White and Black

Mr. White's knuckles itched. This was never a good sign, especially for anyone unfortunate enough to be standing in front of him at the time. They were large, gnarled, and scarred; they had been intimate with more than one face over the years. A hand better described as a catcher's mitt rubbed them like a person trying to soothe an angered pet.

"I'm sorry, Sir, but our policy clearly states that our stylists can override client wishes if proper inspiration strikes. An artist cannot simply deny their muse," said a young man. He had brown hair, frosted with blonde streaks, and he wore it in messy spikes. His long, droopy bangs hung annoyingly in front of his eyes. "Marcus" was printed on a plastic tag pinned to a purple and maroon vest worn over a plain white t-shirt.

"I don't recall that being part of the deal," said Mr. White. Marcus pointed to a sign over his left shoulder.

"If Sir had simply looked, he would have seen that it is clearly posted. Perhaps, Sir is in need of an eye doctor."

Mr. White stared at Marcus for a moment, mouth slightly open, tonguing a gap where a molar used to be. He stopped rubbing his knuckles and cracked them instead.

"It strikes me that you may have missed the fine print that says you can take your precious little policy and shove it up-." Mr. White was interrupted by the opening melody of Beethoven's "Ode to Joy" coming from his hip. Without removing his stare from Marcus, he answered the phone.

"White. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. No, sir. Not sure it's my place to say, sir. Understood, sir. Right away, sir." Mr. White re-holstered his phone. He flashed Marcus a gap-toothed grin that could have curdled milk.

"Today's just become your lucky day, Sunshine. I suddenly find myself in a bit of a hurry. So, how about you just give me the dog and I'll be on my merry way," he said placing a small stack of cash on the counter. Marcus, either oblivious or ambivalent to the fate he had just been spared, rolled his eyes and disappeared into the back. He returned a few minutes later with something that could have possibly been, if viewed from just the right angle, a dog. Mr. White picked the animal up.

"Thank you, sir, and may you have a pleasant day," said Marcus. Mr. White sneered and walked out the door.

In the parking lot, Mr. White loaded the critter into the back of a dark green Maserati Granturismo.

"Mr. Black is not going to be happy when he sees you."

The animal, which, despite appearances, turned out to be a Shih Tzu, cocked its head. Except for a narrow strip of fur running from the top of its head to the end of its tail, and small bands around the ankles, the poor animal had been shaved bare. For good measure, the remaining fur had also been dyed hot pink.

Mr. White buckled up and looked at himself in the rearview mirror. He let his eyes wander over his own scarred face; slightly uneven eyes; misshapen nose; and lumpy, bald head.

"Yep, I think it's safe to say that you're uglier looking than me." He put the car into gear and took off.

As he drove, Mr. White let his imagination play a little bit. His was an imagination that did not play well with others. He thought of Marcus and several painful things he wished he had been able to do to him. It brought a smile to his face and a warm fuzzy feeling to his stomach. Eventually he pulled into a windy driveway that went on for nearly a mile. To call the house it led to 'extravagant' would be an understatement, but it would be the closest a person could get with one word. A marble staircase ascended to a landing before ascending again to large, polished, oak doors. The house itself was constructed out of massive granite blocks that would have put Stonehenge to shame, and contained no fewer than 300 rooms. At the base of the opulent steps stood a small man in a spotless, white suit. Though mostly bald, the hair he did have was white, as was his bushy, walrus-like mustache. Mr. Black smiled a great, white smile as the Maserati came to a stop in front of him.