15

Shave And A Haircut (Two Bits).

Sage swam gently into consciousness, surfacing with bleary eyes and his mouth making the smacking sound of dehydration. He yawned and slowly realised that his mouth was full of white fur. He spat and picked it out, looking around to get his bearings. The dull hotel room stared blankly back at him. Greta, who was still asleep and still in her natural polar bear shape, snored a gentle, wiffling snore, which made her whiskers quiver. Sage had wondered whether it would be such a good idea to sleep on top of her, but as it turned out, she was far more comfortable than most beds. He wondered whether he could market polar bears...
"Come on down to Sage's World of Bears great Winter Sale! You've slept on the rest, now try the best. Bears to suit all sizes and tastes - from singles to King-size; futon-style Pandas to posturepedic Grizzlies, we've got the bear for you! Yes, choose Sage's bears for the most comfortable night's sleep you've ever had, or your money back! And with interest free credit and nothing to pay for a year, we can guarantee the best value bears in Britain. So hurry to Sage's World of Bears at Lakeside, Thurrock; The Metro Centre, Gateshead; and Purley Way, Croydon. Because a bed's just for sleeping, but a bear can catch you a seal for your breakfast!"

Sage would have to get onto it when their travels were over. But now he was thirsty, so he got off the bear and crossed to the sink unit in the corner. Turning the tap produced nothing more than an empty gurgle from the piping, which reverberated around the room. He hit the tap and, like an emphysemic old man, it coughed twice and produced a glob of brown sludge which splatted onto the porcelain. Sage turned away and went to the door. He would have to see the desk clerk about this. It just wasn't good enough! He went down the stairs and was nearing the bottom when he heard the clerk's voice. It was low and threatening.
"...And when your leaves are all gone, I'm going to slice open your stalk from root to tip!" A harsh laugh grated the air.

Sage slipped down the last few stairs and, still out of sight of the main desk, peered around the corner into the foyer. The grim looking clerk was slicing open a plant. His eyes were wide and the moustache was twitching in glee at the gruesome acts of terror that were being inflicted on the helpless flower. Sage scrutinised the face of evil. The features were pulled into the vicious grin, as if the face had been created by an insane plastic surgeon. The moustache, still with a couple of stray bits of onion caught in it, was moving apparently independently of the upper lip. Sage looked closer. He must be wrong - moustaches couldn't move of their own accord... But as he stared, he realised with creeping dread that the moustache was moving on its own. The upper lip was set in that cruel grin. It was static. The moustache, however, was not. In fact, it was animated, moving to and fro as the man's hands did their evil work on the plant. But despite that strange and fantastical image, most disturbing of all were the man's eyes. They were open to the full and staring maniacally, drinking in the spectacle of torture right to the last foul drops.
But as Sage stood there, mesmerised by the scene, something amidst the horror didn't fit. It seemed crazy to Sage, whose breaths were coming in short, tense gasps, but beyond the gruesomeness of what was going on, there was an inconsistency. Then he knew... It was those staring eyes.

Normally, one can see evil intent in a man’s eyes, but Sage saw no such thing in the desk clerk. The mouth was a ghastly manifestation of loathing, but in his eyes Sage saw... Fear? No, not fear - a cry for help! Could it be? No! It was a ridiculous idea... But then again...? There was only one conclusion Sage could reach. The moustache was in control!
Somehow, as the 'tache had grown, it had developed intelligence. It must have happened because the clerk had not trimmed it properly, had not kept it in check, had not shown it that he was in charge. And as his lenience continued, that malevolent bush had lost its respect for him, had realised that he was weak and that he could be manipulated. It had bided its time, silently growing some of its hairs inwards. Each night they would grow further into him, sliding up the inside of his nose and then back into his head. It was clear that these strands had positioned themselves so that they could strangle his brain stem. Then, one morning he had woken up and the moustache had spoken to him. He had been terrified and tried to run, screaming from the voice, but it was with him whatever he did, wherever he went. It had told him that it was the master now, and that if he ever tried to shave it off, it would kill him.

