Two men sit across from each other, I leave to you the responsibility of imagining their dress but grant me this: make sure one of them has a moustache—I assure you this is very important, and the story will make absolutely no sense whatsoever without it. They discuss what sounds like matters of great significance, perhaps theology, or art, or what to have for breakfast.
The mustachioed man pushes his thumb and forefinger through the bristles beneath his nose, "On the other hand..." He ponders.
"AHA!" The less-haired man exclaims, "You said that already! Surely, you must be out of other hands by now, for a man only has two."
"You're quite right." At this, the mustachioed man sits upright in his chair and closes his eyes. The skin of his forehead stretches as four small bumps emerge in a line from beneath the flesh there and begin to grow. On each bump, a fingernail scratches its way through the skin. Knuckles are birthed one by one, allowing the elongating bumps—the fingers—to dangle along the man's nose. Imagine, now, a fifth bump forms away from the rest above the man's left eye. Before long, the beginnings of a palm squelch its way past the surface. Finally, the protruding hand drapes across the man's face. The thumb and pinky obscure his eyes, and the forefinger and ring finger stroke his mustache from above. "Behold, the other hand."
The less-handed man gawks at the newly formed hand, "This must not be real, I must be deceived." He says.
"You can see it, can't you? What do you perceive if not reality?"
"A devil's trick, I should say."
"Perhaps your senses would like to confer on the matter?" He cranes his neck toward the other man, offering a middle hand handshake. The other man recoiled, shoving his chair back from the table and away from the outstretched fingers. "On the other hand, perhaps you're right. Perhaps your senses are deceived." As the words rung, a new set of fingers and a thumb sprouted from the mustachioed man's neck. "But what then do you have left?"
"A mind, I imagine."
The mustachioed man thought about this. "And is the mind bound by the constraints of matter?" And with the thought, the hand snapped off his forehead at the wrist, landing on the table with a slap. Both men stared at it. The fingers curled toward the palm like the legs of a dead spider.
"Will it move?" Asked the hairless man.
"Best not to think about it." Answered the mustachioed man.