Gone Hunting
It was almost the last day of deer hunting season and Rafe, the barber, was hoping today might be that day. One of his special days, when he could put the homemade sign on the door—Gone Hunting—and escape into the bush. First, he needed at least one new customer.
Rafe double checked everything to make sure he was ship-shape for business. The blade of his straight razor was honed to perfection. He lowered the back of the barber chair until it was down past parallel with the floor then pumped it back up—all set. The floor drain was free of clogged hair, the high pressure hose coiled and ready in the wall rack.
His van was parked out back with a tarp for the carcass spread on the floor—hopefully he'd use it today. A quick sweep, a brisk spray, and he could be out the door and off to the woods in no time. But he needed that customer.
The bell over the door rang and a man entered. He was a stranger, not one of the locals, and just what Rafe had been hoping for. Rafe could already see himself out under the tall pines skinning a fresh trophy.
Rafe beamed and indicated with a wide sweep of his arm that the customer should be seated. “Trim?” he said.
The man nodded as he walked over to the barber chair.
Rafe took the straight razor out of the pocket of his smock.
“What are you going to do with that?” the man asked, as he sat down.
“I'm just going to clean up the back a little,” Rafe said, and carefully severed the man's jugular vein with a firm, deep forward stroke of his left hand.
Blood gushed, the man gave a slight sigh, already dead before he knew he was dying. Rafe used the foot control to lower the chair-back all the way down, then transferred the handle of the blade to his right hand.
Now using his left hand to steady the top of the head, he continued the incision all the way around the throat in a sawing motion; until the carcass was bleeding-out freely and directly into the floor drain.
Rafe raced to the front of the shop: closed the window blinds, locked the front door, put up the home-made sign to block the view from outside, and got the carcass ready for transport.
He'd shaved a full two minutes off his best time ever for performing those tasks. And time was of the essence now. Every minute he saved would pay-off in multiple minutes of pleasure later. It was vitally important that the carcass be as warm as possible, the orifices open and pliant, when he got to his camp in the woods.
Garry Gunnerson
Editors Note: Be on the lookout for more stories from this author in the future!