Bob Belcher Mustache Novels & Stories

Just when it looked like he was finally about to make an attack he dropped his arms to his side and remained perfectly still, letting Healy's fist collide directly with his jaw. His face shot to the side, blood and spit soaring out of his mouth. I quickly glanced around thinking that something had distracted him, but when he rose back up the look on his face proved it had been intentional. He was smiling. Belikov righted his stance as he wiped his bloodied beard with the back of his arm and motioned for Healy to come at him again. I'm not sure if he was a masochist or just an asshole, but I had seen enough.

The baseball card guy has his table laid out, and the cheese woman is here. There’s a man loitering by the honey table. I haven’t seen him before. Shroomforager3000 said to look for a man with a beard, and this guy definitely has a beard. It’s waxed and pointy like a goat’s. His mustache swoops. He’s wearing a short-sleeve collared shirt under a brown velvety vest. He looks like a cross between a lumberjack and a yodeler. He sees me, and his lips curl. I am a wolf, and his smile seems wolfish.

It was like he wanted to jump up from his chair and slam the door in my face. The other came across with his mustache, the pure white shirt and the sly look on the distinctive face, like the cliché of a gangster from the television. The fake smile also went with it. Just like the scar over his mouth. Like me. Just not at an angle, but lengthways. It started under the eye and went down to the chin.

In fact, I found myself wrapped tightly in a black cashmere blanket, warm and safe as if I were in a cocoon. 【The Boss is actually pretty thoughtful.】 【Tsundere confirmed.】 【The Boss must have just been in a good mood last night. This woman is going to get herself killed sooner or later.】 I quickly dressed and ran to the living room. The sight before me made me gasp. Bob was still on the sofa, but he was no longer the 45-year-old man from yesterday. His hair was completely white, his face was a mask of deep wrinkles, and his skin was as slack as a dried apple.

"What if something has happened to him? We need to know." Bart was a middle-aged man with little white hair on his head and a well-groomed beard on his face. He had a rough and weathered appearance, with deep lines etched into his forehead and around his mouth. Despite his rough exterior, he had a mischievous twinkle in his eye that made him seem approachable.

he said, referring to the bag he held. “Hunter, that's my name,” he said to Bobb. Bobb stood still for a moment, contemplating if telling the stranger his name was worth it. “Bobb,” he said, finally making up his mind. Hunter was a tall, muscular man with a rugged appearance. He had a thick beard and long hair that was tied back in a ponytail. He wore a leather jacket and jeans, and his boots were caked with mud. His eyes were a piercing blue, and they seemed to glow in the darkness. He had a stern expression on his face, but there was also a hint of kindness in his eyes.

She certainly wasn't in the mood to persuade horny werewolves to tell her where their boss was. A few steps into the hallway, Belinda came face to face with another man. His hair wasn't blond. In fact, it was as dark as a starless night and was long enough to fall past his shoulder. He was very tall, very broad, and very very handsome. Belinda had grown up surrounded by good-looking men, but this man was on another level. He was gorgeous. His skin was olive, like he spent a lot of time in the sun, and his chin was clean-shaven, except for the stubble of a mustache above his lips. His lips... They were full and invoked dreams of kissing him. He looked like he would be a wonderful kisser too,

I had buttered up the old fool, praising his accent, the bald gash on his head and that ridiculous mustache that made Hitler look like a child next to him. Who the hell even wore mustaches like that anymore? Certainly not me. I’d sooner eat dust than have that atrocious debacle on my face. The man had classified himself as a dignitary, mentioned getting a gift worth two thousand dollars for Mrs Stone and fully intends to present it to her himself. It had been both working and amusing to watch. For one, I had wondered if his mustache would fall off if he kept talking. Another thing that had me wondering was the two thousand dollar gift in question?

I mentally rolled my eyes, he was always getting into trouble. " Mr Federico," I arched my brow at the police who referred to the boss as Federico. Wasn't that supposed to be his father's name? But…not bad afterall. " I did nothing..." Mr Boris, obviously in his fifties, white beard and wrinkles all over his face, quite short, though having a big belly that popped against the somehow tight polo shirt he wore. he snapped his head at us. His thick russian accent sounded skillful to be true.

All of the people were still wearing their masks as they silently watched me. "Ahh, you must be Ivan's little girl." His voice was raspy, like someone who had smoked for a long time. His beard was grey and in need of a good trim. The top of his head was balding, and he held a relatively large belly. In other words, he was the image of total creep. The kind of weirdo you were warned to avoid as a child before heading to the park with your friends. I put on my best fake smile and prepared myself for one hell of a performance.