wtf this is supposed to be three whole pages dammit gaia


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He had met his limp some many years ago; inevitably in some war or tussle for the heart of a young lass, or something equally as noble and classic and brightly nostalgic. Possibly it was a memento from a cold-hearted villain, a souvenir given him by henchmen. It was merely an almost painless limp, a slight injury fixed with the aid of a cane (something that was made to demand respect and so he found himself often adjusting the collar of his coat as if he was some king while holding the cane by its curved head) – however, limps were quite hard to come by in recent days and so he always had to be ready to explain it. Of course, how problematic that was when he had very much forgotten the origin himself.

Which explained how some days he insisted he sacrificed his leg’s primary motor functions for the sake of the queen of England, although that was significantly uncommon.

His theory was that because he was old, he knew everything. The problem, he would explain to any poor breathing thing that asked in some vague way, was on the way out, things would become jumbled, and so he just tried everything until something fit right. For instance, he limped as a result of an injury born into his family when they were still slaves in Egypt, building pyramids.

Really, he would say. Ask him anything.

He said this only when he didn’t know something.

In that sense (the one where, it seemed, he was a crazy old bat, completely out of touch with reality and hopefully soon locked away for both his health and the health of the nation) he didn’t seem quite fit to be a prosecutor, but there he was. He would, actually, say that he was very good at it. He would often get requests delivered to his home, a large and lofty place with stone tile and stained wood pillars and such that gave it the feel of actual nature. They would ask for silly things such as “one Mr. Amos Sharpe necessary” and he would being a politely systematic process of witnesses, suspects, et cetera, and in that way build the case. Multiple, really; it was best to piece together as many as possible for each dead end he might hit. His plan for getting such information was simple and very efficient: flowers.

The doorbell rang again. Mr. Sharpe waited patiently in front of the apartment door, a trio of lilies beginning to curl around his fist. His other hand rested in the small of his back most nobly as if he were some modern aristocrat, one white-haired piece of antiquated sophistication in such a cyber-interactive world. He smiled with an old, pleasant glow that came with surprise bouquets and flaking yellowed pictures of a favorite grandfather as a young boy. He stood straight, like a board or a boarding school student. His confidence flowed into the lily stems and they took stood proudly straight, and with grand timing, the door opened.

“I assume you appreciated the gift,” said Amos Sharpe, offering the new three to the woman at the door. The rest of the bouquet peered over her shoulder from a pretty vase. A hand fluttered over her heart, dainty – she moved like she was some old butterfly trying to keep its head up while it wavered about. She shared with him an aging smile and took the flowers from him to her nose, breathed deeply, as if she appreciated his every gesture. Then she held the flowers to her breast and said, “Those were from you, you silly old thing?”

Mr. Sharpe cocked his head to the side with a funny smile and an expression that read clearly, ‘yes, my dear lady, now do allow me in.’ And, meeting expectations, she insisted he come in and sit down, have some tea – coffee, then, if he didn’t drink tea! While she busied herself with pleasing her guest, Mr. Sharpe looked about the apartment, innocently curious. This woman liked flowers. (He patted himself on the back for sending her some, then.) The apartment was largely floral, lined with shelves of potted plants and gardening utensils – outside, the balcony seemed overrun by vines and flowers. A turtle wandered through the rooms, eating certain leaves and making use of the low plants. Amongst all the mess there was a sense of organization: nothing out of place, everything with a spot.

The coffee pot clattered gently on the table and the woman sat across from him to one side of the flower vase, wiping her hands on the dress she wore. “So,” she said, eager and sweet. She looked as if she was going to prom. “I read your card.” Referring, of course, to the one he politely attached to the bouquet; it read that he would be here to talk to her at around that time that night. It was almost like she was breathless with the excitement. Mr. Sharpe nodded, and smiled.

“You want to talk to me?” she continued, slipping his three lilies into the vase to join their brothers. Mr. Sharpe nodded again.

“Across the way, correct, my dear lady?”

She flapped her hand like it would wave away his flattery. “Please, call me Margaret – and what?”

“Margaret,” he agreed. “Yes, Margaret – it happened across the way, correct? The murder.”

Margaret slowly thought, and nodded then, looking pleasantly sure. “Yes, of course.”

”Then why, dear Margaret, are you missing your shears?”

Amos Sharpe was precisely that: sharp, and he was particularly interesting in his balance of respect for the possibly suspicious. He held them in a sort of light that made it impossible for him to speak to them any bit negatively, given they were absolutely honest and innocent. And yet, simultaneously, they were always particularly jumpy. Thus he set up his tests of wit. As he stared at length into this lady’s eyes, her gardening shears lay at the bottom of Mr. Sharpe’s suitcase. Margaret gasped, blinked, looked for the shears out of the corners of her eyes, and at last stuttered, trying to explain this breach of secure organization and dear goodness was she possibly robbed?

“I don’t believe you were robbed at all,” replied Mr. Sharpe calmly, affixing her with a mildly amused look and waiting for her to understand.

Unfortunately, when Mr. Sharpe began to work as such, he had no idea where he would go with this sudden hypothetical path. Fortunately, his witnesses assumed he did know his directions, and in turn though they knew where his destination was as well. As it were they usually led him into a rather dangerously useful account. For instance, when he left Margaret that day, she was nervously gulping down coffee because she had just recently found herself explaining exactly how the suspected party was innocent and how the dead party was, in turn, not so. Mr. Sharpe was quite pleased with himself in a most modest way: on his way out, he plucked a few flowers (exclamation points to his Goodbye to Miss Margaret) and began whistling. He felt as though he was going to prom.

Miss Margaret had brought up a question during the interrogation, however, one that wasn’t unfamiliar to Mr. Sharpe; she had asked why – if he knew the case was perfect for him, why find the truth? And so here he told her a story.

“A prosecutor,” he began, “is in many ways unrelated to the case at hand. We have the unfortunate job of proving someone guilty – usually whoever is most convenient. However, this blind groping of things can make one quite uncomfortable. Thusly we acquaint ourselves with the matter at hand much like you would with the aunt you’ve never met: carefully, and with caution in case she turns out to be entirely out of her mind and harboring a small army of felines. This accomplishes many things simultaneously: we become significantly more at ease, we understand has happened, and we can pose quite a challenge.” For the sake of dramatics he paused. “That’s what we’re employed to be, you know. Challenges.”

He sipped his coffee then and was asked about his limp. He informed her it was a horrible accident involving malicious vines and unpleasant plants – for nothing more than her mental health.

The final product was his limping easily into court and being seated behind his podium while the room came to order. He smiled gently at the defense attorney across the way as to break the stiff air that fell across the building when court began. Everything always was very tense: the judge’s grip on the gavel, the harsh silence hanging in the air, Mr. Sharpe’s recently ironed suit (which he found most uncomfortable and usually slipped the shoes of which off during the processions). Mr. Sharpe propped the head of his cane against the next chair over, folded his hands politely in his lap, and listened as court began.

Hours later, he lost. As he left he inquired of the young defense attorney (a spiky haired lad which he knew only vaguely) how his other son was doing – his name was Miles, he believed? And Mr. Sharpe walked off slowly, basking in the futile attempts to understand him that the defense attorney was performing.

He did know everything, you know.