The Mirror of Revelation

It was a quiet morning, too quiet for my liking. A quiet that makes you question your very existence, or at the very least, whether you should pour a double shot of bourbon into your coffee. I staggered to the bathroom, still groggy from the night’s festivities, and looked into the mirror.

What I saw nearly sent me into cardiac arrest.

Staring back at me was Jesus Christ himself, a halo of curly hair, wild beard, and all. My first thought was that I had ascended to some higher plane of existence, but a closer inspection revealed the bitter truth: I had merely neglected to shave for far too long.

“Sweet mother of God,” I muttered, rubbing my eyes. “I’m about to be mistaken for the Messiah.”

Now, in a place like Virginia City, being mistaken for Jesus is a recipe for disaster. It is a town where folks would nail you to the side of a barn to see if you’d rise again in three days. I couldn’t risk it. I had to take action.

I rummaged through the medicine cabinet, my hands trembling slightly.

The razor seemed to gleam with an almost divine light, beckoning me to rid myself of this holy visage. The sound of the blade against my skin was cathartic, each stroke stripping away layers of divinity and returning me to my mortal form.

As the beard fell away, so did the weight of potential crucifixion. I was no longer a messianic figure; I was just a man needing caffeine and maybe another shot of bourbon.

My wife stumbled into the bathroom, eyes half-closed. “What in the seven hells are you doing, man?” she said. “You look like you just shaved off the salvation of mankind.”

“Preventative measures,” I replied, patting my now-smooth face. “I was on the verge of being nailed to a barn door by a bunch of zealous farmers.”

She squinted at me, then burst into raucous laughter. “Only you would have to shave to avoid crucifixion in this town.”

We headed downstairs to the kitchen, the smell of brewing coffee filling the air. I poured myself a cup, adding a generous splash of bourbon, and took a long, contemplative sip.

“Remember,” I said, glancing at her over the rim of my mug, “sometimes it’s the little things that save your hide. Like a good razor and a strong cup of coffee.”

She nodded as if I had imparted some profound wisdom. Maybe I had, or perhaps it was the bourbon talking. Either way, I survived another day.