Deep in the bow­els of Chancery Lane, errant and sin­ful bar­ris­ters are seen to enter and after days, or for the unfor­tu­nate — weeks, of pro­longed ago­nis­ing screams there is silence and they are heard of no more. This is a secret known only to a few within the profession.

Geeklawyer knew. With trep­i­da­tion he pressed ‘LLB’ on the ele­va­tor but­ton. He won­dered if he could, still now, aban­don dig­nity and flee, but the grin­ning gang of thugs on the door would make short work of even mar­tial artist Geeklawyer. He sank slowly into the bow­els of Chancery Lane and into the Star Cham­ber for his appoint­ment with the Infor­ma­tion Tech­nol­ogy Panel.

Mr Peter Sus­man QC span round in his high backed leather swivel chair.

“Ah!! Geeklawyer how good to meet you at last. Sit, sit ye down; take a seat my dear chap.”

There was no seat. Geeklawyer knew this would be his last day. He hoped only that it would be short and not ago­nis­ing. Mr Sus­man stroked the white Per­sian cat in his lap. A pupilette, clad only in sus­penders and leather under­wear, brought him a sil­ver tray. From it he picked up a sil­ver scalpel drip­ping a red name­less fluid.

“I do so dis­like vio­lence Geeklawyer. But on occa­sion it is the best nego­ti­at­ing tool there is.”

“I’m always happy to nego­ti­ate Peter. Always.”

“That’s ‘Mr Sus­man’, to you, Geeklawyer. That infor­mal atti­tude is some­thing we need to discuss.”

A shriek­ing sound faintly echoed in the Cham­ber. Some­where else in the base­ment some­one was suf­fer­ing horribly.

“Ah, Geof­frey Vos is play­ing. He does get a lit­tle car­ried away. He is, unlike me, some­thing of a brute. I pre­fer to talk before … well … before resort­ing to my toys.”

He licked more red fluid from the blade of a cut throat razor.

“I’m happy to talk Peter, sorry ‘Mr Sus­man’, sir. Really, I like to talk.”

Geeklawyer could feel hys­te­ria crawl­ing up his throat and his lunch crawl down his bow­els. Thank heav­ens he had taken Imod­ium in anticipation.

“I hear you’re a genius Geeklawyer.”

“Damn straight Pe… Mr Sus …”

“OK, tell me why you’re here.”

“You’re unhappy with the blog?”

“OK you’re a genius. What’s the solution?”

“Stop blog­ging?”

“And rob the World of your blog?”

“Stop belit­tling the Bar Council?”

“My my, you are a genius. What else?”

“Get Ruthie’s con­sent for each post.”

“Well done. Tell me Geeklawyer, how many peo­ple do you think leave my play­room alive?”

“None”

“As you would say: ‘Damn straight’”

“Why are you let­ting me live?”

“Love.”

“I’m flat­tered Mr Sus­man, really, but I’m het­ero­sex­ual and …”

“Not you idiot, not you.”

In the cor­ner Geeklawyer saw a vaguely famil­iar pink motor­cy­cle hel­met. Badly concealed.

“Do you ride motor­cy­cles Mr Susman?”

“No. My mis­tress does.”

A bulb illu­mi­nated in Geeklawyer’s head.

“Do you hate Minor Junior too?”

“I have no idea who you are talk­ing about. Leave: we are fin­ished. Send the next sin­ning bar­ris­ter in on your way out.”

At the door Geeklawyer turned.

“Are you going to tor­ture him?”

“Yes.”

“Erm, can I help? …”

Peter grinned.

“Sarah, fetch a guest tray of our spe­cial toys for Geeklawyer.”

Six hours later as he ascended in the lift, tired happy and with blood drip­ping from his hand, he recog­nised the faint smell of a per­fume that only one Solicitor-Inadequate in Eng­land wore.

With a shud­der he knew that his fate was in the hands of a truly evil female manip­u­la­tion genius.