The Sun shone on Wario's shining scalp, pale and taut as his own elbow. Hard and heavy, it beat down on his bare headage like the guilt he'd found wracking his being every night. One day the guilt would actually dent his skull.
He hadn't planned on losing the hair. He'd been working on it – gradually, mind you, a minor side project in an oft-forgotten drawer in his mental executive office – for what was really, now he looked back, most of his life. There'd been minor alterations here and there, a precautionary biannual snipping to keep it in control, but on the whole it'd been a fairly reliable mainstay in his bodily inventory for as long as he could remember. Someone else must have been taking care of it before then; probably his mother. She was known for that sort of thing.
CHAPTER 3
THAT SORT OF THING