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Notes of a Professional Voyeur Part I - Fiction Serial by Benny Profane

I can see it all from up here...

Up here in this insulated cavern of heat and noise. Up here in this den of obscurity; up here in my hovelled alcove hidden away from the rest of the world; where my only companions are the creeping mice and the scuttling cockroaches.

Here I have my own private observatory; my own sheltered window looking out onto that partially-lighted room of strangers; onto that microcosm of the world. It is my keyhole through which to spy, my blind through which to peek.

From here I can see every wandering hand, every munching toddler and every relieved parent praying solemnly for just a few hours of rest. I can see every uncomfortable shuffle in every chocolate stained seat and every dozing pensioner, snoring away with their head tilted back like a broken Pez dispenser.

One of my most precious distractions involves counting the random distribution of bald heads in the theatre below. They are easily spotted and particularly eye-catching; some of these heads are so expertly maintained and diligently polished that they reflect the images from the screen off their shining orbs back up and into the dark atmosphere.

Often, when my technical duties are finished–that is, all the splicing, setting and sorting that those ingrates down there never give a second notion to–if I have noting better to do I like to count the number of baldies in that sea, (well, not quite a sea, let’s say a pond), in that pond of arbitrary heads and calculate what percentage of the male audience are victims to that hereditary affliction.

Now when collecting this field data... hmm, first a pond and now a field; these topographical metaphors are becoming tedious.

When I’ve collected my research figures I like to divide the results into three separate categories.

The first of these categories is that of the uber-baldies i.e. those who possess one of those perfectly round, smooth and geometrically pleasing craniums without a wisp of a thought of a hair in sight.

You know the one I mean; the type that you feel compelled to rub in the hope of inducing the emanation of some sprightly spirit that might grant you good fortune.

These heads transfix me and to tell you a confession; sometimes–when I’m feeling particularly giddy, and I find myself in close proximity to one of these globes of flesh–I often have to fight the urge not to spontaneously wind back my hand and deliver an almighty smack on that inviting patch of glistening skull. Bam! Right on the sweet spot: right on the crest of their occipital bun.

Of course, I’ve never had the courage to act on this strange impulse; but that does not prevent me from envisaging my fantasy and acting it out time after time on the inside of my own head, or mind’s eye, or imagination, or whatever you want to call it.

In this fantasy I imagine myself kindly greeting the plump-headed patron at the door to the cinema–flashing them an inviting smile and delivering my well-worn words of courtesy and welcome. Then, just before they make their way through the door, while they are quietly looking forward to taking their seat; I see myself quickly moisten my slapping apparatus with a liberal application of spat spittle before arching my arm way back and then quickly swinging forward; delivering the most tremendous open-palmed WHACK! Right on the butt of the back of that precious gemstone head.

If executed correctly the sound produced from the contact should resemble the breaking-snap of a sycamore branch, the satisfying pop of a stray tendon being shunted back into place or, if you are especially accurate, the crackle from a flash of lightning shooting over Mt. Olympus.

Such a scalp, I believe, would be well worth the disciplinary actions that would no doubt ensue. But anyway, back to my study...

Now these perfect baldies occupy the first of my three categories and I like to think of them as the High Lamas of the Baldy Sect. Figuratively speaking, they hover over their receeding-hairlined underlings like levitating Buddhist monks who have attained a heavenly state of enlightenment. In the descending scale of the baldy hierarchy they are very much at the tippy-top.

My second category consists of those skulls whose follicles are still frolicking with relative fecundity but who have, perhaps in anticipation of some prospective regal appointment, developed that curious Yamaka of baldness eloquently balanced on the crown of their head.


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