and this is what working for the governement leads to. go get real jobs in the private sector lest madness take you too!
Blue Beard
The first thing they notice is the beard.
Long,
braided,
blue!
They always notice the beard: hanging to his knees, knotted in braids, festooned with beads and ribbons, blue as the deep sea.
They always notice the beard, focusing on it to the exclusion of all else. They never notice the width of his shoulders, the musculature of his arms. They never notice the crooked smile or the malicious gleam in his eyes. And they certainly never notice the not-quite-there stains on all his clothing.
All they notice is the beard.
Long,
braided,
blue.
Revulsion is universal. Perhaps its the length: the long tangle of locks and braids and knots so uncommon in fashion. Perhaps its the strange ornaments that adorn it: bits of ribbon, brightly colored rocks and beads, old coins, other less recognizable items tied or woven into it. Perhaps its the color, a blue so poignant, so vibrant, so unnatural.
Perhaps it is just the beard.
Long,
braided,
blue!
Slowly, so slowly, the revulsion gives way to fascination. The kind of fascination that makes people pause at the scene of an acicdent. The kind of fascination that brings crowds to a disaster area. The fascination with the morbid, the bizarre, and the horrible that all people secretly harbor.
The money helps too.
He never mentions what he does to earn it, but he always has it. And there is always more. Money enough to buy whatever is desired. Money enough to go wherever you dreamed. Money enough to fulfil any fantasy.
Money enough to ignore the beard.
Long,
braided,
blue!
In the end, it is money enough to marry for. The weddings are grand, affairs out of a faerie tale. The settings are picturesque, the guests plentiful, the food and drink lavish. A perfect wedding. A wedding that no one remembers.
All they remember is the beard.
Long,
braided,
blue!
His home is a fantasy. Rustic and homey, it sits far away from the noise, the pace, the notice of the urban sprawl. A manor set on its own little plot amid gardens and groves. The rooms are numerous, beautifully appointed, and almost entirely ignored.
The locked room is the only one they notice.
It sits crouched at the top of the house, looming over a narrow set of stairs. The door is unornamented, the lock complex, the knob stained red with rust and age. The other doors are graceful, gilded, open, and all but forgotten. They do not notice the wonder and beauty of the house, all the opulence, all the freedom.
All they notice is the locked door, so much like the beard.
Long,
braided,
blue!
And finally, one day they all go up those narrow stairs. They all turn the red stained knob.They all open the unornamented door and see
Horror!
Scarlet splashed walls, gore slick floors, the soft length of a shattered limb here, the glassy stare of a severed head there. The stench of a charnel house. The sound of their own scream ringing in their ears. They all start to flee.
But he is there. And for once, they do not notice the beard: hanging to his knees, knotted in braids, festooned with beads and ribbons, blue as the deep sea.
They notice the axe.
Huge,
sharp,
bloody!
Blue Beard
The first thing they notice is the beard.
Long,
braided,
blue!
They always notice the beard: hanging to his knees, knotted in braids, festooned with beads and ribbons, blue as the deep sea.
They always notice the beard, focusing on it to the exclusion of all else. They never notice the width of his shoulders, the musculature of his arms. They never notice the crooked smile or the malicious gleam in his eyes. And they certainly never notice the not-quite-there stains on all his clothing.
All they notice is the beard.
Long,
braided,
blue.
Revulsion is universal. Perhaps its the length: the long tangle of locks and braids and knots so uncommon in fashion. Perhaps its the strange ornaments that adorn it: bits of ribbon, brightly colored rocks and beads, old coins, other less recognizable items tied or woven into it. Perhaps its the color, a blue so poignant, so vibrant, so unnatural.
Perhaps it is just the beard.
Long,
braided,
blue!
Slowly, so slowly, the revulsion gives way to fascination. The kind of fascination that makes people pause at the scene of an acicdent. The kind of fascination that brings crowds to a disaster area. The fascination with the morbid, the bizarre, and the horrible that all people secretly harbor.
The money helps too.
He never mentions what he does to earn it, but he always has it. And there is always more. Money enough to buy whatever is desired. Money enough to go wherever you dreamed. Money enough to fulfil any fantasy.
Money enough to ignore the beard.
Long,
braided,
blue!
In the end, it is money enough to marry for. The weddings are grand, affairs out of a faerie tale. The settings are picturesque, the guests plentiful, the food and drink lavish. A perfect wedding. A wedding that no one remembers.
All they remember is the beard.
Long,
braided,
blue!
His home is a fantasy. Rustic and homey, it sits far away from the noise, the pace, the notice of the urban sprawl. A manor set on its own little plot amid gardens and groves. The rooms are numerous, beautifully appointed, and almost entirely ignored.
The locked room is the only one they notice.
It sits crouched at the top of the house, looming over a narrow set of stairs. The door is unornamented, the lock complex, the knob stained red with rust and age. The other doors are graceful, gilded, open, and all but forgotten. They do not notice the wonder and beauty of the house, all the opulence, all the freedom.
All they notice is the locked door, so much like the beard.
Long,
braided,
blue!
And finally, one day they all go up those narrow stairs. They all turn the red stained knob.They all open the unornamented door and see
Horror!
Scarlet splashed walls, gore slick floors, the soft length of a shattered limb here, the glassy stare of a severed head there. The stench of a charnel house. The sound of their own scream ringing in their ears. They all start to flee.
But he is there. And for once, they do not notice the beard: hanging to his knees, knotted in braids, festooned with beads and ribbons, blue as the deep sea.
They notice the axe.
Huge,
sharp,
bloody!
this story... yours?
my blue beard, my money, my axe is most certainl my persona/personality. but maybe not in such a car crash revulsion way