The Stylist

"So, what do you do with all this hair?" he asked. The stylist paused. She had recently begun therapy and was trying out a policy of complete honesty as good for her state of mind. "Well," she said, "I collect it and add it to a pile in the back. Once I have enough, I'm going to bring it to life."

She tried to keep working on his hair, but he turned and looked at her. "Really?"

"Yup," she said. "Turn to the left?"

This only lasted a minute before he turned and looked at her again. "So, you really have this giant pile of hair?" She nodded. "Can I see?"

She looked around the otherwise-empty salon. "Sure," she said. Brushing off the apron and letting him up, she showed him into the back, and then through into a room beyond. Sure enough, there was a pile of hair.

"So, uh, how do you bring it to life?"

"It needs a sacrifice of blood," she said. "A couple quarts, I think." He edged toward the door, and she said, "Oh, heck, you're safe. I'm going to use my own."

He tipped well but gave her a terrible rating on Yelp.

King Dragon

The dragon landed in the courtyard of the castle amid much commotion. "I have decided to wield my power with noble purpose," it bellowed. "Bring me your king. I will instruct him." The king arrived. "I will not take orders from—"

The dragon ate him in a bite. "Very well. I am now king. My first command—" Arrows and soldiers interrupted it. After the fracas, it told the remaining soldiers to spread the word of its ascension, and to gather the nobles and guild leaders for its instructions the next evening.

Turnout was disappointing. "Where are the rest?" demanded the dragon. Lord Bockhurst explained that many of the nobles had returned homes to marshall forces against the usurping monster. Guildmaster Averna explained that the guilds were open to the change in leadership but wanted to reestablish the basic obligations of the crown to its people.

Three hours of negotiations later, the dragon ate half the delegates and set the rest on fire.

"Maybe I am a metaphor for corrupt power after all," said the dragon. "Or possibly for greed," it said, as it tore into the kingdom's treasury and flew off, gold falling from its overloaded talons.

"Yeah. Probably greed."

Metaphor of a Dragon

"What are you a metaphor for?" asked the knight. "What?" said the dragon.

"I want to know what our fight means. Am I combatting a symbol of human greed?"

The dragon sat. This knight was more interesting than the last dozen. It raised its head regally. "I am a metaphor for power."

"Great," said the knight. "Time for a manifestation of the struggle between goodness and corrupt power, then." He readied his shield.

"I said power," growled the dragon, "not corrupt power."

The knight lowered his guard. "You can't just be power. Power has no moral position, no agency. It's a tool, like..." he gestured, "...like this sword. I can use this to rob nobles, or to fight bandits. You, you clearly have agency, which implies a moral consequence to your actions. So...?"

The dragon lashed its tail back and forth, casting coins from its hoard every which way. "Then I am a metaphor for noble, righteous power."

"Really," said the knight. "You exact tribute from everyone weaker than you and give nothing back. Where's the nobility in using power like—" Dragon flame ended his question and his life.

"You have a point," said the dragon, "but you're really annoying."

Boston Legal Fanfic Number Two

"You can't seriously be defending this man," growled Denny Crane. "Is this one of those episodes where we disagree on morals, Denny?" asked Alan Shore. "Okay, I'll bite. Why not?"

"He shot a cop! Cops are the bastion of freedom in this country. They stop bad guys, they keep us safe. They have guns! They're the good guys, Alan. You don't get away with killing one of the good guys."

"Is it really so easy to tell who are the good guys and who the bad, these days? Police walk around too afraid to protect anyone other than themselves. You're my best friend. To me, you're one of the good guys. But what would you do if a cop stopped you on the street, made you get down on your knees, and you thought he was about to shoot you? What would you do if you really believed he was about to stop using that gun as a deterrent, as a symbol, and start using it as a gun?"

"He wouldn't dare! I'm Denny Crane."

"And you're right, Denny. I doubt any police officer would bother shooting you."

Denny looked up with fire in his eyes. "Why not? I'm dangerous!"

Boston Legal Fanfiction

Alan Shore stepped into the office. "I hear we have a murder case." "Alan," said Shirley Schmidt, "Just the person I needed. This is Jamal Jefferson. He allegedly shot a cop."

"Okay," said Alan. "Why does this interest me?" He looked at Jamal, who sat all closed up, staring at his feet. "What happened?" he asked.

"I shot him," said Jamal.

"Then we're going to lose," Alan said.

"—but it was self defense."

"Tell me more," said Alan.

"I was eating nuts, out of this brown bag, and the cop runs up and starts yelling at me to drop it, pointing his gun at me. I drop the damn nuts, y'know? He shouts 'til I get on my knees, but his gun's out and in my face and he's yelling at me to lie down." He paused. "I thought he was about to kill me, and I'd be one more black man killed by a cop who goes free."

"Tell him what happened next," said Shirley.

"I didn't want to die. I grabbed the gun, and next thing it goes off. And that's it."

"It's a long shot," said Alan. "But we have a case."

"Denny Crane," said Denny Crane.

Still Another Moving Day

"Thanks, everybody," said Anthony. "With all your help, this move can be over before noon. Let's load the truck!" He gestured Jenny aside. "I have some boxes upstairs I'd like to drive over separately. Help me pack the car?" "Sure thing," she said. They loaded up the boxes over an hour. "What are these things?" she asked.

"Just some hobby gear," he said. "You know."

They drove them to the new house before the moving van was half full. "Let's get these in," he said. He led her through the side door into the basement. "Right through here," he said, opening a heavy door in the far wall.

She stepped in. Dim lights revealed manacles on the wall, more hanging on chains from the ceiling, solid-looking rings bolted here and there, and coiled rope in the corner. She put down her box. "Okay, let's get this done."

"I was hoping you'd stay awhile," he said. She turned. He was a silhouette filling the doorway, rope in his gloved hands.

"Not my thing," she said.

"Oh." He straightened. "Sorry, I got that totally wrong." He hung up the rope. "Let's get the rest of this in, then."

"Sure thing," she said.

Just Another Moving Day

"So," he said, as they entered the third hour of moving boxes out of the alley apartment, "how do you know Amber?" She set down her box on the edge of a dumpster and stretched. "That shit in Istanbul, you know? You keep in touch after something like that."

"You're from Istanbul?" He put down his box. "Did you fly all this way just to help her move?"

She laughed and rolled her shoulders. "No, I travel all over the place. Just my bad luck I was in town the weekend she was moving." Her forehead creased, and she looked off to the side, thinking.

"Heh. Yeah," he said, "Bad luck, I guess. I'm a teacher, so I have lots of time in the summer. What sort of troubleshooting do you do?"

"The sort where it never pays to believe in luck," she said. She was turning slowly, looking at the corners of the buildings around her, at the windows near and above her. "Where's everyone else?"

"Dunno," he said. "Maybe they're taking a break too."

"At the same time?" she said. "Someone's trying to kill me. Get down." She pushed her box into the dumpster and pulled him down behind it with her.

"Are you crazy? Holy shit," he said as she pulled a gun.

"Stay behind me." She peeked out from behind the dumpster, then looked behind her. "Nothing." After a few minutes, she relaxed. "Maybe it was a false alarm."

"No," he said. "It wasn't."