First, I have to catch a bus and it stops at the terminal off Colombo Street, which is nowhere NEAR court. I have to go through an x-ray machine with these angry-looking security boys frowning down on me, and of course the metal hoops of my dress set off the metal detector, and I have to go into a private room with this dyke-y lady who probes me. She’s not interested in my fudge—whew—and she finally finds out it’s my labia piercing that’s setting off the alarm, and by the time she lets me go, I’m soooo late for Marty’s appearance and I have like nooooo clue which court room he’s in, and there are all these feet to step over. There’s a whole waiting room that’s just people wearing red, then the other waiting room’s all blue colours. I try to ask this Harris Gang lady in a hockey jersey brea
