This was written as a contest entry, with the theme: “Victims of Fashion.” It fared… poorly.


The Profesor, he’s a Greeter but he uset’a work at Misk-U, he say’s We should write down about what happenne’d before We go Outside to Start Fresh beacause it’ll maybe end up a Historicall Art-Fact, so here I go.

I was shaveing Konny from Autamotives’s back when We run clean Out a fresh blade’s and I still had the Crack and Sack to go. Konnys’ half-Greek and half-Wookie, if you ask me, so shaveing him was Quite the Chore, but the Profesor say’d Remembber Nano’s live on natureal fiber’s for Safetys’ Sake We all gotta shave all over Everywhere. The razor was getting pretty Dull so I told Konny Hey Konny I don’t know What Im’ gonna do about you’re Ass, but then Mizz Nugyen from Pharmacy say’d Do’nt you worry Bob I got this. She had them Brazillion Lady waxer’s she say’d Bob you probly do’nt wanna watch, and Konny, you might wanna bite down on this pencil so you do’nt Scream to much.

Let me tell you, Konny Screame’d plenty, but when she was done he was Clean as a Whissle down their.

Anyway the Profesor say’d Its’ ben a Month and the Foods’ all Gone, We gotta go Outside a the Store tommorrow, so We gotta impervise Bunny-Suits. At first I thought he meant like Playboy Girl’s but he say’d No, not like that, CleanSuit’s and I said Those CleanSuit’s are what starte’d all the Trouble in the First Place, are you Crazy!!!?

See, I should exsplain about that probly. Those Fashen company’s dream’ed up a fancey whachamacallit called CleanSuit’s what it did was allway’s keep you’re clothe’s Spick an Spann. It was these teensy-weensy robot’s like dust, called Nano’s, and they put them on you’re clothe’s, and once they was on, they would’nt let any stank or dirt mess up you’re stuff. They got they’re power from eating you’re dead skin right off a you’re body. Their was 2 problem’s tho, 1, they was hella expensive, like, a shirt would cost you a extra 50 buck’s, and 2, they only live’d on like Silk and Wooll, so the Result being was that only rich folk’s could buy them, typicaly.

We had the Last Laff tho when the Nano’s went nut’s and starte’d eating up all those rich fucker’s alive. Their was 28 a Us in Here when It Happenne’d, and Believe You Me we did’nt let nobody else inside. But its’ been 2 week’s since the last a the Body’s in the lot disappeare’d and the Profesor thinks its’ OK to go Outside now long as we make up the Bunny-Suit’s all out a sinthetic’s. Me, I’m wearing my Croc’s, 4 pair a Ladie’s XXL nylon’s, a Peek-achoo hoodey and dishwashering gloves. My junk kinda show’s but the Profesor say’s Bob you look Just Fine their’s No Way any Nano’s are getting passed That Much Sinthetic’s, so everyboddys wearing Pretty Much the Same.

We ain’t staying in the Wallymart no more, Wer’e gonna re-built the World.


Just awoke on this Monday morning from a dream of running and scrambling through the fields, racing my good friend to a point we knew well. No euphemisms, nothing clever here, just a steeplechase in the old meaning of the word, where a man on horseback, out riding with his friends, would say something on the lines of “See yon steeple of St. Nyaralathotep’s? Race you!” and the game would be on.

We, of course, were dismounted, because this happens in very nearly the real, and the objective wasn’t a steeple, but a point well known to both of us, down at the bottom of the hill. He’s taller than I am, and has the advantage that way, but I knew a course through a field and sliding skittering down a hill through the backlots that gave me an edge, putting the contest at very nearly even.

One day two other professors, visitors from America, decided to join in and they were fast, so fast, so I showed my friend my shortcut. I marveled that he hadn’t discovered it before, as it was well beaten down with my footprints, and in the dream, I still wore the old “black Cadillac” combat boots, with their distinctive self-cleaning tread, and we ran, we ran down the hill, and this is when I knew it was a dream, because I was young enough that running was a joy, strong enough that jumping over obstacles was a pleasure, and supple enough that slipping sliding glissading down a hill was no cause for fear of the sprain of the ankle, the twist of the knee, the stumble and attendant impact that wreaks a life-changing crunch in the shoulder.

We didn’t win, and like most dreams, the memory of the joy of just racing is fading from my brain already.