Guide To Fashion

“Peanuts?” The flight attendant asked, as she made her way down the aisle of flight 4090, NYC to London. She turned her head as she said it to each passing row, as if she were calling out to a lost pet. Arriving at row 22, she deposited the paltry blue dime bag of airline fare into the hand of a well dressed man, seated in the middle. He wore a tan and brown cow print jacket from some European brand, over a pale blue oxford shirt and cropped corduroy pants, both from J. Crew. He briefly stared at the airline snack in his hands, before looking up again. The stewardess had moved on, and he made eye contact with the man seated in the opposite row— a 30 year old accountant who looked like a boiled egg, dressed in a check print Uniqlo button-up and bright red pants. The accountant held up his peanut bag and grinned, as if to say “can you believe this?” The well dressed man offered a half-hearted attempt at a grin, before quickly giving up and turning his head away, crushing the packet of peanuts in his hand and placing it in the breast pocket of his jacket. 

My name is Homer Wyatt. It’s a tedious name to have, being associated primarily with a notoriously fat and stupid cartoon character— from a show which has driven itself directly into a steel wall at full speed, annihilating any suggestion of quality that it (ostensibly) once had. According to my parents, I was named that in reference to the Greek epic poet, which one might believe would grant the name and air of class, if they were a dunce. I’m currently en route to London on a work trip. I am the fashion editor for a medium-sized online publication, which is, in regards to style and tone, wedged directly between the irreverent pink sludge of Buzzfeed and the vapid self-appointed authority of Gentleman’s Quarterly. Our most popular demographics are as follows:

3. Counter-cultural 20-somethings who are addicted to nicotine patches because they want to quit smoking but

are too self-conscious to use an e-cigarette,

2. Various imageboard users who hate-read each new article, brigading in droves to call me a super-retard, 

1. And a malfunctioning south asian banner ad whose algorithm mistakenly grants our site millions of extra clicks a month. 

I received this job not because I have an extensive knowledge of the fashion industry, or the ability to write compelling prose. Instead it is because I, as a critic of fashion and the fashion world, have what all truly great art critics have; an extremely strong ability to dislike things. It’s been this way since I was a young child— my first words were “gross” and my second words were “I said it was gross.” I have a score of 98 on the Loewing-Bayer test, a psychological exam which measures an individual’s capacity for finding displeasure in things. This is an extremely high score among the general populace. To put that in perspective for you, a retroactive Loewing-Bayer analysis would give Adolf Hitler a score of about 80, and Richard Nixon a score of about 76. Henry Rollins is rumored to have taken the test and received a score of over 90, but did not publish the results because he didn’t like them. All paltry before me, of course— my aptitude for dislike is almost literally superhuman. 

And while we’re on the topic, the latest subject of my disdain can be found just one row over from me. You see, our bald-headed, eggy fuck of a friend has chosen to violate one of the cardinal rules of dressing well.

Fashion Rule #27: Novelty Is Not A Replacement For Style

With one look at our friend’s atrocious choice of pant and his gormless cartoon grin, we can know right away how he views himself; he is ‘The Red Pants Guy’. Eschewing the basics of stye, color and fit, he has chosen to instead be recognized simply by the gimmicky nature of his outfit. He walks into his office every day with a grin on his face, having convinced himself that his peers look at him and say things like “There goes Josh, always with his trademark red pants! What an endearingly novel fashion choice- and a wacky, yet likable man as well! (Perhaps even a generous lover?)” Obviously, this is not the case. They look at him and think “If this man died, it would have no effect on my life.” You are not ‘The Red Pants Guy’, you are an embarrassment. Take the gaping hole in your personality that is responsible for this, and fill it with something useful. 

Apologies for the cruel nature of my comment— I do not traffic in human misery, and I would never say such a thing to this man’s face—(hrmm…perhaps not never…) but you must understand that acting this way is akin to breathing air for me. 

The flight touched down at 11:35 local time. Homer stepped out into the crisp nighttime air and began making his way towards the New Borkshire Hotel on foot, despite the estimated 2 hour walk time. He did this not because he had even the slightest interest in absorbing the local culture or surroundings, but rather because the long flight time had made him restless, and he wanted to stretch his legs. He walked in silence, having given up on trying to find music he would enjoy many years ago, instead passing the time by reminiscing about a rather tasty piece of fruit he ate recently. “Good fruit” he thought. About an hour and a half into his walk, he crossed paths with a young boy, early high school by the look of it, who was loitering near an alleyway. 

“Lemme hold 20 quid for you bruv”

“…What?”

“Lemme hold 20 quid for you bruv, 20 pounds lets go”

“You just want to hold it?” I say halfheartedly. My eyes are glued to his Supreme hoodie. He’s absolutely swimming in the thing, his two twiggy legs just barely poking out the bottom, firmly planted in a pair of…New Balances? Christ. 

