Mustache Watch: Todd Helton’s Goatee

Allow me to preface this piece of investigative reporting with the following video, anonymously submitted to the Mustache Watch hotline. The accompanying message simply said: “Keep digging.”

Naturally, I was intrigued, so I complied and began looking into it, trying to find what the video meant and where it came from. What started out as a curiosity, though quickly turned into a high-stakes struggle between life and death.

Whenever I get a hot tip on the Mustache line, I immediately call up Freds. No barber has seen more handlebars, fu manchus, chevrons, imperials, or Frank Zappas. He’s a facial hair aficionado and if there’s any news about Helton’s goatee, he’d know.

“Hey, Woodrum,” Freds’s raspy voice came through the receiver. “How’s the beard treatin’ ya?”

“Oh, it’s good; thanks for asking,” I answered, smiling as I leaned back in my office chair. “I was actually wondering if you’ve heard anything new about Todd Helton’s goatee? I just got an electronic mail from–”

“Just leave it alone,” Freds interrupted. “It’s not worth it.”

“Worth what? What’s going on?” I stood from my chair, listening and waiting for Freds. I could hear the barbershop door open in the background, tapping the little golden welcome bell.

“I… I’ve got to go,” Freds said. “Just leave it alone, Woodrum.”

Click.

“Of course I can’t leave it alone now,” I said to Ms. Faraday later that day. I could see the sun easing towards the horizon through blinds, dipping beneath the red brick shoulders of the city.

“So where do you even go from here?” she said, pulling a cigarette from her handbag and bringing it to her rosy-red lips. Striking a match on my cheek, I reached out to light it for her. “Other than going to Colorado and trying to find Helton’s goatee himself, what other lead do you have?”

“Ha,” I said, smiling from underneath my fedora. “You know me too well.”

So we took the first flight we could to Denver, Colorado, home of the Colorado Rockies and the last known location of Todd Helton’s goatee. After staking out the stadium on the first night, we followed Helton’s goatee back to his condo in Thornton, just outside of Denver.

“What now?” I asked as we watched Todd Helton’s goatee saunter into the lobby and up the elevator.

“You’re lucky you have me around,” Faraday said as she let her down her long blond hair and stepped out of the car. “It takes a teaspoon of charm to get an ocean of information.”

Within moments she was at the front desk, giggling at the doorman’s tired jokes. She gave me a wry, lip-sticked smile as she sauntered back to the car.

“Okay, so here’s the details,” she said, pulling her hair back up as I cruised down I-25. “You’re not going to believe this, but Todd Helton’s goatee doesn’t live there.”

“What?” I said as the glowing Denver skyline appeared over the dashboard. “We saw him go in there, though. We know he lives in Thornton.”

“That’s right; we did. But no one by the name of Todd Helton’s goatee is on the owners list. ‘Todd Helton’ on the other hand?” she said, smiling like the poker player with the straight flush.

“You’re kidding me,” I said. “It’s taken a human name?”

“That’s right.” We pulled into the hotel and stepped out of the car. “A human name and a human form.”

The valet eased away from the carport and we wandered over to the all-night diner across the street. The place was poorly lit for a crummy diner, and its ambiance bordered on bar-like. We sat down, ordered coffee, and lit our cigarettes.

“You mean that whole thing is Todd Helton’s goatee now?” I asked, eying the menu.

“That’s right,” she said, taking my arm, “and he’s going to be here soon, too.”

“What?” I asked, looking up from the menu. Ms. Faraday had stood from the booth and was poking through her purse.

“What did you say?” I repeated myself.

“When you were studying cult cryptography at Oxford, did you ever come across the Cult of the Encouraged Follicles?” she asked. I put the menu down.

“I never told you I went to Oxford.”

“You never told me a lot of things,” she answered, producing a snub-nosed revolver from her purse. Suddenly, several hooded figures appeared from the kitchen and the back door.

“I should have known, Ms. Faraday,” I said, sliding out of the booth as the acolytes of the Encourage Follicles surrounded me. “I should have known you were leading me here all along.”

“Don’t pretend like you had a clue,” she said, taking a drag from her cigarette and then pressing into the ashtray. “You merely stumbled into this. You should’ve listened to Freds, but now it looks like you’re going to join him.”

She cocked the hammer on the pistol. Suddenly the doors sprang open and Todd Helton’s goatee charged into the room.

“Stop this immediately!” Todd Helton’s goatee’s mouth shouted. “All of you, leave now.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” Faraday turned the pistol on him. “We created you, attached you to a major league baseball player, made you into star. How dare you turn on us!”

“Yes, you gave me this extraordinary life,” the goatee said, easing towards Ms. Faraday. “But you also gave me a soul. And a choice to be evil. Or good.”

Suddenly the goatee flashed a brilliant white light, so bright I could see it through my closed eyelids. My knees gave way underneath me, but when my vision cleared, I saw the acolytes of Encouraged Follicles slowly morphing, mid-air, into little white baseballs. Helton grabbed his baseball bat, and with one titanic swing, crushed the acolytes into golden dust, sprinkling gently to the ground.

Toad Helton’s goatee’s arm reached out to help me up.

“You’re safe now,” he said, as I fainted. “You’re safe.”

~~~

Two months later, I awoke in a hospital in Knoxville, Tennessee. How I got there, I may never know.

The nurses claimed I appeared one day, laying on a bed in the ICU. For two days, the doctors gathered around my charts, trying to reconcile their imagery results with their grasps on reality. They showed the x-rays to me too, pointing out how, even though I appeared to be in perfect health, my entire skeletal structure had rearranged itself.

Within a week, the x-rays showed my bones had begun migrating back to their usual positions. Eventually, I was a normal human again. On the day they finally permitted me to leave, one doctor asked me directly, “What the hell happened to you?”

Pulling on my coat and tightening my tie, I simply said, “Sometimes you just come too close to majesty.”