Dramahead

It was the stupidest haircut in the world. In the history of mankind. Cavemen were better off. Regressive Conservatives had better haircuts than this. It was like some sort of demented 80's revival geri curl gone horribly wrong (if geri curls could become even worse?). And even though Marco was wobble-shaky-fall-on-the-floor drunk, he could tell how awful it was.

"It's not that bad, hon," Paige smiles at him, baring her fang-like teeth. "I mean, if you're at a distance you can hardly even tell." She always hated his cornrolls. Always. She said they framed his face all wrong. Said they were soooo last year. Said a little bit of the snippy snip would do his love life much better.

And boy, did he want that lovin'.

A few hours and a few (many) drinks later, questions float through his mind: Since when did getting drunk solve hair problems? Why hadn't his friends stopped him? And most importantly, what had possessed him to give Spinner "Naughty Word" Mason those scissors?

Well, Marco had been too afraid to do it himself. His hands were all over the place and the last thing he needed was a scar across the face, Phantom of the Opera style. A mask was a definite downgrade, even from those ugh-tastic cornrolls.

And now he ran his hands over his skull, feeling out the rough patches and the bows and clothes pins and seriously? What the heck!

Better yet, how was he supposed to explain this to the kids at school? Ohhhhhh... yes, he would be ridiculed. He would be torn apart in a matter of seconds. It would seem like forever because high school sucks like that.

Marco threw his head back and downed another bottle of somethingoranother. He's mixing now. Hard liquor and beer and wine and what ever else he could get his hands on. His hangover tomorrow would be just punishment.

That reminded him, tomorrow is PRIDE, and now he has to show up looking like a fool.

The only thing that would make this better for him right now, he realizes, is a fool. Marco frantically scanned the room. Someone in worse shape than him (fat chance). Someone who could take the fall.

And he saw the perfect chump in Toby Issacs. What were the chances? How often did that happen?

Well, how often was Toby invited to parties?

Maroc slithered over to the corner, where Toby was nervously fidgeting with some coasters.

"Toooobbbbyyyyy!" he says, all nicey-nice, wrapping his arms around Toby's. "How arrrrrrreee you?" Lay on the charm real thick now.

"What's wrong with your head?"

"Nothing, m'boy."

Toby leaned back with a disgusted look on his face. "What's the smell? It's like my Grandpa after a family reunion. After he's been dri--"

"Hahahaha." Forced laughter. "Care for some karaoke?"

Before Toby could squeak out even the slightest of protests, Marco grabs him by the arm and shoves him into the limelight.

Toby clears his throat and glances at the words scrolling across the monitor: "And I will always love yoouuuu."

Marco makes for a pathetic drunk, he laughs so hard at Toby's poor rendition that tears blur his eyes. And he laughs so hard that he doesn't notice the coffee table right in front of him.

The next day Toby shuts himself inside his house and swears to get revenge on the jerk who totally set him up. At least he can take comfort in the fact that Marco can't go to PRIDE with a broken leg.

Plus, and Toby laughs everytime he thinks about it, Marco probably has one of the stupidest haircuts he's ever seen.