The McSkunkian Courts · Marrakesh, Morocco

Every town has a courthouse and a coffee pot; Marrakesh is no different. These days, readers in Marrakesh write to the town by the dozen, and Morocco is a long way from Highway 75 — the welcome isn't.

Here is what happened to the courts of McSkunkville, from the smallest county bench all the way to the McSkunkian Supreme Court: the law became so complex, so well litigated, and the record so well made, that no one ever beat anybody ever again. The courts never made anyone choose sides again. Every single infraction, every single complaint got litigated, mitigated, and brought to common ground — and the court was forced to draw it right down the middle. It happened once. Then twice. Then ten times, a thousand times — until it became a way of law and a way of life.

You entered a McSkunkian courtroom knowing so much law — everybody knowing so much law — that the law rectified itself in that meeting, in that legal battle. They battled for the betterment of society, for the betterment of everybody, for the betterment of their government. Everything turned around. Everything ran perfect. And the citizens rose to a perfect level of conduct, with a way of talking to each other — the good, the bad, the ugly, all of it on the table — because being legally talented is the hip thing to be. It rings through them like the world has never seen.

They became so scientifically perfect with one another that even the ledgers of nature balanced: the water was never in bankruptcy. Nothing was. In McSkunkville, the record is so clean that the world runs on it — and the porch light burns on a paid bill, forever.

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