"It was…a time of reckoning for people of my caliber; every night preceding this momentous occasion marked a perfunctory simplicity in my daily schedule."
This statement, of course, made no sense at all nor had it anything to do with the actual story.
The customer attended the gallery of fine artistry daily, shoving himself with little regard to proper etiquette into the squeaky rubber chair, hugging himself with desperate limbs to keep himself from tottering off the brink of his malign consciousness. His feet would beat the same tune daily, and endless sonnets of soliloquies spilled from his mouth.
The undying snip and spirals of the barber's lustrous shears maintained his mane, clasped firmly in the calloused hands of the barber-connoisseur. He remained tacit, oblivious to the musings of this patient.
"I had apprehended the suspect by mustering up my last reserves of talent and instilled the culprit with a tang of bittersweet justice; once sampled, it was obvious he would never be deluded into the deplorable act of treason! Oh yes, it was a miraculous capture," said John Mandrake with such a passion his throat choked up and a vein pulsed in his forehead. During the monologues, the regulars would straighten their newspaper or bury a pinky into an ear to dislodge great globs of wax.
The barber remained silent, tracing expert lines through the air that could never be mimicked by another's hands, the scissors shaving the greasy mane of the government's lapdog; each snip spelled out a new secret, another of the hidden talents the barber occasionally divulged in.
"Though you commoners have most likely heard this tale countless times --- indeed, I recognize quite a few of you! Back to listen to the story once more, I presume --- indeed, indeed… where was I?" trailed off Mandrake. Newspapers straightened, fingers delved deeper into waxy caverns. "Oh yes! I had captured the suspect and turned him into the proper authorities; of course by now it was my pledge, my oath, to be the authority, for all other heads of the government had surrendered to Nouda! I summoned a foliot to escort him to the Tower of London, but it was not until later I recalled haven taken a very valuable possession of his. Now, this is where it gets depressing, my good men and that crazy cat woman in the corner feeding her tawny pile of fur a bottle of warm milk."
A collective sigh echoed about the area, but the oblivious Mandrake continued spilling out his angst-filled tale:
"Rain pattered against the asphalt of the parking lot as I retreated to my apartment to rid myself of my entourage of fans. The boots had been stringed together, and I held them by the laces, slung across my shoulder and beating a rhythmic tattoo as I walked. I dried myself off in my apartment and hung up my coat, placing the Seven-League Boots on the couch-side table. Settling into my couch, I toyed with the Boots and ran my hand along the soles with an appreciative nod. Every once in a while I would hear a moan of pure lust, and in my confusion paced the room for the owner of this emotional display."
A raunchy couple upstairs was the prime subject." (Mandrake winked at the others, and the barber compensated by drawing back the buzzer before he could leave a bald strip on Mandrake's scalp). "But it turns out the room above me was vacant, and for quite some time. There had been many complaints that I blasted Evanescence too loud and it had become general consensus that dealing with my 'annoying habits' would take no less than the patience of Buddha himself, but I'll be damned if I can't listen to good music in these troubled times."
So what could be the source? Curious, I plopped onto my couch again and continued watching my daily intake of Seinfeld, absently toying with the pair of Boots. And yes, the ecstasy came once more! A leathery sound, born of the deepest foundations of lechery and possibly even bricks. No, could it be? Impossible! It seemed to have originated from within the very confines of the Boots!"
Mandrake now convulsed with such excitement that the barber ceased cutting and waited patiently for the tremors to end. No one seemed attentive in the slightest, and Mandrake scoured the room for any signs of interest. Someone guffawed, and was instantly silenced by the steely stares of his companions; the perpetrator coughed, tapping the funny section with his forefinger in an attempt to explain he had not laughed at Mandrake's tale, but rather at the latest rendition of Garfield. Nevertheless, the Minister continued with a pleased smile and a renewed self-confidence.
'Oh wondrous master, you have freed me from my prison!' intoned the Boots. I was, as to be expected, confused at this sudden change of events. I briefly pondered the meaning of such a phrase, especially coming from a pair of shoes. Among my thoughts was one that remained prominent, and that was this: if shoes can serve as prisons, the government could save a lot of cash. Eventually, I realized the words came from a captured demon. I could see its head peeking through a flap on the front of the shoe."
Its arms stretched out. I longed to embrace the gentle demon, to tickle its miniscule chin with a finger, to lay a tender kiss upon its bite-sized lips. But ever-so-menacingly hung the being I had devoted my life to, suspended on the northernmost wall of my establishment with the aid of a shelf I had built. Now it stood on its handle much in the ways of a man, shaking with an unfathomable fury that chilled me to my very bones.
Yes, Madam Hammer superimposed her whims upon me once again, and I was forced to place the Boots into a shoebox and hid the coffin of my newly-beloved under my bed. Madam Hammer convinced me, conniving and subtle with her flowing nightgown and her sugary tones that enchant the strongest constitutions! She convinced me to place the Boots in a wood-chipper, where they would never be able… to seduce another unsuspecting fellow again."
His eyes watered, and his nose quivered sensitively. "I was…forced into the act. I wept over her slivery remains and threw myself into the Thames… and drowned to death. Now I roam the Earth as a ghost, looking for the phantom of my lost Boot-maiden."
The haircut was all but a catastrophe, unfinished and ruffled in various places like alfalfa. Still, Mandrake pried himself from the barber's chair and fled toward the door, arms stretched out at his sides like the wings of a bird underneath the blue plastic gown, and he soared forward, a thrust of his hips pushing the handle and opening the glass door. He departed, and the sun set deep in the horizon with a beautiful dream-like mixture of unearthly spectrums before him.
"So, Mandrake's drunk again," said a costumer.
The barber smiled.