“You may approach, Bogdan Bogdanovich.”

And so Bogdan Bogdanovich did. The lugubrious man lugged his stout frame from his chair – walnut, standard-issue, much like the desks, pews, and paneled walls – and walked precisely twelve steps (for he had counted) to stand directly in front of the middle of the three Judges before him.

“Do you know why you are here today?” the Middle Judge asked.

“Has Pantanovich not already told you?” Bogdanovich asked with a guffaw. “I mean really,” he continued, “has he not already told you?” It seemed as though it was obvious that everyone knew that Pantanovich had told them, that he should have, at the very least, if he respected them that is, told them; and that they, the judges, should be embarrassed that they had not already been told, for it meant that they had been disrespected.

Middle Judge, sensing that the prestige of the Court was on the line, attempted to save face. “Leave the question-asking to us, Mr. Bogdanovich. It is your job to provide answers.” The response was so palpably flat that the stands erupted into a massive groan before Middle Judge had even finished speaking. Bogdanovich simply looked down and shook his head, as though disappointed in the very judges who were trying him, while Anna Petrovna, a regular visitor to such things and a known fan of the Court in these circles, went so far as to even loudly cross her arms and legs, accompanying this gesture with an incredulous chuckle and flick of her hair at the person sitting next to her. Left Judge, seemingly preoccupied, flashed his legal pad to his two colleagues. “TREAD CAREFULLY,” he had written, “COURT SEEMS IN BALANCE.”

Before they could even tread, however, Bogdanovich continued: “I am guessing Pantanovich has not. That is no problem, though, for he –”

At this very moment, Bogdanovich was interrupted by the thunderous revving of what could have only been an enormously large engine, a crash, and a lone shriek. A comically small car – one which, perhaps, some would even call a “clown car” – had burst through the doors of the court room, raced, veritably raced down the middle of the pews, zipped past Anna Petrovna, and skidded to a dangerous stop right between the ground upon which Bogdanovich stood and the towering dais upon which the three Judges perched. A plump, middle-aged woman in the stands, not knowing what to make of the moment, broke out into a round of nervous applause. The rest of the court, stunned, watched in silence as a towering man climbed out of the vehicle.

Middle Judge, growing so red that to Bogdanovich he began to resemble a ketchup bottle in a wig and cloak, immediately commenced with the feverish pounding of his gavel and the spitting and shouting of “Order! Order in the Court!” and all the other things which a decent Judge feels ought to be spitted and shouted in moments like these. When this useless fit had subsided, for truly nothing had frozen the court into silence and order more than the pure shock of what had just transpired, Middle Judge then addressed the intruder. “And who exactly are you?” He continued: “You, who have made a mockery of my courtroom? You, who have broken my courtroom doors? You, who have left black skid marks on my courtroom floors? You, who have made Sasha Lavrova clap like a fool; you, who have made -- ” Here, Middle Judge, on account of growing so red, which itself was on account of his blood pressure growing so high, stopped, and breathed for a moment, before continuing in a seething whisper: “who are you, and why should I not have you kicked out and arrested right this very moment?”

“The answer to one is the answer to both,” the man responded, before ascending into a yell: “I am Pantanovich!”

-----

Once the court had settled down from this startling announcement, Pantanovich continued on. “I will tell you why I am here,” he said.

“As you can see, this car which I came in is much too small for my frame. In fact, you expressed anger at me earlier that I had broken your doors and skidded your floor – rather, that I allegedly did this – even though, if I had done it, Most Estimable Judge, it would’ve been firmly beyond my control. The only way I may fit in my car, to be frank with you, Judge, is upside down and crumpled – yes, upside down, with my hands controlling the pedals, knees controlling the wheels, my head being where my crotch should be, my crotch being where my head should be, and my stomach, oh my stomach – it is so firmly pressed against the seat that even an imprint has formed. It is altogether a sorry state of affairs, I assure you.”

As Pantanovich spoke these last lines, he had lifted up his shirt, causing both Left and Right Judge to look away in disgust and exaggerated propriety. Only Middle Judge inched his head closer.

“It is a sorry state, indeed,” he uttered as he inspected the grill mark that, true to his word, bisected Pantanovich’s stomach, straight across the belly button. “But still,” Middle Judge went on, “that does not answer the question at hand, Mr. Pantanovich: namely, why is it that a man such as yourself is driving a vehicle such as that? You appear to me to be no fool when it comes to matters of measurement; surely you knew of your height and of the car’s incompatible dimensions at the time of purchasing?”

“Ah, I was just getting to that, Most Estimable Judge, I was just getting to that!“

-----

“Bogdan Bogdanovich lives in the same house in which he was born,” Pantanovich began, with such verve and dramatism that it had appeared he had rehearsed this story before for a play, “and it was this house that I had visited on the night of the 15th of September.”

“Bogdan opened the door with a familiar creak. We went, as we usually did, straight to the dining room – a room of modest proportions, about the same size of from where I am, to that pew, straight to that window, and back to where Right Judge sits.” At the end of this sentence he had demonstrated, with the pointing of his hands, a small rectangle, presumably with just enough room for a table and other sensible furnishings.

“Right where His Most Estimableness sits,” he went on, “there is a window, and opposite him sits a wood stove, which Bogdan fed all throughout the night. Through the window,” and here he wagged his finger diligently at Middle Judge, “there is a woodland of magnificent size and beauty. Often, during lulls in our conversation or when prolonged eye contact became bothersome, Bogdan and I would glance over and stare, thankful for the light of the full moon.”

