by Bill Tiepelman
Shave Me Softly (with Terror)
The Prickle and the Peril There are few things in life as universally despised as the ankle nick. That one millimeter of skin you forget about until it’s bleeding like you stepped on a landmine. And Marvin? Marvin knew that pain all too well. Marvin was an average guy. Thirty-something. Single. Devoted to his three cats and a frighteningly specific grooming routine. You’d think he was prepping for a competitive foot modeling gig—or some kind of cult ritual involving satin robes and very smooth heels. Every Sunday, like clockwork, he’d break out his grooming kit, light a sandalwood candle, and put on a playlist called “Sensual Blades.” But this Sunday was different. As Marvin sat down on the bathroom floor, towel under his butt and warm water steaming from the sink, he reached into his grooming drawer and pulled out a razor he didn’t recognize. It was sleek, polished...and vibrating. Not in a good way. In a kind of low, menacing hum that said, “I have secrets.” “Huh,” Marvin muttered. “You new here?” He didn’t remember buying it. He certainly didn’t remember one with a handle shaped like a demon's femur and a blade that shimmered like moonlight off a prison shank. But, like any self-respecting suburban man with impulse control issues and zero survival instincts, he shrugged and gave it a go. That’s when the razor moved. “OW, SHITBALLS!” Marvin yelped, kicking backward. The razor wasn’t in his hand anymore. No, it was standing. On two gnarly, gremlin-like feet. Its eyes were wild, its mouth stretched into a grin that said, “You’re not going to enjoy this, but I sure as hell am.” “Back away from the Achilles tendon, buddy!” Marvin barked, waving a loofah like a weapon. But the creature was undeterred. It crouched low, licking its non-existent lips, hands outstretched like it was about to tickle a foot fetish forum into chaos. Its blade head glinted under the bathroom light as it whispered in a raspy voice: “It’s time... for a close shave.” Marvin screamed—not like a movie scream, but like a dying seagull being tickled inappropriately. He scurried back on his hands and heels, knocking over a bottle of conditioner and accidentally spraying himself in the eye with aftershave. “WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?” he cried. The blade-creature paused. It tilted its head—if you could call a razor head a head—and answered with manic glee, “Smooth. Supple. SEXY. Heels.” Marvin blinked through the sting of aftershave and stared at the tiny, nightmarish barber. “Dude. That is the weirdest kink I’ve ever heard of—and I once dated a girl who moaned during tax season.” The creature lunged. Marvin rolled left, slammed his elbow into the toilet, and launched a towel at the thing. “I shave my legs for ME, not for your sick little exfoliation fantasy!” he shouted. But deep down, Marvin knew he was trapped. This wasn’t just a weird razor. This was something worse. Something ancient. Something… sentient. And Marvin’s ankle was the chosen one. Just as the gremlin got one scaly claw on his heel and let out an orgasmic, "Ooooooh yeaaaah," Marvin reached for the only thing that could save him: his electric foot file. It buzzed to life like a chainsaw in a horror movie. The showdown had begun. Smooth Criminal The buzzing of Marvin’s electric foot file echoed like a tiny chainsaw of justice. The blade-gremlin hissed, his blade-face twitching. “You dare bring a pedicure tool into my sanctuary?” Marvin stood, one foot on the bathmat, the other dripping wet and still half-covered in shaving foam. His pupils were dilated. His towel was gone. His dignity, possibly forever lost. But dammit, he was done running. “This is MY bathroom,” he growled. “My kingdom. And nobody—nobody—manscapes me without consent!” The blade-creature lunged again, arms wide, going for the Achilles with a mad gleam in his eyes and a very unsettling erection-shaped blade-handle wobbling between its legs. Marvin dodged like a hero in an ’80s action flick—if the hero had bad balance and slipped on a bottle of lavender body wash. He landed on his side with a wheeze, but managed to smack the foot file right into the gremlin’s armpit. WHIIIIIIIIIRRRRRRRRRRR! The gremlin shrieked like a demonic tea kettle. “NOOOO! NOT THE CALLUS EXFOLIATOR OF DEATH!” Marvin grinned through the pain. “Yeah, I read your reviews on Amazon. Weak to friction and overconfident with heels.” The foot file buzzed harder. Sparks flew. The gremlin sizzled like bacon left too long on the skillet of hell. And then—POP!—he exploded in a confetti puff of nose hair trimmings and disappointment. Silence fell. Marvin lay there for a long moment, breathing heavily, surrounded by the chaos of battle: cotton swabs, a shattered razor holder, and a single, smoldering toenail clipping. Eventually, he sat up. Looked around. Patted his leg. He was safe. “Well, that was… aggressively personal care,” he muttered. He stood up, grabbed the nearest towel—pink, fluffy, embroidered with “Live Laugh Lather”—and tied it around his waist. He gazed into the mirror, where the remnants of shaving cream streaked his jaw like war paint. “Marvin,” he told his reflection, “you just survived a grooming exorcism. You’re basically a hot wizard now.” But just as he turned to leave the bathroom, a low hiss slithered from the drain… “We will return… for the nethers…” Marvin blinked. “Nope.” He grabbed his phone, opened his favorite delivery app, and muttered, “Time to switch to waxing.” Three weeks later, Marvin was a changed man. He’d canceled his “Smooth Moves Monthly” subscription box. He no longer trusted razors, tweezers, or any object smaller than a baguette. His cats had begun to avoid the bathroom entirely, ever since one witnessed the gremlin incident and promptly barfed in Marvin’s shoes. Marvin now wore socks to bed. Not for warmth. Not for style. For protection. “They’ll never get my heels again,” he whispered into his pillow at night. But somewhere in the depths of his plumbing, beneath the crusted shampoo gunk and dreams of shower karaoke, something stirred. Something sharp. Something smug. Deep in the drain, a single, sinister whisper echoed up into the pipes: “Exfoliate… or die.” Marvin, brushing his teeth nearby, paused. A chill ran up his still-hairless calf. He glanced at the drain. He narrowed his eyes. “Alexa,” he said, foam flying, “order holy water. And a pumice grenade.” The war on unwanted body hair wasn’t over. It had just gone underground. To be continued… in ‘Nairmare on Elbow Street’. 🛁 Shave With Style (and a Little Trauma) If Marvin’s nightmarishly awkward foot fight spoke to your soul—or just your soles—take the madness home with you. Our exclusive “Shave Me Softly” collection transforms bathroom terror into functional, fabulous art for the brave and beautifully bizarre. Shower Curtain: Make every rinse an act of defiance. Turn your morning scrub into a monster showdown. Bath Towel: Dry off like a damn hero who just defeated a grooming gremlin with nothing but sass and suds. Framed Print: Art for your walls—or as a warning to future generations: shave responsibly. Metal Print: Bold. Durable. Sharp. Just like the villain. And also your sense of humor. Groom boldly, decorate unapologetically, and remember—if you hear a whisper from the drain… maybe skip the loofah today.
