Routine

Depressed again. Morning comes too fast, still tired of the routine.

— Missio “I don’t even care about you”

X. X.

All Mark Wealth had done in the past hour was draw Xs.

Randy DeRays - - - - X.

Sarah VonHalsing - - - - X.

Jacob Teaser - - - - X.

Sometimes Mark would write a swirl instead of an X, just to spice things up. He was the barber for the New York State Penitentiary.

Everyone had just come for their mandatory hair cut. Mark could never understand why he had to mark them all when the cut was mandatory. At least, not until he came to the last name on his list.

Andy Crosswitch - - - -

Mark was partly responsible for hair cutting because he had a photographic memory.

Andy Crosswitch had not come to his haircut. Mark, instead of calling a guard and notifying them, smiled.

At last, a break in the routine. If he found Crosswitch he’d congratulate the man.

Slowly, he drew the X over his name, the grin still frozen on his face. Let’s see how long it takes them to find out. As if on cue, the door opened.

“Mark Wealth?”

“That is my name.”

“Did Andy Crosswitch come to his monthly haircut?”

“Indeed he did,” he lied. There was no change in tone. Mark Wealth was a master of lies. In fact, no one at the prison knew of his criminal record. And, he expected, they never would.

They left as quickly as they came, and then he realized that even though no one was in sight, he was not alone in the room.

“Hi, Andy,” he said to the wall. A shadow rose onto the wall, towering high above the four foot seven barber. Six feet and solid stone muscles, Andy had been convicted for six homocides and twelve counts of breaking and entering, no parole.

“Why did you lie?” rasped Andy’s gruff voice.

“I’m tired, Andy. So, so, tired.” Andy came into view and smiled a black toothed grin as he held up the revolver.

“Where’d you get that?” Mark asked, pure curiosity, no fear or anger.

“Sources.” He leaned in. “Tell no one, but my man, the Devil his self came to me. He set me free. You should fear what’s waitin’ in your afterlife.”

“Thanks for letting me know, Jack.” The click of the revolver made almost no sound, but Mark heard it.

“My name’s not Jack, dingo. It’s Andy.” The gun must have had a silencer. The bullet slid through the air like a graceful dancer and flirted with Mark before embedding herself in his flesh. Mark did not scream. He smiled.

No more routine for him.

But then a face appeared to him. It was a beautiful face and yet horrible all at once. Without either man saying a word, Mark knew he was looking at good old Lucifer himself.

“Welcome to Hell, old friend,” said Lucifer. “Did you fulfill what I asked?”

“I lied to the guards about Andy. Whether or not he stays free is up to him.”

“Good, good. Well, it’s your time. Welcome to Hell.”

“This seems more like Heaven to me.” He laughed and threw ashy soil into the air.

“Free from the routine at last,” he yelled. Lucifer smirked and winked.

“What makes you so sure? This is Hell, after all.” Filled with dread, Mark turned around.

Behind him was a barber chair, a checklist, and a line of prisoners.

“Fuck.”