The Legend of the Goatee - The only chapter to ever exist. by Giovanni Spina

Aidan was a strapping young gentleman of about fifteen. For weeks, he had been preparing for the greatest rite in his family's history. That is, the growing of the goatee.

You see, in Aidan's family, at the tender age of fifteen, hair would sprout at the chin. At that point, the elder member of the family would appoint onto the younger a guitar, with which they could learn songs unsung.

At this moment, he was playing his flute. His father had said that playing the flute helped coax the hair out of inside his face. He was practising one of the hardest songs in his repetoire, "Mary Had a Little Lamb".

"God damn it!" he exclaimed. "I missed the note again! This song truly is hard!"

"Son, what did I say about swearing?" his father asked.

"I know, father, but I just can't find enough times to use one!"

"If you truly were listening, you'd know that there's always a perfect time to swear. How else will you get your very own goatee?"

His father stroked his own goatee. It was long, brown, and wavy. Aidan couldn't help but envy his father's great, great goatee.

He put down his flute and mediated. Meditation, his father had said, helps talk to his inner hair.

"Facial hair, son", he said, "is very sensitive. You can offend it very easily, but there are tricks. If you use the tricks well, you can grow any kind of facial hair you want!"

His father had failed to say what to mediate on. Right now, Aidan was meditating on his favourite food, fried rice. Those tender pieces of rice...so small and white...he couldn't take it anymore...

"WHY CAN'T A GUY GET SOME GOD DAMN FRIED RICE?!?!?!?!" he yelled.

"That's my boy!" his father said cheerily. "Keep swearing, like a man."

Suddenly, the sudden release of hot air irritated his chin hair. Internal hair producers starting working as they never worked before.

Something amazing happened.

A long, flowing goatee formed right under his chin, mere moments after he yelled for fried rice.

Both Aidan and his father stared at the goatee for a long, long time. His father merely stared at his marvellous goatee. It put his own to shame, he thought. His eyes watered.

"My boy," he sniffed, "it's happened! Your goatee has sprouted. It's...it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen!"

"Father...father, I am ready. May I gain my inheritance now?"

"Of course, son. Of course."

His father led him out of the large room they were currently in and into the study of the great house. He lifted up a red book out of one of the bookcases currently lining the walls. The bookcase that held the book slowly slid out of place revealling a hidden room behind it.

"Here, my son, is the guitar room." his father stated.
The "guitar room", as it was called, held approximately seven guitars. Each was less like the one before it.

"Pick one. Your choice."

Aidan stroked his goatee (something he would be doing for years after), examinating each and every guitar. He at last picked a hot pink Fender Telecaster.

"This guitar shall be my weapon," he exclaimed, "and my goatee my guide."

"Go, my son. Go and spread music to the world."

And so he did. Even now, at the brink of night, you can hear Aidan stroking his goatee and playing rock songs.