The bell on the door jingled. In walked three men who clearly hadn’t come for a wash and style. They wore stiff suits, earpieces, and the kind of scowls that screamed we break kneecaps for a living . The leader, a thick-necked brute named Dmitri, cracked his knuckles.
“You are the one they call… Zohan?” Dmitri asked, his accent somewhere between Siberian frost and Jersey asphalt. watch don't mess with the zohan
“You have made a mistake,” Zohan said softly. “You came to my place of peace. My sanctuary of snip-snip. And you threatened… the magic.” The bell on the door jingled
“Now,” Zohan said, brushing a stray hair from his shoulder. “You will go back to Boris. You will tell him that Zohan sends his regards. And you will tell him this: I do not fight anymore. I style . But if he sends more men…” Zohan leaned in close, his voice a whisper. “Next time, I give them all the Karen cut. Short in the back. Long in the front. And bangs. Crooked bangs.” The leader, a thick-necked brute named Dmitri, cracked
Zohan watched them go, then turned back to the poodle. He picked up his comb.
Zohan paused. He remembered. The cat, a vicious Maine Coon named General Fluffenstein, had terrorized three boroughs. Zohan had not fought it. He had simply conditioned it. Then, with a whisper of “ silky smooth ,” he’d transformed its battle-scarred mane into a feathered layers situation. The cat had immediately retired from violence to pursue a career as an Instagram influencer. Boris had lost everything.
