Lustful Dustin: Fashion victims
From Create Your Own Story
Eduardo's new winter collection is out and you didn’t new about it, yet this won’t stop you from crashing the party.
But you’re probably going to ask: who the fuck is Eduardo?
Well it’s simple:
Yves Saint Laurent had Paris, had Miami and Eduardo Smiths was left with Monroeville but it didn’t stop him from making the best of it: winter and summer collections, photo shootings with some of the most beautiful women in the world, and scandals lots of them. When you don’t have talent at least have the people hear from you. During the first years after his installation in Monroeville, Eduardo managed to make the front page of every tabloid in the US on a weekly basis. Eduardo caught with a whore in a dirty hotel in downtown Monroeville; “Eduardo is the father of my daughter”; Eduardo is gay; Eduardo is not gay, he is a she; Eduardo was abducted by aliens; Eduardo died in a car accident in Paris; Eduardo survived his alleged death by being abducted by aliens… And so it came to pass, the middle west clothes designer became a reference from London to Tokyo. And Eduardo fashion empire started opening clothes all over the world. This was five years ago.
The crowd is really cosmopolitan; you’ve never been surrounded by so many weird people coming from so many different places. Not having an invitation is obviously not a problem or you. The bouncer in a tuxedo doesn’t even acknowledge you.
You penetrate the huge hangar just behind a couple of polish conceptual artists. It looks like everything except an old hangar. Multicolored curtains fall from the ceiling, creating a pathway towards the center of the place where a long platform is waiting in the dark. The music is a post modern mix between the sound of chainsaw cutting metal and aborigines didgeridoo, and it's really loud.
The crowd of journalist, artists or celebrities is thick. You recognize a couple of them.
A waitress, dressed even more provocatively than a bunny girl approaches you.
“A glass of champagne, monsieur?” she asks with a delicious French accent.
“I’d have you better”
She doesn’t seem to understand but smiles away from your grasp.
Suddenly your senses are assaulted by the most unusual scent. Following it to its source you lift one of the curtains and find yourself in heaven. It’s not the first time you’ve seen them. They’ve all stared at you while you were taking your morning dump. All of them have been on the front page of one of those obscure magazines Ronda reads. All of them are world class top models, and all of them are in underwear.
As you’re staring to this heavenly sight you fail to spot the small man approaching you.
“WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?” The capital letters fail to express all the hate you can feel in the high pitched voice.
You smile at him revealing your oversized saliva drenched canines.
You tear his head off. The massacre begins.
The screams of the girls are covered by the unbearable music.
In an orgy of blood and sex you submit the beautiful creatures to your will.
Soon the public grows impatient. The show must go on.
You unleash your creature on the crowd and on the city.
Maybe it's time to go home. You’re satiated on all accounts and sweet Ronda must be feeling quite lonely by now.
