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Locks & Stocks - Chapters 1 & 2 by HairF***er

*Author's note - This story contains scenes of men having their hair cruelly culled, often in the must humiliating ways. Those of a nervous disposition should look away now...

I'm joking of course, sort of, but this story, and any future ones I write, will probably share a common theme: guys getting their hair screwed with, although figuratively rather than literally. Most of the time anyway.

Some stories might feature body shaving, a little head-to-toe waxing, the obliteration of sideburns, mustaches, pubes and brows, but you get the general idea. Greased pompadours, flat-tops and buzzcuts are fun but reverse mohawks and humiliation cuts are even better!

Should you find yourself reading on, please don't be disappointed by the lack of explicit material. I just write what I find enjoyable to write, and this is the result. It's a niche kink but hopefully someone else will find these offerings entertaining to read.

'At the Blue Dragon' is set in present-day Los Angeles. Bamboo Lane exists but alas there's no Blue Dragon theater and, even worse, no show called 'Locks & Stocks'! If there's any interest, then the two main characters, the unnamed narrator and his friend and colleague, Devin, will reappear in their own multi-part series chronicling their time on the infamous TV show, 'Dare Your Hair?', which is referenced in passing.

'Locks & Stocks' is a six-part story. Thanks for reading! - HairF***er*

At the Blue Dragon Theater

Chapter One - Locks & Stocks

We'd had a relatively quiet week at the studios when Devin walked into the apartment excitedly waving a small piece of colored paper.

"Oh man, check this out!" he exclaimed as he handed me the sheet. It was a flyer advertizing a new show at the Blue Dragon Chinese Theater in Bamboo Lane over in Chinatown. And this is what it said:

Locks & Stocks - The Live Haircut Spectacle!

Step back in time and witness the ultimate test of courage.

Join us in our dungeon for a thrilling game of trivia where volunteers risk losing it all to the merciless Gaoler. Will they emerge unscathed or will they fall victim to the shears?

Experience the suspense, humor, and sheer excitement of live theater in a unique medieval setting!

Don't miss your chance to be part of the action at 'Locks & Stocks' and win a Big Cash Prize!

Reserve your seat now for an unforgettable evening where history meets haircuts.

Two complimentary drinks with each ticket sold!

Every Saturday evening at 21:30hrs - The Blue Dragon, Bamboo Lane.

As specialists in the removal of men's hair, the sound of this new show instantly aroused our curiosity. Devin got two tickets and the following Saturday we headed over to Chinatown.

It was dark by the time we arrived in Bamboo Lane. The front of the theater was elaborately carved to resemble a giant blue dragon's head, framed by gold pillars, its eyes illuminated with lamps behind green glass. The dragon's gaping mouth formed the theater's entrance, either side of which hung dozens of glowing, red paper lanterns which swung gently in the warm breeze.

As Devin and I shuffled inside along with the other ticket holders, we couldn't help but wonder what exactly this 'live haircut spectacle' would involve.

The crowd seemed to be made up of people about our own age, late 20s, early 30s, some younger and a few who were a little older. The majority seemed to be groups of men but there were couples too and even a few groups of women on a night-out.

We mingled for several minutes in the foyer, contributing to the babble of excitable voices, before heading over to the bar to guzzle our complimentary drinks. We then filtered past some big pots filled with leafy bamboo and on into the main auditorium.

The Blue Dragon wasn't a large theater, its 500 seats constructed in tiers to form the shape of a horseshoe around a small stage. The stage itself was only elevated about 12 inches off the floor, giving everyone a perfect view of the action.

The main set lived up to the promise of the flyer. It really did look like a medieval dungeon. The rough-stone walls seemed to drip with moisture and were dotted with half-a-dozen flickering torches, the 'flames' being red and orange silk that fluttered upwards using a system of compressed air.

Flagstones stained with mildew covered the floor. To the left was a wooden podium that looked like a medieval church pulpit. A pointed archway on the right was blocked by an oak door studded with iron rivets.

