A haircut selection
I woke up with the feeling that everything that had happened in the Death Tower had been only a dream. The images of the visitors swept back and forth in my mind – their seductive voices, their sugary smell, their delightful touch – and slightly opened the window into strange reality, or the truth behind the insane asylum called Screw Quarter, filled with 100 flirtatious patients who suffered from profound ego, mania, paranoia, and hallucination.
I was still slumbering when Ms. Sedative delivered my feverish body to the steps of the intimate salon of Mrs. WickedBreaker. The owner reminded me of a Big Momma’s House movie I watched when I was seven years old, indeed without any understanding of the situation in the film but nevertheless laughing with each appearance of the Big Momma actor on the screen.
Mrs. WickedBreaker took one look at me and said: “This isn’t an ordinary fever. Place him in the Piranha room. Or wait… maybe he’d feel better in the Rebel corner.”
Eight strong hands dragged me into the large room with a thick iron door. The entire moving procedure was carried out so light-heartedly that my whole body was shaking like a leaf.
“What women have you been with to get like this, poor child?” Mrs. WickedBreaker asked, slowly pulling blue latex gloves on her hands. The gloves were so long that they covered not only her arms and shoulders but also her neck.
“Women? I haven’t been with any – it just happened.” I lied.
“Squeaky clean guest? Here, in the Screw Quarter? I see… then most likely it is LKED.” She said and checked a big oven with a brass pan upon it. Under a lock bubbled a hot liquid scented with paraffin. The idea of being cooked alive in this God’s forgotten town, without holding Sobekneferu in my arms, with no offspring, really bothered me.
Mrs. WickedBreaker turned out to be a very chatty woman who undoubtedly enjoyed the process of ‘cutting and styling.’ While stirring the burning contents inside a pan, she told me that Screw Quarter was constructed as a place of pleasure, and Warrior Farm was constructed as their service providers.
“There’s a balance, as you see. Or at least, there always have been until that nutty day when Alphonso Beard, the man – let me mention – with acute LKED illness, declared our state a dictatorship,” she explained.
“But the Farm has the right, in principle, to refuse to provide any service… It’s a free land, isn’t it?” I whispered.
“Depends to what extent… We have our values and laws, of course. If they refuse to provide whatever Hamilton Clan asks, then we can mark them as rebels. Father Dionysius was a rebellious man once.” The woman took out a sharp razor and sighed. Her breasts, hiding behind a blue linen tee, swayed from emotional stress. “Until the day he became a non-binary member of our small and perfect society.”
I recalled the expression of great horror in the priest’s eyes from the moment he arrived at the raft till the last seconds of his life. Poor Father! I politely coughed, supporting the wave of memories in the air of the chamber and watching the dangerous moves of the gloves above my legs.
“What surprised me here, in Screw Quarter, was the ecclesiastic, erotic phenomenon of such welcoming culture – despite the limitations and borders of the Kingdom – especially the force of it, a sense of modernity and sexual appetite in approaching male visitors,” I said. I didn’t dare ask the formidable lady of the intimate saloon about her personal experiences, but it seemed she was intrigued by my statement.
She replied, “Our new King Hamilton is too kind. Her father would throw all men in the pit behind the walls, where those needy creatures slowly but surely became the food of our poisonous insects.”
The sinister development in our conversation (stripped naked on a straight bench, with my hands chained behind my back) silenced me.
“So, what will it be? Here is a catalog.” The hostess dropped the enormous book on my belly and continued. “I’d advise to cut it all off. Under the root, so to speak…”
“Just because you are enjoying doing what you do doesn’t mean it is the right thing to do!” I shuddered.
“Try not to complicate your life, Doctor. Life is very, very simple and easy to understand.”
“Then I want the simplest haircut you can offer!” I yelled. The chains began to chant the melody of Gashadokuro – a giant skeleton made of the bones of people who have died from injustice – notifying me of my future grim fate.
“When it’s too simple, I lose any interest…” Mrs. WickedBreaker announced, offended by my proposal.
“Okay, let’s start with something more natural: a boiling potato instead of potato salad?”
The woman glanced at me, worried and full of tension: “I’m not some kind of illusionist. Shut up and let me focus on my job, Mr. Harmless!”
She sealed my mouth with tape and tightened the chains. I fell into oblivion.
The touch of her fast hands and a generous injection of bourbon brought my senses back to reality. I was free from the chains and able to get up. I looked down, squinting my eyes, trying to see the haircut under a transparent cloth, but all I could feel was the strange swelling in my crotch – everything around my phallus got bigger, as big as armadillos’ head.
“This is one hell of a haircut!” I yelped.
“Anything you lose comes round in another form.” Mrs. WickedBreaker patted me on the shoulder and quickly stepped out of the room. I assumed she had left me to grieve, but when the eight strong hands grabbed me again, I realized that my torture was only beginning.
Next post – Day 17. A Dope Party