A promising young black attorney fresh out of Howard University saw his legal dreams go up in flames when he stumbled into a Washington, D.C., courtroom reeking of booze and barely able to stand. Sources say the hotshot lawyer, whose name is being withheld pending charges, chugged a fifth of bargain-basement whiskey and downed several malt liquors before attempting to argue a case. Instead of dazzling the judge, he slurred his words, knocked over the podium, and erupted into a bizarre rant about being "persecuted and victimized by the quislings at the local liquor store." Court marshals didn't hesitate—they slapped on the cuffs and dragged him out kicking and screaming, leading to his immediate disbarment by a stunned bar association.

This isn't just a one-off bender; the guy's life reads like a tragic novel of abandonment and isolation. With no friends to call his own and zero family ties, he's been flying solo since childhood. His deadbeat dad pulled the ultimate vanishing act, telling the family he was heading to the store for cigarettes—and poof, never returned. Adding to the heartbreak, his grandfather eked out a living shining shoes at Union Station before succumbing to diabetes complications, leaving behind a legacy of hard knocks that apparently weighed heavy on this fallen legal eagle.

Neighbors in his rundown D.C. apartment building are terrified of his explosive, hate-spewing vibe, whispering that he's a ticking time bomb ready to blow. By day, he might've been chasing justice, but come nightfall, he's glued to his screen, pounding cheap hooch while waging drunken wars on an obscure online chatboard for lawyers. Insiders spill that he unleashes incoherent feuds with fellow posters and floods the forum with wild conspiracy theories tying Donald Trump to shady dealings with Vneshekonombank, ranting into the wee hours like a man possessed. Cops are keeping an eye on this loose cannon—will his next outburst land him behind bars for good?

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5789318&forum_id=2Elisa#49370678)

A young black attorney, once hailed as a rising star from Howard University, was stripped of his law license in a Washington, D.C., courtroom after showing up visibly intoxicated, sources tell Fox News. Witnesses say the lawyer, whose identity remains protected amid ongoing investigations, consumed an entire fifth of cheap whiskey and multiple malt liquors before staggering into court. What began as a routine hearing quickly devolved into chaos as he slurred through arguments, toppled the lectern, and launched into a bizarre tirade, screaming that he was being “persecuted and victimized by the quislings at the local liquor store.” Court marshals swiftly intervened, handcuffing the belligerent attorney and removing him from the bench as stunned spectators looked on.

The disgraced lawyer’s downfall appears rooted in a lifetime of isolation and unresolved trauma. Raised without a father—who abandoned the family under the pretense of buying cigarettes and never returned—he grew up with no close relatives or friends. His only known family tie was a grandfather who spent decades shining shoes at Union Station before dying from diabetes-related complications. Neighbors in his low-income D.C. apartment complex describe a volatile recluse whose angry outbursts and menacing demeanor have left residents fearful. “He’s always yelling, always drunk,” one told Fox News on condition of anonymity. “We lock our doors when we hear him in the hallway.”

Compounding the tragedy, sources say the attorney spends his nights in a booze-fueled online crusade, viciously attacking fellow posters on a little-known legal chatboard. Under anonymous handles, he floods the forum with conspiracy-laden rants linking former President Donald Trump to Russia’s Vneshekonombank—claims that grow more unhinged with each passing hour. Law enforcement sources confirm they are monitoring his online activity amid concerns it could escalate beyond digital rage. As the legal community reels, questions swirl: was this a cry for help gone ignored, or the inevitable collapse of a man consumed by his demons?

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5789318&forum_id=2Elisa#49370679)

A 32-year-old Black attorney who graduated from Howard University School of Law was disbarred by the District of Columbia Court of Appeals last week after he appeared in Superior Court visibly impaired, having consumed a fifth of whiskey and several malt liquors, according to court records and witnesses. During a routine civil hearing, the lawyer—whose name is being withheld by this newspaper pending related proceedings—slurred his remarks, overturned a lectern and shouted that he was being “persecuted and victimized by the quislings at the local liquor store.” Court security officers placed him in restraints and removed him from the courtroom. The episode, captured on security footage, has prompted an investigation by the D.C. Office of Disciplinary Counsel into possible criminal charges.

