A Million Versions of Right (23 page)

“Aren’t you worried about all the piss and shit?”

“Nah,” he replied dismissively.

* * * * *

We had been walking for some time. The scissors in my head were aching like a motherfucker and the body stocking was starting to chafe. I’d barely even had a chance to thrust my pelvis. Max hadn’t slowed down one iota during the whole walk and I was struggling to keep up while trying not to show it outwardly. My armpits were making a wheezing sound that clearly blew my cover.

“Don’t worry Jack, we’re nearly there.”

“I’m not worried,” I said in a squeaky voice that tried to suck my testicles away.

“You
are
worried but that’s okay. Just around this bend and we’ll be there.”

As the sewer turned it began to give way to a large expanse of space filled with makeshift houses and hubbub. A small, wooden sign informed me that we were about to enter the town of ‘Drippings’. The name was apt. Every structure and growth dripped with multi-hued liquid and sludge. The pine scent from the tunnels had intensified, tickling me with nausea.

My eyes immediately latched onto what appeared to be a barber’s shop called, ‘Shitty’s Trims’. Old habits are hard to shake I guess and it was a struggle not to waltz on in. My hands even reached for my journal, which I hadn’t held for days now. I won’t pretend I didn’t feel a pang of loss but I shook it off like leeches. Customers streamed out of Shitty’s Trims, all sporting rather handsome bouffants, which I mentally graded for style and execution. The dignified dos clashed awkwardly against the grimy surrounds of the sewer. I wanted to creep in for a closer look. I wanted to touch the hair and get a feel for the product used. I wanted to examine the barber’s instruments and assess their quality but I didn’t. I stood glued to the spot, watching the endless march of satisfied customers.

Throughout my nostalgic reverie Max was involved in heavy conversation with an ever-widening man called Hamp. I later learnt that his widening was nothing more than an optical illusion caused by the refractive qualities of his many tumours. Hamp led us through an arterial cluster of confusing passages before we finally arrived at a little cabin emblazoned with, “Charlotte Parking’s Drippings Costumery”.

“This is my little girl’s place,” beamed Max proudly. “I’d wager that your costume is ready, Jack.”

“About my costume, what the hell is it anyway? I wouldn’t mind knowing what I’m gonna look like.”

Max shrugged his shoulders and flashed a cute grin. “My little girl likes to surprise. In fact, nobody goes into her shop knowing what they’ll walk out wearing. I remember one chap walking in and leaving minutes later looking exactly as he had before. In a rather charming coincidence, my daughter fashioned a costume that matched the current look of the customer exactly.”

“That wouldn’t help me much would it?” I said dryly.

Max ignored me and knocked at the cabin door. The immediate sound of pulleys and cranks rumbled and a large blast of steam exploded from a nearby valve. I jumped backward defensively, only to be greeted by the door gently opening. A small lady topped with a large red bouffant stood confidently. Her nose was an accumulation of colourful warts and her skin was ash white.

“Daddykins!” she yelped before throwing her arms around Max who hugged her back viciously.

“And how is my little girl?”

“Shit like a weather report.”

“Bored with hammers?”

“Hardly worth winding it up really.”

“Tarred with snark aren’t we?”

“You’d only know from the wrong angle daddykins.”

I didn’t have a clue what they were talking about, but something within the rhythmic ebb and flow of their banter comforted me. I never had a child of my own, deciding instead to follow the dreamy siren call of the chaste barber’s life. My life had been a blur of hair design, shaves and combs. It was in studying the mutual love circulating between Max and his daughter that I was hit with something akin to regret. I had a girl once; a fucking corker of a girl. We were set to get married but I swapped her engagement ring for a vintage barber’s chair. She left me soon afterward and I never saw her again. She had childbearing hips like you wouldn’t believe.

The moment we were inside the cabin, Charlotte got right down to business.

“You Jack?” she asked with a pointing finger.

“Sure am.”

“The costume’s out back in a red box marked with your name. Go and put it on for me. I want to make sure it works.”

Several fumbling minutes later I emerged in what I think was the costume. I didn’t know what the hell I was but judging by the way Max and Charlotte hugged and cheered, I’m guessing it turned out as expected.

“So, um… what am I supposed to be?” I asked eventually.

They both stared in shock, clearly offended by my ignorance. “I’m not trying to offend. I’m sure it looks exactly as it should but I don’t know what the fuck it is.”

“Ya daft shit! It’s a knee!” screamed Charlotte, eventually breaking her slack-jawed stupor.

I studied myself in one of the many mirrors that lined the walls. It finally hit me and I couldn’t deny it. I was dressed as a knee.

* * * * *

Max and I finally entered the Hair District just after ten pm. It was the first time I’d set foot in the District since the slaughter at the Justice Force. The knee costume prohibited my movement to such an extent that I had to jump or shuffle in order to move. I grew tired easily and – much to the chagrin of Max – needed frequent rest stops.

The District hadn’t changed a bit, except for the posters plastered across every available surface bearing my photo. WANTED was stamped across each of them. My first feeling upon seeing the photo was embarrassment. It had to be the worst one they could find. I was captured mid blink and there was a definite string of drool swinging from my chin. This was topped off with a ghastly mop of severe bed hair. I cringed within my knee suit, wondering if Max would laugh but he remained stoic, focusing utterly on the task at hand. It helped bolster my sprits somewhat and I was able to convert my embarrassment into a healthy rage. Those bastards weren’t just content with wiping me out. They wanted to glean a few cheap laughs at my expense.