The rule number thing is all just made up, of course, but for this one in particular it feels like it should be…

Fashion Rule #1: Fit Above All Else

Surely this should go without saying, but in fashion, fit is king. The way the clothes lay themselves on your body, the way they wrap every bump and hug every curve, the way each pants leg soars down one’s lower body, putting on the brakes at just the right moment, so not to cross the delicate meridian between ankle and foot. Fit is…well, fit is supreme. A man could walk into a UNICEF board meeting wearing nothing but a baby’s skull on his penis and receive a round of applause, provided that the skull fit well. 

“20 quid, lets go man.” 

I look up for a moment. The kid has no friends with him and is wearing what can only be described as an Inspector Gadget hat on his head. What is this poor sap doing here? What starved-for-attention aunt cloaked this kid in a fresh Supreme hoodie and unwittingly made him believe he belonged to the streets? A boy of this age and socioeconomic status should be at home, begging his mom to let him watch Family Guy. 

Homer lifted his foot up in front of him, knee close to his chest, sole of his Viberg derby boot a couple inches away from the boy.

“Turn around and go home, or I’m going to kick the shit out of you.” I quickly change my mind, and decide to just kick him anyway, before he has a chance to do anything. I plant my foot directly in the center of his chest, blocking out his hoodie so it reads “SUEME”. He’s far lighter than I was anticipating, the enormous hoodie hiding his dainty stature, and I use way more force than necessary. It feels like kicking a bag of packing peanuts. The boy is launched into the air, hurtling backwards with a faint “eeeuuuugghhh”, careening in the air for quite some time before colliding with the tops of several nearby trashcans. He tumbles to the flo- oh, nope, he’s still going. He continues to twirl and spin, still flying by the strength of that kick, past the trashcans, past a second set of cans, over the sidewalk, and through a set of small trees by the road. The boy is soaring for so long I eventually lose interest, and turn to leave while he is still mid-flight. The hotel isn’t much further. 

I awake the next morning at 8, and make my way downstairs for the continental breakfast. It’s been said before, but nobody quite knows how to annihilate the very concept of food like the English. I do a quick scan of the spread- jellied meats, water toast, beans— fucking beans, for breakfast. It’s like looking at the Guernica.

My breakfast consists of 9 english muffins and a cup of black coffee. I use this time to look over some notes about today’s job. I am set to interview wealthy young man named Terry Mackerel who has just acquired a custom-made 5 million dollar suit, and write a short little fluff piece about it— can you believe this suit, look how expensive it is, blah blah blah. A waste of my talents- like sending a professional chef to review a restaurant that serves those atrocious ‘donut hamburgers’— but whatever, this is the nature of the industry. 

It isn’t the first time Mackerel has pulled a stunt like this. 2 Years ago a colleague of did a story on him where he claimed to own “The sexiest outfit ever created” but refused to show it to anyone over fears it was too sexy. A standard fare, new age, new money, dullard. I depart the hotel and make my way towards Mackerel’s place of residence, where he has graciously offered to conduct the interview. 

Homer took an taxicab to Terry’s house in the english countryside. It was an enormous building, sleek and modern. Terry’s father, Bogdark Mackerel, made his fortune by inventing a new kind of food preservative which, due to a minute legal loophole, was not required to be tested for safety. After his preservative gave thousands of low-income children translucent skin, a massive joint lawsuit was filed. Bogdark won, then counter-sued for defamation— extracting over a billion pounds from the U.K’s middle and working class families. With a generous leg-up from his father, Terry successfully launched a career as a prominent Instagram influencer, showcasing his stunning good looks (inherited from his supermodel mother) and his obscene wealth (inherited from his supervillain father). 

A guard at the front of Terry’s house greeted Homer, buzzing him through the front gates. 

“Go on in, Mr. Wyatt, the young master will meet you in the foyer.”

Homer thanked the man and did as he was told. 

“Welcome, welcome, come on in! How was the flight? Get you anything? Tea, coffee? You want a coke? Really, anything you want, I got you!” 

Terry was flanked on either side by a bodyguard, one short and broad, the other tall and lean. It wasn’t as if he needed the extra muscle. Thought Homer and Terry were about the same age, Terry towered over Homer, 6’3” and over 200 pounds of muscle. 

“Pleasure to meet you.”

Terry took my hand and shook the hell out of it. He could have easily crushed it into dust if he wanted to. I don’t think he wanted to— he greeted me with a level of jovial hospitality that seemed to bely his status as an ultrarich celebrity. He shows me to an expensive looking easy chair, then seats himself opposite, legs crossed. He’s sporting a slim fit light gray suit, fabric cut to hug every curve of his generous musculature, and a pair of sleek black chelsea boots. Balenciaga, maybe. 

“Is that the suit?” I ask. 

He leans back in his chair, tenting his fingers and tilting his head back a bit. His chin is huge. “Yup, this is it.” He grins. “One of a kind. Custom designed and tailored by Silvio Braum. People love to talk about how this fabric came from, you know, some rare kind of mouse in Tibet or something, right?” 

“Sure.” 

“Well, this one is synthetic- ultra strong, flexible, light as silk- the fabric is so new, it hasn’t even been patented yet. I can’t even tell you what it’s called. I bet that’s a new one.” He boasts excitedly. 

