The killer (K) was troubled. Which meant it was time. For a haircut. At the Barbershop in town: "Salon Tony". Where the hair was cut and the faces shaved only of those men who didn't or couldn't or wouldn't shave themselves. (Did the Barber shave himself? Hard to say.)
Ensconced within the poky little shop was a swarthy man of indeterminate age and glittering eyes, hair slicked back in a dark and oily wave.
As K entered the shop, the Barber looked up and said, "Mr K, please to take your seat," indicating a tall chair facing a mirrored wall.
"How's things, good?" asked the Barber.
"Ahh... you know," came the cautious response.
With comb in left hand, scissors in right, the Barber began to perform his art, such as it was, upon K.
"I was wondering..." said K hesitantly.
"Ye-esss..." came the Barber's drawn-out bisyllabic response, turned up at the end into a question.
"If I could get your help again," said K.
"Same as last time?"
"Same," admitted K with some embarrassment.
Last time had concerned the disposal of the corpse of K's victim #15.
"Well, OK," said the Barber, "but cost you more this time."
On conclusion of the haircut, the two men left the shop, got into K's car, and off they went. But when they got to the place where K had hidden the body, it wasn't there, as a corpse. It was there as a living human being, wounds healed, lying in deep sleep upon a battered sofa.
The Barber seemed as shocked as K, even more so, especially when from the kitchen nonchalantly came a tall winged being in an armored cuirass of silver, a long sword in zer hand: the Archangel Michael.
Noting the look of horror upon K's face, the Archangel frowned sternly and said, "Surprised? I have reversed your evil, humanchild, and turned back death, but the price remains for you to pay."
"Kill it," whispered K hoarsely, fearstruck beyond imagining.
"Fool," snarled the Barber, "you can't kill an immortal!"
"Foul spawn of hate," said the Archangel, steel blue eyes fixed upon the contorted face of the erstwhile barber, transformed into his true shape, that of Beelzebub, Lord of Flies.
"Who's gonna stop me?" roared Beelzebub, flapping his leathery wings, "You and which army?"
"No army is required," said the quiet voice of a newly risen Christ, raising a gentle hand of restraint, "love alone shall stop thee."
"Not if I have anything to do with it," growled Lucifer, emerging from the deep to stand reassuringly with the embattled Beelzebub ...
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