Once there was a man who just wasn't sure if his mustache was long enough. So he grew it out even more. He brushed it, and waxed it, and ate just the right foods, all in order to keep his facial hair in peak condition. His mustache was soon legendary on the facial hair contest circuit, known throughout as the longest and brightest handlebar anyone had ever seen. It was longer than three tall men, and he had to keep it wrapped safely around his shoulders like a scarf when he wasn't showing it off.
One sunny spring afternoon, while sitting in the highest room of his shared Victorian home in upstate New York, the man was enjoying a book and letting his mustache flap lavishly in the breeze. Suddenly, he felt a mighty tug on his golden, braided mustache. It really hurt, and brought a tear to his eye.
Leaning his head out of the window, he was shocked to see a LARPer in full period regalia, trying desperately to climb his mustache like a rope. "I will save you fair maiden!" Shouted the socially inept knight.
"Dude! That's my freaking mustache!" Yelled the man, but his voice cracked because of the fierce pain in his face.
In a desperate search to end his agony, the man grabbed his vintage typewriter and dropped it out of the tower. It smashed into the knight's decorative helm, crushing his skull and ending his virginal existence. Fortunately, as the LARPer fell over from the blunt force, his home-smithied battle-ready sword flew from his hand and chopped the mustache man's gorgeous lip-braids to a reasonable length, barely missing his nose.
At that very moment, everyone in their general area of upstate New York suddenly felt much happier for seemingly no reason.
The end.
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