Jake’s Close Shave
After his barber died Jake broke down for one of those pricey salon haircuts with your head leaned back over a sink with one girllathering up your hair with shampoo before another takes scissors and electric clippers to it. A third girl Jake hadn’t seen yet would be shaving his face.
His dead barber who’d done it all himself never played flutemusic or burned scented candles.
The scissors girl was blocking Jake’s view of the salon entrance when in walked this pair
of thugs squeezed into suits that shimmered in unison. That they were outnumbered by Jake and the salon girls clearly didn’t concern them. But it concerned the hell out of Jake without his gun hidden
under this ridiculous cape.
“We finally found you,” one of them said. “It was just a matter of time.”
“Leave these girls out of this,” Jake replied. “Your boss has no business with them.”
Before the thugs could address that inconvenience, the third salon girl came screaming out of the back room with a gleaming straight razor in her hand. One thug she gutted with a single slash of blade, his insides spilling all over the floor. His twin she got in the thigh, ruining his suit pants and her yellow smock because she clearly opened his femoral artery.
Jake slipped in all the dead thug blood when he stood to leave.Regardless, he tipped each girl a crisp c-note and opened his burner phone to call for a cleaning crew.
About the Author
Brian Beatty’s crime writing has appeared in Hoosier Noir, Mystery Tribune, Noir Nation, Shotgun Honey and Switchblade. He’s previously published poems at Punk Noir.