The Buck‑Toothed Rock Star and Other Legal Disasters — Satire

Secrets a Defense Lawyer Should Never Have Known.

Author’s Note

Set in the Chog Universe, this story is entirely fictional and driven by absurd humour. People make catastrophic choices, teeth behave in ways teeth shouldn’t, and defense lawyers witness events no legal textbook could ever prepare them for. Nothing here involves adult or suggestive material — the chaos is purely comedic.

The Buck‑Toothed Rock Star, uncontained

Quentin Succubus was a defence lawyer and a good one at that. Technically he shouldn’t have been able to sleep at night, considering some of the guilty tyrants he got off — men whose crimes were so questionable and imaginative they practically deserved museum plaques.

But Quentin slept beautifully.

There was Simon, who had come home early to find his partner in bed with another man.

They were enjoying Popa Tuesday, which infuriated Simon because Molly had always said no to him. She’d rejected the idea so many times he’d stopped asking,

Yet here she was, conducting a full‑scale survey with a man Simon had never met — a man who didn’t even have the decency to look apologetic whilst having a Swedish Bike Ride.

Simon went downstairs and got a petrol can. He set fire to the whole first floor. Then stood outside sipping a beer, enjoying the view. It was like watching an episode of Chicago Fire — except this time the budget was lower, the acting was worse, and the flames were very, very real.

They managed to escape out of a second‑floor window, much to Simon’s displeasure. They both had terrible injuries. The stranger had fallen on a metal spike and it went thirty centimetres into his Mud Cupboard — a location so anatomically confusing that even the paramedics hesitated before writing it down.

When the judge asked him if he regretted how he had handled the situation, Simon didn’t hesitate.

“I couldn’t give two shits. I only wished they’d died.”

He’d tried to stop Simon. He’d tried to nudge his client toward something resembling remorse, or at least a strategically vague apology. But Simon had insisted on “telling the truth,” insisted on detonating his own defence like a man proudly lighting fireworks in a petrol station.

Quentin had seen this kind of self‑destruction before — most memorably in Monica Haldrew, whose husband, Peter, had suffered a stroke and hired him in a state of trembling optimism.

One afternoon she took him to the top of a very steep street. The kind of hill that made cyclists reconsider their life choices. She leaned down, her lips almost touching his ear.

“I never loved you, you old bastard.”

She disengaged the brake and gave the chair a gentle, almost affectionate push.

“And I love you with all my heart, and I forgive you for what you’re doing.”

Dominic rolled down the hill gathering speed. At the bottom, a semi‑truck was thundering past at fifty‑five miles per hour. The collision was instant, catastrophic, and final.

Succubus argued it was an accident. The prosecution argued it was murder. The jury didn’t need long.

Dominic had the last laugh. He had changed his will, giving all his estate to charity.

The last Succubus heard, Monica was in jail eating a Beaver Taco — which, disappointingly, turned out to be an actual prison snack made of mystery meat and despair.

There was a repeat drunk driver who blacked out mounted the pavement and ploughed into a coffee establishment. The owner was unhurt but four staff members died.

The judge asked if he had any remorse?

“No I dont and wish I was going faster.”

The courtroom gasped — even the judge froze, stunned by the sheer cruelty of the remark.

Another woman named Bianca was a gold digger with more boyfriends than common sense.

She slept with a football player who enjoyed Catholic roulette.

An investment banker who had bizarre hobbies the way other people collected stamps — including one he called a “Hershey Highway Streetsweeper,” which, after investigation, turned out to be nothing more than him obsessively polishing a Sea Cucumber every Sunday.

And a CEO of a big company who insisted every date involve something he called a “Russian Popsicle,” which turned out to be nothing more than standing outside in winter eating flavoured ice while discussing mergers.

Then Bianca found out she had HIV. Her first reaction wasn’t fear — it was annoyance that the diagnosis didn’t come with a complimentary tote bag.

She then gave the Edinburgh Flu to other people.

Bianca was like that buck‑toothed English rock star who spread the Immaculate Infection to half the country — not through anything scandalous, but simply by coughing on people during concerts and insisting it was “part of the show.”

His guitarist once claimed that Meddie Fercury wasn’t promiscuous.

YEAH RIGHT.