Mega-Curly City, 2099.

The streets were lawless.

Humidity: 94%.

Frizz: catastrophic.

From the smoke emerged one man.

Not barber.

Not stylist.

Not cop.

JUDGE DREDDLOCKS.

His locs fell over the armor like sentencing cables, each one older than half the criminals in Sector Seven.

A citizen stumbled from an alley.

“Judge! Thank God. They got my brother!”

Dreddlocks stopped.

“Who?”

“The Split-End Syndicate.”

Silence.

Somewhere, thunder rolled.

His hand moved slowly toward the enormous weapon at his hip.

THE COMB.

The citizen backed away.

“No… Judge… his hair is dry.”

Dreddlocks chambered a fresh cartridge of leave-in conditioner.

“Then he’s already in critical condition.”

He kicked open the salon doors.

Twenty armed men turned.

Their leader laughed.

“You can’t detangle all of us.”

Dreddlocks raised the Comb.

“I don’t detangle.”

CLICK.

“I SENTENCE.”

BRRRRRRRRRRRT—

Teeth of justice ripped through the room.

Knots surrendered.

Flyaways hit the floor.

One man crawled toward the exit.

Dreddlocks planted a boot beside his head.

“Crime?”

The scanner beeped.

SPLIT ENDS.

UNAUTHORIZED HEAT DAMAGE.

SLEEPING WITHOUT BONNET.

Dreddlocks grimaced.

“Twenty years.”

The man screamed.

“WITHOUT CONDITIONER.”

“No! NOOOOO—”

The doors slammed shut.

Outside, Mega-Curly City slept a little safer.

Dreddlocks disappeared into the rain.

His work was never finished.

Because where there is hair—

there is frizz.

And where there is frizz—

THERE IS LAW.