|Comment count is 24|
|Oscar Wildcat |
Ethan Couch went downstairs into the courtyard, got into his carriage, and drove away. Not many people had talked with him at the reception; he had stood in a little space apart, and Couch might have been warmer in his manner. It appeared, under the circumstances, rather agreeable to him to see the common people dispersed before his horses, and often barely escaping from being run down. His man drove as if he were charging an enemy, and the furious recklessness of the man brought no check into the face, or to the lips, of the master. The complaint had sometimes made itself audible, even in that deaf city and dumb age, that, in the narrow streets without footways, the fierce patrician custom of hard driving endangered and maimed the mere vulgar in a barbarous manner. But, few cared enough for that to think of it a second time, and, in this matter, as in all others, the common wretches were left to get out of their difficulties as they could.
With a wild rattle and clatter, and an inhuman abandonment of consideration not easy to be understood in these days, the carriage dashed through streets and swept round corners, with women screaming before it, and men clutching each other and clutching children out of its way. At last, swooping at a street corner by a fountain, one of its wheels came to a sickening little jolt, and there was a loud cry from a number of voices, and the horses reared and plunged.
But for the latter inconvenience, the carriage probably would not have stopped; carriages were often known to drive on, and leave their wounded behind, and why not? But the frightened valet had got down in a hurry, and there were twenty hands at the horses' bridles.
"What has gone wrong?" said Couch, calmly looking out.
A tall man in a nightcap had caught up a bundle from among the feet of the horses, and had laid it on the basement of the fountain, and was down in the mud and wet, howling over it like a wild animal.
"Pardon, Mr. Couch!" said a ragged and submissive man, "it is a child."
"Why does he make that abominable noise? Is it his child?"
"Excuse me, Mr. Couch—it is a pity—yes."
The fountain was a little removed; for the street opened, where it was, into a space some ten or twelve yards square. As the tall man suddenly got up from the ground, and came running at the carriage, Ethan Couch clapped his hand for an instant on his sword-hilt.
"Killed!" shrieked the man, in wild desperation, extending both arms at their length above his head, and staring at him. "Dead!"
The people closed round, and looked at Ethan Couch. There was nothing revealed by the many eyes that looked at him but watchfulness and eagerness; there was no visible menacing or anger. Neither did the people say anything; after the first cry, they had been silent, and they remained so. The voice of the submissive man who had spoken, was flat and tame in its extreme submission. Ethan Couch ran his eyes over them all, as if they had been mere rats come out of their holes.
He took out his purse.
"It is extraordinary to me," said he, "that you people cannot take care of yourselves and your children. One or the other of you is for ever in the way. How do I know what injury you have done my horses. See! Give him that."
He threw out a gold coin for the valet to pick up, and all the heads craned forward that all the eyes might look down at it as it fell. The tall man called out again with a most unearthly cry, "Dead!"
He was arrested by the quick arrival of another man, for whom the rest made way. On seeing him, the miserable creature fell upon his shoulder, sobbing and crying, and pointing to the fountain, where some women were stooping over the motionless bundle, and moving gently about it. They were as silent, however, as the men.
"I know all, I know all," said the last comer. "Be a brave man, my Gaspard! It is better for the poor little plaything to die so, than to live. It has died in a moment without pain. Could it have lived an hour as happily?"
"You are a philosopher, you there," said Ethan, smiling. "How do they call you?"
"They call me Wildcat."
"Of what trade?"
"Ethan Couch, vendor of weed."
"Pick up that, philosopher and vendor of weed," said Couch, throwing him another gold coin, "and spend it as you will. The horses there; are they right?"
Without deigning to look at the assemblage a second time, Ethan Couch leaned back in his seat, and was just being driven away with the air of a gentleman who had accidentally broke some common thing, and had paid for it, and could afford to pay for it; when his ease was suddenly disturbed by a coin flying into his carriage, and ringing on its floor.
"Hold!" said Ethan Couch. "Hold the horses! Who threw that?"