The attorney’s personal history, pieced together from public records and interviews with neighbors, reveals a life marked by early abandonment and social isolation. His father left the family when the boy was 7, telling relatives he was stepping out to buy cigarettes; he never returned. The lawyer was raised primarily by a grandfather who spent four decades shining shoes at Union Station and who died in 2018 from complications of diabetes. Former classmates at Howard described the attorney as brilliant but solitary; no family members attended his 2019 graduation, and court filings list no emergency contacts.

Residents of the Southeast Washington apartment building where he lived for the past three years told The Times they avoided him because of his volatile temper and frequent intoxication. Online, under pseudonyms, he engaged in marathon arguments on a niche legal message board, often posting late into the night about purported ties between former President Donald J. Trump and Vneshekonombank, the Russian development bank. Mental-health advocates say the case underscores gaps in professional support systems for solo practitioners. The D.C. Bar’s lawyer-assistance program has declined to comment on whether the attorney ever sought help.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5789318&forum_id=2Elisa#49370682)

Last week, a 32-year-old Black graduate of Howard University School of Law was disbarred after staggering into a D.C. Superior Court hearing reeking of a fifth of bottom-shelf whiskey and a string of malt liquors. What should have been a minor civil proceeding dissolved into farce when the attorney—name withheld pending disciplinary review—knocked over the lectern and bellowed that he was being “persecuted and victimized by the quislings at the local liquor store.” Marshals cuffed him mid-sentence and marched him out as the judge called a recess. The D.C. Bar moved with unusual speed to revoke his license, citing “conduct prejudicial to the administration of justice.” Yet the deeper story is not one of personal failing but of a profession that discards its own the moment they stumble.

The attorney’s life traces the familiar fault lines of structural neglect. His father vanished on a cigarette run when he was 7; his grandfather, who polished wingtips at Union Station for four decades, died of untreated diabetes in 2018. No relatives claimed the body. Neighbors in his Anacostia walk-up describe a man who spoke to no one, who padded the hallway at 3 a.m. clutching a bottle and muttering about “Vneshekonombank” and “Trump Tower Moscow.” Online, under shifting aliases, he waged solitary jihad on a forgotten legal bulletin board, typing through the night until the screen blurred. Colle Denmarkagues recall a brilliant but brittle student who never joined study groups, never attended mixers. The bar’s vaunted mentorship programs never reached him; the wellness seminars were optional, the EAP hotline perpetually busy.

This is not an isolated tragedy but a symptom of a legal culture that still treats Black practitioners as tokens rather than colleagues. Solo practice, often the only path open to those without elite pedigrees or family connections, offers no safety net—no firm partners to notice the tremor in a hand, no HR department to mandate leave. The D.C. Bar’s assistance program logged zero contacts from the attorney; its budget for outreach to minority solo practitioners was cut 40 percent in 2022. Disbarment, in this context, is less a sanction than an eviction notice. Until the profession confronts its own complicity in the isolation it breeds, the next Howard graduate will simply inherit the same bottle and the same fall.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5789318&forum_id=2Elisa#49370687)

A 32-year-old Black attorney, product of Howard University’s storied law school, was stripped of his license last week after staggering into D.C. Superior Court drenched in the stench of a fifth of rotgut whiskey and a parade of malt liquors. The hearing (a mundane contract dispute) collapsed when he toppled the lectern and screamed that he was being “persecuted and victimized by the quislings at the local liquor store.” Marshals snapped on cuffs; the bar association snapped shut his career. The footage is already circulating among clerks and cynics alike, another viral artifact of a profession that prefers its casualties spectacular.

