Mark Pffister leaned his temple on his right arm, while his left index finger tried to coax the rim of his empty glass into making music. Sitting next to him was Lionel Linnskill, who shuffled through a stack of papers and photos.
“Last one for today,” Lionel assured.
“Thank god,” Mark Pffister said as he picked up his head.
The two waited calmly, with their hands folded in front them, as a man in his late twenties entered the room. He had an athletic build, and was the best sight the sore eyes of these tired men had seen all day.
“Peter Risk, nice to meet you,” the new candidate went to shake Mark’s hand. Mark couldn’t help but notice a really disgustingly unkempt patch of hair above Peter’s lip. He shot Lionel an uneasy look.
“Oh, I know what you’re thinking. Believe me, it wasn’t easy travelling to the city looking like the uncle no one talks to because he spends too much time at playgrounds, but I shave it like this on purpose for the audition,” Peter could read minds it seemed. Mark and Lionel were piqued.
Peter walked to the designated box marked off by tape on the ground and began:
“Now that I no longer have a person in my life to feel the shame that I don’t, I decided it was time to be a man. If you don’t grow a mustache at any point in your life, then you haven’t fully lived…” Mark and Lionel chuckled and made some notes.
“It’s an experiment. What I gain is hairy pride, what I lose is dignity, respect, and the chance to procreate. Why did I do it? Well, like anybody who does crazy things, I was inspired by Marilyn Manson’s music.”
Mark and Lionel laughed uneasily.
Peter could read minds, but not signals it seemed, “The back of my head is what you would call ‘party’ and the front is what you would call ‘business.’ Your darn right it’s a mullet and it’s about to be brought back, by this guy,” Peter gestured his thumbs at himself. Mark and Lionel would’ve been better off watching a slow motion video of a squirrel falling out of a tree.
“Ha. You know there’s two things in this world I dig more than beer and chicks, and that’s myself, and myself. Wait actually it’s three things, because I also dig myself. I’m like a hip ass gardener or some shit,” Peter wipes his nose.
6 minutes later
Mark closes and locks the door, then crosses the name Peter “The Peterest” Risk off of a list full of names that took two days to compile and only a few hours to eliminate.
“Well that was awful. I would’ve rather watched YouTube clips of animals getting hurt,” Mark was distraught. “What the hell are we gunna do, we need a replacement by Monday. Isn’t anybody in this city funny?”
“We keep looking Mark. We keep looking,” Lionel stared longingly outside the twentieth story window, silently and shamefully wishing he could grow either a mustache or mullet.