assassins be like 'I know a spot' and then help you reinvent your lot in life

[scubatankfilledwithfarts]

this and apparently both flavors of chips mentioned are actually real

Seven wonders if what he saw when peering through his hair two years ago was different than what he sees reflected back at him now. What he thought of these dark eyes? Did he appreciate the cute ringed raccoon look? [maybe this is why he’s so good at the invisible bangs; hiding in plain sight is easier than you think when you’re hiding from yourself] Did death walking free think of anything when graveyards sang and bowed to his whims?

Seven takes a deep breath, gathers his hair at the crown of his head, ties it. The mirror does not splinter and nothing reaches for his throat. The transformation is complete. A poster of a distinguished actor in a hit show about law in the big city peers down from his spot over the toilet. The best hairstylist on Chicken Island jabs a finger at an imagined customer in the mirror,

“You’re ugly, you’re disgusting,” he pivots 360 degrees, fingers framing his chin, “I’m gonna kill you, give me 200 dollars.” A sharp nod, a roguish smile.

With a flush of the john he exits back into the dozy parlor of the salon and the low buzz of Dai Bo counting their cash aloud. He gets to 10 bucks and restarts. Has for the past 20 minutes.

“I’ve been wondering, why do we have a poster of BD Wong over the crapper?”

Dai Bo’s brow furrows in that solemn ‘are you an idiot? Yes’ way it does when Seven knows he’s got his attention.

“That’s easy: Who’d guess a front for an assassination joint’s got a poster with a shrink from a television series about New York’s finest? It’s the greatest ruse.”

Though Seven agrees no one would think twice about the stern, but soft-voiced Dr. George Huang encouraging an assassin/stylist, his agent, and their 2 clientele into healthy craps, he still has to insist an important point.

“I think you’re getting way too reverse psychology about this.” He lifts his hands to complete some air quotes here. “Just admit they were out of posters of Olivia Benson like a normal person. Chicken. Whatever.”

As if Dai Bo could. Said chicken agent sends him the stink eye but doesn’t throw the not so tasteful paperweight at Seven for calling him out. Though he does kick at him with those stubby legs as Seven has to cross the desk to go check out back for sudden and miraculous lines of customers clear down the street.

No such luck. A tumbleweed could fly by and the cliché would only be so welcome. The stylist sighs. An empty store is parched work.

“I’m gonna go to the store….if the Sims I trapped in the bathroom finally fall in love while I’m gone, call me immediately.” He sees Dai Bo’s beak open and Seven cuts him off right there, turning up his nose at the chicken.

“Yes, I know they look exactly like me and Miss Plum Blossom. Don’t be weird about it.”

He doesn’t bother to stay for any rude reply, just rushes off to the store. What Dai Bo was actually going to say was ‘Was he always a freak, or is it the brain damage…?’

As antsy as Seven is to get back to work he rather enjoys perusing the aisles of the tiny convenience store. The plastic smell of the packaged goods, the oil sizzling from the fresher goodies in the front. Currently, he’s settled on his behind in the middle of aisle 4, a test of grit and determination before him.

“The Pepsi Chicken sounds good….but it’s surely not real chicken, right? That’d be offensive…but the Numb and Spicy Hot Pot is promising…it’s been three days since I last took a dump…ahh, why is life so hard…”

Harukaze Ichiro is not paid enough for this. “Hey. You gonna clean this up any time soon? You’re disturbing the other customers.”

“No he isn’t,” He Dachun answers truthfully as always, that carefully befuddled look on his face carefully schooled and not blissful upon receiving a piping hot chili dog with all the fixings. He is also the only other customer in the store.

“That’ll be 3.75. Are you a rewards member?” Ichiro deadpans. The glaze over his eyes, much like that of a donut, has not left him for 12 hours now.

“I don’t. A disreputable friend of mine stole all my rewards cards when I was in a three day coma.” Again, Dachun doesn’t seem bothered by it. “Starting again isn’t that bad.”

Over in aisle 4, Seven feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. He nearly drops it upon reading the message, then abruptly heads for the door with an unhinged grin splitting his face.

Ichiro sighs. “Whatever. I didn’t ask for your life story, just your money.”

When he looks up from counting out change Seven is gone and in his place is the chaos of aisle four. He normally wouldn’t care enough but once he plops Dachun’s coins into his palm, he bursts from behind the counter and flies towards the exit and howls:

“Get back here, Seven! They’ll take that out of my paycheck!”

He doesn’t need to ask around for the man who stripped to his underwear in the street, bags of chips falling from the aforementioned undies. He finds him huddled in an alley, back turned and wife-beater clinging with sweat.

“I have you now, you little turd…prepare to meet your maker.” Ichiro may not have his sword but his apron and laminated Pokemon card would do.

The man whimpers, hands thrown in the air in surrender as he turns—

“Who are you.” Ichiro deadpans.

A pair of briefs float majestically to the ground. He has the wrong man. The Underwear Man only cries into the wrinkled hem of his shirt which he pulls up to his face.

From his vantage point as a banana peel in a nearby dumpster, Seven sniggers to himself and definitely isn't drenched with the sweat of a guilty conscience.

“You can’t outsmart a professional.”

Five minutes earlier:

The professional jogs down the street at full breakneck chicken boy speed and notices a strange crunchy noise from beneath his shirt. Crunchy and squeaky and suspiciously--

It's in that moment that Seven reaches beneath his shirt and realizes he's got about 4 bags of chips close to his heart. And proceeds to freak. He may be a(n attempted) murderer but he is no thief! Who the hell is he Robin Hood? In this economy? Absolutely not!

Of course, any attempt to find a loophole within his responsibilities is ruined when Ichiro brings Dachun around the shop the next day for a refund Dai Bo’s going to take out of his behind later, but it’s the principle of the matter. And the Sims of the matter.

[assassins have no principles; stylists barely do. Stupidity walking free and death walking can’t walk in one another’s shoes anymore]