Here’s the spiel, the lashon hara, it’s said: He’s on the sacrificial lam, evading authorities, subpoenas unto even the poenas below the subpoenas, subsubpoenas to appear before, nu, it’s either a Judge Cohen or Coen, it’s forgotten, a Cohn or a Cone maybe, or else, then again, maybe a Koen or Kohen, a Kohn or even a Kone, it’s been said, then again maybe a Cahn or Kagen, a Kahane or a Kahn; hymn, others say she’s a female judge, like Deborah, perhaps, who, it’s said, would hold her court and prophecy under a warm shvitzy palm as if to say, pay me — but this with one of those hyphenated-names, Cohen-Cone or the like, formerly with the firm of Gimme, Loot, & Hasidim, LLC…whatever name the robe elected before taking the bench. Ben’s being sued for damages, is it. Character defamation. Misrepresentation. For Impersonating the Savior. For False Messianism. Fraud. And she’s naming names, the whore-plaintiff: I sold everything I owned expecting the End of Days, the Eschaton. My husband, who he was an Affiliated, May His Memory Be for a Blessing, died for this schmuck. And for nothing. For nodding. The woman, who wouldn’t convert for her husband over my dead body left to depose of — her husband’s family and their plotz (buried up in one of those shoulder cemeteries that are necropolitan northern Joysey, on a strip right by the side of the Turnpike so that when a big rig would come through, eighteen wheels and more how those stones would shake, in their graves the caskets would rumble, rattle like seeds in a shell — like loose teeth in a cheeky mouth, bellied to laugh, that tumult of chattering coffins) — but anyway, long story short did after his death and theirs, convert, now refers everyone who’s interested to her new husband, also her lawyer: they were married on the steps of the courthouse while waiting for their case to be heard.
My client, also my wife, the lawyer says, is seeking compensation for emotional trauma she experienced in being grossly misled by a mensch pretending to be the Messiah. Period. Paragraph.
Manipulation. He less talks than dictates for press; when he raises his voice and an eyebrow, which, that’s a headline in itself, period, paragraph…my client had invested much faith, time, and money in Mister Israelien. And she’s not the only one. No. There’ve been others, too afraid or embarrassed to come forward just now. Their loss has to be worth something. My time. I urge them to contact me directly. And now — a miracle, what a classy action, a tort. We’re asking, he says, for a thousand shekels a day, let’s say each, for every day my clients were under the impression of Mister Israelien’s stated symbolism, and purported power — in addition to half a million each because, don’t blame us, we just want it.
Don’t you think Garden, Inc.’s behind this whole mishegas, the Administration, too — you don’t think Ben’s smart enough for this kind of scam?
Glad you asked.
We’re presently engaged in a separate suit v. Garden, Inc., relating to product failure: the Hanna Wig™ (representation flaps it aloft, a dead thing, this kaporos of the presspool) is responsible for the fatal choking of my client’s beloved parakeet, Duke.
He straightens his toupee held down by his yarmulke.
They were very close — apparently, the bird knew her by name.
