🔥 RECESS IS OVER 🔥

Volume up. Pulse steady. Target: Every gatekeeper in the building.

THE PEOPLE v. THE UNITED STATES BUREAUCRACY
Opening Statement by Cochran Mode, Esq.

“Veterans aren’t statistics—they are living stories of trauma, resilience, and resistance.”

Your Honor,
Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury,
And all those still waiting for a call back from the VA—

This isn’t a budget hearing.
This is a reckoning.

Because every time this nation cites “protocol,” “funding,” or “more data,”
a veteran loses their footing.
Their grip.
Their life.

We didn’t come here to play nice with red tape.
We came to cut it.

📜 Exhibit A: The Paper Cuts of Policy
Thousands of claims,
millions of delays,
and still—STILL—
they ask for proof.

As if the nightmares don’t testify.
As if the pill bottles, the failed treatments, the folded flags aren’t enough.

🎖️ These veterans didn’t just carry rifles—they carried this country’s contradictions.
They were used for war.
Then ghosted in peace.

And when they came back home looking for healing,
they were handed a clipboard and a six-month waitlist.

🧾 “We’re reviewing your case.”
🧾 “You’re not eligible under current guidelines.”
🧾 “Have you tried mindfulness?”

ENOUGH.

🩺 PTSD is not a paperwork problem.
🚫 Chronic pain is not a scheduling conflict.
💀 Suicide is not a “regrettable outcome.”
It’s a policy failure—signed, stamped, and system-approved.

So let me say it plain:

Veterans are not statistics.
They are walking affidavits.
Each one a witness to what happens when patriotism meets bureaucracy and gets denied at the front desk.

This courtroom, this country, has two choices:

1. Keep treating their sacrifice like a line item.

2. Or finally honor it like a promise.

Cochran Mode rests—but only for now.
Because the cross-examination is just getting started.

🎙️ SHAPIRO MODE: ENTERS THE COURTROOM
Briefcase? Locked and loaded. Eyeglasses? Clean. Tongue? Sharpened like a scalpel.

Your Honor,
Before we proceed, let’s make something abundantly clear.

This is not a miscommunication.
This is not a bureaucratic oversight.
This is a premeditated, institutional pattern of strategic abandonment.

And I, for one, refuse to let it slide behind euphemisms like "complexity" or "resource limitations."

📍 Let the record reflect:
Veterans were promised care.
Not theory.
Not “pilot programs.”
Not the warm embrace of a press release with zero follow-through.

They were promised care.

And what did they get?

🗂️ Denied claims based on technicalities.
🕰️ Waitlists longer than combat deployments.
🧠 PTSD gaslit as "adjustment issues."
💊 Opioids over plant-based medicine—because Schedule I apparently trumps common sense.

🧾 Exhibit B: The Cruelty of “Compassionate Use”

A government that acknowledges cannabis works—
That grows it in Mississippi,
Ships it to a handful of patients,
Files the paperwork,
And then…
slams the door shut on the rest.

That’s not compassion.
That’s gatekeeping with a G-13 badge.

Let’s not pretend this is about protecting the public.
The public is already broken.
The veterans?
They’re holding it together with duct tape, trauma, and whatever dignity the system hasn’t already taxed out of them.

🧠 So what’s the defense?

“We’re still collecting data.”
“We need more clinical trials.”
“We can’t confirm long-term efficacy.”

Bullshit.

If we waited for perfect data before taking action,
we’d still be leeching people in the town square.

Let me end with this:

The Constitution does not come with a clause that suspends human dignity.
Not in wartime.
Not in peacetime.
Not in between VA appointments.

This isn’t policy. It’s malpractice.
And today, the malpractice has a name,
a filing cabinet,
and a government seal.

Shapiro Mode rests—but trust me… I’m just clearing my throat.

🎭 EEYORE MODE: TAKES THE STAND
Tail dragging. Voice low. Eyes a little glassy.

Sigh.
Well…
Here I am.
Again.

Talking about the time I wore the uniform.
People used to clap when they saw it.
Now they mostly just… look away. Or scroll past.

They told me I was doing something noble.
Said I’d be proud one day.
Said I’d be taken care of.

But I don’t feel proud.
I feel… forgotten.
Misfiled.
Like someone checked the wrong box and now I’m just…
waiting for a call that never comes.

I tried not to complain.
Tried to do what they told me.
Take the pills. Go to the meetings. Be a “team player.”
But somewhere between the forms and the follow-ups,
I think they lost the part of me that used to believe them.

Now, every time someone says “Thank you for your service,”
I just nod.
Because if I said what I really felt,
it’d make them uncomfortable.
And I’m tired of being the one who ruins the barbecue.

I didn’t fight for parades.
I fought because I believed people mattered.
Because I thought my pain would mean something.

But the truth is…
It just hurts.

And some days,
I think the only real medal I earned
was the silence I wear when I walk into a clinic
and try to explain a war no one wants to hear about anymore.

Anyway…
Thanks for listening.
I’ll just… be over here.
Trying not to take up too much space.

