No weapons, no violence, no crime.
Nirvana.
That’s the future they were selling.
Not everyone was buying though.
Martin French was nabbed selling counterfeit gold leaves, the only remaining currency in this modern-day Eden.
But with all these weak New-Age regulations, he liked his chances. Fake a confession in exchange for a slap on the wrist.
Then they brought in the goat. Martin’s feet had been bathed in salt water. Now he knew why.
The goat’s tongue on his soles tickled at first. Twenty minutes later he admitted to every crime he’d ever committed and even a few he didn’t.
The Weekday One Hundred 