I am recording this exchange on a handheld microphone as I scan his suit up and down, having now confirmed that I am in fact looking at 5 million dollars worth of labor and material costs. It’s a completely adequate suit. I try to think what a similar suit might look like on someone who wasn’t graced with excessive natural beauty. 

“I’ll be honest— It’s much more traditional than I expected. How would you justify this purchase to someone who, say, takes a look and wonders what all that money was spent on? Someone who, say, might call it an obscene waste of money? Some individual— whoever they might be— who looks at this and criticizes it not only for being a gross misuse of resources, but also a perfect metaphor for the limited imaginations of the wealthy elites?”

He shrugs his shoulders, smiling lightly and not appearing to be especially fazed by my comment. “Well, first of all, fashion is my passion, and I think anyone who follows my social media knows that I have a deep appreciation for even the most eccentric of style choices.” He turns his head, looking for a camera to smile or wink into, remembers there isn’t one, and sheepishly turns back to me. “But I also think there is a lot of value in the traditional. The basics. There is a lot to be said for taking the basics, and executing them flawlessly; I might even go so far as to say that it’s the sign of a real fashion master, would you agree?”

I normally do agree with most of what he’s saying, but because he’s saying it here now, I disagree. 

“I disagree,” I say. 

“Well, think of it this way,” he pipes. “No suit has ever been made with materials of this high a quality. No suit has ever been made with labor of this high a quality. I’m making a traditional suit, yes— no bells and whistles, no tacky diamond lining or gold cufflinks— but I’m elevating the traditional suit to a level that’s never been achieved before. And I think by doing so, I’m doing my part to advance the world of fashion.” 

I’m beginning to grow tired of this overly agreeable oaf, spouting his artistic philosophy as if he’s anything more than a walking checkbook, a golden simpleton without a single creative bone in his body. I’m quite certain I could walk away a rich man if I pulled the exact stunt from The Emperor’s New Clothes on this decadent fancy-boy.

“Sorry, I’m not convinced.” I respond. I’m fairly certain I have enough material to fill such an insubstantial article, anyway. People are just going to want to look at the photos. 

Terry looks slightly taken aback for the first time, then leans forward and places his hand over mine. Oh God. He’s going to crush it for real this time. Instead, he flicks off my recording device. 

“How would you like to be convinced, then?” He offers a placid smile. “You’re an awfully difficult man to impress, you know. Your colleagues certainly never challenged my artistic vision. But I appreciate that, really!” He rises to his feet and approaches my chair, peering down at me. “You obviously have a sharp artistic palate.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. There’s the potential here for a ‘hot scoop’ as they say, so I humor the giant man. 

“Why don’t you follow me to my studio? There are a few things I’m working on that are a little more…experimental. Since you came all the way down here, let me give you a little preview. Off the record, of course.” 

I follow him down a couple of floors to a pair of deep red double doors, ominously eye-catching amongst the pastel color palette that fills the rest of the house. He turns to his bodyguards. “Why don’t you two grab some tea or something? We’ll just be in here.” 

The phrase ‘studio’ was rather misleading; the room was more akin to an auditorium. Rows of velvet-cushioned chairs face a dimly-lit stage, the same deep red color, a short runway stretching out in front of it. Behind me, various cameras and photography equipment line the wall. Past it all on the far side of the room is a fully nude young man, back turned to me, silently and motionlessly facing the wall. 

“UH” I say, a little louder than I meant to, “What is that?” 

Terry, struggling to wedge his oversize body into one of the velvet chairs (why would you design it like that?) glances up for a moment, and shrugs. “Camera”

“No, the guy!” 

“Oooohhh,” Terry laughs. “Right, right. Byron! BYRON!” He screams across the room. The man suddenly jolts up and whips around. “He was asleep. Gotta conserve those kilocals, you know” Terry assures me. “This is my personal model, Byron” We exchange polite hellos. Byron’s physique is the platonic ideal of the runway, high-fashion model. He is obscenely gaunt, 6’1” and probably weighs less than my dog. I can see his ribs. I can see every minute strand of muscle lining his arm and legs. I’m pretty sure I can see his small intestine. I can see his dick and balls too, but that’s not really relevant at the moment. He has a very long face, his cheekbones planted so high up they appear to be grinding up against his suborbital bones and almost pushing his eyeballs out of his head; they look like two peeled grapes about to burst. And of course, he has a tooth gap you could drive a semi truck through. The kid looks like a lich. 

“Homer,” Terry says “Are you familiar with the song ‘Gloomy Sunday’?” 

I forget about the naked man for a moment. “Maybe. I’m not sure.” 

“It’s a Hungarian song, written in 1933, about a person who contemplates suicide after their lover dies.”

I shrug. “Cool.”

“The song gained popularity in the English-speaking world after Billie Holiday recorded her version in the forties. But what’s really intriguing about it is the reaction to it— the song is supposedly linked to a string of suicides. Many radio stations even banned it. The song has been covered by numerous people since than, due to its notoriety— Big Sean put out a version just this year— but only the original had the ability to induce suicide in the listener.”

