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The Greaser Challenge 2 - Chap. 6 by HairF***er

Chapter 6 - The Pomade Packing Challenge

Sawyer and Max had watched the entirety of Eros's humiliating makeover with a feeling of increasing horror and alarm.

The spectacle had made both men acutely aware of their own prized hair that was still attached to their heads, for now; Sawyer with his immaculate greased pompadour and Max with his thick slick-back, each hair held in place with Vaseline.

The prospect of being led like a dog, like someone's personal pet, towards the Stylist's chair and then having to sit there as their signature haircuts were degraded in such an embarrassing way... it was intolerable!

Thorne Ravenscroft looked on impassively, his thoughts constantly returning to his exquisitely-moulded, very expensive haircut, to the immaculately-styled golden strands of his own oil-soaked hair.

He tried to imagine what it would feel like, to have the Stylist clip that leather collar around his own neck, to lead him like an animal to the altar upon which his own supremely good looks would be sacrificed in front of a baying crowd.

Knowing the act of vandalism would be performed beneath the studio lights, before the TV cameras that would broadcast every moment of his abject humiliation... the very idea filled him with the most exquisite, indescribable combination of revulsion, fear and desire.

The announcer's voice boomed through the studio: "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to The Greaser Challenge! As our three contestants gear up for the next round, we're about to throw them into the heart of the action with our thrilling Pomade Packing Challenge!"

Sawyer, Max and Thorne were ushered out of the College Library set and into another part of the studio dressed to look like a small pomade factory.

A sweet masculine scent of vanilla and sandalwood filled the air. Three conveyor belts emerged from the back wall of the set and a contestant went to stand at the end of each belt next to a stack of cardboard boxes. A black curtain concealed the opening where each belt entered the wall.

"Their task?" explained the announcer. "To neatly pack as many jars of pomade into cardboard boxes as they can before time runs out. But here's the twist - the pace will only get faster and faster, testing their speed, agility, and dexterity to the limit!

"The stakes are high with only two contestants able to escape the dreaded Forfeit Station. The contestant who packs the fewest jars will inevitably face the Stylist's shears! His razor! His clippers! in a makeover that will leave them utterly transformed!

"So buckle up, folks, and get ready for a rollercoaster ride of pomade-packing madness! Let's see who can rise to the challenge and who will fall victim to the Stylist's merciless hands. The Pomade Packing Challenge is about to begin!"

The audience spontaneously burst into loud applause.

The three remaining contestants glanced across the studio floor to where poor Eros still sat in his barber's chair of shame, his pallid, sweaty bald dome glowing like a light bulb surrounded by that hideous frizzy fringe of shoulder-length green hair, the red clown's nose still firmly affixed to his face.

"Three...! Two...! One...! Begin!" excitedly declared the announcer.

The three conveyor belts suddenly sprang into life!

Through the curtains started to come numerous orange tins of Murray's Superior Pomade making their way along the belt towards the contestants' waiting hands.

Working as quickly as possible, the contestants snatched up the tins of hair grease and swiftly began packing them into the cardboard boxes.

"Just keep moving," Sawyer thought to himself, "stay ahead of the pace, and your hair will be safe."

The fear of failing this challenge, of facing the Stylist's scissors and watching the inevitable destruction of his gorgeous, slick pomp spurred his hands to move with lightning speed. But too often that resulted in tins getting knocked off the conveyor belt or getting irregularly packed into the boxes. Only neatly-packed tins would count.

The sound of metal tins clinking against each other filled the air as the contestants worked, a look of furious concentration on each of their handsome faces, the audience shouting out encouragement.

As the challenge progressed, the pace intensified.

More and more tins came hurtling down the conveyor belts, testing the contestants' speed and agility to the limits, their hands a blur as they struggled to pack the tins into the boxes.

"Focus," Max muttered to himself under his breath, his eyes scanning the conveyor belts as the wave of tins descended.

At the front of his mind was fear: the fear of losing the challenge and losing his chance to win the cash prize he so desperately needed.

But there was also a more primal fear, the fear of facing extreme public embarrassment with the destruction of his thick, greased black locks.

His mind returned, unbidden, to the devastation that the Stylist had recently inflicted upon Eros's mane of shoulder-length hair and his stomach turned at the notion that his own good looks would endure a similar fate, or worse!

The belts started to accelerate, causing the tins to come at them faster and faster in greater and greater numbers.

The contestants struggled to keep up with the breakneck speed, their hands a whirl of motion as they desperately tried to pack the pomade into the boxes.