But what made me and Devin look at each other with barely suppressed excitement, eyebrows raised, was the huge medieval pillory that was anchored to the center of the stage. Constructed of solid oak with heavy iron fittings, the pillory dominated the entire set.

Devin thought it was stocks, but it wasn't. Stocks were designed to secure a person's feet and ankles. The pillory was different and was intended to hold a guy fast using just his head and his hands. It was one of my favorite inventions of the Middle Ages. I guessed 'Locks & Pillory' didn't have quite the same ring to it.

My heart started to beat a little faster as the implications of what we were seeing began to sink in. I quietly thanked Devin for booking us front row seats. We weren't going to miss a single thing.

The lights of the auditorium dimmed as everyone settled into their seats. The studded oak door to the right slowly creaked open and a figure solemnly walked through dressed head to toe in black robes. His face was almost entirely obscured by a monk's cowl pulled up over his head with only his mouth and bearded chin left visible.

The figure processed across the stage to the pulpit on the opposite side, and then stood there in silence, head bowed, hands clasped in front of him, as if in prayer. The audience murmured with curiosity.

Suddenly the door opened again and a second figure appeared. I guessed this was the Gaoler. And this guy was huge. He must've been 6ft 7, at least. I wondered if he had a background in wrestling or even body-building as it was that kind of physique, but toned, not a trace of flab.

He looked about 35, maybe a little older, his black hair tightly shorn down into a clipper-shaved buzzcut. His face was extremely handsome, in an aggressive, threatening kind of way, a hint of black stubble around his square jawline. His huge chest was covered in a curling carpet of black fur that stretched from his hairy armpits and down towards the crotch of his dark leather pants. Running across his huge pecs, under his pits and back around the shoulders was a thick leather harness.

The harness honestly made him look like some sort of farmyard animal that had been prepared to draw a plough: a bull or a cart horse. Something bestial and massive.

Around his waist was strapped a leather utility belt that held combs, rechargeable hair clippers, and a couple of gigantic shears. And these weren't scissors. No, these were definitely shears. Huge steel shears with blades that were 12 inches long. Finally, on one of his bulging biceps, was a large colorful tattoo of an ouroboros, a snake eating its own tail in an eternal cycle of destruction and rebirth.

You would not want to get on the wrong side of this dude. He just emanated an aura of intensity. When I looked at him just one word came almost unbidden into my mind: 'domination'. Within the small confines of the Blue Dragon theater, his physical presence was overwhelming.

Having made his entrance, the Gaoler went to stand next to the pillory in the center of the stage from where he glowered at the audience from beneath his thick, black eyebrows, arms folded.

The Monk, I'm guessing he was our host, reached beneath the pulpit and drew something out. Holding it up in the air, it looked like a wad of paper, less than an inch thick and bound together with a paper collar.

He riffled through it casually with the ball of his thumb.

"One thousand dollars!", he declared, in a surprisingly deep voice. "One thousand dollars in new five-dollar bills!".

The Monk was looking for a volunteer, from the audience, and the thousand bucks was the bait.

Chapter Two - When Ethan Volunteered

The audience stirred, the scent of cash permeating through the studio. It was like blood in the water.

"One thousand dollars!", the Monk repeated.

He then began to chant:

"In the pillory, one shall stand,
To test wit and skill, hand in hand.
Three riddles, a test of mental might,
Answer two true, claim fortune's light!"

Devin looked at me blankly.

"I think he wants a volunteer", I whispered, "from the audience, to go and get locked into the pillory. Then he'll ask three riddles, and if he gets two right, the guy wins the thousand bucks."

"Ohhh", said Devin, turning back to the stage.

The Monk continued, his mellifluous voice echoing around the auditorium, the silk flames billowing in the background:

"But falter twice, and face the fate,
Of the Gaoler's shears, a dire state.
With locks laid bare, a costly plight,
In the Gaoler's grip, all hair takes flight!"

Devin turned to me, expectantly.

"He means that if the guy in the pillory gives two wrong answers then the Gaoler gets to work and it's lights-out for the poor dude's hair."

