Guilty as Charged by Anastasia Bezsmertna

The day of the jury trial had arrived.

For Barry, it was the worst day imaginable; he could never forget what he’d done, and it served as a constant reminder in his life that he simply couldn't shake. He remembered being an honest citizen—even as a little "diaper-proper," he’d dreamed of snitching on crooks and helping the IRS collect taxes. But his moral foundation had been destroyed, crumbling like ancient Neanderthal architecture. It was a terrible realization of his own complete degradation—a total betrayal of his principles and worldview. He felt like a traitor to his own values.

On any good day, Barry felt he didn’t deserve his happiness, so he would donate his money to charitable causes or spend it at strip clubs on the oldest dancers; he figured they needed the money too, and after all, it was necessary to support all segments of the population. His "goodness paranoia"—a coping mechanism for his guilt and a way to prove his existence didn't waste a  87,000 liters of water on himself (and yes, he counted them) —had reached critical levels. He would feed city rats (some larger than monkeys) his finest foods, like five-dollar sardines. He cared for mosquitoes even as they bit him, letting them fly away, and he planted every seed he found, believing all life was precious.

As the days went by—after buying out every Girl Scout’s cookie stock and rescuing every insect trapped in his porch lamps—he was called to be a juror. He couldn't be a hypocrite; he had committed a secret crime that already made him a liar. He couldn't endure the humiliation of acting like a "Creeping Jesus" in front of a judge and other respectable citizens, especially since he loved judges—specifically their wigs and judicial training. But it was set. He tried to find an excuse to get out of jury duty, but alas, he couldn't bring himself to lie. Once again, he was a sucker for his virtue.

The trial involved aggravated battery, a serious matter. But for Barry, the only crime that mattered was his own. He was a phony—no, he was worse than that; at least people know a phony when they see one. The trial was long. The evidence suggested the defendant was indeed a felon; there were fourteen cameras on a single block, and for some reason, the defendant had performed a "mime-touching-walls" routine, leaving his fingerprints all over the alley. The jurors reviewed the case, discussed their favourite flavours of Jell-O, reviewed the case again, and concluded that they all wanted to grab a beer together—and that the defendant was definitely guilty.

But Barry was the lone dissenting vote. He couldn't be a hypocrite, and as a result, no one invited him for a beer. As the verdict was read, Barry snapped. He shouted: "This decision is not valid! For I am a criminal! Four years ago, I stole a cherry pie from my Aunt Clara while it was cooling on the windowsill!"