Mr Wrong

I obtain the case papers for Mr Wrong, a regular client of my comrade and current guest of Yanbury Constabulary. Unfortunately, my comrade was currently enjoying a family holiday in Scotland and my hopes of an early finish to catch the 1:45pm race at Ripon Races we’re hanging by a thread.

Mr Wrong, the inconsiderate little bastard, had according to the papers decided to steal a toaster and in the process, breach his bail conditions imposed for a previous offence of theft. I tuck the case papers under my arm and check the court list. My heart sinks. District Judge Bard, a heartless swine and infamous for taking an age over the shortest case, is sitting. Realising I have as much chance of springing Mr Wrong as I have of winning the National Lottery, I hop to the cells.

“You are going to get remanded,” I state, getting straight to the point.
“Wrong!” Mr Wrong retorted immediately.
“The DJ will not be impressed that you have breached your bail already..”
I attempt to clarify. Mr Wrong does not appear to be impressed and whilst eyeing me up and down as though I am a piece of dog shit on his shoe, stops me mid-flow once more by shouting “Wrong!” at the top of his voice.
“Not only that, you have now been charged with another offence of theft, in breach of your bail, and your ninety six convictions…” I highlight but Mr Wrong, now scrunching his face and red with anger, is not in the mood for logic and instead shouts “Wrong!” at the top of his voice.

A little perplexed, I feel a rage start to build inside my gut. I briefly fantasise about knocking Mr Wrong’s last few remaining teeth out of his head, but instead of acting on my desires, I decide on one last try. “So, I can apply for bail, but the DJ will most likely remand you in…” I continue firmly. “Wrong, wrong, wrong!” Mr Wrong screams in response.

Realising Mr Wrong lives in alternative reality and conscious that my early finish is at risk with this lunatic, I reassess the situation. “You won’t get remanded, the DJ will be delighted you have breached your bail, your ninety odd convictions for similar are irrelevant, I clearly haven’t a fecking clue and you probably won’t go to prison for the new offence of theft,” I scream back after concluding that this fuckwit needs some of his own medicine.
“Legend,” Mr Wrong responds as I walk out of the cell door. Not quite sure what had just happened, I waste no time in getting the case called on and seemingly persuading District Judge Bard that a remand in custody is the only viable option. Oh well.