“Captain Chiggerson, can you hear me? Captain?”
“I can hear you! I’m blind, not deaf.”
“Sorry Captain, but you didn’t seem to be responding,” the historian asked. He was a young man, and was frankly shocked by the Captain’s long beard, his lifeless eyes. He’d met many veterans of the Beard Wars, but he’d never gotten used to their dead stares, their broken minds, their creepy long beards.
“Well, I was thinking,” Captain Chiggerson explained.
“About the war?”
“Of course I was thinking about the war. What the hell is wrong with you, are you simple? You just asked me about what role I played in the war, ye whippersnapper!”
“Of course, Captain. I didn’t want to interrupt your train of thought, but these Flannigan pornograph recording cylinders are expensive, and they’re only good for a half-hour of recording time.”
“Well, it’s not a thing a man wants to think about. All the lives lost. The horrors”
“Naturally, but it’s important that future generations understand what happened during the Beard Wars. You know, so it never happens again,” the historian said. He sported an impressive set of friendly mutton chops, which left his chin bare, but otherwise covered his face with hair. It was an old-fashioned facial hair style, but he found it made his interview subjects more comfortable, and likely to answer his questions, because their hero, General Hiram I. R. Sute, made the style so famous.
Of course, his current subject couldn’t see, so it wasn’t helping. “So, you were going to tell me about the start of the wars. What did you do before the wars began?” the historian prompted.
“I was a barber.”
The End
If you enjoyed this, you may want to get a copy of my latest novel, which is the hairy tale of a concentration camps for fat people & bureaucracy gone mad. (A love story.) Available in all formats in all the usual places online:
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