"How can you know it's wrong, if you haven't done it?" She says, suggestively, to say the least. Her lurid bosoms are blossoms practically spilling out of her slick little red number and beswept by her black scarf. She looks down at the ground like a woman intrigued by her own sexual fulfillment... and perhaps also DTF, I think with a foolish grin.
"What'd you just say?" She asks. Me? But I haven't spoken! "You think I'm DTF, do you???" She's yelling at me. I'm speechless: What is going on?
At once blaring red-blue lights and gun-toting officials swoop upon us. These protectors of the law -- the bastards! -- all have black leather jackets embroidered with the letters D T F. They have appeared as quickly as sparrows alighting upon a privet, but are all tanned a sickly orange hue and judging from their halting gate are clearly intoxicated.
"Mr. Main, we're going to need you to give us a haircut," says the leader, a big guy with a silver comb literally lodged into the middle of his nose. Under the circumstances that bizarre nasal accoutrement he is rocking would give me pause, but it doesn’t right now.
"Excuse me?" I bark, like a frightened alpha confronting vicious men.
"A haircut, sir. We're the DTF: the Don't-even-Think-about-Fucking police. If that twisted acronym – D.T.F.– crosses your boondoggled cranium one more time, we show up here like this with guns and body-paint and cop uniforms and make you cut our hair! Haircuts for EACH AND EVERY ONE OF US!!!"
A chant breaks out: "CUT -- OUR -- HAIR!!! CUT -- OUR -- HAIR!!!"
"Cut your hair? But--Why?"
The barbarous lechers give no answer, but only for a moment seem to remember their sense of decor and calmly prepare for the hair-dressing of their lives.
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