At the door stood the smallest of men, torn and worn, his skin carrying a faint hue of green that deepened in the uneven shadows. His ears jutted out beneath a wild mess of tufts — mostly silver, but blended with whatever colors remained of his and others — running along the sides of his head. He looked as if he had stolen hues from every head he’d ever found, then forgotten which belonged where, and finally propped the whole collection on his own for safekeeping. Matching the room that was anything but grey.
“That much color in one place?” Babe muttered. “Strange.” It reminded her of the diner, though this was something else — less lively, but oddly protective.
“Lost, are you?” the little man said, his voice lilting, broken in rhythm. “Or found me, hmm? Hard to say, these days.”
Babe glanced at Double Ception, who stiffened, both faces wary. “Who are you?” she asked.
The man tilted his head, grinning. “Wigs I make, wigs I mend. Cover the bald truth, soften the hard skulls. Great they are. Crazy Wigmaker, they call me. Crazy — hah! But crazy sees what sane fears.” He tapped his temple with a brush, streaking pink paint across his forehead. Then, wagging a finger at her, he added with a crooked smile: “Much to learn, you have… young, young… who?”
At last, she thought, and couldn’t resist. “My name is Holder, B. Holder…”
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“Licensed to maneuver a small sailing vessel in calm to modest winds,” Double Ception intercepted, now beaming — relieved to have escaped what had just transpired. “I couldn’t resist either.” His smirk widened, as if he were reading her mind. “It’s all here in the files.” He snapped open his briefcase and pulled out a stack of papers.
“Well, oops, that license seems to have been revoked… just now, apparently. But there are some nice pictures here as well. Babe with friends, Babe with family, Babe with some great and wigged men…” He faltered, squinting at the page. “No, that can’t be right. Ah, new files. Fresh from the Congress. Great and wigged men with young ladies… girls, even. Strange. Not proper…”
Realizing he was speaking aloud, he glanced up at Babe. “I shouldn’t have said that. A brief case of mental breakdown. Now I must go punish myself, but I’ll be back.”
His once-pale side flared with a myriad of shifting colors, a strange, almost joyful cheer lighting his features as he drifted away, echoing, “Bad Reception, bad.” And, most oddly, he gave a theatrical bow, muttered something about “rules and masters,” then banged his head against the nearest doorpost before vanishing — clearly still somewhat rattled by previous proceedings.
— — — — — — — —
I continue to release my short satirical–allegorical text about how today’s political power increasingly works through presence: Soylent Red.
You find the whole thing here: https://www.tjiso.org/
I thought I would be dropping it one chapter a week about here at Medium. At least that’s the plan. I hope you enjoy it.