“As we finished dinner, Bogdan, with a motion I recognize well, reached over into a cabinet on his right and placed onto the table a bottle of a clear, milky liquid. With another gesture he pulled out two glasses. ‘Davai,’ he said, and so I did, pouring for us one, two, three – I don’t remember how many.”

“Soon the liquor began to conduct its funny dance and the room became insufferably hot from that damn stove, which Bogdan continued to feed as though it was still hungry! As he moved to burn another log, I grabbed him by the shoulder and whispered in his ear: ‘stop and take me to the field, please.’ As I spoke, I sensed how acrid my breath was, seasoned by glass after glass of those spirits. Bogdan recoiled before he could formulate a response. ‘Yes,’ he said, after quite some time, once the smell had passed through his nose, ‘let us do that.’”

“And so he rose, and I rose, and we marched out of the house. He carried with him another bottle, while I held between my fingers two glasses that clinked as we walked deep into the forest. After such and such time – for I can scarcely remember how long, since it seemed we appeared there instantly – we had arrived.”

“As soon as we passed through the last trees, I ran from Bogdan, jumped, and leapt onto the ground. A bed of flowers crumpled under my weight. Oh, the flowers, my Most Estimable Judge, if only you could see them! If only you could smell them! I could make them out then, even in the dark of the night, the gray of the moonlight powerless against their colors! There were asters, pink cosmos, and roses! Hibiscus, anemone, jewelweed, bluebeard, and sedum! Marigolds and passionflowers and wing-stems and –”

“I believe we quite get it,” interrupted the Middle Judge, “the field had many flowers. Get on with it.”

“Bogdan came some moments later and laid down besides me,” continued Pantanovich, seemingly unperturbed. “We stayed like this for a while, laying on our backs, faces to the sky, staring at the moon. At some point, I again do not remember when, nor would I be able to tell you if I did, I felt the light of the moon searing my eyes. The flesh on my very face felt hot. I sat up, grabbed the bottle from Bogdan’s limp hands, for at this point he was close to sleep, and popped the cork quietly so that he would not hear.”

“I plucked, from beside his head, a marigold, and dropped it into the bottle. In mere seconds it withered from the strength of that spirit and left the liquid a sickly orange color, made all the more ghastly by the pale light that passed through it. I winced for a moment at the thought of what this liquid must be doing to my body, on account of how quickly it killed that poor flower, but I waved that thought away as though with the frivolous flick of my hand. With Bogdan now soundly asleep, I tilted up the bottle and let that orange viscous liquid set my mouth and throat aflame.”

“From here I remember little, until waking up in the midst of…”

---

“Steam! Fire! Smoke!” Here he clapped his hands. “Blood mixed with saliva to make syrup, dangling from my lips as I awoke!” Here he clapped his hands again. “Blood and window shield congealed, dashboard smashed, queerer mirrors, grassy glass, and wheels unreeled!” Here he clapped his hands three times in quick succession.

“I opened the door of that smoldering wreck and ran! I ran and ran and ran, running to that house, running to Bogdan, running to Bogdanovich, running on the road, running under the Moon, running into the woods! My heart nearly burst, pumping with each pump blood to the cuts on my face! To the cuts on my face, hands, and legs! Orange liquor gushed through veins and out my eyes, my eyes, pores, and sweat! Rasped breath I ran and bloodied hand I knocked to meet the man I met!”

“‘Bogdan!’ I screamed, ‘Bogdan!’ I said, ‘Bogdan, I need your help! Something terrible has happened,’ and with that sentence said I wept. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I can tell,’ he said, and soon sat me down in bed.”

“Not long after, Bogdan would tell me,” Pantanovich continued, mania subsided, “the police would come, and ask about his friend. ‘Drinking?’ ‘In the slightest, but what could one expect?’ ‘Driving?’ ‘Not a chance, his car was stolen’ – or something to that affect. ‘Stolen?’ ‘Stolen.’ ‘Have you heard about the wreck?’ And soon, from there, as you know, my Judge, the matter was pronounced dead.”

---

The court sat in storied silence after Pantanovich finished his tale. Middle Judge was in disbelief. “Unbelievable,” he thought, “here is a man who has just confessed to a myriad of crimes! Reckless endangerment, obstruction of justice, driving under the influence – just to name a few! And all this when brought in for such a small offense -- the illegality of his comically small vehicle! Was this man mad?”

“I am not mad,” Pantanovich began, startling Middle Judge, who now had the uneasy feeling that this strange man in front of him could read minds. “I brought all of this up for good reason: to prove that I am undeserving of punishment.”

“Oh really?” Middle Judge asked with a chuckle. To his delight, the rest of the court joined in for a laugh. Public opinion was no longer on Pantanovich’s side.

“Yes, for I am punished enough for these crimes as is. And so is Bogdan.”

“And how exactly is that, Mr. Pantanovich? Please, enlighten us.”

Pantanovich paused here and looked off for a moment, gathering his thoughts.

“The marigold is a funny flower,” he began. “I believe it cursed me that night. It condemned me to this car, where I sit crumpled – a reminder, mind you, from the flower, of what should’ve happened to me that night. And Bogdan – poor Bogdanovich – he who I used to drive everywhere and anywhere must now walk! So I ask you Judge: has not the worst already come to pass, except now everyday? Is that not punishment enough?”