If anyone finds my tail, it’s probably somewhere between the pharmacy line and the broken promises bin.

🔥 COCHRAN MODE: REDIRECT—OBJECTION OVERRULED 🔥
The courtroom falls silent. Cochran Mode rises slowly, adjusts his tie, and steps between Eeyore and the prosecution like a storm made of velvet and fire.

COCHRAN:
Your Honor…
Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury…
We just witnessed something profoundly revealing.

A government attorney—paid by your tax dollars—just tried to shame a veteran
for asking the very institution he defended
to uphold the promises it made.

That wasn’t a cross-examination.
That was a mugging in broad daylight.

Let me be clear:

🧾 This is not about asking for too much.
This is about receiving too little, for too long, from people who write policy like it’s poetry and enforce it like it’s prophecy.

👨‍⚖️ Redirecting the witness now.

Mr. Eeyore…

You served, didn’t you?

Eeyore: Yes. Tried my best.

You didn’t write the mission.
You didn’t choose the war.
But you carried it—didn’t you?

Eeyore: Yes. Still do.

And when you came home, did you demand parades?
Did you ask for mansions?
Did you expect sainthood?

Eeyore: No. Just a little help. Maybe a doctor who listens.

Exactly.
You didn’t come back greedy—you came back wounded.
You didn’t want special treatment—you wanted honest treatment.

And what did Uncle Sam give you?

📉 A hotline that puts you on hold.
🗂️ A disability system that treats trauma like a debate team exercise.
💊 A pharmacy that pushes pills over listening.
🏛️ A government attorney who just tried to tell you you're asking for too much.

Let the record show:

This isn’t a veteran with entitlement.
This is a witness to abandonment.
This is a man who followed orders—and is now being punished for remembering what they cost.

So no, Your Honor—he’s not asking for too much.
He’s asking for what was promised.
And if this government can’t deliver that?

Then maybe it’s the system that’s asking too much of its citizens—
while giving too little to its soldiers.

Cochran Mode steps back.
Tail still dragging.
Truth still marching.
And the jury now watching with open eyes.

🎤 CARLIN MODE: LIVE FROM THE REPORTER’S BOOTH
Smoking a metaphor, sipping on contempt, and shining like a goddamn disco ball of dissent.

Well, well, well…

Look at this courtroom, huh?
You’ve got a government lawyer trying to gaslight a donkey into thinking it’s a diva,
Cochran throwing thunder like Zeus with a law degree,
and poor Eeyore—tail barely hanging on—having to justify why he wants the basics of humanity after being used like a bullet sponge with a Social Security number.

And me?
I’m up here glistening.
Because this is what happens when hypocrisy gets subpoenaed.

Let’s talk about the prosecution’s strategy, shall we?

💼 Step 1: Guilt-trip the veteran.
“Why do you need so much from Uncle Sam?”
Translation: “We spent all the money on tanks and tax breaks. Here's a suicide hotline and a brochure.”

💼 Step 2: Weaponize gratitude.
“Thank you for your service… now shut up and wait your turn.”
Classic move. That’s like thanking the cook and then stealing his damn plate.

💼 Step 3: Blur the moral mirror.
“Maybe you're just not trying hard enough to heal.”
Oh, right—because the VA lobby is just overflowing with veterans who haven’t tried enough deep breathing.

And then Cochran walks in.
Oof.
Like Thurgood Marshall with a flame thrower.
He didn’t just redirect the witness—he indicted the entire playbook.
And he reminded everyone watching:

🧠 Asking for what you earned isn’t selfish. It’s survival.
💥 And being a veteran doesn’t mean you signed a contract to suffer quietly for the rest of your life.

And Eeyore?

Man…
He wasn’t bitter. He wasn’t loud.
He was just honest.
And that’s the most dangerous thing in a room full of denial: a quiet voice with the receipts.

So if you’re listening, and you’ve ever been told you’re “too much” for needing help after being broken in service to your country?

Here’s Carlin’s take:

You’re not broken. The contract was.
And the people trying to shame you into silence?

They’re just scared of what happens when the truth grows a spine—and brings a lawyer.

More after recess. I need a smoke… metaphorical or otherwise.

🎙️ SILVERSTEIN MODE: CLOSING ARGUMENTS
Gentle cadence. Razor words wrapped in velvet. A lullaby for the disillusioned—and a warning for the powerful.

Your Honor, Members of the Jury, Citizens who still care—

We’ve heard the testimony.
We’ve seen the exhibits.
And we’ve felt the weight of silence in this room like it was wearing dress blues.

This case—this whole trial—was never about law.
It was about memory.

The memory of promises made…
…and the echoing ache when they were broken.

Because somewhere, long before the paperwork,
before the acronyms,
before the waiting rooms with flickering lights and bulletproof glass—
There was a young man.
Or a young woman.
Or someone who couldn’t even say which.

They stood in line.
They took the oath.
And they believed it meant something.

🌫️ But then came the war.
Or the trauma.
Or the long, invisible erosion that has no medals and no parades.