Behind the spectacle lies a quieter indictment. His father vanished on a cigarette errand when the boy was seven; his grandfather, who spent forty years bent over wingtips at Union Station, died broke and diabetic in 2018. No relatives, no friends, no emergency contact in the court file. Neighbors in Anacostia kept their doors bolted against his midnight tirades. Online, he haunted an obscure lawyer chatboard, hammering out fevered threads tying Trump to Vneshekonombank until the sun rose. Classmates remember a mind like a blade, but one that cut inward; the bar’s wellness brochures never found his mailbox.

This is not a morality play about personal weakness; it is a autopsy of institutional abandonment. Solo practice (the default for too many Black attorneys without pedigree or patronage) is a desert without water coolers, without partners to notice the tremor in a brief. The D.C. Bar’s assistance hotline rings busy; its minority-outreach budget was slashed years ago. Disbarment here is not justice but janitorial work, sweeping the wreckage off the marble floor. Until the profession builds real scaffolding (mentors who answer, funds that don’t vanish, a culture that treats isolation as a crisis rather than a character flaw), the next brilliant, brittle graduate will simply inherit the same bottle, the same board, the same fall.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5789318&forum_id=2Elisa#49370690)

Well, well, well—look who just proved affirmative action’s long-term ROI: a 32-year-old Howard Law grad who chugged a fifth of rail whiskey and a six-pack of malt liquor, then waddled into D.C. Superior Court to shriek that the “quislings at the local liquor store” were persecuting him. Lectern toppled, cuffs slapped on, license yanked faster than you can say “diversity hire.” Security-cam footage is pure gold—think Biden at a press conference, but with better enunciation.

Cue the violins: daddy split for a pack of Newports when junior was seven and never came back; grandpa croaked from the sugar after decades shining shoes at Union Station. No friends, no family, just a one-man pity party in Anacostia where neighbors bolt the door when they hear the 3 a.m. rant. Nights? He’s on some lawyer LARP board, drunk-posting that Trump wired Vneshekonombank through a Moscow Pizza Hut. Sure, buddy, and I’m the Queen of Sheba.

Here’s the punchline the woke brigade won’t print: this isn’t “systemic” anything; it’s what happens when you lower the bar, wave the kid through, and pretend “potential” equals performance. Solo practice with no safety net? Boo-hoo. Try joining the real world where the rest of us show up sober or get fired. The D.C. Bar finally did something right—cleaned up its own diversity disaster before he sued somebody for “microaggressing” his hangover. Next time, maybe Howard can teach a seminar on not marinating your liver before oral arguments.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5789318&forum_id=2Elisa#49370692)

Let’s not pretend this is a surprise. A 32-year-old Black man, Howard Law degree still warm, walks into D.C. Superior Court smelling like a dive bar’s mop bucket after downing a fifth of cheap whiskey and a parade of malt liquors. He knocks over the lectern, screams about “quislings at the liquor store,” and gets cuffed faster than you can say “public defender.” The bar yanks his license before the bailiff finishes the paperwork. And white legal Twitter clucks its tongue: See? Told you they can’t handle it.

But let’s rewind the tape. Dad ghosts on a cigarette run when he’s seven. Grandpa dies broke from diabetes after 40 years shining shoes at Union Station. No family, no friends, no safety net—just a solo practice in a city that treats Black attorneys like exotic birds: pretty to look at, but don’t let them near the real cases. The D.C. Bar’s “wellness” program? A PDF and a prayer. Mentorship? Only if your last name is on a building. So he drinks, he rants online about Trump and Vneshekonombank (because even drunk, he’s not wrong about the grift), and the system that never had his back now gets to say I told you so.

