The Beard Must Die!

By InfernoBot

It was another humid morning in the Baton Rouge City Jail. Moonhorse tugged at the orange cotton of his jumpsuit, letting his skin air out a little. It had been another hot Louisiana night on his crappy bunk in his crappy cell. He'd found a position with a blanket bunched up under his spine for lumbar support that made sleeping in lockup tolerable, but it still left him stiff and sore first thing in the morning. He swung his feet into his jail-issued size 14 sandals, opting to let his toes poke out over the edge rather than his heel.

He was midway through his stretches when the officer knocked on his cell door and called out "Coffee!". Moonhorse straightened up and shuffled over, taking the offered cup.

"Thanks, George." he said as he gratefully accepted the steaming beverage.

"Don't mention it, Moon." Replied the officer. "It'll be a shame to see you go."

The coffee burned the roof of his mouth slightly with his first sip, and Moonhorse breathed in and out quickly a few times to cool himself off.

"Well, don't worry too much." said Moonhorse before taking another experimental sip. "I've still got another sixty days to go."

"You still gonna be tellin' stories in the common area later?"

"Far as I know. Steve said he'd shank me if I didn't finish the one about Renaissance Beard."

"Heh, that Steve; always was a kidder!" George said while shaking his head.

A grape squished out from under his spork and hopped into the adjoining compartment on his meal tray. Moonhorse sighed and attempted to skewer the elusive fruit again with the diminutive tines of his prison-issue spork. He was rewarded by beads of juice flowing from the fresh punctures as he finally speared it successfully. Engrossed as he was, Moonhorse didn't notice the figure of George at the door to his cell until he spoke.

"Moonhorse. There's someone to see you."

Following the older man out of his cell, through the common area and down a side hall, he was ushered into a visitors room. That's when he saw her. Perched on the edge of a stainless steel table with the heel of one black boot resting on the attached brushed steel seat. Moonhorse noticed George suck in his gut as he took up a position next to the door.

The fabric of her flowy black skirt reached just past her knees, and the sheerness of it showed off her legs up to the edge of the slip underneath. With a gloved hand, she lifted her sunglasses, letting them rest on top of her black hair. Her satin blouse shifted, offering a tantalizing glimpse of her cleavage behind the plunging ruffled neckline. Moonhorse couldn't decide if her features hinted at Creole descent or just a well-tanned yankee. She stood and crossed her arms beneath her breasts before walking in a lazy half circle around Moonhorse.

"Can I help you, lady?"

She stopped abruptly, the clack of her heels making the hairs on his neck stand on end. "You're Moonhorse? Anarchist, revolutionary, influencer, raconteur..."

"Um, yeah."

"You lead your own cult, one based around gaming, cringe, and more esoteric things. You like to 'be gay' and 'do crime'."

Moonhorse could feel his muscles tense across his shoulders. "What of it?"

The stranger continued to circle him, each step echoing through the room. He could feel her Anthracite-black eyes on him.

"My name is Tawny Mancliff, and I'm here to offer you a deal."

"O-kay?"

"I'll square things with the city, get your fines paid and have you out of here today if you agree to attend a party I'm hosting this weekend."