The Barbicide Jar

The keys jingled in Pat's shaking hands as he unlocked the door. Detecting his presence, the barbershop's lights activated. Pat took in the room: the chairs, mirrors, and combs. For all its scientific prowess, humanity had yet to replace the barber. Vacuum-bots scurried into position, waiting to suck up chopped hair. But there wouldn't be any. Nobody wanted to visit a barber whose hands shook.

Even in old age Pat's hands were strong, beautiful, and slender. But the Ciboscis virus had robbed him of that. Most days he wished the damned virus had been allowed to run its course. He was a Barber. Couldn't be anything else. That's why he had made the choice and agreed with his son. He would have customers again.

A bell jingled as Pat's son entered. “Jesus, Dad, what are you doing here? We're due at the clinic in an hour.”

Pat didn't respond. His son grew silent, realizing: his father wanted to open up his shop one last time as a whole man.

The boy put an arm around his father. “Come on, pop. Let's get you some new hands.”

The surgery went flawlessly. The rehabilitation therapy was faster than most. And before he knew it, Pat was back in his barbershop. Once word circulated that a barber with bionic arms was in the city he couldn't get through his customers fast enough. Many asked him to remove the synth-skin, marveling at the insides. Pat told stories, comforted wives, and gave children sweets. He even regained his sense of humour.

At the head of his desk he kept a jar of blue barbicide. Mothers cringed, men stroked their chins, and children stared wide-eyed. Floating in the jar were Pat's old hands, finally still. Taped to the jar was a note: “Retired”.

Narco-saint

Father Valdemer Juarez rapped his wooden cane against the bars of Luis' cell. Inside, the prisoner wound coloured threads into a black cloth. Father Juarez recognized the figure: La Santa Muerte.

“I have come to help you repent, my son,” said the Father.

“I'd rather you brought me dinner,” said Luis. “A nice roasted chicken. Some baked beans. That, to me, is heaven.”

“What was the last meal eaten by the prisoner you killed, I wonder?” asked the Father.

“It was a sacrifice, Padre. Payment. For La Santa.”

The Father swallowed; another sacrifice.

“There are real Saints for these times. St. Jude Thaddeus, Saint of desperate causes.”

“He is for some other Mexico,” said Luis. “I used to work for a tourist company. Then came the swine flu. No more tourists. Then the drought. My mother can't even grow vegetables anymore. The cartels are the only way to survive, and their god is The Skinny One.”

“I'm from Sinaloa. I used to run with traffickers before you were born. Before del Golfo started the wars. Then, one day...” Father Juarez tapped his cane against his leg. “But the Lord saw that I should live.”

“And what a life you have, begging dogs like us to say we're sorry.”

“There. I saw it. In your heart you know The White Child is false. I'm leaving now.”

Luis whipped around, angry. “You're not leaving! I see you here! You're just as much a prisoner as we are!”

Father Juarez coughed. “Perhaps. But when I'm hungry, I eat. Right now I feel like a nice piece of spicy chicken.” Luis lunged for the Padre through the bars. But he couldn't reach the old man, who was already hobbling away.

Mandy

The man took a seat next to the other parents and watched his daughter play. She threw sand in the air.  She bounced on a tire. She swung on the monkey bars. He watched her, thanking god over and over that he still had Mandy, even if her mother was gone.

It had been four months since the truck. No amount of nano-surgery could restore his wife's crushed chest cavity. But Mandy was lucky. The debris that had ripped into her skull was removed and her damaged brain tissue regrown. She had a biotic eye and a skin discoloration. She would need to go in for synth adjustments every three months until she was fully grown. But she could lead a normal life. Better than normal, they told him. Part of the nano-heuristic that helped her brain regrow its tissue was now consciously manipulable. She would have an amazing memory, they said.

She ran up to him with a handful of daffodils.

“These are beautiful, honey,” he said. She smiled at him, looking so much like her mother.

“You know, these were your mother's favourites,” he said. She cocked her head, curious.

“Baby,” he said, “You remember mommy, right?” A sly childish grin was all he got.

“Mandy,” he said sternly, “Do you remember mommy?”

“Daddy,” she said, drawing out the word as if she were annoyed, “I know I have a mommy I just don't remember her. I erased the bad memories. There's nobody there. Nobody, nobody, nobody.” She sang the word to herself as as she rejoined the other children.

His heart caught in his throat. She deleted the memories of her mother. Of course she did.

He watched his five year old daughter play and wondered who she was.