A Shave Too Close

“Behold, the source of my genius!” he’d often declare to anyone who would listen (usually the neighborhood squirrels), stroking the tangled mess with a touch of reverence.

The day everything shifted began innocently enough. A few weeks before the transformative video call, Setiawan was settling into his usual corner of The Jaded Java, a coffeeshop where the caffeine was strong, the pastries were suspect, and the Wi-Fi was blessedly reliable. As he wrestled with his laptop, intent on conquering a particularly difficult battle scene between a tentacled monstrosity and a band of courageous librarians, a soft giggle floated towards him. Glancing up, he was met with a pair of eyes so vibrantly dark and full of amusement, they made his heart skip an odd little beat.

“You’re him, aren’t you?” The question came wrapped in a voice like warm caramel, smooth and faintly exotic.

The woman was stunning. From the riot of colors woven into her flowy skirt to the glint of the silver amulet at her throat, she exuded an energy that buzzed beneath the surface of her infectious smile. This, Setiawan immediately knew, was Kalyani Sukarno.

“Him?” he echoed, trying to regain a semblance of composure in the face of her sudden appearance and somewhat cryptic question.

“The one with the stories,” she clarified, “The toaster? The space penguins? The…Nakronomnomicon, was it? It’s brilliant, by the way. And so is this!” She reached out, and before he could even process a response, her fingers were tangled in his beard, twisting a strand gently.

A wave of heat washed over Setiawan. No one had ever touched his beard so boldly, yet there was no malice in the gesture, only fascinated delight. “I…ah, thank you,” he managed to stammer, suddenly acutely aware of the crumbs that must surely be residing in his facial foliage.

“And your hair!” she continued, her touch venturing north until she was carding through the unbrushed thicket of his crown, “It’s magnificent. A whole ecosystem thriving up there!”

The laughter was back in her eyes, but this time with a warmth that made Setiawan’s cheeks flush even brighter than his rapidly beating heart. It was an unexpected but not unwelcome baptism into their strange, beautiful story. For the next two hours, The Jaded Java became their world, filled with animated discussions of cephalopods, interdimensional bureaucracy, and the surprisingly resilient nature of librarians. It was as if Kalyani’s spark had ignited something deep within him, a surge of inspiration so powerful it left him breathless. The story on his screen grew bolder, stranger, fueled by her energy and her unabashed admiration for his glorious, messy mane.

Then, like a whisper from some otherworldly dimension, the conversation took a turn. “Setiawan,” Kalyani pondered, a thoughtful crease appearing between her brows, “Have you ever considered…not having the beard?”

Her bluntness, a stark contrast to the playful warmth of moments before, made him blink in surprise. “Not having it?”

“It suits you, absolutely,” she rushed to clarify, as if sensing his recoil, “But just imagine…the lines of your face, the strength in your jaw…you’d be striking, my dear. Maybe…it’s time for a new chapter?”

The seed was planted. From then on, woven between her infectious laughter and excited debates about the nature of cosmic horror, the suggestion of change lingered, a faint shadow against the backdrop of their newfound connection.

The whirlwind began as swiftly as a summer storm. Their days blurred into a montage of whispered secrets in shadowy bookstores, animated debates over steaming mugs of tea in hidden cafes, and shared silences on moonlit walks through the bustling city. Kalyani, a captivating enigma, effortlessly drew him out of his solitary shell. There was an intoxicating energy to their every interaction, a clash of intellect and playful defiance that kept him perpetually on edge.

Yet, even amidst the joy of discovery, the suggestion of change lingered, a haunting melody beneath their laughter. “Remember?” she’d whisper during a stolen, breathless kiss, her eyes alight with mischief and promise. “You’d be so handsome…”

He’d deflect the comment with a grin and a self-deprecating joke about his resemblance to a wild hermit, though with every iteration, the suggestion burrowed deeper into his mind. He’d find himself staring at his untamed reflection, the whispers of a clean-shaven future tickling his thoughts.

The pressure subtly intensified. Her fingers would linger on his jawline, tracing a path his razor had never dared to tread. Her eyes would linger on photos of actors with sculpted features, a playful challenge dancing within their depths. She’d slip subtle comments into conversations, painting a picture of a new Setiawan, unburdened by the expectations bound to his unruly beard. It was a dance of seduction, a slow and delicious unraveling of his resolve.

