PROSECUTOR HORNING: So we have a contract already falsified and invalidated by misrepresentation of your status. Let's move on to the meat of this contest - the prizes. We're all very aware that you were in the market for some poor hillbilly's soul that day. It's no surprise this contract places at stake Mr. Frent's very own 'poor hillbilly soul.' Here's where things get sticky. As a wager against Mr. Frent's soul, you yourself put up, as it says here in the contract, "a shiny fiddle made of gold." Is that correct?
SATAN: The shiniest golden fiddle in all of Hell and beyond!
PROSECUTOR HORNING: Yes indeed, Devil. That certainly sounds alluring. And we all know the tale of how you played a few horrendous notes on your fiddle, and then further attempted to scam Mr. Frent by allowing 'a band of demons' to join in. Let's go ahead and chalk up another violation of the contract there. So you and your demons finish your little jam session, and then Johnathon Frent played his piece. And what was the result of this, Satan?
SATAN: I hung my head ... because I knew that I'd been beat. I reluctantly laid my golden fiddle on the ground at Mr. Frent's feet. He then offered me a future rematch and proceeded to call me a son-of-a-bitch.
PROSECUTOR HORNING: Is this the fiddle you laid at Mr. Frent's feet? I'd like to present into evidence Exhibit 2a: The Prize Fiddle awarded to Johnathon Frent after he put his soul on the line that day.
SATAN: Damnit ...
PROSECUTOR HORNING: Members of the jury, you can tell just by looking at this "fiddle" that it's not an illustrious golden fiddle from Hell, is it? What I'm holding here is a tiny plastic children's guitar. It's spray-painted a dingy shade of gold, and packed full of sandbags to add heft. Now you and I can take one glance at this ... this ... mockery of an actual instrument and tell that it's not shiny, it's not gold, and it's not even a fiddle for that matter. But Johnathon Frent couldn't tell the difference - because Johnathon Frent is legally blind. He's been blind since his birth in 1956, and this is a fact that Satan was attempting to exploit on that day- isn't that right devil?!? YOU WERE TRYING TO SCAM A BLIND MAN!
DEFENSE ATTORNEY GARY THURMOND: Objection, your honor! This is purely speculatory!
SATAN: YOU HAVE SPOKEN YOUR LAST ACCUSATORY WORD, YOU BAG OF BEAST PUS!!! I WILL RIP YOUR THROAT INTO RIBBONS OF MEAT 'NEATH THE TEETH IN MY VERY MOUTH! IN HORROR THE JURY WILL WATCH AS I FILL YOUR OPEN NECK WITH MY FECES AND SEMEN! PREPARE TO BE THE DEVIL'S DUMPSTER OF FILTH!
JUDGE BOFKIN: I've heard enough. Bailiff, arrest this demon. GET HIM OUT OF MY COURT!
Now, inexplicably, season three is looming over us like some sort of dome. Season one's plot asked whether or not the town could get out from under the dome. Apparently the answer was "no". Season two asked "I guess we're really stuck, huh?" and the answer was "yup".
With an average of 40 IPAs added every day, it can be difficult to taste them all
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