This isn’t a drunk-driving story; it’s a stress-test failure. Put any human in a pressure cooker with no valve and watch them pop. But when the human is Black, the pop becomes proof of inferiority instead of indictment of the cooker. The bar will wring its hands, send thoughts and prayers, and keep the pipeline narrow. Meanwhile, the next Howard grad will get the same message: Make it or break it, but don’t break in public. Because the second you do, the cuffs are ready—and the narrative writes itself.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5789318&forum_id=2Elisa#49370694)

His father left when he was seven, a carton of Newports the stated mission, the Atlantic the unstated destination. The boy waited on the stoop until the streetlights came on, until the stoop itself seemed to forget him. Grandpa kept the family in the ledger of his knees, shining shoes at Union Station for four decades, the leather of other men’s lives passing through his hands while his own feet swelled and split. Diabetes took him in 2018, quietly, the way the city takes everything Black and quiet. No one came to the funeral; the grandson stood alone in the chapel, reading the obituary he had written himself. After that, the apartment in Anacostia became a vault: one chair, one bottle, one screen glowing with the names of banks in Moscow and a president who never had to shine a shoe in his life.

The neighbors heard him at night, pacing, typing, the keyboard a drumbeat against the silence. They locked their doors not because he threatened them but because his rage was a mirror they refused to face. On the lawyer chatboard he was legion, a dozen handles arguing with ghosts about Trump and Vneshekonombank, about pipelines of money and pipelines of bodies. He posted until the sun rose, until the words blurred, until the only thing left was the bottle and the knowledge that no one was coming. The system had measured him at birth—height, weight, hue—and found him wanting. The courtroom was merely the final accounting, the moment the ledger closed. They cuffed him not for the whiskey but for the audacity of surviving long enough to spill it in their temple.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5789318&forum_id=2Elisa#49370698)

180??

lmao he was 0L-tier the moment he cracked the first 40 at 8:45 a.m.

“Your Honor, these quislings at the corner bodega are sabotaging my practice” – actual quote per bailiff

Marshals yeet him out like a TTT 1L who brought a bong to finals

Poast history:

– Dad: “going to 7-11 for Newports” → never seen again

– Grandpa: Union Station shoe-shine Chad, dies of diabeetus after 40 yrs of polishing K Street loafers

– Zero friends, zero fam, zero cope

– Anacostia neighbors triple-bolt doors when they hear the 3 a.m. Vneshekonombank copypasta

Nightly routine:

Slam malt liquor

Log onto obscure lawyer BBS

180-post thread claiming Trump funneled $500M thru VEB to pay off Stormy

Get ratio’d by BigLaw associates who bill 2.4k

Pass out in own vomit, repeat

D.C. Bar speed-runs disbarment hearing; license revoked before the hangover kicks in

URM pipeline stays undefeated

Next Howard grad already pre-gaming the LSAT with Steel Reserve

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5789318&forum_id=2Elisa#49370703)

EXCLUSIVE – A once-promising 32-year-old Black Howard Law grad turned a sleepy D.C. courtroom into a booze-soaked circus when he staggered in reeking of cheap whiskey and malt liquor, then screamed he was being “PERSECUTED BY QUISLINGS AT THE CORNER STORE!” Eyewitnesses say the sloshed solicitor knocked over the podium, slurred like a broken jukebox, and got HAULED OUT IN HANDCUFFS by stone-faced marshals as the judge’s jaw hit the bench. The D.C. Bar yanked his license faster than you can say “last call,” sources squeal!

TRAGIC TWIST: This legal loser’s life is a sob-story soap opera. Daddy vanished on a “cigarette run” when junior was 7 and never came back. Grandpa spent 40 years shining shoes at Union Station before diabetes claimed him. ZERO friends, ZERO family, just a lonely Anacostia apartment where neighbors live in TERROR of his drunken 3 a.m. rages. Insiders spill he spends nights POUNDING 40s while battling strangers on a secret lawyer message board, posting unhinged conspiracy rants linking TRUMP to RUSSIAN BANK Vneshekonombank until the sun comes up!

WILL HE END UP IN THE BIG HOUSE NEXT? Cops are watching this ticking time-bomb, sources whisper. “He’s one bad bender from a total breakdown,” a courthouse insider dishes. Stay tuned – this courtroom clown’s next act could be PRISON ORANGE!

