The fat man's mustache looked like two dashes on his upper lip, as if his face had started to tap out SOS in Morse code and had given up, resigned to the indignity. Having gained a foothold, the mustache had quickly subdued all of the man's other features and was clearly in control. Like a marauding yeti it ravaged everyone and everything in it's path. People undulated toward it, then away from it, in a strangely graceful dance. Faces lit with wonder, skewed in confusion, then darkened in revulsion as the mustache parted the crowd with its captured chariot.
Anger and confusion prevailed among the masses, but some of the weaker among them defended the mustache and were defiant in their appreciation. Fights broke out, escalated quickly into skirmishes, and soon a battle raged. The no-mustache forces struggled with the pro-mustache forces, but were losing ground. In desperation, a barber, still in his apron, threw himself in front of the mustache and its host, brandishing a razor and scissors. He lunged and snipped, then fell back, dismayed, his fine scissors shattered and ruined under the fat man's plodding feet.
The mustache, exultant and dismissive, continued its inexorable march.