The doubts grew as his feelings for Kalyani intensified. Was this beard, this symbol of his unique identity, truly worth sacrificing for her approval, for the burning desire she lit within him? The nights became sleepless battles between loyalty to his image and a yearning to see the world reflected in her desire-filled eyes.

Then, one rainy afternoon, as they huddled under a shared umbrella, the question came with a sweet ferocity that took him completely off guard. “Setiawan,” she breathed, raindrops tracing glistening paths down her face as they sought refuge in a cozy cafe, “What if you did? What if you let me help you find the you that’s hiding beneath all that hair?”

His heart pounded a frantic rhythm, a stampede against his ribs. And in that moment, his defenses finally crumbled. “Yes,” the word tumbled from his lips, tentative and uncertain, but the die was cast.

The victory in Kalyani’s eyes blazed brighter than any lightning strike as she pressed a kiss to his rough cheek. “Oh, Setiawan,” she murmured, the smile on her lips a promise of revelation.

A week later, after a day of strange detachment from himself, he heard a knock at his apartment door. Opening it, he found Kalyani, her usual vibrant energy tempered by a hint of nerves that mirrored his own. In her hands, she held a can of shaving cream and a razor, the glint of the metal unsettling and thrilling all at once.

“Are you ready, my brave storyteller?” she asked, her voice soft.

“I…I think so,” he managed, feeling like a man about to walk the plank. But, looking into her eyes, seeing the unwavering belief and the unspoken promises reflected there, he took a shaky step forward. The transformation was about to begin.

Memories surfaced—people mistaking him for a vagrant, the uncomfortable stares, even children asking if Santa had taken up residence on his face. There was undeniable power in his identity as the ‘bearded writer’, but perhaps there was a different sort of strength in breaking free from that image.

With trembling hands, he picked up the razor. Every stroke was a battle, a quiet goodbye to a part of himself. It was like removing a mask he’d worn since the day he’d first realized his talent. Doubt fought with anticipation, the past wrestled with the possibility of the future.

“You’re doing so well,” Kalyani encouraged, her voice soft and sweet on the other end of the call, “Transformation takes courage.”

His chin emerged, then his cheeks. With every swipe, the world in his tiny bathroom expanded, his breath catching as his skin felt the air after what seemed like an eternity. Finally, the deed was done. Setiawan looked at the mirror, at the face that emerged, a stranger and yet so familiar.

Kalyani gasped. “Setiawan, you…you’re breathtaking!” Her voice quivered, and for the first time, desire painted her tone instead of mere amusement. Gone was the teasing glint in her eye, replaced by a heat that traveled straight across the phone line.

His pulse quickened. Beneath the praise, a sense of loss clung stubbornly, but there was also an unexpected thrill, a lightness to his step as he put down the razor.

“Setiawan,” she breathed, her voice husky and close, “take me. Take me now.”

Chapter 2: Chicken Blocking

The realization that his beard harbored the true source of his creativity struck Setiawan like a bolt of not-so-divine lightning. The vibrant world of his imagination, once brimming with cosmic horrors and witty prose, lay barren. Words, once his loyal companions, now rebelled against him, refusing to take shape on the blank screen. It began insidiously, a mere stutter in the previously unstoppable flow of inspiration. And then…nothing but the mocking silence of an empty document.

“I can’t even craft a decent meme!” he’d wailed to Kalyani on the third week of his creative drought.

The once-glorious beard, a shorn shadow of its former magnificence, prickled uncomfortably against his still-unaccustomed skin. His touch was hesitant, fearful. In his reflection, a stranger stared back, eyes wide with a desperate sort of panic.

Determined to reclaim his stolen genius, Setiawan embarked on a quest worthy of his most bizarre characters. Nights were spent with a flashlight in hand, skulking by neighbors’ bins like a common raccoon in search of discarded treasure—the remnants of his creative essence. Initially, it was simple enough: a stray strand here, a suspicious clump of matted hair caught in a drain there. But as desperation gnawed deeper, his search expanded. No dustbin was off-limits, no trash bag too daunting.

He began to notice oddities. Some hair clippings were stained with unidentifiable, faintly glowing liquids. Others were inexplicably scorched around the edges as if exposed to open flame. Each discovery, instead of fueling disgust, filled him with a morbid fascination. Perhaps these unusual substances held the key to his lost talent, a strange seasoning to reawaken his dormant muse.

