The Strange Tale of Solomon Jones

A new story to go with the new semester (which I am not participating in because nyah, I don't wanna). Also because I am lazy and now it looks like I'm going to have graduate, low GPA or no. Which...is terriyfing. Absolutely terrifying.

But on to the fic. This began as a very late night chat fic with the Captain as we killed time waiting for Steam to load. He needed a haircut and I was feeling exceedingly silly. Enjoy it in the spirit in which it was written.

--*--*--*--

On the morning of February the 23rd, Solomon Jones opens his eyes and curses. He cannot see, can barely breathe, and the sound of his alarm clock is unmistakably muffled. The Curse of the Poof has flared up again. Solomon Jones staggers across the room, blinded by the Curse. It is flaring up in shorter intervals, especially since he had started seeing the Mad Korean for an antidote. He doesn’t have a choice, though. Not after what Ines Hernandez did to him the last time he had seen her for the cure.

Stumbling into his bathroom by memory, Jones steps up to the sink and stubs his toe. Cursing in earnest, he rests his elbows against the cool porcelain and pushes his hands into his hair. The Curse is stubborn this time and the Poof fights him as he tries to clear the mess away from his eyes. Several splashes of water and one painful comb treatment later and Solomon Jones can finally see his reflection in the mirror.

“Shit,” Jones says to his reflection. The Curse of the Poof is not an easy one, although it is usually manageable. But it has been too long since his last treatment and overnight the Curse has propagated itself. The resultant mess is a heinous offense to hair care. If he doesn’t get it taken care of soon, he'll be bedridden, the Poof slowly sucking at his life force to feed its own twisted growth.

With the Poof momentarily contained by a convenient baseball cap, Solomon Jones walks back to his bedroom. Recovering his phone from the night stand, he sits down on the edge of the bed and thumbs through his contacts. There between ‘Ma’ and ‘Madrigal Choir Leader’ is the name he’s looking for.

With a sigh, Jones highlights the name and presses 'call.'

Across town, in a battered barbershop, the Mad Korean glares at the phone before he stalks across the room and picks it up.

“What do you want?” the Mad Korean says into the phone.

“It's Jones,” says Solomon Jones.

“I know who it is, you inconsiderate boob. You're the only one who ever calls at this hour.” The Mad Korean glares at the floor of his barber shop and taps his foot impatiently.

“I... oh...umm...” says Jones into the phone.

“Out with it!” says the Mad Korean. “If you're calling for an appointment just say so!”

“'I'm calling for an appointment,” Jones says, his voice firmer, “It's an emergency.”

 The Mad Korean's face softens into something that might be pity.

“Is it the curse, boy?”

 Solomon Jones laughs humorlessly.

“It's always the curse,” he says.

The Mad Korean nods even though he is alone in his shop.

“Be here in ten minutes,” says the Mad Korean.

The connection goes silent and Solomon Jones stands up with another sigh.

The Mad Korean's barbershop is two streets down and one over from Solomon Jones' apartment. One stop for a banana from a fruit stall gets him to the door with one minute to spare. Jones finishes his banana, puts the peel in the closest trash can and raps his knuckles against the barber shop's door. Two long raps, two short, and then a whistle. The Mad Korean cracks the door open with a frown.

“That is unnecessary,” he says.

Jones smiles beneath the brim of his baseball cap.

“But it's fun,” he says.

The Mad Korean frowns harder before holding the door open and motioning Solomon Jones through it.

“Hurry,” the Mad Korean says, “I've got everything set up."

The farthest barber's chair is a matte black and encircled by flickering wax candles. Solomon Jones carefully steps over the line drawn between the candles with cut hair and settles himself in the chair.

The Mad Korean closes the front door and twists the lock then pulls down the shade. The room is plunged into semi-darkness, the candles casting long shadows against the walls. Some of the shadows look like scissors and Jones shivers and looks away.

The Mad Korean steps up to the table nestled in front of the black chair's mirror and draws a pair of long, glistening scissors from the bright-blue, decontamination jar they are resting in. Solomon Jones takes a deep breath and holds it. Crossing to the back of the chair, the Mad Korean raises the scissors above his head and begins to chant.

"Veritas hairus, snippicus snappicus.” Jones looks into the mirror before the black chair and watches as the wall behind the Mad Korean begins to glow with an unearthly light. “Cursicus pooficus, banisheth hairicus!” With the final word, the Mad Korean brings the softly glowing scissors down and sets them to the back of Solomon Jones' baseball cap. Instantly the hat is flung into the air where it explodes into a ball of fire. Jones flinches before remembering that the Mad Korean has a pair of scissors leveled at his head.

The wall behind them is pulsing in time with the frantic beating of Solomon Jones' heart as the Mad Korean sets the scissors to Jones' head and lets them go. The scissors hang in the air for a moment before they take off, clacking in the otherwise silent air, each pass of their enchanted edges removing a clump of Poof. Jones cautiously begins to let out his breath as the Poof, shrieking in agony, falls to the ground around him.

The Mad Korean has his hands outstretched, guiding the scissors across Solomon Jones' head without touching them. The Poof pieces around the base of the black chair hump up and begin to scooch away of their own accord. But they cannot pass the circle of human hair and the magic of the lit candles. Squealing in panic and pain, the Poof pieces shudder at the edges of the containment circle as the scissors clack menacingly overhead.

The wall behind the Mad Korean has finally revealed itself as a portal to the 17th Dimension of Hell, the domain of Truly Bad Hair. As the scissors finally still above Solomon Jones' head, the Mad Korean raises his hands one last time.

“I banish ye, Poof!” he yells, his voice like a thunderclap in the barbershop. “Get ye back to the Hell from which ye came! In the name of PAUL MITCHELL I banish ye!” The Poof pieces screech as they are sucked back through the portal that gave them birth, thrown into the eternal torment from whence they came.

With a snap, the portal behind the Mad Korean closes and all of the candles extinguish as one.

Solomon Jones breathes a sigh of relief and raises a hand to his cured head. The Curse will flare up again, but for now, the Poof is exorcised and he can lead a normal life. Jones stands and extends his hand to the Mad Korean.

“I can't thank you enough,” he says. The Mad Korean shakes Jones' hand with an eyebrow arched. “And all without chicken's blood!” Jones continues, moving toward the front door. “Ines Hernandez always used it to conjure the portal and I couldn't get the smell out for weeks!”

“Yes, well...” the Mad Korean says, following Jones to the front of the store and opening the blinds he had drawn, “Some of us have moved away from the more ritualistic magics.”

Jones smiles and reaches into his pocket.

“The usual?” he asks. The Mad Korean's eyes light up and he extends his hands while nodding. “Right,” says Jones, “Here's the pay.” With shaking hands, Jones puts a perfectly symmetrical chocolate bar in the Mad Korean's hands. Moving to the front counter, he empties his pockets of the rest of the Mad Korean's usual payment: a mummified lizard, two flat-head screws, and a polished branch from a tree in the park.

"Perfect,” says the Mad Korean, still gazing lovingly at his candy bar. Jones nods and opens the door to the barbershop.

“I'll see you in a few weeks,” he says. The Mad Korean ignores him in favor of the chocolate bar. Jones laughs and steps outside. “Honestly,” Jones says as he walks down the sidewalk toward home, “sometimes I think being a werewolf would be easier."