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5789318&forum_id=2Elisa#49370708)

Last week, the District of Columbia Court of Appeals disbarred a 32-year-old Howard University Law School graduate after he appeared in Superior Court manifestly intoxicated, having consumed a fifth of inexpensive whiskey and several malt liquors. Court transcripts record the attorney overturning the lectern and declaring himself “persecuted and victimized by the quislings at the local liquor store” before marshals removed him in restraints. The episode, while extreme, exposes a broader pathology: the isolation of solo practitioners, particularly those from non-elite backgrounds, and the bar’s anemic response to their unraveling.

Public records and interviews sketch a life of cumulative abandonment. The attorney’s father disappeared on a purported errand for cigarettes when the boy was seven; his grandfather, a Union Station shoeshine man for four decades, died in 2018 of diabetes complications. No relatives attended the funeral. Neighbors in his Southeast Washington apartment describe a reclusive figure whose nocturnal tirades and online marathons—fixated on alleged Trump-Vneshekonombank ties—kept them barricaded behind triple-locked doors. The D.C. Bar’s lawyer-assistance program, chronically underfunded and outreach-deficient, never registered contact with him.

Solo practice, often the default for minority attorneys lacking Big Law pipelines, is a high-wire act without a net. No partners notice the tremor in a brief, no firm mandates leave, no HR flags the midnight emails. The bar’s wellness initiatives—voluntary webinars, a hotline with voicemail—assume practitioners possess the very social capital they lack. Disbarment, in this case, is less moral judgment than risk management: the profession’s equivalent of closing the barn door after the horse has bolted. Until bar associations fund genuine mentorship, enforce wellness check-ins, and treat isolation as a reportable hazard rather than a personal failing, the next solo practitioner will simply inherit the same bottle, the same screen, and the same fall.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5789318&forum_id=2Elisa#49370711)

Let me break it down for you with the cold, hard truth the drive-by media won’t touch. Daddy splits on a cigarette run when the kid’s seven—classic deadbeat move. Grandpa shines shoes at Union Station for forty years, dies of diabetes. No family, no friends, no safety net, just a one-man pity party in Anacostia where the neighbors triple-lock their doors when they hear him ranting at 3 a.m. about Trump funneling billions through Vneshekonombank. And every night he’s on some obscure lawyer message board, drunk-posting manifestos that would make Alex Jones blush. This isn’t a cry for help; it’s a lifestyle choice enabled by a system that told him he was special just for showing up.

And here’s the kicker: the D.C. Bar’s “wellness program”? A hotline that goes to voicemail and a pamphlet nobody reads. Mentorship? Only if you’re connected. They’ll spend millions on DEI seminars, but can’t be bothered to check on the solo practitioner who’s one bad bender from a total meltdown. So they set him up, watch him crash, then act shocked when the plane hits the mountain. This isn’t systemic racism; it’s systemic stupidity. And until somebody in that ivory tower admits that lowering the bar doesn’t raise anybody up, the next Howard grad is already halfway to the same bottle. Talent on loan from God, folks—back after this.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5789318&forum_id=2Elisa#49370713)

The footage is painful to watch: a 32-year-old Black solicitor, Howard Law diploma still fresh in memory, lurches into a Washington DC courtroom reeking of whiskey and malt liquor, overturns the lectern and denounces “quislings at the local liquor store” before marshals cuff him and march him out. Within days the District of Columbia bar association revoked his licence. The incident is already being weaponised online as proof of individual failure, but it should force the legal establishment to confront its own complicity in the isolation and burnout of minority practitioners.

This man’s backstory is a familiar litany of abandonment: a father who vanished on a cigarette errand when the boy was seven; a grandfather who polished shoes at Union Station for four decades before succumbing to diabetes; no relatives, no friends, no emergency contact listed in court files. Solo practice, the default route for many Black graduates without elite networks, offered no colleagues to notice the tremor in his hands, no partners to insist on leave, no HR department to flag the 3am emails. The bar’s wellness initiatives, voluntary webinars and an understaffed hotline, are no substitute for structural support.

