Rule 9: People tell us it is cruel, but NO, it is art.

There they stand, in the window, with their placards. Carefully arranged letters bait the public and bid them to join the ranks of protest against us.

People tell us it is cruel, but NO!
it is art.

in the name of art we organised trips to the dump and scuffled through rot-ravaged wood to harvest. the newborn splinters to serve as a delicate backdrop to our exhibition.

now here he sits. painted in honey and licked by fire ants. (well, licked is what i call it, but from the growing tomato tinge in rolf's face, i rather suspect the ants are angry. and you would be, after having fiery sticks poked into your nest to rouse you and capture away your entire fleet.)

but still. rolf sits. in the name of art. biting idly on a piece of rotten wood to dull the cries of pain.

just yesterday we found him, in the job centre, mumbling about a degree in post-modern painting and performance. and we knew. we had the right man for the job. there was only one thing to do.

we took him to tim's flat and pointed him to towards the bathtub. jane raced off to buy razors. we knew fancy razors with pleasing colours and two blades were out of the question. we couldn't even afford shaving foam. but we figured, he was hairy, he was an artist, simple soap would be enough.

jane returned. grinning triumphantly. proud to have only spent 70p and procured 7 razors! there would be surplus. perfect for the turks. hints of our next exhibition danced in our nimble minds.

rolf lay in the tub expectantly. we let him keep his pants on. not for modesty's sake, only because none of us had eaten breakfast, and we wanted to avoid any flaccid sights on an empty stomach.

things got tense when tim turned the tap and only a few drips of hot water came out. further enquiry turned up tips from flatmates about rusty pipes, absentee landlords, and showers at the hostel down the block...damn.

we would not be daunted, we were artists. we had spent six hours trawling dumps and job centres to make our art happen. there would be a way.

mat's eyebrows raised jauntily as he stared out the window at rain, lost in thought. off he dashed without a word, only to return, minutes later. with four plastic bottles filled to the brim.
puddles!
of course.

rolf kept schtum and looked nervous.

tim started us off by scooping up an ankle, jane took a wrist. matt and i started on the ears. everything must go. we had twenty minutes to make rolf follicle free.

we worked quickly, alternately rubbing discount soap across rolf's fur and swiping boldly with our Niestzermauer's Finest Single-Blade Specials.

the skin squeaked as we worked. perhaps it was rolf, in semi-silent protest to the sea of razor nicks blooming across his chest. however, to give rolf his due, likely in anticipation of the four pounds we promised to pay--he never screamed. not once.

matt finished off our handiwork by emptying all the remaining rainwater into the bath. muddy road water washed rolf's hair along to stuff the rusty drain.

while rolf towel dried, tim stomped off to procure the fire ants. jane gathered pots of honey, matt nipped off to pick up some pile cream, and i stuffed the remaining razors into her purse (lest rolf get goosebumps on the way to the gallery. this would mean sprouting stubble!).

no stubble!

i suppose news leaked to the protesters from the ant people. maybe the tiller in Lidl talked. maybe it was the honey farmer. or perhaps one of tim's german flatmates.
flatmates with soft-spots.

we didn't know about any of it yet, were too busy getting ready.

to give you the short version:
it was cold. rolf did indeed get goosebumps and accrued stubble in sensitive regions. jane raked away at the stubble as we processed to the gallery, prying the bleeding flannel from rolf's chin and scraping away the clots and get at the hair beneath.

NO STUBBLE!

there are cobbles in the grassmarket to this day. cobbles inevitably produces wobbly steps for foot traffic: commuters trip up curbs, teens poke cell phones into their ears, and jane, misses rolf's chin and shaves off a piece of his ear.

rolf, the love, merely inhaled a sharp cry. our proud art-for-hire nibbled his nails so as not to betray earless pain to the shocked shoppers in the window of the cashmere boutique.

still, they sure stared. everyone stared at the hairless man covered in blood. his shirt constantly tugged open by a small beared man whilst a tall hippie girl raked cheap german razors across his bare bloody flesh.

by the time we finally arrived at the gallery there were at least twenty people following silently behind. kebab shop owners, traffic cops, surly underfed pregnant teens, grassmarket tatoo artists, the entire staff and waiting room of the colonic irrigation clinic on the corner (one patients still absentmindedly clutching his souvenir hose, besmirched with last nite's psyllium husk stew....).

oh rolf.
rolf perhaps enjoyed these moments of fame? we will never know. for when we sat him in the gallery and let loose the ants, honey and pins, it all went black.

the black panther protest party had gone wrong.