Only the Hairy Survived: Microfiction for mistersleepless
Fashion should have died a long time ago. When it took its last gasp, the sounds that wheezed out were, “You were right!”
I am a hairy, hairy man. I’m talking primate, Bigfoot hairy. I’ve been that way since I hit puberty and have never looked back, sporting a beard and shaggy hair. The oh-so-popular metrosexual trend dictated that my beard and body hair were fashion don’ts. I needed to pluck them or wax them or (better yet) use lasers to burn them off. No thanks. I’ll take my chances being hirsuite.
Then the bombs dropped. The earth took its medicine; it spat the virus back out into the atmosphere and over all of us. To say they dropped like flies doesn’t nearly describe the sudden annihilation of most of the human race. Who remained? The hairy ones; bacteria that had built up over years and years contained antibodies that protected us from the virus. It was like a Hippie Rapture; only the hairy survived.