“How about this one?” Steven Seagal held a thin, salt and pepper fake moustache up to his lip and admired himself in a hand-mirror. “I think this one looks pretty good. Sharp. I look like a wise old sensei. And it’s thick! You know, the zen masters would always say that you could tell a man’s character by the thickness of his–”
“No way.” Charlie Sheen was shaking his head. Steven Seagal gently laid the fake moustache on the tray of fake moustaches and cocked an eyebrow. “Are you kidding me, Steven? You’ve been dying your hair black for 72 years. Why would a man’s moustache be salt and pepper but his hair be jet black? It makes no sense.” Steven Seagal stared at the salt and pepper moustache and his shoulders sagged. “Look,” Charlie continued, “when you called and said that you needed help picking out a disguise because your former executive sex assistant was giving you trouble, I agreed to help you pick out the very best disguise that $4.00 could buy, not to sugar coat the truth and hold your tiny little baby hand.”
“With these hands I used to punch holes through solid concrete. You know, the zen masters say that a man’s character is defined by the strength and speed with which his hands can manipulate–”
“Oh, are your hands not included in the lawsuit you’re facing that I am trying to help you get out of with an excellent and perfect disguise?”
Steven Seagal looked shamed.
“No fucking salt and pepper moustaches. I don’t know why we’re even having this conversation.” Charlie Sheen was getting so worked up that there were now visible sweat stains in the armpits, chest, and back of his diamond-patterned silk bowling shirt. “Pick out a black moustache, end of story.”
Steven Seagal sat down cross-legged on the floor and began to meditate.
“What are you doing, Steven Seagal?!” Little bits of cocaine froth formed at the edges of Charlie Sheen’s mouth, and his erection now protruding from his pants angrily.
“The old zen masters would always say to be one with your environment. They said that you should always release your pent up–”
“Seamen!” Charlie Sheen was pointing at a group of sailors who had just entered the costume shop. He smiled and waved at them. Charlie Sheen loved seamen. He returned his attention to Steven Seagal. “Get up, Buddha. We need to get these disguises and get out of here before anyone recognizes us. The prostitutes are going to start wondering where we are.”
Steven Seagal stood slowly, exhaling loudly, pretending like it was some kind of Tai Chi move just to stand up. Charlie Sheen rolled his eyes. It was always this way when Steven Seagal was around. Ah, here we go. Charlie Sheen found a nice, full, chestnut fake moustache with just a hint of red in it that would match his soaked-through-with-anger-and-cocaine-sweat Charlie Sheen Signature Collection silk bowling shirt. He placed it over his lip and looked in the mirror. He didn’t even recognize himself. He looked over at Steven Seagal who was not paying any attention, busy still trying out fucking salt-and-pepper moustaches. Charlie Sheen decided to try his disguise out
“Hey, Steven Seagal, can I get your autograph?”
Steven Seagal turned around and smiled. “Why sure, little boy, who should I make it out to?”
“Haha, I got you, Steven Seagal! It’s me, Charlie Sheen!”
“Nice try, little boy. But playing tricks on senior citizens isn’t the zen master way. If I was your mom I would be very disappointed in you. If I was your mom I would take you out back to the sweat lodge and make you stay in there until you had a spiritual awakening, and then I would make you go to sleep on a wooden board without any cooked millet. And absolutely none of the milk from my breast, that goes without saying at this point.”
Charlie Sheen made a face because what the fuck was Steven Seagal talking about. He took off his fake moustache, and Steven Seagal had a heart attack and died. “I am so surprised,” he said, just before going to heaven.
It was a shame about Steven Seagal, but he was probably better off. A man who is being sued for one million dollars because of his one-man sex slavery ring and insists on picking out a salt-and-pepper moustache despite having a jet black ponytail is fighting an uphill battle. Charlie Sheen pulled Steven Seagal’s eyes closed and put quarters over them. Then he decided that was too much, and took the quarters back and replaced them with nickels. He straightened his fake chestnut moustache. “Goodbye, wonderful friend,” he said to the dead body of Steven Seagal, lying there on the dirty carpet of the costume store. On his way out, he paid the cashier five dollars for the fake moustache and told her to keep the change. It was a lot of change to give some civilian for doing nothing more than pushing a couple of buttons on a cash register, but Charlie Sheen was in a hurry to go have sex with a prostitute or something.
Outside, Charlie Sheen was immediately recognized in his stupid disguise.