Tins started flying off the end of the belts, literally rolling around on the studio floor in a chaotic frenzy as the audience clapped and roared in delight!

The crowd had seen what had happened to Eros, and they wanted more of it.

Thorne's beautiful eyebrows frowned in concentration as he worked to maintain his composure amidst the chaos. He could feel that the armpits of his pristine white T-shirt were already soaked in sweat.

The sight of orange tins rolling off the conveyor belt and onto the floor only added to an increasing sense of panic that started to well up from deep inside him.

With each jar of pomade that rolled his way, Thorne's pulse quickened.

"Stay calm, Thorne," he thought, his hands moving methodically as he continued to pack the pomade into the boxes.

Beneath his stoic exterior, a sense of dread gnawed at him fueled by the realization that his immaculate, gorgeous blond haircut might actually face total ruination; that Marcel's work of tonsorial art could really be decimated in the most public way.

But within the dread, like the kernal within a seed's shell, lay another emotion: perhaps on some level, almost beyond conscious acknowledgement, he harbored a secret, fervent, hot and sweaty desire for the very thing he feared the most.

Was it even possible?

Even the smallest suggestion of it within his own mind sent a shiver down Thorne's spine as he struggled to reconcile his conflicting emotions. The prospect of facing the Stylist's merciless annihilation of his meticulously styled hair filled him with nausea.

But there was a part of him, buried deep beneath years of societal conditioning and expectations, that felt a perverse sense of excitement, yes, even of arousal, at the thought of submitting to another man's will, of relinquishing total control, of undergoing such a profoundly humiliating transformation in the most public way imagineable.

After all, although he didn't dare even to admit it to himself, isn't that what he had secretly hoped might happen when he applied to appear on the show? To lose, and then to lose.

His felt his face flush as he felt his shorts tightening at the thought of it.

With each jar of pomade he packed, Thorne couldn't shake the feeling that he was teetering on the edge of something irreversible, something that threatened to up-end his carefully constructed facade and expose something darker, and more perverse, something long-hidden within, something that had lurked in the shadows but which now demanded full exposure.

Maybe, with all his luxurious, handsome hair scraped off, maybe then the real Thorne would be exposed for everyone to see.

Despite their best efforts, the contestants found themselves overwhelmed by the relentless onslaught of tins, their movements becoming frantic as they raced against time to fill their boxes.

As the challenge reached its climax, the studio was filled with the sound of clanging tins bouncing off the floor, the whir of the conveyor belts, and the shouts of encouragement from the audience.

And in the midst of it all, the contestants battled on, their eyes fixed on the prize as they fought to emerge victorious in the Murray's Superior Pomade Packing Challenge.

"Five seconds to go!" proclaimed the Voice.

The audience joined in with the countdown.

"Five! Four! Three! Two! One!"

A loud klaxon sounded and the challenge was over.

The tension in the studio was palpable as three members of the production team walked on set with clipboards and began tallying up the number of neatly-packed tins in each of the contestants' boxes.

Coming together, they conferred for a few moments with one pointing in the direction of Sawyer's stack of boxes and shaking his head.

Sawyer felt the floor sway beneath his feet. Surely he'd done enough to get through to the final round and save his glorious pompadour from inevitable desecration?

After what felt like an eternity, the crew members concluded their deliberations and left the set.

Silence descended as the audience held its breath, waiting for the announcer to deliver the verdict.

Finally the announcer's voice crackled through the speakers.

"Ladies and gentlemen," it began, "after careful consideration, the results of the Packing Pomade Challenge are in!"

For the three men awaiting the result, the anticipation was almost unbearable.

Within minutes one of them would be led like a beast to the Forfeit Station to endure a nightmarish makeover that would leave them transformed into something unrecognizible.

Sawyer took a deep breath and instinctively reached up and ran a hand lightly over the greased D.A at the back of his head.

The announcer cleared his thoat.

"The contestant with the fewest number of correctly packed tins and therefore the loser of the challenge, is..."

The announcer paused for dramatic effect...

An eternity passed.


...that seemed to last forever.


"The loser is...Mr Thorne Ravenscroft!"

A very audible collective gasp filled the studio as Thorne's name was announced.

Surely it wasn't possible. In fact it was almost beyond belief!

The wealthy socialite, Thorne Ravenscroft, one of the most eligible and beautiful bachelors in the country, was going to have his handsome good looks completely, mercilessly dismantled at the Forfeit Station by the show's notoriously sadistic Stylist.

And everyone was going to watch it happen.

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