The table before me was cluttered with lots of barbing equipment. The barber picked a screwdriver and began tweaking the clipper as I sat in the old chair, getting ready to cut my 6 months old hair. My hair grows rather slowly, you know. It was already 11pm but I had made up my mind to get the hair done that night.
The barber was confident in his skills, moving his clipper back and forth on my hair. He sniffled every now and then, clearing his nose of unrepentant phlegm that came back soon after each time he breathed out. Every now and then, he would turn to the side to adjust the volume of the music player channelling sound through an old speaker placed outside his shop. How was it that one would ruin a perfect musical piece with an imperfect sound, sounding more like pain than music?
But that wasn't the problem, it was my hair. The clippers would grip some hair periodically, and when the barber would lift it up, it would pull a little hair with it, sending jolts of pain down my pain receptors.
I admit, I have gone through worse haircuts than that and this was a little more than a breeze for me. Nevertheless, through the mirror in front of me, his ever smiling face still remained. It seemed like he enjoyed my suffering.
He was soon done with my hair and drew every possible sort of mural on it; more for his pleasure than for the promotion of my aesthetic quality.
Picking up a container with blue liquid, he squeezed the button its cover spraying part of its content on my head. Pain receptors on my head got excited and sent signals to my brain, telling it what quality of pain should be wrought on me.
As he dropped the clippers on the disorganized table, a screwdriver rolled over and stopped right before me. Fate had spoken...
The shop was empty. As he turned aside to the music player perhaps hoping to change the song, I picked up the screwdriver and acted.
With one swing, jammed it into the left side of his neck puncturing his carotid artery. I was pretty fast. I quickly pulled out the screwdriver and stabbed it into the right side also ruining the right carotid artery.
His brain screamed for blood, his heart gave its all, but his traitorous neck diverted it out. The brain screamed foul while the ground was artistically decorated with pure blood, undefiled by body organs.
He tried to talk, but they became gurgles and bubbles till his brain slowly shut down, his eyes working as a counter.
I dropped his fee and walked out, a free and righteous judge.
Death Count: 4
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