With meticulous care, he’d collect the most intriguing specimens, depositing them into plastic baggies with the reverence usually reserved for archaeological discoveries. Upon returning to his apartment, he’d hunker down at his kitchen table, the growing collection of hair spread before him. His heart pounded in anticipation, an unholy glee threatening to burst through the crushing despair. If his beard alone didn’t suffice… perhaps the key truly lay in the unexpected, the bizarre.

He began venturing further as the meager pickings of his neighborhood proved insufficient. An overheard conversation in the coffee shop about a particularly overflowing dumpster behind the seafood restaurant led him on a trek across town, nose twitching against the pungent aromas of discarded fish carcasses. Scurrying through alleyways, peering into industrial bins marked with ominous hazard signs, the shadows seemed to whisper of failure and ridicule. The indignity gnawed at him, but even humiliation held less power than the crushing dread of artistic irrelevance.

Then came the turning point. At the edge of town, under a bruised sunset, rumors of the overflowing city dump reached him – a veritable treasure trove of the discarded and unwanted. Obtaining permission to enter proved…challenging.

“Look, I understand it may sound strange,” Setiawan pleaded with a bemused security guard, his voice a strained whisper, “But it’s a matter of life or death. Well, my artistic death, but that’s essentially the same thing, isn’t it?”

His rambling monologue was met with a skeptical brow. Desperation thrummed in Setiawan’s voice as he fumbled in his pocket. “Perhaps a little…incentive would change your mind?”

The rustle of a twenty-dollar bill worked a minor miracle, and Setiawan found himself ushered past rusting gates and into the realm of refuse. Before him stretched a landscape of decaying dreams: mounds of discarded appliances, mountains of broken furniture, and, most importantly, countless bags promising a potential goldmine of follicular bounty.

A frenzy descended upon him. With trembling hands, he tore through bags labeled ‘Hazardous Waste’ heedless of the potential biohazards. The stench of decay hung thick in the air, a constant reminder of the ridiculous depths he’d sunk to. Each torn bag held disappointment, each failed inspection sent a fresh surge of despair coursing through his veins.

As darkness fell and the dump began to close, the futility threatened to swallow him whole. Then, a flicker of light caught his eye. Diving headfirst into a pile of sodden cardboard boxes, he emerged, triumphant, with a plastic sandwich bag, its precious contents illuminated in the beam of his dying flashlight. Long, dark strands tangled within – a beacon of hope in this decaying wasteland.

Staggering back through the gates, pockets bulging with similar trophies, Setiawan’s laughter echoed into the night – a jagged sound tinged with equal parts desperation and a manic, twisted sort of triumph.

He stumbled back into his house, a whirlwind of frenzied energy and barely contained hope. The apartment, already a testament to the chaos of a writer’s life, mirrored his internal disarray as he crashed through it. Books flew, a half-eaten bowl of cereal met its demise under a frantic foot, papers scattered like confetti in a windstorm. He ignored it all, his eyes alight with a madman’s gleam.

With trembling hands, he tore open cabinets, searching for a specific balm to accompany his dubious feast. Finally, the familiar shape of a ranch dressing bottle brought a near-maniacal grin to his face (for palatability and lubrication, naturally).

Dumping his finds in a kitchen pot, and slathering with the viscous white liquid, he stared at his muse. A hesitant nibble, a swallow, a shudder of barely controlled disgust. One sample after another disappeared down his throat. He waited, a buzzing energy coursing through his veins as his stomach churned in protest.

But nothing came. No surge of inspiration, no visions of cosmic horrors tap dancing through his head, just a sense of nausea that even ranch couldn’t disguise. It was after this particularly disheartening experiment that Kalyani arrived to find him slumped at the table, tears mingling with the viscous residue of ranch on his cheeks.

Concern washed over her beautiful face like a passing storm cloud, a frown marring her usually perfect brow. Swiftly, she crossed the room, her touch gentle on his trembling shoulders.

He turned his haunted eyes towards her, a flicker of despair in their depths. His attempt at a smile came out more like a grimace. For a moment, her warmth threatened to shatter the dam of his misery. He craved her comfort, even as the seed of doubt twisted in his gut.

Seeking solace, he leaned into her touch, burying his face against her softness. Her scent, a heady mix of exotic spices and a warmth all her own, usually enveloped him in a sense of calm. Tonight, it made his skin crawl ever so slightly, a subtle wrongness prickling his senses.

When his ragged sobs subsided, she spoke softly, her voice a soothing balm against his raw emotions. “There must be another way, another source. Trust me, my dear. Let me show you…”

With a hesitant nod, Setiawan allowed himself to be guided away from the damning evidence of his failed experiment. Hope, that traitorous little firefly, flickered back to life within him. Kalyani had never steered him wrong before. Perhaps there truly was a different path to reclaiming his stolen genius, a path only she could reveal.