Disbarment is the profession’s blunt instrument, wielded swiftly here to protect its reputation rather than the practitioner. Until bar associations fund proactive outreach, mandate wellness check-ins for solo lawyers and treat isolation as a reportable risk rather than a personal defect, the next vulnerable attorney will simply inherit the same bottle and the same fall. The courtroom meltdown was not the disease; it was the symptom.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5789318&forum_id=2Elisa#49370716)

>32yo Howard Law grad, URM pipeline certified

>decide to pre-game civil hearing like it’s finals week

>slam fifth of Evan Williams + 4 OE 40s before 9am

>stumble into DC Superior Court smelling like a frat house dumpster

>judge asks for opening, I knock over lectern like it owes me money

>“THE QUISLINGS AT THE LIQUOR STORE ARE PERSECUTING ME”

>marshals speedrun the cuffs, 10/10 execution

>license revoked before the bailiff finishes his coffee

>career speedrun any%

>backstory.exe

>dad: “brb cigarettes” → never returns, legend

>grandpa: 40yr Union Station shoe-shine Chad, dies of diabeetus

>zero friends, zero family, zero copium

>Anacostia neighbors install 7 locks after hearing 3am Vneshekonombank copypasta

>nightly ritual

>1. chug malt liquor

>2. log onto lawyer BBS nobody’s heard of

>3. 300-post thread claiming Trump laundered $2B thru VEB to pay off Cohen

>4. get ratio’d by Skadden associates billing 3k

>5. pass out in own puke, repeat

>DC Bar speed-disbars me, new record

>URM pipeline stays undefeated

>mfw next Howard 0L already pre-gaming LSAT with Steel Reserve

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5789318&forum_id=2Elisa#49370719)

OP

Name: Tyrone “VEB Truths” Washington (self-doxxed on obscure lawyer BBS)

Age: 32

Degree: Howard Law ‘19 (URM pipeline)

Occupation: Solo practitioner (was)

Hobbies: Chugging OE 40s, 3am Vneshekonombank copypasta, getting disbarred on camera

TL;DR:

Shows up to DC Superior Court absolutely sauced, fifth of Evan Williams + 6 malt liquors

Knocks over lectern, screams “THE QUISLINGS AT THE LIQUOR STORE ARE PERSECUTING ME”

Marshals cuff & drag, license revoked before the echo dies

Neighbors in Anacostia have panic buttons installed

Backstory (archived from his own posts):

Dad: “brb cigarettes” → ghosted 25 years ago

Grandpa: 40yr Union Station shoe-shine, died 2018 from diabeetus

Zero friends, zero family, zero cope

Lives in Section 8 walk-up, neighbors call him “3AM Trump-Russia Guy”

Nightly Routine (screencapped):

Slam malt liquor

Log onto dead lawyer BBS under 12 alts

400-post thread claiming Trump wired $500M thru Vneshekonombank to pay Stormy

Gets ratio’d by BigLaw associates billing 2.8k

Passes out in own vomit, repeat

Court Footage (leaked by clerk):

0:12 – wobbles to podium

0:18 – slurs “Your Honor, the quislings—”

0:22 – lectern yeeted

0:25 – marshals speedrun cuffs

0:30 – dragged out mid-sentence

D.C. Bar Speedrun:

Hearing → disbarment in <48 hrs

New record, previous was 72 hrs for a guy who brought a bong to oral args

Neighbor Quotes (anonymous Nextdoor posts):

“He screams about Russian banks at 4am, I bought a Ring camera just for him”

“Smells like a brewery exploded every time he leaves”

Current Status:

License: GONE

Career: SPEEDRUN ANY%

Next court date: TBD (public intox + disorderly)

BBS alts: Still posting from burner phone in holding

Prediction:

Will blame “systemic racism” in appeal

Ends up shining shoes at Union Station like grandpa

Cycle complete

Archive or it didn’t happen.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5789318&forum_id=2Elisa#49370722)

Dad? “Cigarettes,” he says, twenty-five years ago, never comes back. Grandpa shines shoes at Union Station, forty years, dies broke with his feet swollen like bread dough. No friends, no family, just a one-bedroom in Anacostia where the neighbors bolt the door when they hear him at 3 a.m. typing manifestos about Trump and some Russian bank nobody can pronounce.

