Mohawk Guy

I ran smack dab into Mohawk Guy because, as usual, I had my gaze on the ground. Looking down was just something I did, especially when I was nervous, and as I walked towards the Ink Panther, I was nervous to the point of hyperventilation. Unfortunately, that was also the reason why I had picked up the pace – it was my rather simplistic strategy to get into the shop before I could talk myself out of doing it.

So, naturally, I collided hard with someone in a ragged dark blue sweater who also happened to have a taste for really bizarre hairstyles.

Of course, the first thing I saw wasn’t his hair but his Doc Martens, and the lower half of a pair of ripped-to-shreds black jeans, and I registered them a split second before I smashed into their owner with all the elegance and agility of a freight train. Even when the impact brutally knocked the wind out of me, and the person I was making a pretty good attempt at mowing over let out a grunt of breathless surprise, part of my brain was still stuck wondering who the hell duct taped their jeans instead of simply buying a new pair.

My brain occasionally appears to have an issue with priorities.

It freaking hurt. My head did not like the whiplash motion. Rattled and still working on keeping my balance, I opened my mouth to apologize. My quasi-victim preempted me with a rough and resounding “What the hell are you doing?”

My head snapped up. I saw gray eyes in a pale face, a black star tattoo on one cheekbone, and the equally black spiked mohawk that added something like half a foot to the guy’s height. The sides of his head were buzzed short, and I faintly wondered who in their right mind would ever do such a thing to their hair.

Mohawk Guy, that’s who.