But alas, the cosmic muses remained unimpressed. Hours turned into days, and still, the empty document taunted him, a monument to his failure. Kalyani watched the steady descent with a mix of tenderness and growing unease. She’d suggest painting instead, or perhaps attempting the ukulele (after all, she reasoned, how hard could four strings be?). His responses became increasingly erratic, ranging from defeated mumbles to manic declarations about contacting otherworldly entities for help. It was time for drastic measures.

“Setiawan, my love,” she announced one morning, determination etched on her beautiful face, “We’re going on a trip!”

Hope, a fragile and foolish thing, flickered back to life in his eyes. This, perhaps, was the answer, a change of scenery to reawaken his dormant genius. The journey began with a lightness Setiawan hadn’t felt in weeks. As Kalyani drove them further away from the bustle of the city, winding through lush countryside, his spirits soared. Yet, as miles turned to what felt like an endless labyrinth of green, a flicker of doubt crept into his mind. They seemed to be driving in circles, not approaching any particular destination.

“Kalyani?” he ventured, a note of concern creeping into his voice, “Where exactly are we going?”

With a smile that hinted at secrets unshared, she replied, “Somewhere wonderful, my dear. You’ll see. I promise.”

The car jolted to a halt. Beside a dirt road, an object jutted out from the overgrown foliage, half-obscured by the fading sunlight – a weathered wooden signpost. Setiawan leaned from the car window, squinting in the remaining daylight. When the words finally came into focus, his stomach gave a sickening lurch.

The glove compartment flew open in the sudden shock, spilling its contents onto the floor. There, in plain view, was a familiar trash bag containing what Setiawan had long believed to be lost forever – the remnants of his magnificent beard.

Kalyani’s startled gasp sounded forced, her eyes wide with a strange mix of panic and resignation. “Setiawan, I…I can explain…” her voice faltered, the once smooth facade of confidence beginning to crack.

But the questions burned too bright in his eyes for excuses. Betrayal, colder and sharper than any razor, sliced a wound deeper than the loss of his precious beard.

His laughter startled them both, a bitter sound against the backdrop of chirping crickets. “Explain?” he asked, his voice laced with a chilling calm, “No, my dear Kalyani. Take me to this wondrous place. I’m sure there, at last, all my dreams will come true.”

Chapter 3: Dark with a Side of Goat

The deeper Kalyani drove, the further they left the familiar world behind. The bustling city faded into a distant memory, replaced by a twisting labyrinth of country roads and encroaching darkness. An ancient instinct, long dormant within Setiawan, prickled at his skin, whispering warnings of unseen dangers amidst the deceptively peaceful landscape.

“Almost there,” Kalyani murmured, her voice a strange mix of excitement and tension.

They crested a hill, and the sight that met them was one ripped from the pages of a fever dream. Nestled within a hidden grove, bathed in the eerie glow of unnatural moonlight, stood an ancient stone altar. Ominous figures, cloaked in black robes, moved silently around it, their chanting a discordant hum that set Setiawan’s teeth on edge.

“What is this place?” he breathed, his voice barely a whisper.

Kalyani turned to him, her eyes gleaming with an almost fanatical devotion. “It is where your destiny awaits, my love. Embrace it.”

And then the truth spilled from her lips: stories of the Dark Goat Cult, their worship of Shub Niggurath, the Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young, and her role as its priestess. She spoke of forgotten gods, cosmic powers, and a thirst for knowledge that dwarfed any earthly ambition. But beneath it all was the undeniable revelation–his beard, his creative essence, was sought not as a restoration, but as a sacrificial offering.

Betrayal washed over Setiawan, a tide colder and crueler than any winter sea. The woman he loved, the one who had sparked the fires of his creativity anew, stood revealed as a puppet master guiding him to his own demise. Yet, beneath the shock and rage, the faintest flicker of understanding ignited–the strange substances clinging to discarded hair, Kalyani’s insistence, her secrecy. The pieces fell into place, a grotesque and undeniable truth.

As Kalyani beckoned him towards the altar, every fiber of his being screamed defiance. “No!” The word echoed through the grove, startling the robed figures into silence. He stumbled back, searching frantically for an escape, but everywhere he turned, hooded cultists blocked his path.