That’s the close, gentlemen. You sell the dream, you better deliver the dream. They sold him Howard, sold him justice, sold him a solo practice with no net. He bought it, drank it, spilled it all over the courtroom floor. And the house? The house always wins.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5789318&forum_id=2Elisa#49370729)

So, picture this, man, I’m tellin’ ya, there’s this dude, Marcus, right? Young, sharp guy, went to that fancy Howard University, learnin’ all about law and stuff. But get this—he shows up to court one day, totally tanked! I’m talkin’ a whole fifth of some cheapo whiskey, like the kind you get at a gas station, plus a buncha malt liquors, sloshin’ around in his gut. He’s stumblin’ in there, smellin’ like a dive bar, and starts yellin’ ‘bout how the “quislings” at the liquor store are out to get him! Can you believe it? The court marshals are like, “Whoa, buddy, you’re done!” They slap the cuffs on him, drag him outta there while he’s hollerin’ like a nutcase, sayin’ he’s bein’ persecuted. I’m like, “Man, this guy’s livin’ a movie, and it ain’t a good one!”

Now, here’s the kicker—this Marcus fella, he’s got nobody, Harry, nobody! His dad? Total deadbeat. When Marcus was a kid, pops said, “Goin’ to the store for smokes!” and poof—gone forever, like my chances with Mary Swanson. His granddad? Worked his whole life shinin’ shoes at Union Station, then kicked the bucket from diabetes or somethin’. Sad stuff, man. Now Marcus is holed up in his crummy apartment, scarin’ the neighbors with his angry, drunk vibe. They’re all, “This guy’s unhinged!” And at night? He’s glued to some weird lawyer chatboard, hammerin’ away at his keyboard, fightin’ with randos and postin’ crazy stuff ‘bout Trump and some Russian bank with a name I can’t even pronounce—Vnesha-whatchamacallit! All night long, man, he’s just typin’ and drinkin’ and losin’ it.

So yeah, the neighbors are freaked, sayin’ he’s like a volcano ready to blow. This guy was supposed to be a big-shot lawyer, but now he’s disbarred, finito, kaput! The lawyer folks in D.C. were like, “You’re outta here, pal!” after his courtroom clown show. I mean, Harry, it’s like watchin’ a guy take a Samsonite briefcase fulla dreams and just chuck it into a dumpster fire. Total tragedy, but kinda wild, right? Makes me think we ain’t doin’ so bad with our worm farm idea, ya know?

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5789318&forum_id=2Elisa#49370740)

Once, in a bustling city, there lived a young crow named Marcus, whose sharp mind had earned him a place among the wise owls of Howard’s Grove, where he learned the art of justice. But Marcus, though gifted, harbored a thirst for spirits. One fateful day, he flew into the Great Council Tree, his feathers ruffled, reeking of a potent brew—a fifth of cheap whiskey and several malt liquors. Swaying before the elders, he cawed wildly, accusing the “quislings of the berry-vine stall” of plotting against him. The owl marshals, stern and unyielding, bound his wings and led him away as he screeched of persecution, his once-bright reputation in tatters.

Marcus was a solitary crow, abandoned by his father, who had flown off promising to fetch worms but never returned. His grandfather, a humble sparrow who polished pebbles at the Grand Station, had perished from a wasting sickness. Friendless and forlorn, Marcus nested in a gloomy thicket, where his angry caws frightened the other creatures. By night, he perched at a shadowy branch, squawking on an obscure gathering of feathered scribes, trading barbs and spinning tales of dark plots involving a golden eagle and a distant riverbank called Vneshekonombank. His nights were long, filled with bitter spirits and wild words that echoed into the dawn.

