He ran his muscular hand through his silky locks, smoothing in the gel, molding his dark power mane into a Himalayas of hair that towered up from the middle longitude of his scalp. He loved the idea of the Mohawk, its tribal-punk sensibilities, but he also loved the option of just letting it go non-hawk. The only idea he loved more was that crime stank.
“Doesn’t it, Van-D?” He said.
The man standing beside him, staring into the mirror, murmured a reply, most likely a yes, as he stroked the sable-like triangle of whiskers that radiated from his chin like the Goddess’s Blessed Pubes. He did indeed believe that crime stank. And that his beard perfectly complemented his moustache. Like ketchup and mayonnaise.
“What do you think is better,” the VanDyker asked, not gazing away from his stroking, “my goatee or my moustache?”
FauxHawk took a moment from perfecting his peak to look over and study his partners facial hair. He had to hand it to the guy, no one made sweet justice with a beard/moustache combo better than Van Dyke.
“To be perfectly honest, I gotta say it’s a tie,” he said.
The VanDyker nodded, and said, “I totally agree. The only choice is no choice. And that goes the same for truth and justice. It’s a draw every time.”
“And that means crime loses,” FauxHawk said.
The VanDyker turned and faced him, their eyes locking, and he growled, “EVERY TIME.”
They shared a deep moment, charged with integrity and erotica.
“Criminals are like dandruff on the scalp of society,” FauxHawk said.
“And we are the Zinc Pyrithione,” said The VanDyker, “so let us go boldly into the darkest shadows of the urban night and feather the bangs of the city.”
FauxHawk nodded, putting in some more gel, “and pull the lawless bastards that would rob our citizens of their peace into a tight pony-tail of virtue.” He whipped out his comb, reached over and touched up The VanDykers perfect do.
And then like a holy wind they washed, cut, and styled their way into bowels of the city.