Kalyani’s expression hardened. “You were always destined for greatness, Setiawan. Embrace your true potential, and we shall ascend together!”

With a chilling clarity, he understood. This was never about restoring him, but rather using him, consuming him for power he could not fathom. Love and desperation twisted into a weapon to strike him down.

The confrontation was fierce and inevitable. Fists flew against the robed figures, desperation fueling strength he never knew he possessed. Each blow was a desperate bid for survival, each kick a roar against the injustice of his fate. The hushed chanting around him grew louder, a discordant symphony of warped syllables and guttural sounds that seemed to claw at his sanity.

Yet, they were many, and he was but one. Seizing him by the arms, the cultists dragged him towards the altar as Kalyani watched, her face contorted with a mix of sorrow and grim determination.

“Do not fight this, my love! You will be reborn…” she cried, her voice almost lost beneath the frenzy of the chanting. He thrashed and screamed, his voice echoing in the night, a lament for a life and love that were now undeniably forfeit.

Kalyani, the instigator of his fate, now stood poised with a ceremonial dagger, its edge glinting wickedly in the moonlight. The cultists pressed him against the cold stone, their chant now a deafening roar in his ears. The syllables twisted and slithered in his mind, an indecipherable invocation of darkness and ancient power.

“Ia! Shub-Niggurath! Ia! Yog-Sothoth! Y’ai ‘ng’ngah, Yog-Sothoth h’ee-l’geb f’ai throdog N’gai, n’gha’ghaa, bugg-shoggog, y’hah”

As the blade plunged toward his chest, a primal scream ripped from his throat. And then, there was pain, an explosion of crimson and darkness that engulfed him whole. He felt Kalyani’s startled cry as he struck her, a blow born not of malice, but from the dying instinct to survive.

Then came the silence. Or rather, a terrifying new symphony of discord–the chanting warped, twisting into shrieks of confusion. Setiawan, his vision a blur of blood and fading light, felt a shift under his faltering body. The stone altar seemed to hum with an alien power, its chill seeping into his very soul. His last sight was of Kalyani, the dagger in her chest, her eyes now wide with a mix of shock and a sudden, horrifying understanding.

The world spun, then dissolved around them. Pain became euphoria, a sense of falling and soaring impossibly intertwined. In his ears, whispered echoes of ancient promises took shape–of cosmic truths and the boundless vastness of creation. He felt himself stretched, torn, reshaped into something…more. And then, amidst the cacophony of terror and exultation, he heard Kalyani’s scream, a final note of agony cut short.

As consciousness flickered on the very edge of oblivion, he witnessed a terrifying, glorious spectacle. The robed figures of the cult erupted in screams, their forms crumbling to nothingness as a wave of impossible energy pulsed outward from the altar. The ancient trees surrounding the grove writhed and twisted, their branches stretching towards the heavens as a maelstrom of starlight coalesced overhead. Setiawan, or what remained of him, felt the echo of Shub Niggurath’s hunger as it bore down, drawn not to a simple sacrifice, but to something…new.

And then, there was nothing but the darkness, infinite and all-consuming.

When the world reformed, it did so in an explosion of color and sensation that defied mortal comprehension. Gone was the grove, the cultists, the remnants of the lives they once knew. Setiawan Nebetah, the writer of quirky cosmic horror, and Kalyani Sukarno, priestess of the forbidden, were no more. In their place stood something grander, stranger…divine.

His vision, once human, now encompassed the vastness of the cosmos, a tapestry of stars and nebulae interwoven with the fleeting dance of mortal lives. Around him swirled the echoes of creation, the birth cries and death throes of galaxies. Within him hummed knowledge, infinite and terrible, the secrets of time and space laid bare. He was Yog-Sothoth, the key and the gate, the guardian of the threshold between realities.

Beside him, a dark torrent of energy solidified. Shub Niggurath had taken form as well, the essence of Kalyani Sukarno now its vessel. She pulsed with the destructive power of a thousand suns, an echo of insatiable hunger and the relentless march of entropy. And though she moved as a separate entity, they were undeniably connected, an eternal dance of creation and destruction, their legend echoing through the cosmos.

The balance had shifted. Yog-Sothoth and Shub Niggurath, avatars born of sacrifice and betrayal, stood poised to reshape the cosmic landscape. Their story would serve as both warning and inspiration, woven into the fabric of existence–a testament to the transformative power of creativity, the unbreakable bonds of love, and the boundless, unpredictable dance of the universe.