“That sounds awfully hokey.” I say. 

“Maybe,” Terry concedes. “But the original composer did take his own life— that’s a fact.”

We are both quiet for a moment.

“Are you- are you going to show me an outfit so bad that I’m going to want to kill myself?”

Terry laughs heartily, breaking the tense atmosphere.

“No, no. That’s not what I’m getting at. Let’s look at another example; The Mona Lisa. You’re probably more familiar with that one. All the stories about how it’s artistically perfect— Golden Ratio, the smile thing, you know the deal. It’s a true work of artistic mastery. And in fact, there are many stories of people seeing the painting and breaking down in tears at its overwhelming beauty. It’s true! Recorded examples!”

He shows me his placid smile from before. 

“That’s what I want. That’s the kind of art I want to make.” His posture is different from earlier. 

“Art that shakes you to the very core. Art that is not reckoned with, but that forces you to reckon with yourself. Art that is life-altering. That awakens feelings in oneself that cannot possibly be reached by any human experience, no matter how beautiful or traumatic.” 

“Art like this,” he continues, “Is like magic. I mean that genuinely. I don’t mean it in the way a child would mean it. Art like this can do things— unnatural things— that no paltry human contraption ever could. Fashion is of a particular interest to me because… well, it’s fun to look nice, of course. But it’s also how we say who we are. The right clothes can completely transform a person.”

During Terry’s speech, Byron has made his way onstage. Terry produces a small remote and clicks it, focusing the overhead lights on Byron’s delicate form. 

“Homer, are you…how do I ask this politely…are you attracted to men?” 

I glance up onstage to Byron’s thousand yard stare. He looks like he’s about to fall asleep again, or possibly die. 

“In…theory, yes, you could say that.”

Terry gives me a mischievous look. 

“Now? You are.” Byron slips through the red curtains backstage. 

“Behold,” Terry bellows, struggling to triumphantly stand from the seat he lodged his massive cube ass into,

“The sexiest outfit ever created!”

A few moments later, Byron threw apart the curtains and stepped confidently onto the runway. He wore a strange, nameless garment, the exact details of which cannot possibly be articulated. Strips of glossy black material ran across his figure, embracing every curve and groove, introducing themselves intimately into every corner of his body like a harem of lustrous black snakes. He strode down the runway with the cool confidence of a whole new person, his erotic, alien beauty a hypnotizing presence; an inescapable gravity that seized the attention of the room. For a few seconds, the entire movement of the world seems to cease, transporting the audience to a bizarre place outside of time. 

Having grown up in a an era pre-internet, I went through the standard motions of spending my adolescent years scavenging for any scrap of nudity my friends and I could get our hands on. “Huge fan of pussy— would love to see one someday,” we thought. It was a chaotic time of sexual development, especially for anyone grappling with disconcerting feelings of bisexuality— but especially for anyone with a burgeoning sense of misanthropy that made romance of any sort seem repulsive. It was in this period of porno scrounging that I, like many teens, was exposed to something I was not prepared for. It was a photograph flashed to me by my friend Hector’s older brother; it depicted a nude twink in some sort of gimp mask, being graphically double teamed by two muscular black men in the middle of an empty warehouse. It was apparently promotional artwork for some punk rock album, shown in an attempt to shock, frighten, and impress me, in the way that older brothers are wont to do. I barely slept that night— the image was disturbing, yes, but more than that it was sexually exciting, in a way that my brain was far too young to process. I knew innately it was taboo, but couldn’t explain why. So I just laid in bed fixating on the image, eyes open, covered in cold sweat, chest pounding, and dick hard as a rock.

That same sensation, seldom ever felt in adult life— is what I am experiencing right now. 

I’ve never seen such a thing in my life; its as if the garment coyly hides every detail of his body, yet simultaneously bares them fully to the world. This is a man who just a moment ago I saw fully nude, yet now feels somehow more naked then before; more naked than any person I’ve ever seen in my life. I hold the arm of my chair in a death grip, like I’m watching a horror film, and try my best to breathe quietly. Byron finishes his strut down the runway, pauses to do a sultry little pose (FUCK) and then spins around to strut back to the stage. 

God help me. I now have full view of his tight little ass. 

I increase my grip on the chair tenfold as beads of sweat run down my forehead. After what seems like an eternity, he finally reaches the end of the stage and slips behind the curtains. I turn to Terry.

“You got a bathroom?”

I splash some cold water on my face and collect my thoughts for a moment. Terry’s bathroom is the size of a small apartment. I dry my hands and return to the studio.

“Everything alright?” Terry inquires as I step inside.

