Jeff Francouer lingered in the lobby. He found himself looking at the walls. They were ordinary walls. They didn't seem to have a color or a pattern. They could only accurately be described as ordinary, and every other term you could put to them felt overly poetic. Francouer laughed out loud to himself.
A blur. Something too fast for vision was in the lobby!
"It's the demon!" Frenchy exclaimed. But it was no demon.
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Francouer looked down and saw his own hair. He heard the elevator door open and he looked over to see Carlos Beltran stepping in. With one hand he pushed the button for floor 15. With the other he grasped a pair of shears, an electric razor and a comb.
"I thought you could use a trim, bombero," he said as the door closed.
Francouer ran his hand through his hair. It felt clean and stylish.
"He's back!" he gasped.
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