Bob Belcher Mustache Novels & Stories

As I immersed myself into eating, he stared with bewilderment, once I caught him looking, he pretended to look away, for a moment I thought it was cute. His brown colored curly hair which fell on his face was in a neat half puff, he’d shaved in the sides of his head. His face features were sharp, all inclined as thou he’d just been sculpted. His sharp nose, long and thin, his chiseled jaws, which were covered in beards,

His face could be seen clearly after he took off the black fedora hat he was wearing. The man with a non-Archipelahian face smiled at the king and the four regional heads. But unlike King Rocky, the four regional heads seemed unhappy with his presence, especially Governor Alistair. “Bob Shermann...” ***

she shouts towards the back of the trailer. He lets out a deep, rumbling groan, sounding like a bear emerging from its cave. The door opens wider, and I struggle to recognize the man standing before me. He's got a beer belly, partially concealed by a worn-out, once-white beater that's now a bit black and gray. He's wearing boxers with his flaccid dick nearly hanging out of them. Well, I'm never going to get that image out of my head. "Who the fuck are you?" he snarls, giving us a fierce glare. His face looks worn, like he's been through hell and back. His once full head of brown hair is now a tightly-curled mess at the back of his head.

The moment I see him, my palms start to sweat, and I clench my fists to keep from running back to my trailer where I can crawl back under the covers and pretend this isn't my life. I use my fingertips as a visor. “Hey, Bob. Working tonight at the showroom?” Bob has a part-time gig impersonating The King at one of the local lounges. Apparently, he's pretty good. According to a rumor among his employees, he's got an adequate singing voice, but I've never heard it, and I don't want to. If I went to see him perform, he'd take it as some warped invitation to come on to me for real. With a swivel of his hips, Bob chuckles. “Marcella, what do you call a Muslim Elvis impersonator?”

Anthony pulled the alluring model to sit beside him, speaking in a soft tone. In an instant, the girls around the booth shot fiery glances at him, their eyes ablaze with admiration. So handsome! So gentle! So charming! By comparison, Bob had been reduced to nothing in a matter of seconds, Sensing the peculiar glances coming from his surroundings, Bob's face had turned as dark as can be. He scowled and lifted the glass of vodka from the table, downing it all in one go. The pungent flavor tickled his throat, causing a churn in his stomach, almost making him retch.

I'm beyond humiliated, yet I'm not giving up. "Okay," I cross my arms. "Real mature." A smile spreads over his lips, and it warms his entire face. "Sorry, darling, but I will be taking this one." "Don't call me that," I confidently look up at him. "I ain't no darling." He cocks his head, and amusement plays over his features. I take a minute to absorb him. Brown hair, longer at the top, shorter on the sides. Chocolate eyes, a short beard, and a short mustache as dark as his thick, perfectly shaped eyebrows.

I asked tentatively. “Uh… Noah? Is that you?” Bob replied. “Yes, it’s me.” I said, feeling a bit awkward. He held out his hand and I shook it. I sat down on the creaky old chair and studied the man in front of me. He must be in his early fifties. Beneath the grimey clothes, greasy hair and unkempt beard was a man who could've been quite attractive, if he'd take better care of himself. There were some similarities between us, but the one that convinced me most were his eyes. They had the exact same almond shape and bright green color as my own.

The smile is quickly wiped off of my face when I hear his next words. "Now that I have your attention, who would like to work for their spot" he ask grinning widely. I can't even hide my grimace at the look on his face. His eyes are small brown and beady. His nose is so large that it nearly takes up half his face at many angles. His lips look thin and cracked as he smiles cascading the yellowness of the few teeth that he still owns. Add that with all the gel in his thinning hair and he calls himself a winner. He believes that because his suit and shoes are expensive that any of us would be lucky to partake in time with him.

Was it really her? Gosh, she was so beautiful. Perhaps even more beautiful than some Hollywood stars! The fat man cheered happily at the result. He was one of the most famous makeup artists in Los Angeles. He has made up hundreds, or even thousands, of people. However, when he saw this result, he was still very surprised. Beverley was absolutely gorgeous! “Wow! You look so pretty, honey.” “Don’t call me honey!” hissed Beverley in annoyance. “Alright. Come on, take off your bathrobe. You must wear this wedding dress.”

I can’t move, I can’t look away. He’s not too tall, black hair long enough to fall over his eyes. There’s a beard on him when hardly any male here has one, even ones with wolves. It’s very neatly trimmed and he looks beyond grown and masculine. He’s wearing a damn leather jacket of all things, what a cliche! Goddess I bet he probably rode in on a motorcycle and doesn’t bother with a helmet. Don’t be stupid, a helmet would ruin that perfect hair! Damn him for being so gorgeous too! Ugh, that’s all I need. For someone to catch me staring. Next the bully assholes will be trying to poke out my eyes. Look away Harlow… look away.