“Yes, I’m fine.” I sit. “So, what did you think? Pretty cool, huh?” Terry prods. Even in my shaken mental state, I’m not about to dispense free praise. “You made that?” I ask. “Noooo, no no no,” he quickly clarifies, “Not personally, no, I just commissioned it, oversaw its production. It was a collaborative effort from several of my favorite designers,” he explains, “and a couple of Oxford alumni who did their doctorates on relevant psychological topics. I don’t have much a creative bone myself, but I think I put together a pretty good team, wouldn’t you say?” I ignore the question. “You put in all that effort for something you can’t even wear? That would obviously be way too small for you, what’s the point?”

He bashfully waves his hand in front of his face. “You couldn’t catch me wearing that in a million years, are you kidding? I’m way too shy. I mean, most people on earth are probably too shy to wear something like that!” He laughs. “The point is…well, the point is to move the medium forward! To advance the world of fashion, introduce new ideas and broaden the horizon! Do people really need a reason to make art?”

“I find it odd to invest all that effort into something you won’t show to anyone.” I assert.

He playfully gives me a slap on the back. It feels like I was hit by a car. “Well, that’s why you’re here! Besides, I’ll release it eventually…when the world is ready. When I find the right way to do it. Until then, the whole team are under strict NDAs” he stops smiling. “And that includes you. Got it? You can’t write about this stuff!”

I nod. I don’t care enough about my job, or respect the intelligence of my readers enough to bother, anyway. 

Byron pops out from behind the curtain. He’s naked again, looking like the man from the ending of The Enigma of Amigawara Fault. Zero interest. 

“Well, Mr. Mackerel, I’d like to thank you for taking time out your day to show me your…project. But I suppose I should be on my way now.” I begin to gather my things.

“Oh, you can’t leave yet! There are still two more outfits to show off!” 

I freeze. Two more? In the same vein? For the first time in years, my interest is genuinely piqued.

“They’re not all… this same style, are they?” 

“Haha, no, the others aren’t as…intimate. They’re all part of a series, however; each designed to elevate fashion and style to heights never before achieved. So they are similar in that regard.”

A cold bead of sweat drips down my neck. Fuck. They’re all this intense? I’m apprehensive, but the strength of my curiosity prevents me from leaving. 

“You really don’t have to stay if these are too much! I get it.”

“Fuck you. Bring out the next one.”

“That’s the spirit! Now…you remember when we talked about Gloomy Sunday, earlier? You joked that I would show you an outfit that’s so bad you’ll want to kill yourself? Well, I lied. That’s actually exactly what this next one is.”

Terry goes on to explain his vision for the piece; all art is designed in the forward direction of impressing the viewer, striving for heights of success— to strive for poor quality is counterintuitive, and to strive for a quality so bad it’s painful is downright psychotic. And yet, because of that, it remains unexplored territory in the art world. He elaborates on his methods and inspiration; a thorough study of what allows art to be truly, irredeemably heinous, offering not even a shred of ironic or incidental value. He shows me images on his phone of several failed Dreamworks films to hammer the point home. “Total obliteration of the soul,” he says, motioning to the movie poster for Mars Needs Moms. “Is it possible in the medium of fashion, I wonder? One can only combine plaid and stripes so many times before it starts to look kind of cool!” He asserts. You already know the answer, you lummox. Bring out your little ghoul friend— the anticipation is hellish. 

Terry claps his hands. I grit my teeth. I am adjusted to the intensity now, and am ready to absorb the next outfit fully. 

Byron emerged once again clad in pure mayhem, uncut sartorial genocide. He was draped in scrap after scrap of un-fashion, perverse parodies of clothing, stacked high like insect corpses atop an assassin bug, putrefying carcasses of former fits. Every piece danced in an unholy anti-harmony, disrupting the style of every piece surrounding it; patterns clashed like berzerker warriors, ripping into each other with no honor.

The ensemble bore a horrid color palette, sampled from some schizophrenic vision of purgatory. Byron’s eyes stayed locked in front of him, gazing into the infinite abyss. He dare not look down at the raw carnage adorning his body… dare not confront the eldritch abomination he has transformed himself into. 

When I was in college, some colleagues from journalism class and I went to cover a local convention for fans of the show Dr. Who. Within a few minutes of being there, I was overcome by the violent unstylishness of every single attendee. They looked like side characters from a steampunk film who were too poor to afford gears for the clothes; they looked like time-traveling dandies, entertaining each other with bootleg Star Trek t-shirts they retrieved from the future. Each outfit, more hideous than the one before it. And when I finally laid eyes upon the dreaded ‘sex nerds’— clasped in discount bondage gear, trilby hats sitting delicately atop gimp masks— an impending sense doom finally overwhelmed me. I immediately had to leave, telling my colleagues that my brother was hit by a car or something; I don’t recall the exact excuse. That was the most horrifying butchery of fashion I had ever witnessed— until now. 

