"Sir, would you be so kind as to shut up, please?"
The gentleman with the mustache had finally made up his mind to interrupt me. I was only expecting that. It's extremely fun when people notice my awkwardness and try to interrupt me !
Nonchalantly, I took a little piece of paper from my jacket, and I handed it to the mustached man.
The man quickly scanned the three lines written on the note. I delighted myself in his sudden change of expression.
His countenance was now a third pity, a third embarrassed and a third horrified. His black mustache made the whole thing quite exquisite! If only the psychiatrist had displayed a similar expression, she might still have been alive. I don't like people who don't make me laugh, and she fell into that loathsome category.
The mustache twitching with an uncontrolled twitch, Mr. Three-Expressions-With-Mustache stammered out a few unintelligible words and turned back to the cinema screen, pretending nothing. He was quite funny, the Impassible-Mustache-Watching-A-Movie. We were the only two spectators in this session room. I had come to sit right next to him, because there was no place anywhere else: all the other seats were reserved by the void. Anyway, I was not here to see the film. A bad movie, according to the press review.
Mister Deadly-Frightened-Mustache is much more interesting to observe. I gently wrapped my arm around his broad, quivering shoulders. I caressed his cheek carelessly. I put my head close to his head, and our two heads seemed to belong to the same body. I whispered in her ear.
How funny is the power of a few words written on a little piece of paper ! The whole room is silent, breathless, eyes riveted on the drama that takes place in front of her. No one, apart from Mister Soon-Dead-Mustache, has read my post, but I think everyone has understood. The Star Wars which scrolls on the screen, far behind the two of us, no longer manages to capture attention. The eyes are no longer stared at one of the most iconic films of the next two centuries, but are staring at me, and my laughter, and my Mister Snatched-Mustache.
I love this mustache, I won't leave it to a corpse. I stop laughing, suddenly. The emptiness of the seats, all these bland, dreary people, who give an even more impression of void than the void itself, open terrified bulging eyes, and observe the spurt of blood which now stains the remains of the face of Mister Corpse-Without-Mustache.
It's funny: an orphan, a widow. No more mustaches to take care of them. I sent them the scalp of the comic man's mustache : it was a father and a husband. They will receive the rest in a sort of large package in the shape of a coffin.
But no more mustaches; I have to act, I was almost forgotten. People don't know me anymore, and they don't understand me. They see me as a monster and a criminal in a clown disguise, when in reality I am nothing more than a clown in a monster and criminal disguise. The monster and the criminal kill only on my order; me, even if I wanted to, I could never stop laughing.