He looked to the spot where Wildcat the vendor of weed had stood, a moment before; but the wretched father was grovelling on his face on the pavement in that spot, and the figure that stood beside him was the figure of a dark stout woman, knitting.
"You dogs!" said Couch, but smoothly, and with an unchanged front, except as to the spots on his nose: "I would ride over any of you very willingly, and exterminate you from the earth. If I knew which rascal threw at the carriage, and if that brigand were sufficiently near it, he should be crushed under the wheels."
So cowed was their condition, and so long and hard their experience of what such a man could do to them, within the law and beyond it, that not a voice, or a hand, or even an eye was raised. Among the men, not one. But the woman who stood knitting looked up steadily, and looked Couch in the face. It was not for his dignity to notice it; his contemptuous eyes passed over her, and over all the other rats; and he leaned back in his seat again, and gave the word "Go on!"
|infinite zest |
God, the dad's story in the related videos at the end is even stranger. Hate to say it, but lots of people drive drunk every night, and it's just a matter of time (or timing) when something like this happens no matter what your upbringing. I was having a conversation a couple nights ago with someone about whether gun manufacturers should have to hold themselves responsible for guns they made used in mass shootings, and by the same token should a bar (or alcohol producer) have to be responsible for drunk driving? A label on the side says that you shouldn't drive or operate machinery while drinking it but a gun doesn't spell out the 2nd amendment and what you should or shouldn't use it for..
Anyway that's getting off topic, but if you're trying to keep a low profile for your son's sake, why would you be such a dickhead and pretend to be a cop at a crime scene?
Anyway also stars for Oscar W.
doesn't mean he is automatically guilty
Unless he's dead, he's guilty of parole violation.
Long as he was alive to miss the check in, he's guilty even if his charred corpse is rotting on some Mexican back road
Life imitates the Shaft movie.
He's a complicaticated man,
no one understands him but his wooommmaannn (his mom)
|infinite zest |
This is actually pretty interesting to me. My ex got a DUII and pinballed into 6 cars, all of which were empty. Had it not been 2 in the morning there would've been kids playing basketball or street hockey on it most likely. So she got lucky, and followed her public attorney's advice and quit cold turkey until her mandatory counselling and fees were over.
But for the most part, I didn't, and I'd still walk with her to bars just to be social, and snapped some pictures of us and put 'em on facebook, things like that. I was drinking whiskey and ginger ale and she was drinking ginger ale. She also missed a few of her meetings, as she had to go back to her grandfather's funeral on short notice, where she drank a lot and posted pictures, and then went back to cold turkey. As far as I know, none of those pictures were ever brought into question, so I wonder if a video of someone at a party where alcohol is involved can be used as evidence if there's no proof that Couch was drinking there.
(I think a part of me just wants to get that bitch in trouble)
They were able to afford to buy a lawyer and a judge to get him off quadruple manslaughter, they probably could have gotten him off this time too.
Thankfully they didn't, and now he's fucked.
|That guy |
Ethan Couch and his mother are considered armed and highly dangerous. Officers are advised to shoot to kill.
(also jesus h, tv news, stop showing the same clips over and over again)
|Scrotum H. Vainglorious |
He's going to really regret it this time when they catch him. They'll throw the book at him with 8 months of house arrest just you wait and see.
Some way, some how, he will be suspended with pay.
I reeeeeaaaaaaalllly hope he's run down into a flaming crash on the side of the road by DFW police in one of those televised car chases they so love to pull on minority suspects.
Karmic justice and all.
Yeah between Couch, Sckreli and Holtzclaw it's been an interesting week or so where I actually believe that Hammurabi's code isn't that bad of a thing: I want Martin Sckreli to lose all of his money and wind up pennyless and I want this little fuck to know what it feels like to be hit by a car, and I want Holtzclaw to know what come tastes like for the rest of his life.
Not sure what that has to do with Hammurabi.
Maybe the parts about selling people responsible for crop damage into slavery to raise money to compensate the owners of the damaged property? Or the part about taking another man's slave outside the city limits being punishable by death?
I guess the stuff about domestic abuse is OK considering how old the code is.
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