One split-second into the display, and I realize my mental preparation was worthless. I lay my eyes upon the outfit and immediately I am transported to the ninth circle of Hell. I dig my fingers into my leg with all my power, and when I lose the strength to do so, I begin slamming my fist into my thigh; a futile attempt to distract myself from the unhinged madness gripping my brain. Every scrap of clothing on Byron’s body is a foul demon, swirling around me, taunting me, tormenting my soul. It’s a visceral nightmare that is nothing like the previous outfit. The horror seizes me and my body spams; I swing my head back, smashing it on the metal rim of my chair. Immediately after, my stomach tightens up and I keel over, vomiting onto the floor in front of me— I use my last drop of sanity to move my Viberg boots out of the way. As my consciousness leaves my body, I can feel Terry’s tree trunk arm breaking my fall.

After an indeterminate amount of time, I regain consciousness. I am lying prone on the studio floor; Terry hovers above me, gently swabbing my forehead with a damp rag. “Oh— you’re awake! That’s a relief.” He lets out a labored sigh. “A brutal experience, I know! But it’s for the sake of forwarding the medium— I hope you don’t foster any ill will towards me.” He places the rag beside my head. “Besides, look at it this way— after this, even the most heinous of outfits will look like— uh… you know…Jerry, uh—“ he scrambles to try and complete his half-baked analogy. “Shut up. Shut up for a second.” I tire of his condescension. Something is wrong. I sit up and grab the wet rag, throwing it across the room. It collides with Byron’s chest, knocking him to the ground. 

“Before we continue— and we will continue,” I insist “I demand to know what your deal is.” I stand fully. Terry cocks his head, feigning confusion. “I’m an artist! You’re an art critic, I’m an artist! I’m just showing off my—“ 

“No! Shut up! Shut the fuck up! That’s not what I mean, you dunce! Quit feigning innocence; why doesn’t this stuff have any effect on you?” Terry forces a pleasant smile; he takes a step toward me, and instinctively I step back. 

“I think you need to cool down a bit, buddy. Maybe you’d fare a little better if you weren’t so negative all the time. Ever consider that?” He turns his back to me and begins to make his way to the stage. “Maybe if you want something to criticize so badly, you should look in the mirror. You want to know why this stuff is no big deal to me?” The stage is about 6 feet off the ground. He squats, and in a single hop launches himself on top. The slam of his boots hitting the wood rocks the room. “I’ve seen them plenty of times, of course. I’m desensitized. But more than that,” he lets out a small grunt as he stands fully up from his squat. “It’s in my nature. Are you familiar with the Loewing-Bayer test?” 

I don’t respond. 

“I had a feeling you were. My score,” he stares down at me, looking directly into my eyes. “Is 6. 6 out of 100. It’s extremely difficult for me to be put off by things. There is value— pleasantry— to be found in almost anything, even the most upsetting things. Isn’t that a beautiful notion?” 

“It seems like a real waste, spending millions of dollars on a project like this, when you would clearly be just as entertained looking at a pair of jangling car keys. What’s the endgame to all this?”

“In just a moment,” Terry says “I’ll show you.” He turns around and disappears behind the curtains. I can hear him undressing. “Unlike the other two, this particular project was built with me in mind. The 5 million dollar suit is merely the prototype,” he calls, as he tosses the suit into empty audience. It lands haphazardly on the floor between rows of chairs. “A test run of the limits of suitmaking. Do you understand the true nature of the business suit? It’s true capabilities?”  

The truth is, I’m scared. I have no idea what I’m about to witness. But it’s imperative I play it cool; maintain my disparaging aloofness. 

“Its a relic.” I say. “An archaic hold-over from an era when people thought smoking cigarettes could cure rickets. I’m not the least bit surprised a cultureless new-money airhead like you has a fascination with them; I suppose after this you can show off your collection of old whiskies you pretend to enjoy, and then give me a lecture about how ‘real music’ peaked with Frank Sinatra. You fucking simpleton. You friendless fucking young Republican jagoff. Sorry- that’s young Tory over here.”

Terry forces a laugh. “Open your mind, little man. I’m not the one who lost his lunch over some little outfit I put together.”

“That you paid someone to put together for you,” I snap, “Bitch.” 

“You’ll eat those words in just a moment, you worm.” He threatens, “You’re about to lay eyes on a suit weaved for emperors. The confidence— the power— the unbridled masculine domination— it’s all been taken to its furthest extreme. The original business suit was a symbol of class, of status; not in a monetary sense, necessarily, but in a hierarchical one. It commands respect. It humbles those that dare gaze upon it.” The volume of his voice starts to rise. “This is it! The is the pinnacle! The world-ending authority! The word of God woven in its seams! This…this is the uniform of philosopher kings! Witness it! Witness and succumb to its glory!” 

I can see Terry’s hand grip the curtain from behind, and with a powerful swing of his arm, he rips the entire thing down from the ceiling. As the blood-red cloth floats down to the floor, he makes a final declaration. 

“Behold! The power of the Atlas Suit!!!”

As the crimson curtains fell, Terry’s commanding presence flooded the room, covering every crevice, drowning out every sound, stamping out any resistance. The breadth of his shoulders seemed to reach from one wall to the other; he towered over the entire room, perhaps the entire planet, standing so tall that he blocked out the sun, head held so high that it stretched into the heavens, impossible to view for the mewling peasants before him, splayed out like ants, running frenzied, their colony destroyed by some God too great and terrible to comprehend. Submission to power was the only option; the very laws of the universe rendered all other options moot. Byron fell to his knees, then to his hands, his breathing harsh and shallow. To look once was overwhelming; the hierarchy was made clear. To look again? The consequences would be unfathomable. 