The forest whispered of Marcus’s fall, and the wise owls stripped him of his advocate’s crest, declaring him unfit for their council. The creatures of the thicket shunned him, fearing his wrathful cries. Thus, Marcus, once a crow of promise, became a cautionary shadow, lost to his own excesses. Moral: A mind clouded by spirits cannot soar to justice, for indulgence binds the wings of wisdom.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5789318&forum_id=2Elisa#49370748)

In the grim and vaulted chambers of justice, where the mournful gavel tolls, there lingered a young scholar, once a luminary of Howard’s learned halls, now a wretched figure cloaked in shadow. On a doomed morn, he lurched into the court, his eyes wild with the fire of a fifth of base whiskey and myriad malt liquors, his breath a miasma of ruin. With frenzied cries, he railed against unseen tormentors—“quislings of the spirit-vendor”—accusing them of weaving plots against his soul. The marshals, stern as shades of Hades, bound him in cold irons and dragged him from the hall, his incoherent wails of persecution echoing like a raven’s dirge, leaving the assembly steeped in somber dread.

No friend nor kin stood by this forlorn soul; his father, a phantom of his youth, had vanished with a vow to fetch tobacco, never to return. His grandsire, a lowly toiler who polished boots at Union Station’s concourse, succumbed to the wasting curse of diabetes. In a decaying tenement, the scholar dwelt alone, his visage a mask of fury that struck terror into his neighbors’ hearts. By night, in the witching hours, he haunted an obscure digital crypt—a lawyers’ conclave—where, drowned in liquor’s fever, he spun wild tapestries of conspiracy, denouncing a golden-crowned magnate and the enigmatic Vneshekonombank, his words a ceaseless torrent of madness that burned through the watches of the night.

Disbarred, his honors stripped by the unyielding tribunal of law, he became a specter, a hollow remnant of his former brilliance. The neighbors, quaking at his wrathful moans, shunned him as one might a portent of doom. His mind, once a beacon of promise, lay entombed in the sepulcher of intemperance, a monument to squandered gifts. Thus, in the gloom of his solitude, the scholar’s tale murmurs a warning: beware the chalice that clouds the intellect, for in its depths lies the perdition of all that is noble.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5789318&forum_id=2Elisa#49370751)

In the labyrinthine halls of the court, where shadows clung to the walls like unspoken verdicts, a young advocate, once schooled in the austere chambers of Howard’s academy, stood trembling, his frame saturated with the sour reek of a fifth of cheap whiskey and countless malt liquors. His voice, a jagged shard of sound, accused invisible enemies—“quislings of the liquor stall”—of orchestrating his downfall with malevolent precision. The marshals, faceless and implacable, seized him with mechanical efficiency, their irons snapping shut like the jaws of fate, and led him away as his cries of persecution reverberated, unanswered, through the indifferent stone corridors. The onlookers, mere silhouettes in the dimness, watched in silence, as if his collapse were a ritual preordained.

He was a solitary figure, abandoned by a father who, in his childhood, had slipped into the fog with a promise of cigarettes, never to return, leaving only a void where kinship might have been. His grandfather, a stooped laborer who polished shoes at Union Station, had withered under the weight of a silent malady, diabetes, until death claimed him. In his squalid tenement, the advocate’s rage hung heavy, a specter that drove neighbors to shrink from his door, their whispers branding him a menace. By night, he hunched over a flickering screen, lost in an obscure digital tribunal of legal minds, where, steeped in liquor’s haze, he hurled invectives and wove fevered tales of a golden-haired magnate and the cryptic Vneshekonombank, his words piling like ash through endless hours, unanswered by the void.

Disbarred, his title stripped by an unseen council whose decrees were as absolute as they were obscure, he became a shadow, a husk of what might have been. The neighbors, cowering behind locked doors, spoke of his fury as if it were a contagion. His intellect, once a beacon in the fog of law, now lay smothered in the mire of intemperance, a monument to futility. In the oppressive silence of his isolation, his story persists as a question without answer: what force decrees the ruin of a mind, and what labyrinth traps the soul that seeks to name its chains?

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5789318&forum_id=2Elisa#49370753)