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“There,” he says sounding satisfied.
“Are you fucking high!?” I ask the question as I look down at myself and see that I have been clad in what can only be described as one of the uniforms from the 1960’s that air hostesses used to wear. It’s a pencil skirt, and stockings with those dark lines up the back… what are they called? Seams. Yeah.
“Did you put a fucking garter belt on me?”
“You look good,” he says. “Your hair is much improved too…”
“I did not agree to let you change my fucking hair. Get me a mirror. Now.”
He gives me a growly stare, if that’s a thing that can exist, then creates a shimmering, shining surface which hangs in midair and shows me as a brunette. All my life I have been trying to escape my brown hair, and here he is, forcing it on me.
It does look nice, though. Sort of shiny, and sleek and all put up under one of those caps they used to wear that looks like an origami experiment that they got halfway through and then thought, fuck it, it’s a hat.
“I barely recognize myself.”
“In your case, that is an exceedingly good thing,” he says in that snarky way he has.
“Are you British? I am getting British vibes from you.”
“It is impossible for an alien from a distant planet to be British,” he sighs. “I feel as though you are almost insisting on making the most inane accidents in comprehension.”
“That sounded pretty British.”
“I’m not British.”
“Then why did you dress me in a British Airways uniform?”
“I didn’t. I put you in something that flattered your body. You have generous proportions which are shown to their best effect through classic cuts.”
He sounds like he’s studied humanity a whole lot. Enough to know what a classic cut is, but not enough to know what sentimental value is. I guess we all have gaps in our knowledge of the world.
I find myself intrigued, and not because I am in the grips of a sexy, sadistic, alien fashion designer, though that is intriguing, but because he seems to both dislike me and be absolutely fascinated with me.
“You may be correct,” he says. “It may be too formal. It may make the king’s mate see you as unapproachable. Let me try something else.”
Over the next several hours, he does what I can only describe as playing dress up with me. I wear at least a thousand outfits, some of them tame and sensible, others completely wild and outlandish.
“Do the meat dress!”
“Why would anyone do that?”
“Why not?”
“I suppose that is as good a lack of reason as any.”
He gives me the meat dress. You know the one. Skirt steak. The one Lady Gaga wore that one time. I always wondered what that would feel like.
It feels gross.
“Okay, this is way clammier than I thought it would be.”
“It’s a meat dress.”
“So this is what the two of you have been doing?”
Terrible
Lucky’s eyes are wide, looking over my shoulder. I do not need to turn to know who has made an appearance, or in other terms, sneaked up on me. I would know my king’s voice anywhere.
“Sire,” I say, turning to face King Tyrant. “How can I help you?”
“Are you quite done playing with the human?”
I do not like the fact that he is remonstrating me in front of her. It undermines my authority, and she is not the type to easily recognize it.
“I am not playing with her, sire. I am dressing her.”
Tyrant gives me a look which tells me he does not believe me.
“It does not take this long to dress anybody. Even the Gargantess of Indo Prime with her million separate bodies forming but one entity does not take this long to dress every single part of her.”
“Jeez, give the guy a break, he’s trying to get me presentable for your baby mama.”
Lucky pipes up with, as might be expected, inappropriate and altogether disrespectful words. Those words also demonstrate the biggest problem which undermines all these efforts. I can dress her up any way I please, but the moment she opens her mouth, it is going to be very apparent what sort of person she is.
Tyrant gives her the sort of look which usually comes before severe and stern punishment. I expect him to have a harsh retort, but when he is quiet, I know he is expecting me to handle the situation. This has just become a test of my ability to get the human under control.
“Enough!” I snap angrily. “We have tarried long enough. Put your original clothes back on. At least they are cleaner for having been reconstituted.”
She gets dressed, and I restore her hair to its previous blue state. Sometimes, things are what they are and cannot be improved upon by outside influence.
“Sire…”
Tyrant gives me an unimpressed look, turns and leaves.