It was during my senior year of college that I started dating Margaret Tan. We had been friends for about a year by that point; she had a crush on me for the majority of that time, and I was more or less ambivalent towards her. She was pleasant, sweet, difficult even for someone like me to dislike, even though her taste in music and cinema was incredibly pedestrian. We agreed to date; she was fascinated by my harsh and uncompromising views on most things, and I was comforted by that. She was a good listener; never got upset when I (politely) trashed something she liked, responded thoughtfully to all my comments, genuinely interested in what I had to say. The thing that most people hated about me— the thing I hated most about myself— was endearing to her. She was moderately attractive as well, and the sex was adequate. 

When we first started dating, she dressed in a haphazard, conservative manner; long skirts, oversize button ups, those big clonky brown shoes a Parisian orphan might wear. No matter how closely I advised her, she always managed to return the next day in something equally hideous. Sometimes I wonder if she would do it on purpose; perhaps she had developed some masochistic addiction to my belittlement. With my help, she eventually developed into a rather sharp dresser; unfortunately, the school year was coming to a close, and I had a feeling the relationship would need to come to an end. It was a messy affair; I was certainly colder than I needed to be in breaking the news, and she was an emotional wreck. It was for the best, however; I could feel myself growing indifferent to her, and I could feel in my gut that if it continued, the dynamic between us would grow into something rather unhealthy— more so than it already was. She cried for weeks, I blocked her number, and we never spoke again. A shame. 

A few years later, I stumbled upon her Facebook and feeling sentimental, decided to take a look. What I found was truly saddening, striking me to the core of my cast-iron heart. No doubt motivated by some existential despair, Margaret had fully attempted a style-makeover, now emulating some kind of goth look; dyed black hair, chopped short, excessive makeup, black leather jacket adorned with tacky enamel pins of cartoon bats and spiders. To be clear, I have no axe to grind with a renovation of style (obviously; consider my line of work) nor do I take issue with alternative styles of dress (well, this isn’t entirely true, but in this instance it is). But beneath it all, I could still locate the naive smiling face of my former lover and friend— this new style was not her, did not reflect who she was. It was a costume, a desperate attempt to cope with some loss of purpose or identity. Chastise me for meanness all you want, I know it to be true. Even though the outfit worked on paper— those elements of style I taught her all used competently— a single glance, even to the untrained eye, could tell that it was inauthentic; it did not look good. 

Anyone with a drop of sartorial wisdom knows why this is true; my dear old friend was violating one of the cardinal rules of fashion. 

Fashion Rule #19: Do Not Wear Clothes That Have More Personality Than You Do

The title really ought to speak for itself here. However, this is one of those rules that cannot really be explained in words, and has to be viscerally experienced to be fully understood. So allow these mental vignettes to illustrate the concept; 

-A middle-aged father, seeking to reinvent himself, starts dressing like a Texas cowpoke, despite being a patent lawyer from Rochester, New York

-A mildly autistic, early 20’s shut-in becomes enamored with the fashion world through online forums, only ever leaving the house to shop for groceries, dressed in a shapeless black Rick Owens ‘Street Cloak’ he purchased on Grailed and tactical ninja sandals. He buys 8 boxes of Captain Crunch and 3 gallons of skim milk. 

-A well-off art school student, majoring in brand mascot design, spends several hours a week trying to look exactly like Mac Demarco. He screams at his mother to drive him to every thrift store in the city in order to find a jacket that looks just beat-up enough, before eventually giving up and ordering one from Urban Outfitters for $130. 

Everything clear? Surely you’ve met someone like this before, no? Good. 

As Terry stands before me, chest puffed up, bathing in his own sense of magnificence, I can’t help but think; boy, you look ridiculous right now. 

“Boy, you look ridiculous right now.” I say. 

Terry stands aghast, unable to form words. Where he once stood to paralyze me with the splendor of his mighty outfit, I have paralyzed him with my sheer indifference. His own attack has been reversed and sent back at him, just like his father reversed the attack of thousands of clear-skinned British children. How does it feel, money boy?

He is shaken from his daze, his mood immediately changed. “I- Impossible! This is the Atlas Suit! A suit for kings! You should be groveling at my feet!” I let out a long sigh, really playing it up. “Yes, well, I’m disappointed too. Don’t get me wrong; it’s excellently made. But it simply doesn’t suit you. An outfit like that— designed for kings, designed for the rulers and masters of this world— looks a little…costumey, on you. You shouldn’t wear clothes that have more personality that you do, you know.” 

Terry’s face turns bright red, his face contorting into a demonic grimace. He leaps off the stage, creating a massive thud as his body collides like a meteor with the floor. He stands in front of me. 

