Friday, April 20, 2018

In Fashion

Fashion roadkill or fashionably discarded? How about being fashionably woke? Telling the same story as someone else won’t necessarily make your version better... try telling your own story and let others enjoy it. 

Here’s something about fashion... 

Kisses, m.

Murder on the Runway

Murder on the Runway.

Yvette & Cosette hobble out onto the runway. The unnatural pair of Siamese twin descend the cat walk and move forward in a seesaw walk that was neither fierce nor provocative. Both sewn into one garment – conjoined at the hip. Neither of these novice divas willing to give up a star spot in a Nigel Rockford show. Uncertain of the world they have entered, but knowing that it will change their lives forever.

Designer Nigel Rockford: “I wanted circus freak meets Russian doll via the Orient Express…”, and the interview went on and on. “I’ve brought two Scandinavian beauties to model my new collection. These fabulous dolls will be my next stars! My show will be the most extravagant thing anyone has seen all year!”  This designer extraordinaire was trying to be the next avant-garde visionary ala Alexander McQueen. As if. This interview would be his undoing. 

Show begins. One by one the models walk out, stop, spin, and walk back. Clomp, clomp, stamp, stamp. Strut. Fierce. Arms on hips. Work it for the crowd. As each goes out, the mood gets bitchier and cattier. Katarina making her pass throws elbows hitting Lexa in the chest and nearly tossing her to the ground before the crowd. Nina prancing out as brilliant as ever, is taken out by the errant feet work of another diva. Down on the platform! Fashion Roadkill! At this show the models are moving forward in rapid succession with the intent to do damage; walking down the runway fiercely stepping on Nina with the purpose to aim and trample. The first steps directly on her hand – Broken! The second on her face – Ouch! Third, well she nearly trips and kicks Nina in the ribs for the near-miss faux pas. Nina eventually slinks off the runway with a broken nose bleeding profusely on Nigel’s Japanese silk, crème colored creation and leaving a trail of blood along the way. Red meets pristine white, illuminated, on display for all to see. It’s smearing as the other girls take no notice and keep on strutting through it. Nigel is flabbergasted, yelling and throwing furs backstage. How dare these bitches ruin his show? 

What set these beautiful (and deadly) creatures off? The coveted spot! The piece de résistance, Nigel promised each and every one of the models the prized slot - the finale. Being the fickle yet fabulous Nigel Rockford, he’d recruited two unusual and unheard of beauties instead of using the ‘already seen that’ standard. Yvette and Cosette silly creatures, foreign to the scene, delicate, and completely oblivious; the pair never saw the ambush coming. The day he posted the clothing assignment, a devastating blow was dealt. Two very public, high profile models attempted suicide that day, each believing her career to be over since Nigel had chosen fresh faces. The pair was replaced immediately without hesitation. Nigel shrugged it off as typical catty drama. “You know what. I’m actually glad those prima donnas are out of the way! There should be no bitterness at my show. I wish those ladies the best of health and a speedy recovery.” Yes. Those were his comments to the press. How very? Indeed!

As the first model hits the backstage and the curtain falls, the fight begins. Models start removing hair and shoes. Each diva figuring that one less competitor would lower the odds to gaining the desired spot. One goes down after a hand mirror pegs between her eyes, scattering shards of glass across her face. Another model grabs and pulls the hair of another, proceeding to drag her down a staircase and then shoving the young woman down the remaining steps. Hair extensions are being ripped out, pulling out bloody clumps of hair directly from the scalp and tossed aside. Its wrestling meets Haute Couturé. Unreal, but ever so entertaining! Flat irons being used to singe the skin off faces. 

A model starved to the verge of insanity was typically the most dramatic headline you’d see in a newspaper these days regarding the industry. Not any more. DEATH BY MANOLO BLAHNIK might sound a bit more appropriate after this show. 

Brawling ensues. Heels, jewelry and handbags all being used as weapons. There are a thousand tiny pink feathers in the air floating down into a sea of women tearing into each other. Not a pretty sight. Clothing is flying about. Half of Nigel’s collection on the floor covered in blood. Each new model heading backstage is thrust into this pit of unequivocal carnage. Nigel is still trying to maintain a show. On his side of the stage, models are being thrown into clothes and shoved out and down the runway. No one wants to go out anymore. Those who are left know too well what awaits them on the other side of the stage. 

Nigel so desperate to gain back control of his show, he arranges for assistance. Knowing that the impending scandal was far too reprehensible to live down he attempts to bring in security. Security, HA! It really should have been the SWAT team. Typically large men should be able to take down a toothpick of a woman. Unfortunately when you have 50, crazed and beyond recognition, it becomes complicated. Two security officers entered and were instantly devoured in the sea of women. Scope rifle, anyone? 

In a sense Yvette and Cosette were lame sitting ducks, unaware of the doom that awaits them. Sequestered away from the common girls; Nigel’s prized dolls. No one was allowed to speak with them before, after or during the show. There would be no chance of the madness outside entering into that crystal ball dressing room. The room that was custom crafted from the finest crystal in the world especially for the twins. Orders from the Queen supreme herself couldn’t penetrate the perimeter. One minute until destruction, ahem, Showtime. 

The two-headed monster wobbles down the runway, clop-clop, stomp-stomp. There’s a hush over the crowd. Actually Nigel’s last piece is quite breath-taking. It really was a masterpiece. Such a shame. The girls walk out and it seems as though time has stopped. World Peace is possible. There’s a cure for Cancer. Flying Stiletto at 3 o’clock makes contact with the left temple piercing skin, meeting skull and incapacitating with its menacing intention. Razor sharp weapon. Yvette is going down like a sinking ship. Cosette tumbles with her. Bodies on the runway in a fashion. Crowd gasping and someone screams, “She’s DEAD!” Yvette’s eyes have rolled back into her head. Cosette is chained to her corpse twin unable to function and run without the life of her other half. Art imitates life. If one should die then so shall the other? The stampede ensues. People have begun to flee the show. Bloody, half dressed and mangled women pour out from backstage onto the catwalk towards poor helpless Cosette. The horde devours Nigel without effort. He’s been trampled to death by his own creation. 

Poor little Cosette. There was no time to escape. A frenzy of grabbing hands and kicking feet swarms forward at the girl enveloping her within. The small creature never emerges from the mob. Pieces of the fabric can be seen in the clutches of the depraved women. Eventually there are body parts coming out of the horde. Soon enough it becomes clear that there is no more of little Cosette and the pack begins to cannibalize upon itself. The models continue to rip each other to shreds. One might assume this was truly a moment in the wild, where a pack of animals has initiated an all out assault on another. Only the strong shall survive. 

The aftermath of war leaves the battlefield strewn with the bodies of wounded soldiers. The Showhouse has seen the better of days. Today’s unfortunate fashion civil war has left the once immaculate House of Rockford in shambles. The arms, legs and other remaining pieces of these once beautiful creatures are strewn across the blanket of red covering the floor. The lights illuminate and intensify the crimson effect on the catwalk. It pops. Jumps out. Screams, “Buy me!” It was to be the shining moment when the world would finally recognize the Nigel Rockford brand. Nigel was right about one thing, people would definitely stand-up and take notice. Well, no one would ever forget this show. Especially after all the bodies were found how could anyone possibly forget that? Definitely the “most extravagant” anyone had seen this year.

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