The night the Rhymer went whack

8

Spacious, in the middle of nowhere sat an airplane hangar. Inside was one barber chair, which was all that was needed, situated near the entrance facing the vastness of the plains.

He was protected by the largest collection of recordings in the world, records, CDs, cassettes, eight tracks, mp3s, everything. Instruments too. If it could make a rhythmical sound, he had it. And shared it. He knew the power of music, better yet, the power of sound, and every day he devoted his life to its exquisite beauty and fully dedicated to its preservation. All good souls knew this, and all that were bad sought him for the comfort that a relaxing melodious piece could bring.

Music soothes the savage beast and the savage-est, he thought. Mass murderers knew they were wrong, but they also knew that they weren’t inherently evil, just products of their existence. They would parade to his residence, coming to visit, and he would provide them with a remedy, an escape, even if just for a moment. Hours upon hours a collection of chords, chimes, bass, wind, piano and falsettos would wash away any man’s sins. They’d come and sit for minutes, hours, days even—for as long as necessary. Then they’d rise, give a big sigh and be on their way, souls cleansed, at least for the moment.

Remarkably, no one tried to kill him or disrupt his existence. He was immune and much needed in this maligned world as if he was the last strand of hope as goodness continued to fade. Yet with each visit he always prepared as if it would be his last. He knew his clientele, so he was determined not to give in to fear and depravity but rather to treat each guest with dignity and respect. He’d serve them tea, baguettes, cigars or anything else to make them feel special and at ease. He’d provide them with a shower and haircut, a shave and a place to rest their head if they so chose. He created a place of comfort, for, in this troubled world, an oasis should and would exist.

Take Clexin for instance. A known murderer from Budapest. A rapist too. His mode of execution was bombing, not to kill, but to maim, and once his victims became incapacitated, he’d then move in and take advantage. First the robbery then the rape. Man, woman, boy or girl, it didn’t matter, and his exploits were legendary, so Straffe immediately recognized him as soon as he approached. “Bach please,” he requested, in a manner starkly contrasting his six-foot-six-inch, three-hundred-plus-pound frame. Fashioning dried bloodied clothes, disheveled hair and beard and accessorized with a crimson coated hatchet dangling on his belt.

Straffe quickly obliged through a gift he had of picking the exact song that fit each criminal at that specific moment in time. A second later may have produced a different sound or, a twinkling earlier could have produced a different pitch, but right then and there, he chose Erbarme dich. With a handkerchief, he retrieved the record from its pouch, blew it dust-free, then lightly, with his sleeve, gave it a final cleansing. He fixed it on the player, licked his fingers then wiped the needle before placing it upon the record.

As the music began, he turned and watched the smile expose itself on his customer’s face. He dusted off the barber’s chair then summoned the giant over. Clexin promptly threw down his hatchet then pried his Glock from his hand. Now settled and free of violence, misery and life as he knew it, that chair became his womb comforting him and allowing Straffe, even just temporarily, to shave him anew and re-birth his humanity. So, as he washed Clexin’s hair, Straffe knew to look into the corners of the client’s closed eyes to witness tears develop. They always did, and it was at that precise moment of peace when Straffe disarmed himself from the fears of being in the presence of a murderer. Now he too could revel in the moment and the music and shed a tear or two himself.

No specific style, most criminals just wanted all of their hair chopped, so Straffe would oblige and leave some barely visible, just enough to shape the edges and trim the neck. Then it was the shave, usually synced to begin when a new song played, and it was the application of the hot towel that truly heightened the reality. The sizzle at the brink of burning elicited the manhood that many had forgotten they inhabited as a result of being so animalistic all these years.

The lathering, the sharpening of the blade and then the warm rinse restored the dignity that had long been erased. Done, Straffe unsnapped the cape then brushed free any remaining strands of malevolence from Clexin’s shoulders. He concluded with a comforting pat and a squeeze right where he just brushed before exiting the hangar. The entire south wall was a floor to ceiling mirror and the revelation of each customer was astounding. Raw emotions, hence Straffe’s departure.

Clexin slowly spun the chair and faced the mirror. He rose and fully shook off the cape before meticulously folding it and placing it on the chair. He walked a couple of paces toward his reflection as sensor lights illuminated his surroundings. And what he saw was a revelation that he no longer believed existed.

Clean, upright, dignified and human.

He thought he had forgotten how to cry until his bottom lip quivered and his eyes became flooded. And in the midst of a full on cry, he further advanced toward the mirror, approached it and placed his hands on his haircut, face, shoulder and belly as he burst into laughter at how fat he had become.

By now, Straffe had perfected this ritual, and the laugh was the indicator that he now had become the alpha male. In total control, he no longer needed to play the requested music, he could choose any song of his pleasing, something he felt would be a grand finale for this perfect occasion. Having now learned Clexin, this perfect moment required Himnusz; he figured the proud citizen hadn’t heard it in some time, so he repeated his caring ritual and placed the needle on the record. And the song played.

As the interlude began, Clexin stood at attention and placed his hand over his heart. Looking dead into his own reflected eyes, he belted out every lyric of his country’s anthem. Tears streaming, stuttering through emotional spit and snot, a murderer, a mass murderer, was filled with such love that he himself could not remember the person staring back at him. As the song faded into dusk, he calmed himself and gathered a few things and cleaned up his mess. Ready to go, he strode back to the mirror and saw himself again. He touched his reflection then turned and silenced a “thank you” to Straffe. He bypassed his hatchet but snatched up his pistol and headed toward the exit.

Straffe opened the garage, revealing the world that Clexin had come to know. A world that had taken over the past, which he, Clexin, helped produce, turning peace into chaos, his reflection into reality. He cocked his head high, the heavens looked exquisite as the sky protected it from the disgrace that was taking place across the land. He smiled one last time in the mirror then at Straffe before walking into the light. As his silhouette stood still, past to present to future, he raised the pistol to his temple. The man known as Clexin was no more.