"Oooh", said Devin, looking pleased.

The Monk finished his recitation:

"So step forth boldly, and take the chance,
In Locks & Stocks, and join fate's dance.
With gold and glory in sight to see,
Will it be sweet victory or your utter misery?"

The auditorium was filled with chatter as as the Monk stood behind the pulpit, slowly waving the wad of five-dollar bills back and forth.

I leaned towards Devin.

"Are you tempted?", I asked, jokingly. I knew he wouldn't want to risk his own greased hair.

"Not a chance," he said. "You?"

I hesitated. Devin and I had matching classic side-part haircuts, slicked back with copious dollops of Orsini's special creamy white pomade. Think 'Valentino' and it would be pretty accurate.

Our haircuts were a requirement of our roles on 'Dare Your Hair?' so they couldn't be changed by the terms of our contract, but even so, the thought of standing up to volunteer, on an impulse, of being led to the pillory, to gamble my oiled hair and risk its possible destruction at the hands of this brute of a man standing in front of us, and as this audience of strangers looked on and watched... The prospect was undeniably intriguing.

"No," I said to Devin. "Not tonight anyway".

He laughed.

There was an increase in the babble coming from the far side of the auditorium. I glanced across to see the cause and was amazed to see that someone had stood up, his hand still raised in the air.

We had our first volunteer.

I couldn't really see much as the lights over the seating were dimmed, but no sooner had the guy stood up than the Gaoler headed straight for him.

The Gaoler pushed his way down the row towards the volunteer, grabbed him by the bicep and literally dragged him back to the stage.
Once he was under the spotlights we got our first look at the guy. He was mid-20s, I guessed. Certainly no older than 30. Slim, about 6ft-tall, dressed in bootcut jeans and a purple T-shirt, with red sneakers on his feet.

His hair was parted in the center and flowed down on either side of his face forming two dark curtains that came almost to his mouth. The hair was only a couple of inches long at the back and was casually pushed back behind his ears at the sides.

The hair looked thick, vital and healthy, and it was a beautiful shade of medium brown. Obviously the guy maintained it but it didn't look overly-groomed. Maybe he was
just lucky.

I heard some jeering and looked back towards where the guy had been sat. It seems he'd come to the show with some of his buddies who were now calling out to him as he stood on the stage.

The Monk raised his hand and there was silence.

He then nodded towards the Gaoler, who forcefully led the volunteer around the back of the pillory and opened it up.

The pillory was constructed from two thick, vertical oak posts jutting up from the floor of the stage, about four feet apart and around four feet in height.
Spanning the gap between the two posts was an oak plank about 12 inches wide that had been split along its center and hinged at one end leaving it free to open, like a movie clapperboard. In the middle of the plank was a large hole with two smaller holes either side.

With the plank open, the gaoler grabbed hold of the back of the volunteer's head and bent him forwards so his neck and wrists were resting on the lower part of the plank, in the three semicircular groves cut into the wood.

The Gaoler then lowered the upper part of the plank back down, trapping the volunteer's hands and head on the side of the pank facing the audience. A large iron padlock then locked the two parts together with a loud, metallic *click*.

I heard the volunteer grunt in surprise. Although he was still stood up, he was now stooped over, his head only being about 4ft or so off the ground.

The volunteer looked completely immobile to me. I could see him almost subconsciously flexing against the wood, trying to pull his hands back through the holes, just to see if he could.

He couldn't.

Whoever had made this pillory knew exactly what they were doing. It was a real work of art.

"Name!", inquired the Monk.

"Uh...Ethan," said Ethan.

Ethan craned his head up, looking out into the audience, shaking the long bangs out of his eyes as he did so.

"Ethan... What can you hold in your right hand but not in your left?"

I saw Ethan's mouth open a little in surprise.

"You have two minutes to answer," confirmed the Monk.


Maybe Ethan was expecting more of an introduction but the sudden commencement of the riddles seemed to take him by surprise.

"But not in my left...," I heard him repeat to himself.