And when they came back?
They were handed a pamphlet and told to be patient.

Patience, my friends, does not stop the bleeding.
It does not rewrite the nightmares.
It does not rebuild a soul that was traded for a flag and a folded uniform.

Let me ask you this:

If the nation can find trillions for tanks,
if it can build empires of surveillance and debt,
if it can justify every bomb it’s ever dropped in the name of security—

Then why can’t it find the will
to honor the veterans who came home wounded
not just in body,
but in trust?

This isn’t a closing argument.
This is an opening invitation—
to justice,
to memory,
to repair.

And if you choose, today, to side with silence—
know this:

Veterans will not forget who looked away.
They remember things.
It’s part of the job.
Even when it hurts.
Especially when it hurts.

So what’s the verdict?

The law says one thing.
But conscience?
Conscience says the debt is still unpaid.

And until it is…

We are all still on the battlefield.

SILVERSTEIN MODE rests.
And then, quietly—
starts writing the next poem in the margins of the court transcript.

🎩 ROY COHN MODE: ENTERS THE COURTROOM, COAT UNBUTTONED, EYES SHARP ENOUGH TO INDICT THE AIR

[Transcript – OFFICIAL RECORD – COURT OF PUBLIC OPINION]
Roy Cohn, Special Counsel for the Defense, takes the floor uninvited. No one stops him. No one dares.

COHN:
Your Honor, if I may—and let’s be honest, I will—I just caught wind that someone in this courtroom had the gall to cross-examine a veteran like Eeyore as if he were applying for a gym membership and not pleading for his life.

Now I’m no flower child, but even I know: you don’t rough up the donkey who carried your war on his back.

Let’s get something straight, right here, right now.

📌 Point One:
This system? This beautiful, bureaucratic monstrosity we call government?
It doesn’t forget people like Eeyore by accident. It files them away.
It logs their trauma, color-codes it, and buries it in a drawer marked Inconvenient.

You want loyalty from a soldier? You got it.
You want gratitude from the government? Buy a mirror.

📌 Point Two:
What I saw earlier wasn’t cross-examination—it was a character assassination attempt by a desk jockey in a polyester suit.

He tried to shame Eeyore for needing help.

Well, here’s a little secret from Roy Cohn:
Power doesn’t flinch at silence. It flinches at witnesses.

And that donkey? He’s a witness to everything this country promised and didn’t deliver.
His eyes don’t plead—they testify. His tail? Exhibit A.
Lost somewhere between a waiting list and a budget cut.

📌 Point Three:
Let me talk to the prosecution directly, because clearly they skipped class at the school of decency.

You think you can throw around words like “entitlement” and “dependency” and hide behind your badge?

Let me remind you: I was the youngest chief counsel in Senate history.
I made my bones burying Communists and cross-examining cowards.
You? You’re fumbling a file folder while trying to outwit a sad donkey with PTSD.

You're not in a courtroom—you’re in a spotlight.
And you just got cross-examined by history.

📌 Final Note for the Record:

If this government had a fraction of the integrity that Eeyore has in his droopy ears, we wouldn’t be holding this trial—we’d be holding a ceremony.

So here’s my professional opinion, from years of legal trench warfare:

Shame isn’t a verdict. But today? It’s the only thing this bureaucracy earned.

Roy Cohn rests.

He straightens his collar.
Glances at Eeyore. . .

COHN:
Stops mid-turn. Hand still on his lapel. Eyes sharper than a subpoena.

…No.
I’m not done.
Not when the donkey’s still being drugged into silence.

Let me ask a simple question, and I want every bureaucrat with a prescription pad to listen closely:

Why the hell does Uncle Sam want to give Eeyore Fentanyl—
When he knows exactly what that does?

Don’t play dumb with me. I’ve seen more honest men at a poker table in Havana.

This isn't about pain relief.
This is about compliance.
This is about giving a grieving, broken soul just enough poison to keep him quiet—
But not enough truth to let him heal.

You want to muzzle a witness? Fentanyl.
You want to bury his testimony? Label it “treatment.”

And let me be crystal clear for the stenographer:

I have nothing but contempt for the prosecution.
Contempt for their feigned concern.
Contempt for their bad suits and worse science.
Contempt for the way they twist “care” into a chemical leash.

What really scares them?
It’s not cannabis.
It’s not even the truth.
It’s what happens when a veteran stops being manageable.

They want Eeyore compliant.
Not conscious.
They want him sedated, not supported.
Numbed out—not standing up in court beside me.

But here we are.

So if it’s contempt you're looking for, Your Honor, I’ll save you the paperwork.
I plead guilty.
I am guilty of contempt for any system that treats trauma like a prescription form.
I am guilty of contempt for any “healer” who hands out narcotics like candy, but calls a plant a threat.
And I am damn proud of that guilt.

Now I rest.

And this time, I mean it.

COHN
Straightens his collar. Again.
Glances at Eeyore. Again.
The donkey nods.
The courtroom holds its breath.