He was dumbfounded. In complete shock.
On the jumbotron before him a small war raged between the Stash Force crew and a large company of Peruvian witch doctors, playfully known as the 100 Man Itch. Somewhere far beneath the blood savage lands of South America, The Force was winning, but paying a heavy toll. Bilge Texico had his right eye turned into a salamander and Falco Lee was scurrying about in the shape of a potbellied pig. It was not for those of weaker constitution.
However, this was not what was troubling Barry. Years of safely watching Stash Force take on countless insidious plots had steeled him to perverse sights such as these. He had hardened both his vision and his soul against the torments of witnessing one of his teamate's eyeballs go scurrying into the gutter. The observation deck had provided Barry with little over two decades worth of "in-field tactical training".
No. Tonight it was the letter, crumpled in Barry's hand that he found the most unbelievable. He unfurled it one more time and began reading...
...and there you had it. They didn't call is Stash Force for nothing.
Years of preperation, training and dedication all dependent on a little 5 o'clock shadow. He had hoped that turning 30 might excite Old Lady Nature into giving him some scruff; but by then Stash Force doctors had confirmed what his genetics were already telling him: facial hair simply wasn't in the cards. And therefore, no 'in-field' service. Peachfuzz till the day he dies...sitting at the helm of his 'out-of-service' post. Once again, Barry balled the rejection notice up and tossed it into a wastebasket. He slumped into his chair and scratched his non-existent mustache. Terrific.
At the sametime, deep in the womb of some primitive land, a well-mustached hero named Bildge Texico captured his runaway eye...
...and about 3 mintues later, Barry began questioning his future with Stash Force.
End.
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