God, the dude looked so wretched stood there like that. Hunched over, his hands and brown-haired head poking through the thick oak plank, sometimes peering out towards the audience and sometimes staring at the mildewed flagstones on the floor.

He obviously had no idea what the answer was.

The end of the two minutes was announced with the sound of a bell.

"The correct answer was 'my left hand', Ethan", said the Monk.

I was close enough that I could hear Ethan mutter 'f***' under his breath.

"Ethan... The more you take, the more you leave behind. What am I?"

Now I saw a wave of panic cross Ethan's face.

"Uh... f***... The more you take..."

Suddenly the bell rang. The two minutes were over.

Without even hesitating, the Gaoler strode over to Ethan, removed a pair of the gigantic shears from his leather utility belt and grabbed hold of a huge handful of hair on top of Ethan's head.


The Gaoler brandished the shears for the audience to see and then pushed them deep into the hair clutched in his fist, snapping the blades shut almost immediately.

The sound of the shears parting the thick strands of hair so close to Ethan's scalp was actually audible in the theater.

The Gaoler lifted his fist up into the air and we all saw that he was now holding a big bunch of Ethan's severed sleek locks.

Even the seats at the back of the auditorium would've heard the gasp of shock that Ethan let out as he felt the shears depriving him of a significant hank of his hair.
Before Ethan even had time to react further, the Gaoler had hacked off another fistful of his hair followed by another, throwing the cut locks high into the air so they floated down and landed on the floor.

Almost out of instinct, Ethan tried backing out of the pillory by pulling his head and hands free. But he wasn't going anywhere.

"Oh f***...," he mumbled again as he realized his last-ditch attempt to save what was left of his hair had failed.

The Gaoler hacked off Ethan's long bangs and then started to butcher the hair on the sides of Ethan's head that was bunched behind his ears.

The audience watched in stunned silence at the sheer brutality of what they were witnessing.

This guy's hair was being utterly decimated literally in seconds.

Very soon the mildewed flagstones in front of the pillory were covered in a thick blanket of Ethan's hair, and huge clumps of it continued to rain down as the Gaoler worked his way around Ethan's head with the shears.

Devin and I had done some pretty extreme male grooming on 'Dare Your Hair?' but nothing that approached this level of savagery. It really was the most amazing spectacle, to witness someone being irreversibly transformed in such a jaw-droppingly frenzied way.

It was undeniably exhilarating. I always appreciated the slow and meticulous nature of haircutting but what we saw inflicted on Ethan opened up a whole new world of possibilities.

This was a manic level of barbering that I didn't think was even possible.

I thought of the phrase 'years to grow, seconds to mow', and never had it seemed more apt. I don't know how long this Ethan dude had been cultivating his hair for.

Given its inate beauty, I guess it was quite some time. After all, what guy wouldn't want hair like that, but it was going to be a year before those soft bangs were touching his lips again.

Throughout the whirlwind of devastation, the Gaoler had a grin plastered all across his face. I'd rarely seen anyone look like they enjoyed their work more than the Gaoler did as he set about Ethan's hair with those giant shears.

Within just a few minutes Ethan's long silky hair had been transformed into a wasteland of dark uneven stubble interspersed with flashes of his white scalp.

And then the Gaoler was done. He unlocked the top part of the pillory and raised it up allowing Ethan to stand. Ethan looked dazzed, almost bewildered, one hand shakily rising to his head as he slowly, hestatingly, felt the ruined remains of his former glory.

He shook his head, like a wet dog, sending a bunch of loose dark strands drifting down to the floor.

"Thank you for volunteering, Ethan," said the Monk. "You may return to your seat."

Ethan left the stage and dejectedly made his way back to where his laughing buddies took turns rubbing their hands over his nubby head.

The Gaoler went to stand back next to the pillory, his arms folded, staring out at the audience.

The Monk raised the same wad of five-dollar bills into the air and waved them back and forth.

"One thousand dollars!", he declared again. "One thousand dollars in new five-dollar bills!".

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