“Anything for the weekend sir?”
Scene One. A small gentleman’s barbers shop in London’s East End. A slightly built, bespectacled, middle-aged man enters and is approached by a heavily muscled figure in a loin cloth, gripping a double-sided axe in his right hand.
Conan – Greetings stranger, on what business do you enter these portals?
Man – I’d like a short back and sides with not too much off the top please. Oh and do you stock Jamaican Bay Rum scalp rub at all? It’s so difficult to get hold of these days.
Conan – *Lets out loud bellow and whirls battle axe around head* BY THE AVENGING HAMMER OF MIGHTY THOR HIMSELF! YOU DARE ENTER THE DOMAIN OF CONAN AND MAKE REQUEST FOR AN ELIXIR FAVOURED BY THE ACCURSED, FOREIGN-BORN WOG??? I’LL HAVE YOUR HEAD FOR THIS YOU SNIVELLING WRETCH!
Man – Look I really am most dreadfully sorry! I didn’t mean to cause any offence sir. I just wondered if…UNH! *thud*
Conan – So dies another sworn enemy of the noble Aryan race! Let all who enter here bear witness to this deed and behold his stricken body so that they too may learn the folly of darkie idolatry. I swear by the beard of great Odin himself that I will not rest until I, Conan, have spilled the last drop of their racially tolerant blood and heard in the distance the cries and lamentation of their women!
Conan extends his murderous quest to include dwarves of colour. “Short blacks, they hide!”