I would blame this on an overdose of cold medicine, but I’m not on anything but tessalon pearls for cough right now. And, actually, this is an old idea of mine that I’ve had since starting to work at my law office, but I’ve not done anything with it. For whatever reason, it came to mind today, and I’ve decided to try to take a crack at it again.
I kind of imagined the endeavor as a cooky, comic sitcom or, at the very least, an Adult Swim animated short cartoon in the style of Harvey Birdman, Attorney-at-Law. But instead I’ve decided to make it kind of like a graphic novel without the drawings. So, without further ado:
Two years ago, the Browns Ferry Nuclear Power Plant in Athens, Alabama exploded due to faulty construction materials. The Local Union of Ironworkers (No. 477) would have gone on record saying that this would have never happened if TVA had used union labor—like they used to—but unfortunately that union was obliterated in the nuclear holocaust that invariably follows an explosion of a nuclear power plant.
(Ref. Chernobyl, Three Mile Island)
In fact, all of northern Alabama was laid waste, and nothing survived except kudzu and houses and mobile homes insulated with asbestos. Which, surprisingly, was quite a large number. (The asbestos industry—after consulting with the egg industry—is now remaking its image and extolling the virtues of having an asbestos-clad house if you live near a nuclear power plant ). Unfortunately, though, the radiation fallout killed all of the survivors when they emerged from their homes to see “what the hell was that noise?” Sadly, there was a lot of other news going on in the world that week—like the protesters at the G8 Summit staging a naked sit-in—so the tragedy got about as much national attention as Nashville did after the 2009 flood.
(No reference; no news articles to cite)
In Tennessee, however, the radioactive fallout did a strange thing. In several rural counties in Middle Tennessee—between the Alabama border and just south of Nashville—the radiation caused random people to mutate into vampires. This was quite shocking, of course; everyone stayed inside with their guns, waiting for the rioting to start. Consequently no one rioted, but no one left their property unguarded either, and anyone brave enough to travel through that part of the state said it was as eerily lifeless as North Korea. It was only after the Tennessee Lottery ran a commercial for a new scratch-off ticket that commerce again resumed.
Once people had their beer, cigarettes and lottery tickets, it became apparent that life was going to have to go on—even if some people were going on without life. People were still driving drunk, abusing their families, wanting divorces, smoking pot, coveting their neighbor’s [wife’s] ass, getting into car wrecks, ad nauseam. Only some of those people were now vampires, and court during the day just wasn’t working. The notices for Failure to Appear were numerous enough to paper the men’s washroom on the third floor of the Deputee County Courthouse. So a night court was established, with the Honorable Judge Peter Standiff presiding for eternity.
Oddly enough, most of the lawyers in Deputee County mutated into vampires. Lawyer jokes doubled (making use of the obvious parallel between bloodsucking lawyers and… well, bloodsucking lawyers), overtaking blonde jokes as the most common form of joke-related entertainment.
Read the entire series–The Bloodsuckers: Vampire Lawyers of Middle Tennessee