000

prologue

 

There was this old chapel on 0th avenue people believed was haunted.

Until it was sold to a man whose face was never seen—which didn’t make it any better.

Nevertheless, the place gained in popularity over the years, especially amongst collegians.They would line up every morning in front of the creaking double door waving their five dollar bills with a passion that would make the pope jealous. Which, eventually, alarmed the authorities. Rumours had it that the Man was some sort of shady drug dealer turning the youngsters into soulless zombies. Sadly for conspiracy fans, truth was the service he provided that blew up so much was nothing else but the confessional. Rather, the weird spiritual advices that would be given using, an apparently, magic mirror. Just another lunatic, they had concluded. Obviously, the priest was no priest at all. Not that he ever pretended to be one.

Soon, even parents would give into the temptation. See, there was something oddly reassuring in his bizarre analogical responses, as they somehow triggered epiphanies. And who could resist being able to rant about their kids for free?

“What a beautiful day not to do anything. Am I right?”

Too bad the robust looking man was feeling too lazy to open for business despite the 20 something people standing outside his doors. He had settled on a newly dusted off chair, within a way-too-dusty room. It was hard to believe the walls once, used to be an immaculate white.

“Yes, yes.” Suho’s head was resting on a cloth on top of the table. Even if it was cleaned earlier, he didn’t trust it. “Whatever.”

“The Legend of the Moustache Warrior.” The man proudly read the title aloud, snickering to himself in a way that irritated his assistant. “I’m glad that for once, they managed to draw me properly.”

“They made you look fifteen. Young is an understatement.”

Suho was the one who looked fifteen next to him. That was without talking about the dark circles falling down his blood-shot-ed-eyes, and his oily blond hair sticking over his forehead. “Fifteen-year-old Moustached Warrior saved the world from eternal doom.” He mocked.

“Moustache warrior.” The man corrected, ignoring his snarky comments. “I keep telling you to drop that D like young rappers nowadays.” He paused, then scratched the back of his head. “What is it that they drop already?”

“Mixtapes.”

“Right!” The warrior caressed his moustache so gently anyone else would get weirded out. “Please drop it that way then. Moustache is a sensitive one.”

The previously immobile mass of hair wriggled.

“See? He wants you to apologise.”

Suho wasn’t listening anymore, the drowsiness having gotten the best of him. He stared at his boss’s mask, hundred of questions floating around his mind. He shook his head. If there was one thing he learnt, it was never to ask unnecessary questions. Sure, he made a lot of sarcastic remarks—and was planning to keep doing so—but he felt as if he wouldn’t make it out alive if he were to uncover a secret about his boss.

Unconsciously his hand had reached for the mask.

“Suho, apology.”

His arm awkwardly retreated.

“Yes, yes.” He glared at the warrior’s moustache. “I’m sorry ‘Stache.”

Moustache suddenly grew a pair of tiny limbs, on which, with the agility of a feline, it had jumped before landing on his companion’s shoulder. It crossed its small arms in disapproval.

“Again.” The now moustache-less warrior said without looking up from his newspaper.

Defeated, and way too used to their shenanigans, Suho rolled his eyes, and with the softest of tone (with a few underlying note of repressed anger) said, “I’ll buy you doughnuts.”

The little thing twirled around itself almost as perfectly as a ballerina. It ended the motion with a split.

“Glad that makes you happy.”

The poor man had to stay up all night writing letters and classifying documents for his boss. He hated that the warrior insisted on handwriting each and every of his things when he had a hacker as his disposition.  One that could break through the university’s system without leaving a trace too.

“Suho.”

“What again?” He snapped, instant regret hitting him. “I mean...yes?”

“You can go home.”

Suho scoffed. “Last time you sent me home early, you called half an hour later. No thanks.”

When he turned to face the warrior, he felt uneasy for a reason he couldn’t understand. It probably had to do with the fact that the warrior had the habit to slouch on his seat, but his posture was suddenly impeccable.

Trouble, Suho noted.

“Stay home tomorrow. We’ll have a lot to do the day after.”

Still suspicious, Suho reluctantly got up his seat, eyes narrowing down on his boss. “Don’t call me…” He whispered.

“I won’t, I won’t.”

Moustache hopped on his master’s shoulder to wave goodbye to his friend.

Suho still was hesitating but concluded he didn’t care what kind of business was awaiting the warrior.

“I’m blocking your number just in case.” He said, knowing that wouldn’t change a thing. Hackers were scary people. The ecstatic Blondie danced his way out of the room without glancing back.

 

 

When he was out of sight, the warrior pulled a stranger mirror painted pink from his pocket. Moustache jumped on the man’s thigh, tiny accusatory eyes.

“Pink is the new black.” The man defended.

The room’s reflection suddenly liquefied into a substance that spun slowly on itself until it turned pitch black. The image began reconstructing itself like a puzzle, piece by piece. When it was done, the warrior pressed his stiff back on the seat—irritated. Red heels he was way too familiar with stared back at him from the other side. He snarled.

“So much for hating the human realm. I should’ve made sure that interdimensional breach was properly sealed.”

Moustache vibrated in excitement under the view of a deity it hadn’t seen in a while.

 

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