We passed various characters, some of whom I recognised, others that I didn’t. Each time somebody got within scrutinising distance, my heart beat like drunken fists. A babble of barbers slightly liquored up and cruising for evening fun approached us in zombie stumbles. They huddled together and quickly chose someone to speak on the group’s behalf. A short man with cracked glasses spoke up.

“You there!” he yelled to Max, who stopped and stared in a benign fashion. “What brings you to these parts, stranger man? What’s with the knee?”

“I’m merely passing through,” he said jovially. “As for the knee here,” he patted me with a gentle hand, “we’ve been friends for longer than I care to recall.”

“And how does one befriend a knee exactly?”

“It’s simple really. We met at University where he exhibited a remarkable ability to crush ice. Being as that was my major, we became steady comrades. I excelled in the theoretical aspects whereas Patrick – that’s the knee’s name by the way – hammered home the practical nature of the field. We’ve been good friends ever since and still partake in ice crushery to this very day.”

By the time Max finished his story the barbers had already dispersed, clearly too shitfaced to glean any value. I was impressed and mildly concerned by his sheer capacity to lie. For a man I trusted, as I now did, it was an alarming trait. I had come too far to let it stop me but I kept it in the back of my mind. I would have questioned Max immediately were it not for the costume I was wearing. It muffled my every word into mumbles. Instead I followed like a sheep, hoping that we’d have no more close calls. But a close call soon followed, in the form of instant recognition.

“Jack! Jack! Is that you?”

Both Max and I darted around in a panic, trying to find the source of the familiar voice. From the shadows of a nearby tree skulked none other than Messy Phil. The closer he came, the more his eyes widened in apparent delight.

“It is you! What‘cha doin’ dressed up in a big ol’ knee?”

I muffled a hasty reply, which wasn’t understood. Max tried to concoct another quick reply but it was lost on Phil. Somehow he knew it was me.

“You know you really shouldn’t be here, right? These people want your fucking head on a stick. Hypocrites the lot of ‘em, if you ask me.”

I was intrigued by Phil’s seeming inability to join the mob in their reactionary hate. I tried desperately to ask questions but every word died against the interior of my suit. Meanwhile Max stood dumbfounded.

“I’ve been trying to tell ‘em. As if you’d do anything to harm this fucking place but do ya think they’re listening? Of course not! What’s more, they’re crediting my wank fairy for hunting you down. All of sudden everyone fucking wants one. D’ya think I’ve forgotten the way they all treated her when they thought she was a no good fart machine? Those bastards ain’t laying a finger on my little girl.” He patted his pocket carefully, clearly suggesting that the wank fairy lurked inside.

“So my advice to you, Jacky boy, is to get the hell out of here. Go start your own Hair District. You don’t need these lousy people, especially if they’re gonna go accusing you of all this shit.”

Max finally interjected for the both of us, “You seem like a good man and I do assure you that we don’t intend to spend long in this place. However, we do have something that requires urgent attention. Within the hour we’ll be gone. Do I have your word that you’ll remain tight-lipped about our presence here?”

“What, me?!” Phil’s eyes beamed in surprise, “I ain’t telling them shit, you can be sure of that. To be honest, I don’t even like this place. Don’t think I’ve had a haircut in about five years and the last time I did, it wasn’t in this shit of a district. You just make sure you keep quiet about ol’ Messy Phil here. I don’t think they’d take too kindly to my helping you n’ all.”

“You have my word, Phil. Very good to meet you.”

With that encounter over we went our separate ways. Phil skulked back into the shadows while Max and I made our way to the water treatment facility.

* * * * *

The Hair District’s water was all treated in one location before it was supplied to the taps of its inhabitants. This made our job easier but there were still obstacles. Max had explained in rigid detail the series of filtrations and treatments applied to the water before it was deemed suitable for drinking. We’d have to ensure we added the woebegone at the final stage, so it couldn’t filter out. Max had detailed blueprints of the facility that neither of us could read so we decided on the dumb luck method.

We arrived at the facility close to 11 pm and snuck around the back. The water supply had never been compromised before so thankfully security was lax. Max cut away a section of wire fence big enough for my knee costume to slip through. We were immediately set upon by a dozen or so fairly aggressive looking guard dogs, which Max managed to sedate with a disturbing interpretive dance. I was impressed. We dodged the spread of sleeping dogs and came to a steel door with all manner of cautionary signs. Max lightly knocked against the door, sending out ominous reverberations and loosening my anxious bowel. A few seconds later a tall, gangly looking man opened up, staring at us with a mixture of surprise and caution.

“And who are you two likely lads?” he asked with a cocked brow.

Max replied with a wet, all consuming sneeze that drenched the man in mucous and mystery chunks. The man ran past them both with hands against his face, as if he were burning, screaming, “I’m prone to infection, you cad!”

We were granted easy access from this point forward. The tall man appeared to be the only inkling of life and the inside of the facility was adequately signed. We followed a series of arrows which led to an area called, ‘The Final Chapter’. Churning turbines roared dangerously, pumping vast torrents of water into large containers, finally spitting it out into a pool. Max ran toward this pool while I tried pathetically to follow. He was trying to yell out instructions but I couldn’t hear a thing over the raging water. And so I stood uselessly still, hoping that Max could carry out the contamination solo.

In the heat of my debilitating knee costume I really started to wonder why I’d even bothered tagging along. There was no doubt in my mind that I was nothing but a hindrance. Max could have so easily enacted his plan on his own, leaving me to get some rest. I still felt the vaguest after effects following my foray into menstruation. Despite having checked several times, I was overcome by the sensation of sizeable breasts protruding from my chest. They weren’t there of course and what bothered me the most was that I kind of wished they were. It isn’t something I’d attribute to any perversion. Instead it was as if they
should
be there, like I was
meant
to have them.