Anthony and Ian were walking along a sidewalk on a sunny day. They were in the middle of filming Lunchtime with Smosh. Today they were walking to Taco Bell nearby -- they normally would have driven, but the car was in the repair shop because Ian accidentally dented it by driving it into the barbershop pole.
The barbershop pole remained in the garage. It was lonely and quiet without Ian and Anthony talking and laughing in the house, and without the car there for company. Looking up at the dark garage ceiling, the barbershop pole dreamed longingly of its better days. There were those days when it had belonged to a little girl with strawberry pink hair, and when the girl grew up and brought the barbershop pole to her job every day, and she danced all over him. He smiled at the thought. But soon he was discarded for something more shiny, and Anthony found him in the street and brought him home and featured him in strange videos for millions of other humans to watch.
Alone in the dark he looked without eyes at the enormous massive ridiculous piles of mail-bins that were smothering the garage. He could smell expired Asian food with his nonexistent nose. And weird saran-wrapped pancake cookies that had been sitting there molding for months. And was that strawberry pocky?
The barbershop pole found himself wishing he had a mouth so he could sigh. He was sad. Neither Anthony or Ian had used him in any videos lately except for the usual greeting upon their returns home. All he had ever dreamed of was to be in a twerking video... to dance to the song Tequila... to receive a Molester Moon text... to open mounds of fan mail... to make weird faces and giggle about it on camera.
IT'S THE LIFE, MAN, he thought with his barbershop brain. Of course, all of the barbershop pole's thoughts are set to music, because he's a barbershop pole. How ELSE would he think?!
He heard Anthony and Ian return to the house, Taco Bell so strong a smell he could pick it up from the stale garage with his beaky nonexistent nose. He heard them making sounds of disgust as they discussed fan fictions they had read online about each other. WHY did we READ THOSE?! he heard one of them say. Never again, the other agreed.
But in his poley head mister Barbershop Pole was melodically disagreeing with them. Because, you see... The only thing he had ever TRULY ACTUALLY REALLY wanted to with his life... was to write a dirty gross fan fiction... and dance to Tequila.
He could hear it playing in his red-and-white striped imagination. The corny saxphone, and the weird guy saying with a scratchy man-voice TEEEQUUUILA!!!. The barbershop pole sang along cheerily. Jolly ho.
"What was that?" Ian said from inside the house. "Who's singing? Was that you, Anthony?"
"No. I thought it was you. It was kinda squeaky."
"I thought it came from the garage."
"I bet it's Stevie."
"Why is he in the garage?"
The garage door opened, and Anthony's face poked out into the garage. He frowned, and looked straight at the barbershop pole. Mister Barbershop Pole felt a thrill. Would they pay him attention? For real? FOR ACTUAL REAL?!?!
Anthony's face froze in a terrified expression. Immediately the pole stopped singing cheerily in his head and stared back at the dude with his nonexistent eyes. Ian looked out too, and with a DRAMATIC GASP, "WHAT THE HECK IN WORLD?!?!"
TO BE CONTINUED