As the stringy Russian dabs foam on a pasty businessman, the news breaks about Michael and advances quickly from spectacle to melodrama. I am called to the chair.
The barber seems drunk on antiseptic. In an accent sour as herring he babbles:
“Jackson, the other actress die, the rain- these are signs!”
“Is that Nostradamus?” I ask in that nonchalant voice you use with insane people.
“Nostrodamus, I- Ching, the Mayans.. you name it. This is sign… You know prophecy of 2012?”
“No, please enlighten me”
“Jesus is gonna return and the Jews will have to pay”
Of course they will.
I just sigh as he opens the straight razor and aims for my throat.