Bob Belcher Mustache Novels & Stories

I ask. Yalim scoffs as my eyes finally adjust. Exactly as I expected—thin face, mustache that makes him look like he skinned a squirrel and slapped it on his upper lip. I scratch at my own stubbly cheek and try not to grimace at the sight of him.

Ben asked. "Hector." "He still have that badass mustache?" Ben asked with a grin. "See! Ben thinks its badass!" said a voice behind them. Ben turned with a grin then quickly acted frightened. "Holy crap! It's actually gotten bigger!" he exclaimed. "Nah! It's still a sweet 'stache!" the man said stroking the minimal facial hair with pride. Jayden stifled a snort. "Who's this and what makes him think he can outdo such a proud achievement as this. Look at him! He's practically a baby! Peach fuzz!" Hector barked. Jayden glanced at Ben.

He took Delina’s hand and kissed the back of it. “You look beautiful as always, Delina, even if your face is covered with the mask.” He complimented. Delina gave him a polite smile. “You flatter me too much, Milo.” She replied. The man was in his mid-fifties and was slightly chubby with the most questionable moustache in existence. He had an extremely outgoing personality and seemed friendly. But those who have done business with him knew he was quite ruthless and could be a terrifying man if you made him your enemy.

“Can we just stay for a while. I promise we will not stay long.” I shook my head. I leaned closer so she could hear me. “I am sorry Yssa. I cannot do this. Loud music gives me headache and everything going on in here is going against my morals.” She frowned. “Kate.” “I mean it,” I said. “I feel like my mother can sense me right now.” I turned again only to bump straight into a chest. A chest with too much confidence. I stepped back quickly and looked up. Bob. Bob with his Bob hair. That strange haircut that never made sense to me. Bob who was supposed to be in Los Angeles. Bob who always smiled like he knew something you did not want to know.

Devon was burning with anxiety yet he had no idea what he should do. 40 minutes later, a charming middle-aged man with a slicked-back hairstyle walked into the room, escorted by a bodyguard. “Mr. Miller!” Tristan expressed his excitement instantly when he saw the middle-aged man with the slicked-back hairstyle. That man was Melvin Miller himself. “You’re quite bold, huh, Bob.” Melvin took a glance at Bob, his gaze ice-cold. Bob did not have the courage to speak, but Melvin paid no attention to him. Melvin asked, “Who were you referring to earlier?”

She was momentarily stunned by the eyes. "The nose mask now," said Rajesh. She did so. The beard was thicker than she had seen. It crawled up to his lips. Gross. "Now, the beard." "What?" "Don't make me repeat myself." Unsure, she tugged at the mass of hair, then pulled with her might, willing to hurt this crazy ex- convict terrorist. The beard came off to the ground, the mustache with it, and — Elena suddenly stopped, staring at the man before him. Her lips trembled.

And for some reason, I liked this silence because this is the moment I can adore him as I wish. His thick and arched eyebrows, his snub nose are one of the attractive parts of his face. His slight mustache covered his already thin upper lips. The gunslinger beards which he styled a few days back, are now grown a little bit. He needs to trim those extra beards on his cheeks bone line. He's not the most handsome man that I had dreamt of when I was in high school. Nope, he's not that handsome.

Marx was uncomfortable holding a friend as a prisoner, but it was necessary. “You’ve allowed your hair to grow out.” The thick mane of black hair was just above Vescovi’s shoulder. Just like the hair on his head, he allowed his beard to grow out. A thick bushy beard that gave him a less than distinguished look. Made him look wild. The look matched the hardness in his eyes. The stubborn set of his jaw.

I went to the high stool in front of the counter before plopping down on it while keeping both of my hands on the counter. He was a man in his forties close to fifties with silver hair covering his bald head. He had a white mustache and some recently shaved beard on his cheeks. His skin was pale despite some sun-burned patches on his face. The most noticing thing was the mole on his cheekbone. His lips looked dry and chapped and his forehead was frowned. He was not tall like other men in the house but still was taller than me. He didn't have a bulky figure and also he was not skinny. He surely was so different from others.

Then half-naked girls in bikinis rushing out of frame giggling, and then I see him. Don Melconi. Bald head glistening. Thick mustache curled like a villain. Tanned skin from decades of Italian sun. His gold rings flash as he brings a fat cigar to his mouth and exhales a long cloud of smoke. He’s sitting in a Jacuzzi. In the middle of some ridiculous villa. Shirtless. Wet. And looking bored as hell. “I don’t have time,” he grunts. “You better be worth it.” I straighten. “I appreciate you making the time, sir. My name is—”