“Bastard! You inconsequential little nobody! You’re doing this on purpose, I know it! You can’t dare to admit greatness when you see it. You’re so humiliated, rendered so worthless before my might— you can’t handle my artistic vision! You can’t handle the fact that someone actually created something groundbreaking. You’re finding flaws where there are none, you self-important little prick! Admit it!

I remain unstirred. I’m back in my element now; ripping apart pretentious pieces of trash fashion. “Don’t lie to yourself, you’ve seen how I reacted to your other pieces— good pieces, fine pieces, you should be proud!” I salt the wound. “I couldn’t hide my reaction if I wanted to. This outfit simply isn’t working for you. Why can’t you just be proud of what you made? 2 out of 3 is pretty good! Besides…maybe the suit would look better on somebody else?” It’s true— I don’t condone his policies, but the late Muammar Qaddafi would have killed this look. 

He erupts. “SHUT UP! This outfit is made for me, you swine! I am the inheritor of this foul planet! I am the master, and you are the slave! I will issue commands, and you will oblige!” He launches his massive hand towards me and grabs my collar. I knew it would come to this. 

“You’re a child, wearing your father’s clothes,” I say. “And you’re done.”

I lift my foot up and drive it full speed like a rocket into his groin. Of all the things I dislike, violence is top of the list; violence against me, that is. Honor is for fools, and I intend on dispatching this raging beast cruelly and uncompromisingly, before he has a chance to strike back. He lets out an unholy howl and falls to his knees. I kick him in the face once more for good measure. I need to abscond before this psychopath tears me limb from limb. A hysterical Byron, wailing in grief at his master’s assault, runs toward and flings a fist. I easily grab it and lightly twist, snapping his twiggy arm like one strand of dry spaghetti. I mentally reassure myself of the moral high ground (these men are wealthy, after all— or at least work for someone who is) before making my way to the door. But it’s too late. 

Terry’s two hired goons from earlier burst through the door, likely having heard the commotion. They assume an aggressive stance as I quickly look over the both of them. I eye the lean one; I have a hunch. It’s a risky move, but I go for it, reaching into my pocket and pulling out the crushed bag of peanuts from yesterday’s flight. I squeeze it open, releasing a burst of peanut mist into the man’s vicinity. Immediately his body seizes up, rigid like a plank of wood, before crashing to the ground like a toppled statue. Too easy; by implementing my knowledge of runway style and body language, I was able to to deduce that this man walked with the telltale cautious stride and hidden shame of a man with a nut allergy. (Legendary standup comedian Albert Loomis famously popularized the ‘Peanut Walk’ during his iconic special ‘The Roast of My Late Father’)

This genius bit of resourceful combat left me with just a single opponent. I deliver another tried and true kick to the genitals, surprising my opponent with my speed. It was just a moment later, however, that what I feared most was made reality. 

Adam Grievous, age 32, was born Sarah-Clovis Grievous, age 0. At 18, after a lengthy struggle with his conservative family and with himself, Adam began a regimen of hormone therapy. Intent on fully embracing a sense of hyper-masculinity that was denied to him during his youth, Adam allegedly played the infamous ‘No Russian’ level from the popular video game Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2 approximately 750 times during this period. It is difficult to understand the effect this had on his development, physiologically and mentally. At age 30 he was hired as Terry Mackerel’s head bodyguard, after he made a name for himself by winning some kind of traditional Irish barrel-destroying competition, the first transgender man in history to do so. Onlookers would later describe him as “The Devil for barrels”. But his is a story for another time.

My foot lands with an impotent ‘thud’, his lack of testes rendering my attack completely, 100%, ineffective. He immediately grabs me by my neck, holding me aloft like a cartoon dog holding a chicken. 

I will save myself the shame of covering what happens next, and will instead fast forward 24 hours, to when I am sitting in one of the UK’s lovely hospitals, recovering from an unfortunate case of Obliterated Bone Syndrome. My tascam was purposely destroyed during my retributive beating, so I have no article. I am missing several teeth, have multiple fractured ribs and both legs broken in multiple places; it’s very likely I will be able to walk again, but not without a severe limp. Thankfully, no edged weapons were used during my beatdown, so permanent scarring is highly unlikely— but lasting psychological damage from yesterday’s fashion show is a strong possibility. Any attempt to pursue legal action is a waste of time, for obvious reasons. I have multi-week recovery period ahead of me, part of which I plan to spend reflecting on my life; another, larger part I plan to spend festering in my own hatred, possibly increasing my Loewing-Bayer score by another half-point or so, if I’m lucky. Without the ability to travel, my job will likely skimp out on paying for any sort of time off, opting instead to relegate me to writing inane listicles, infographics, brutal takedowns of pregnant celebrities— things of that nature. I have contemplated skipping the tedium and simply blowing my brains out, but firearms are quite hard to come by in the U.K, and by the time I arrive back in the states I will probably have grown bored of the idea, anyway. An unusual work trip, this one. I am eager to see how my life unfold itself from this point onward.

I’m afraid that’s all I really have to say on the matter. Take care!