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The force of Edgeworth's glare had left many a witness gibbering, and by rights the car should have fallen to pieces under his withering stare - in fact, it probably would anyway if someone so much as breathed on it. But no, the junked heap parked in his space, in his bloody space, was completely impervious to his fury - and all the more offensive for it.
What was left of the Beetle's rusting paintwork was a muddy, stagnant green - and he hated green, representative of hayfever season and all the misery that came with it. Oh, and Gumshoe's coat, but that was another irk all its own. Like the Detective's coat, the car appeared to have another form of greenery - one of the rust holes actually had a weed growing out of it. A very healthy, robust looking weed, probably some kind of triffid hybrid running on a diet of leaking engine oil. The bumper was half falling off, only saved from dragging upon the floor by a few thick rubber bands that were stretching and perishing with age. The number plate was a nondescript registration so obsolete Edgeworth couldn't even place the date, one taillight bulb was kept in its broken enclosure with packing tape, and the back windscreen was so filthy the car's interior was obscured.
Just looking at it made him want to tip a canister of industrial strength bleach over it, and the fact this disgrace to the motoring society at large was parked in HIS GODDAMN SPACE was just the last straw. He switched off his engine and got out of the car, regardless of the fact it was parked in the middle of the carpark's main entry route, and stormed over to this vehicular monstrosity. It wasn't Gumshoe's jalopy - the Detective had written it off just a few weeks back. Payne drove a Mini, Portsman had a revolting pink beast of a Cadillac, and nobody else would be stupid enough to park in his space.
But the owner's identity became thoroughly clear via the coffee fumes emanating from it, and Edgeworth felt his rage reach boiling point.
"Right!" he fumed, looking at the tax disc and reaching for his phone to call the pound.
But to his dismay the tax disc was in date - probably the only thing about the heap that dated past the 1990s. Surely this damn thing couldn't have passed any sort of roadworthiness test? He checked his watch - this was no good, he didn't have time to deal with such a cheap, petty insult in the way it deserved, nor drive around the carpark trying to find a new space. He could move the car now and lay into Godot later for it - he was well within his rights to move it under the circumstances. And, heaven forbid, people might think the car was his.
It made him cringe to even touch the rusty door handle, but sure enough the car was unlocked. Reaching across, he put the gearbox into neutral and removed the parking brake, turning the steering wheel and gradually pushing the car out of the space. With a choke and a cough, the car abruptly started up, scaring the living daylights out of him, and he immediately pulled up the parking brake to stop it running away with him. Bending down to look under the dash, he could see a mess of dangling wires, two of which were twisted together. It had been hotwired. There was a clunk to his left, and to his horror the parking brake had fallen back down again. The car was beginning to roll backwards, and he planted his hand on the footbrake to stop it, but the footbrake was loose to his touch, useless, and as he fumbled his hand across for the handbrake he accidentally brushed against the gearstick.
There was a jerk, and the car leapt forward, the doorframe slamming into his stomach and knocking him sideways. He fell out of the car, winded, whipping his feet away from the path of the wheels just in time as the car went past him, shedding rust on his magenta suit.
"No," Edgeworth watched the car trundle inexorably towards his beloved Torina, gathering speed. "Nooooooooooo!"
The Beetle crumpled into the back of the Torina with an almost lazy crunch that was more rust than metal, and rolled back a little as if to inspect its handiwork - a gigantic red and dirty green smear across the dented in boot of Edgeworth's car. Its aim in life apparently having been achieved, it then proceeded to fall apart, the doors coming off their hinges, the rubber bands holding up the bumper snapping and letting it drop with a thump, and the back casing falling off to reveal that the robust weed had an extensive root system entwining around the engine, which was leaking something that smelled a lot more like coffee than petrol.
Edgeworth sat in the middle of the road, looking at the carnage and feeling at a loss.
"Ah, it's enough to make a grown man cry, wouldn't you say, Mr. Edgeworth?"
Edgeworth looked up behind him, and standing above him was Prosecutor Godot, hands in his pockets and a laconic smile on his face.
Edgeworth slowly got to his feet, turning to face him.
"Your car," he began slowly, quietly, his fists clenching and unclenching.
"What car?" Godot shrugged. "I don't see my car here - just that heap of scrap you've artistically arranged around yours."
"Your car, that clearly smells of coffee and can be easily identified when I feed your registration into the police computer," Edgeworth said icily.
"Oh, that car which was taken without the owner's consent and then written off? Well, Mr. Edgeworth, think of it as being like a mug of coffee that's been drunk by someone else by mistake - no hard feelings, as long as they make you another cup," Godot turned around and began to walk away.
"This is your fault!" Edgeworth shouted after him. "You parked in my space!"
"And you drank my coffee, so we're about even, I would say," Godot waved it off.
"OBJECTION!" Edgeworth began pacing after him to catch up. "You park in my space, and then your bloody car, which appears to have a life of its own, has completely ruined the back of my car - I don't see how that's in any way even, not to mention that I wouldn't touch your coffee with a bargepole!"
"Ahh, but Mr. Edgeworth, you didn't go through the trouble of getting to know her, you see - her little quirks, the things you have to do to get her to perform. When you have a new coffee blend, you have to drink right to the bottom of it to truly understand its depth." Godot kept on walking. "After all, if you'd gone in and found me, I would've been happy to tell you all about it."
"I shouldn't have to go in and find you, because you shouldn't be parking in my space in the first place!"
"Except, of course, it says nowhere on any sign that it's your space. Put your coffee mug on a coaster, and it's your place for your mug. But take it off to have a sip, and it's anybody's space to claim. However, I wasn't quite expecting... such an interesting conclusion," Godot paused, and turned, flashing Edgeworth a meaningful smile.
Edgeworth stopped, realisation dawning.
"You did it de-"
"I won't bother with the insurance claim, seeing as we have come to a mutual understanding. Isn't it fortunate that I have a new car that I'm picking up tomorrow?" Godot turned around and walked off, raising a hand. "See you later, Mr. Edgeworth."
Edgeworth watched him go, his sense of decorum in public space fighting valiantly against the urge out to shout the most horrible and unbecoming insult he could think of.
"You bastard," he muttered under his breath, then went back and kicked the now-stationary remains of the Volkswagen Beetle.
The wing mirror fell off and landed on his foot.
"Wow, boss, you've been in the wars!" Gumshoe exclaimed as Edgeworth limped in half an hour late, rust fragments still clinging to him despite his best attempts to brush them off. "What happened?"
"Don't say a word, Detective. Not another word."
"Uhh, can I say one thing?" Gumshoe asked.
"No."
"But, this came for you today," Gumshoe held up the envelope. "You've gotta renew your parking permit."
"NGHOOOOOOOOH!"