Mona has been sleeping in the back of Biatch Books for over a month, now, ever since Norman stole the renderer's truck and crashed a load of dead horses into her living room.
Norman hightailed it but ran out of booze in Missoula and DT'd a trip to the ER where he was arrested on warrants going back 30 years.
Now, he's standing in front of Judge Carl with a whack-job jailhouse haircut white-walled around his stubby ears and wearing a crinkly blue shirt that is just too small for him to breathe in. He's scared and when he's asked to stand he's statue mute except I'm sure that it's his asshole I hear snapping shut all the way back here.
Mona is in the front row, standing, emphatically postured, and Judge Carl acknowledges her and asks her if she has something to say.
''Yes I do, sir,'' Mona said,''I don't care how many beefs Norman has or what it's going to cost, I'm here to bail the motherfucker out.''
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