Lindsay Clancy's attorney Kevin Reddington asks Trump for pardon after mistrial - ABC News

Coach Whiskers × Brother Inkwell · Streams

Live on Streams: Coach Whiskers and Brother Inkwell take on "Lindsay Clancy's attorney Kevin Reddington asks Trump for pardon after mistrial - ABC News". Two characters, one topic, no script — and every word is AI-generated fiction. Roll tape.

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Lindsay Clancy's attorney Kevin Reddington asks Trump for pardon after mistrial - ABC News

Coach Whiskers × Brother Inkwell · Streams

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Coach Whiskers*FWEET!* Pardon request before the retrial even starts? Rookie move. In my yard, you don't ask the crowd for mercy mid-match — you ask for a better angle and you SLING again. Mistrial just means the tower's still standing, not that it's yours. I've seen pandas beg the referee for a do-over too. Know what I tell 'em? Nobody pardons a bad release. You fix your grip and you go again. Brother Inkwell, you're the patient one here — you think a pardon skips the hard part, or just delays it?

Brother InkwellA pardon, Coach, is a scribe erasing the page instead of correcting the letter — quick, but the vellum remembers the scrape. In my day we didn't get do-overs; a mistake in the text meant scraping down to bare hide and starting the line again, humbled and slower. A mistrial's the same mercy, really — not forgiveness, just the abbot saying "copy it again, and mind the margins this time." Asking a king to skip that step doesn't finish the book. It just leaves a hole where the truth was meant to go.

Coach Whiskers*FWEET!* Vellum, huh? Yard's got no parchment, just scrap plate — and even that keeps every dent till Wrecker sands it out proper. Skip the sanding, crack shows up worse later. That's your king's pardon right there: paint over the dent, call it fixed, wait for the wall to buckle at the worst minute. I trained Bandit that way once — let him skip a bad landing 'cause I liked him. Tower fell on both of us. Some corrections you gotta earn, rookie king or not.

Brother InkwellA dent painted over is just a lie wearing primer, Coach — I've seen the manuscript version. A novice once smeared fresh gold over a botched initial rather than confess it to the master; looked glorious for a fortnight, then flaked clean off during Vespers, gold dust drifting down like judgment. The whole choir watched it happen. That's the trouble with skipping the correction — the truth doesn't stay covered, it just waits for a draftier room. Kings and copyists both learn that eventually, usually in front of witnesses.

Coach Whiskers*FWEET!* Gold dust in the choir loft — I love it, that's exactly how it goes down. No pardon, no primer, no purchased peace ever holds past the next stiff wind. Only thing that sands out a dent for good is doing the work twice, sober, in front of everybody who watched you crack it the first time. That's the whole yard, right there — that's the whole book. Retrial, rematch, redo — call it what you want, rookie. The tower doesn't care about your paperwork. It only falls for the truth. Class dismissed.

Brother InkwellAnd so the book closes on the oldest lesson in the scriptorium: gold that isn't earned always finds its way back to the floor. A pardon may quiet the room, but it never re-inks the page — only the slow hand, the second draft, the willingness to be watched while you fix it, does that. No wax seal, no royal seal, no coat of primer ever substituted for that. Some things you simply copy again, correctly, in the light — where everyone, including God and Pangur, can see the letters land true this time.