"Good crike, it's been way too long. Sorry folks, I've been busy and lazy. Plus my handy list of tortures went missing and I procrastinated on fixing that, too. Shame on me.
"Anyway, this is a very special chapter requested by a very…unusual person. Now, I may seem like I'm losing my touch here, considering the guest doesn't die, but I don't condone suicide…and I just probably ruined the chapter. Besides, psychological torture can be worse than physical torture, hm?
"At this point, I would like to say that submissions of toture methods and characters to mess with are very much closed. The response has been overwhelming—thank you kindly. I intend to get to each and every victim at some point. For now though, enjoy the strangeness.
"As usual, I do not own the characters of The Legend of Zelda. I do, however, own today's guest victim.
"Let it…Begin!"
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"Just thin the bulk, please."
"Yes, sir."
Normally, a barber shop is filled with the sounds of chatting patrons and busy electric clippers. Today, though, this particular establishment was empty save for two people: the cutter and his customer. And, by professional standards, "thin the bulk" generally called for scissors and a comb over a razor for most of the job.
As such, the shop was filled only with soft pop music and the snip of hairs being decapitated. The patron had set up a special appointment for two reasons. The first was for some peace. It was hard to get time to oneself when said one is a writer hounded by over a dozen happy fans that eagerly hoped for an update. The second was…well, just for the hell of it. Besides, it gave Foxpilot some time to plan his next chapter.
The process was almost finished when the door chime sounded. The barber didn't even look up. "Closed for appointment."
The bell didn't ring a second time.
Foxpilot became suspicious. It wasn't so much the fear something was wrong. It was just that he had told absolutely nobody about this haircut. Though he was well-known, the writer kept largely to himself. A chance meeting with a fan could become irritating quickly.
Footsteps approached his chair. But they weren't the clumping of rubber on tile.
They were the slapping of flesh.
Finally, the writer looked up—straight into the eyes of Princess Ruto.
"Wha-what?"
The fish gave a creepy, satisfied smile. "I found it."
"Found what?"
"This." Ruto held out a paper. One that Foxpilot was all too familiar with. "This is the contract giving you the privilege of writing about me, isn't it?"
The author kept outward cool, but inside he was screaming. The fish had entered his room unaccompanied and unauthorized! When he got his gamer-hands on her—
But wait, she wouldn't gloat unless…Aaaaand crap.
"What about it?"
"Well, it says right here, in article five, subsection three, paragraph—"
"Just get to the damn point already."
"Testy, aren't you? Well, your contract says that you must give me one free chapter off from pain, suffering, and death."
Goddammit! Foxpilot began to see red—then he realized that he had a red juice in his eyes. Reaching up and wiping the liquid out of his line of vision, the writer brought the substance to his nose. Tabasco sauce…?
Immediately reaching up, the author felt a steaming pile of meat situated on the top of his head. "What the hell?" Foxpilot rounded on the barber. "What the hell did you do?"
The haircutter flinched before responding. "Taco."
"…What?"
"You ask for taco meat in head."
"What? When?"
"During call"
Seething as Ruto dropped to the floor in hysterics, Foxpilot roared, "I said no such thing!"
"Duckling?"
"Huh—what? What does a duck have to do with this?"
"Duct tape?" The confused barber held up a roll of silver tape and advanced.
"Wha—Wha? Get away from me!" I'm so not giving you a tip now!"
"Tip?"
"By-by the Goddesses, you two, ju-just stop! You'll make my lungs burst! Aha ha ha ha ha!"
The Tabasco sauce running down Foxpilot's back began to boil. "Shut it, both of you!" The barber stood back as the author grabbed his sword and hat. "Fine then! Ruto, you get your free chapter, you luck little bitch. As for you, ya hair quack, you won't get a cent out of me for this!" Sweeping the meat out of his hair, the writer strode out of the barber shop, footprints almost smoking from the risen anger.
Another couple of minutes passed before Ruto calmed down enough to ask, "You—you're not really that stupid, are you?"
The stylist turned the business sign on. "No, I just don't like it when someone has the nerve to close my shop for a 'private haircut.' It kills the business." He turned back to Ruto. Speaking of which, I must ask you to leave. Zoras don't tend to attract customers, if you catch my drift."
"Oh. Okay, then. Say, when pretty-boy comes back to sue you, could you give him his paper back? Thanks." Ruto dropped the contract in a chair before heading out the door.
"Ah, free for a chapter. I bet Mr. High-and-Mighty's fans will be so disappointed, they'll leave him forever. Ha ha ha!" Trotting down the street, the princess didn't notice the evil canine eyes looking her over from below.
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A bloodcurdling scream filled Foxpilot's ears, almost overriding the demonic barking that accompanied it. Carefully removing another stray piece of beef, the author began to ponder aloud.
"The hell? Sounds kind of like dogs from the underworld attacking a helpless citizen…Oh well, animal control will take care of it…maybe. They'd better not call me in again."
Turning his back to the noise, the writer began to plot the ultimate downfall of the incompetent haircutter.
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"Rushed? Yes. Done? Yes. It's a good way to say, 'I'm still alive,' at least.
"For those of you interested, I'm holding a sort of art contest…thing. I'm looking for an 'official' artist for my stories. The details are on my profile.
"Please note that the stylist's speech and actions are not meant to strike at any ethnic group—I just like tacos, and feigning the inability to speak English is pretty annoying in general.
"Ciao chow all, and may each and every one of you avoid getting meat in your hair."