To say that Warren was the worst of our problems, would be like saying bread was the least of a sandwich. In that he was the worst of everything. But he wasn't the worst of every time. No. Long long ago, the ancient gods of choice foresaw that he may become more powerful beyond their wildest dreams. It was because of this that they built a failsafe.
Except, it had failure written all over it. Warren grew strong enough to split the timeline in two. He gripped it from it's spot in the wall, and snapped it into two equally possible situations. What Warren didn't know was what that caused. Even if he was a Ghost Pirate Writer wearing gauntlets that controlled space, he wasn't in the alternate timeline. In the alternate timelime, he was a humble barber.
Warren, or as he was called in his timelime, Garen, was the kind of barber who joked around with kids.
“Careful. If you move too much I might slice off your ear,” he would say.
He was the barber who cut men's beards with straight razors.
“I'm going to cut your beard with a straight razor,” he'd say.
He was also the kind of guy, who used his evil group of henchmen and henchwomen (he's equal opportunity) to kidnap historically important people and take their beards. Garen had his reasons. There was a legend about the seven beards, which could grant infinite power.
Once he killed the time traveler, everything was easy enough to manipulate. The only thing he really needed to do was kill Greg Anthony Warren. Greg was the one who could stop any time based shenanigans, and Garen killed them both.
Presently, Garen was waiting for Abraham Lincoln to waltz into his barbershop. Abraham's beard was the one of truth, and it gave the power to make lies seem true. He was not honest Abe, but rather, he had the power to make his lies become the truth.
Abraham Lincoln pushed the door open with three of his hairy disjointed arms. He chose to keep his top hat on as he wordlessly took his seat in the barber’s chair. He gestured to his huge beard filled with bread crumbs and sugar. Garen took notice of the ten flintlock pistols strapped to the would-be president's chest. It was too bad he lost the presidency to an armadillo named Shotgun GaryBarry.
Garen took his glowing clippers from the clutches of the hellish blue liquid and wiped them on a towel. He lifted the president's mandibles and found the scissors taped shut.
Click! Abraham Lincoln pulled the hammer back on one of the pistols and pressed the barrel into Garen’s ear.
“I'm starting to think that you aren't Abraham Lincoln.”
“What made you think that?” The Not-Abraham Lincoln non-man said.
“Probably the fact that you're a flea. A very big flea, but a flea. With that, I'm going to flee.” Garen let out an amazingly long chortle, as he yanked a stray white beard hair from his shirt pocket and cracked it in half. With that Garen exploded out of the universe.
“Again?” Itch said. (His name is itch. He's a pirate flea and Warren killed his parents. Warren is like Garen, sort of.)
“Beam me back,” Itch said as a blind hot light grabbed him from his spot in the barber shop. He reappeared back in the Oval Office at his desk.