From that moment on, he had been its puppet, and what a malignant puppeteer it was, forcing him onto an onion only diet, and making him the instrument of its campaign to destroy all potted plants. Sage could not imagine what might have happened to twist the moustache into a creature of such undiluted evil - perhaps it had been scared by seeing The Little Shop of Horrors at an early age. All he knew was that it was joining the rogues gallery of evil moustaches through history: Hitler’s moustache, Stalin’s moustache, Saddam Hussein’s moustache, Vlad the Impaler’s moustache. It is a fact that not all moustaches are malicious - some have been a force for good, like Groucho Marx’s, and some have just been quirky, like the downy moustache that Queen Victoria grew in later life, which forced her to become a recluse and lose her sense of humour. But the moustache Sage was dealing with was one of the genocidal breed.
“I must stop it!” He whispered under his breath.
But how? That was the real problem. Catching an insane moustache unawares is no easy matter. If history had taught humanity anything it was that dangerous moustaches are paranoid and willing to kill anybody they suspect of plotting against them - the Night of the Long Knives being the most telling example of hirsute retribution. However, there was no doubt that something had to be done to stop the dreadful tyranny. Sage eased himself back up the stairs, taking care not to make a sound. If he gave himself away now, more plants would suffer the same fate as the one in the foyer. All went well. He slipped up the stairs and the sound of the moustache bullying the plant melted away. When he got up to the first floor, Sage turned and ran to the room. He would wake Greta, then they would wait for Dredly and then... Then it would be time to give the 'tache a shave!
Sage threw the bedroom door open.
"Greta! Wake up!" He said, rushing to the bed and shaking the shaggy beast into consciousness.
"Wha...?" Greta grunted and looked up at Sage with blurry eyes. He seemed highly agitated and she smacked her cheeks to focus her mind.
"What is it? What's wrong? Is it Dredly?"
"No. Just listen..." Sage replied, and then - in a moment of clear thinking which he would never be able to repeat in the rest of his life - he crisply explained the situation without adornment, without hesitation and without going into a rambling tangential anecdote about cruet sets.
“My God!” Greta breathed as he finished. “Are you sure this is true? That’s the most unbelievable thing since the OJ verdict."
“Believe me, I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”
“But you yourself have a moustache and beard. Do you mean to tell me that you, too might be in danger of posing a threat to world peace?” Greta demanded.
“No, no, you don’t understand. It’s not all facial hair that does this kind of thing. I keep mine in trim and it suits me. But the desk clerk is another matter.”
“What if he was just pruning the plant?”
“No, he meant that plant harm. And anyway, don’t you remember how he questioned us about houseplants when we arrived?”
“Yes, but I really don’t think you should judge a book by its moustache.”
“Don’t you mean cover?”
“Sorry... You shouldn’t judge a cover by its moustache.”
“But don’t you see?" Sage cried, "This treatment of plants goes against everything the Grateful Dead hold dear. Think of the songs they’ve dedicated to flowers - Scarlet Begonias, It Must Have Been The Roses...”
“China Cat Sunflower...” Greta added.
“Sugar Magnolia...”
“Ramble on Rose...”
“And New Potato Caboose, to name but a few.” Sage continued. “These are songs of beauty, which reflect the beauty of their subjects. Are you not touched by the poignancy of the lyrics of ‘It Must Have Been The Roses’? This fiend of a moustache would gladly destroy every last rose in the world! And can we forget that the Grateful Dead helped give birth to Flower Power? Greta, could you honestly say that you're a Deadhead knowing that we have allowed this kind of sickness to pass unchecked?”
“Well, if you put it that way, I guess not.”
Greta was impressed by Sage’s speech. It had power, authority and even a three-syllable word in it. He was on a roll.
“And just think of all the wonderful moustaches that have adorned the members of the Grateful Dead down the years. I still get tears in my eyes when I think of Pigpen and the legacy he and his beautiful moustache left the band. And it makes my blood boil to think of how this rogue is desecrating all that those other moustaches have held sacred!”
“I guess you’re right... But I still think it would be nice to have some concrete proof...”
“Since when have people needed proof before going off and doing something rash?” Sage asked.

“Good point - I’m with you all the way!” Greta cried, and together they swore an oath to rid the world of that monstrous facial adornment forever!

Can Sage and Greta get it together long enough to take the battle to the evil 'tache? Or are they just paying lip service to its destruction?

Find out in the next incongruously titled chapter...