So, for a school assignment, we had to rewrite the short story "Lather and Nothing Else" by Hernando Tellez with a plot twist and in a different location. I placed mine in 1850s London. Here it is!
Lather and Nothing Else Creative Rewrite
A voice screamed outside as I sharpened my razor. I held it up to the light, inspecting its cold beauty. You learned to live in the slums. You learned to work, no matter what. My shop was the only thing that kept this part of London alive- I was the best barber in London, without question. The rich came in regularly. They’d pull up out front, their carriages parked as close to the door as they could get it. Hurry in, hurry out. The slums were my shield. They kept people like him from wandering in.
He strolled in leisurely that day, without a word. He hung his coat by the door, carefully brushing off the coal dust. Never a speck out of place, not in his city. Skim the scum off the streets; hang them by their friends where everyone could see. My hands trembled as he settled into a chair, though the winter wind blowing in through the open door masked it as a shiver. I pushed it closed.
“Cold as the dickens out there. My, do I hate the nights in London. You spend all day in a frigid courtroom and step out into an even colder dusk.”
Cold, yes. And dark. Nobody around at this ungodly hour, I thought as I began to stir the soap. I knew how cold the courtroom could be. And when you have no hope, when you sit in that coal-stained chair with your hands tied down and a stack of falsified evidence staring you in the face- well, it’s a lot colder. Almost as cold as ten years in a prison cell can be.
His gravelly voice broke my thoughts. “Another day, another case. Petty crime, this one- well… you can keep a secret, can’t you?” The lather began to rise. I nodded, careful to keep my face straight. “Pure scum, this one. I saw him, and I instantly disliked him. I framed him, so I did. Placed the watch right into his pocket, and told a passing gent to call the Bow Street Runners. The wretch never had a chance. He’ll hang tomorrow, this one. I’m sick of them all getting off with prison. No fun in seeing them away alive.”
He must have thought me to be on the popular side-that when it came to the thieves and beggars, it was simply out of sight, out of mind. Nobody cares for the blokes in the alleys. Especially not the magistrate who cares only to be rid of them all. That was who he was. I could practically feel the alien weight of a wallet in my pocket. It was as clear as yesterday.
I began to lather his face, trying to keep my hand steady. I glanced outside. No one respectable was out at this time of night, not around here. The magistrate must have come here straight from work, hoping to get in before I closed up. Then he’d walk back to whatever fine estate he lived in; pour himself a toddy, and scheme. I felt a certain responsibility with the enemy in my house.
I carefully began to shave his face. I knew I must do as well as I would with any other customer. The blade flashed in the dim light, challenging me. I carefully wiped it clean of soap and hair. I am a painstaking barber.
“You should come to the hanging tomorrow. Six in the morning, in the square.”
“How many will hang?” I murmured.
“Four tomorrow. It’ll be a fine time.”
My razor reached the neck, the last part that remained unshaven. I steadied myself. Nothing should go wrong now. I slowly watched the razor’s descent. Blast that man! I was no murderer. I had always been an honest barber. The only reason I didn’t hang, so they had said. I could easily end his life, now. His blood would stain the crisp sheet over his neck, trickle down to the floor in rivulets.
But what would I do with the body? These were dangerous times. A slain man in the slums was nothing. Nobody would ever know. If anyone were to see me kill him now, they would be the very scum he was so dispassionate about. They wouldn’t blink twice when they saw his head roll.
The skin is smooth, now. The razor rests on it, lingering in its final stroke. My fate rests on it as well. I think of my life. I think of the lives of the four innocent beggars that are to end tomorrow.
The blade sinks in, cutting the flesh like rubber. The blood begins to trickle down, onto my hands, my blade, his chair. I shake uncontrollably, the blade pressing deeper. His eyes look up at me, devoid of emotion.
“So it is, you, then.” He rasps, his mouth filling with blood. I presser harder, and I feel his neck snap.
He says nothing more.
