The Wax Conspiracy

Shearers at the trough

“M__m_ng down at Saville Row” said the scrap on the ground. There, in the midst of nothing else to do, was something to rubberneck about. The A and Is missing from tears in the paper, pocked with pin pricks.

It was a hearty crowd, fresh out of their avocado-infused brunches and early morning classes used to catch sleep. The thronging mass of heads jerking back and forth like phones reaching around the ceiling of their mate’s car desperate for signal from AT&T and not realising they were well out of network range.

Sounds of deep gashes, slashing and all manner of rending causing the crowd to gasp, to grasp and slap their own cheeks, to stand a-tizzy. One after the other, racks from last week trollied out into full view. One after the other a lowly wage-keep clackety-clacks out a box cutter and swipes down. Collars, buttons, sleeves, all the same, all a scratch on the showroom floor.

Here lie the victims uncovered in their unthreaded glory. No, the op shop across the street will not be seeing these line their mothball ranks. You can’t have the fast ones die a slow death. It’s the purpose of it all. To fill up the landfill faster than Dagobah fills the Volleys. Every week is a new season. Every week kills the previous.

The crowd disperses, full up and overflowing with their fill of wanton destruction for another day. A few clinging tighter to their collars, sure to keep their necks intact. Others sheepishly will themselves to the ATM to supply feed at the new trend hitting the windows tomorrow.

Another wage-keep rolls in with a cart and loads the shreds, threads and button beads. Out to the back, into the mill to chop-churn another week’s dreads.

Ethan Switch

Written on Friday, 15 September 2017

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The Wax Conspiracy

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