Barber the Butcher

His name isn't important. It's just a strain of thought following the life of a 31- year-old cosmetologist who is all too weary and annoyed with everything. Watch him go from creepy to killer as his life tumbles in a downward spiral with a strange and awkward twist.


2. I am bad at being social

I am nothing special, I’m under-average height but I am average weight for my size. I don’t have much of a taste in music; nor do I listen to it, I just take in ambient sound to compensate for the boredom of silence. Or I do what every other consumerist American citizen does; I turn on the television and shake my head at the lack of decency in the world.

The truth about me is that I don’t really feel much, I never have. When my parents died I shrugged my shoulders; when people would give me condolences I would nod my head but never have appreciation for them. I only made one friend in my entire life and even when he was in the hospital I remember calling him from work and saying ‘sorry bud’, then hanging up. In short; I am severely sociopathic. How I can be a business owner and still have a lack of social grace in my fiber eludes me.

I however do feel something.


Relentless, unforgiving, irritable rage at the society of boring clones that populate this world.

The people who come in and get the same haircut every day, the people think that individuality sets them  aside from every single one of the people doing the exact same thing. Consumerism is brilliance.

It’s all about re-skinning something already done and tossing it back on the market with a shiny, new slogan attached to it. I am guilty of partaking in this wretched act, but I avoid it as much as possible.

It was the next day.

I awoke from my slumber.

My day started about the same as it always does, I roll out of bed and jerk off furiously until I get myself off. (I never said I wasn’t human and didn’t crave the pleasures of the flesh). I strolled over to my window and looked out, a bus passed by; ignoring the bus stop below. There was a young woman yelling something barely audible; she had blonde hair.

Something inside of me stirred as she turned, and looked up; noting me.

I waved and smiled awkwardly, understanding that it’s what I should do; she appeared to giggle and wave back. Now; I’m not normally very daft, but only when she broke into laughter did I realize I was standing there as naked as a mole rat, my dick swinging between my legs and no shame on my face.

I uttered a word, “Shit”

I needed to get to work.

So I got dressed, wearing nothing special; grabbed my wallet and my bag and left the house.

The girl was still outside my house; tapping away intrepidly at her phone.

When I closed my door she turned to me. It was 8:19. I hadn’t had my coffee yet. And I swore that if she were about to start conversation with me that I would breakdown into a ball of dysfunction; I didn’t like getting off my regiment.

She spoke, “Hey there cutie.”

Again my insides stirred; I didn’t get why. I was just compelled to talk to her oddly enough.


“How are you today?”

A question not asked to me within the past fifteen days, unsure of what to say my mind turned to humour, “Not naked anymore evidently.”

She laughed.

Her eyes were blue; her skin was fair, but not flawless. She was shapely and exactly my height. Her tits were full, as were her lips. To speak freely, my most base instincts screamed for me to fuck her.

I’d drifted off into though, not hearing anything as she strolled away.

I shrugged.

My day consisted of two customers, seven cups of coffee, four bottle of water and a bistro sandwich; chicken Caesar salad.

Again, I went home. I slept.

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