“You are the one they call… Zohan?” Dmitri asked, his accent somewhere between Siberian frost and Jersey asphalt.
“Boris wants you gone,” Dmitri snarled. “Or he sends you to the hospital. In pieces.” watch don't mess with the zohan
Dmitri and his goons pulled out brass knuckles and a taser shaped like a drill. “You are the one they call… Zohan
Zohan sighed. He picked up his favorite pair of shears—the titanium ones he used for precision layering. Then he looked at Dmitri. In pieces
Zohan stood in the center of the salon, shears held loosely at his side. The three men were frozen—partly in pain, partly in sheer humiliation. Dmitri touched his new pink Mohawk and whimpered.
The third goon, seeing this, turned to run. But he slipped on a puddle of leave-in conditioner and crashed headfirst into a display of organic combs.
“Now,” he said softly. “Where were we?”
