmed. This has got to stop. He’d better do something. Will this woman never let up…

The people who walk in darkness long for a great light.
A light that will shine on all those who live in the land of trouble.
They long for a wonderful counsellor, a prince of peace,
A man of true compassion and justice. Isaiah chapter 9 (& Luke 18)

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