Cameras flashed. Strobe lights pulsed. Up on the catwalk, razor-thin models in ludicrous outfits stalked out and back, rolling their shoulders to the relentless oontz oontz oontz of the pumping hip hop soundtrack. An Amazonian redhead in a gold lamé dress weaved her way through the mingling glitterati, a standard poodle in a glinting rhinestone collar at her heels.
On the far side of the room, a young woman with a regulation shoulder-length blonde bob pressed a finger into her ear, checking her connection to the control room at Entertainment Tomorrow: Tonight! A man balancing an enormous camera on his right shoulder rotated to focus on her, while behind him, a goateed producer hissed, “Here he comes! We’re going live in three, two, one—” he pointed at the young woman. “Now!”
On cue, the young woman’s face lit up as though she had just spotted her oldest, dearest friend. “Hiiiii!” she warbled, flashing a set of blindingly white incisors. “It’s me, Marissa van der Wanderby, coming at you live from Milan Fashion Week! As you can see, the organizers have saved the best for last, showcasing the latest collection from the revolutionary designer Jacques de Brassiere. And I think that if we’re lucky, we just might—yes, here comes the man himself now!” Following the flapping hands of her frantic producer, Marissa van der Wanderby turned, timing it perfectly to intercept the man bearing down upon her. “Monsieur de Brassiere! Marissa van der Wanderby, from Entertainment Tomorrow: Tonight! Congratulations on your new collection!”
The man stopped, instinctively angling himself so that the camera would catch him in perfect three-quarter profile. “Bon soir, mademoiselle, and merci beaucoup,” he replied, in the snottiest French accent imaginable. “It is a great triumph, if I do say so myself.” He smoothed the lapels of his scarlet suede tailcoat, cocking one knee to show off his toned thighs in tight-fitting velour breeches. His cufflinks and the pin in his frilly cravat were monogrammed with the interlocking initials JdB, in platinum on polished cabochon rubies.
“It certainly is!” gushed Marissa van der Wanderby, without a hint of insincerity. “Can you tell us a little bit about your vision for the coming season?”
“Certainly, mademoiselle. I see a look that is very unconventional, very outré.” Beads of sweat popped on the patrician brow of Jacques de Brassiere; he dabbed them away with a silk handkerchief. “I see autumn leaves, I see golden koi swimming in deep, cool ponds.” He shook his head as though swishing away a fly, then rubbed at his ears. “I see—pardonnez-moi, do you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Marissa van der Wanderby frowned. This was going to throw off the timing of the whole segment.
“A high-pitched sound, a, how do you say, a hum?” Jacques de Brassiere shook his head again. “It is gone now. It must have been the music. Do you find, mademoiselle, that it is very warm in here?” He loosened his white silk cravat, which was now soaked in sweat. The camera man crinkled his nose, catching the faint aroma of cooking meat.
“Monsieur de Brassiere, if we could just ask a few more questions about your collection—” Marissa van der Wanderby tried to steer him back to the script.
“Non, mademoiselle, I am sorry.” De Brassiere cut her off, struggling to pull off his tailcoat. “It is intolerably hot. I must find air.” His face was as scarlet as his outerwear. Smoke curled from his collar. “Mon dieu, what is happening?” And with that, Jacques de Brassiere, live at Milan Fashion Week, burst into roaring flames. His shrieks cut through the pounding bass notes as he transformed into a pillar of fire; other fashionistas, thinking it a part of the grand finale, applauded politely. Within seconds, the famous designer was reduced, chic tailcoat and all, to a pile of cinders on the floor.
The camera man zoomed in on his anchor, who was staring, drop-jawed and bug-eyed, at the scorch marks on the red carpet. Turning to meet the camera’s eye, her face a mask of melted makeup and the ashes of Jacques de Brassiere, Marissa van der Wanderby began to scream.
“…we caution our viewers, the footage you are about to see is graphic.” A helmet-haired anchor behind a news desk adopted the face she rehearsed in front of the mirror every day, the one for Serious Tragedies Involving Celebrities.
“Babe! Come in here, you have to see this!” Aunt Laura, feet propped on the coffee table in front of the TV, paused the broadcast and took a slurp of her iced mocha.
Uncle Joey appeared in the living room doorway, wiping his hands on a rag, for he had just been loading the dishwasher, like the good husband he was. “What’s up?”
Aunt Laura clicked Play on the remote. “Some fancy fashion designer spontaneously combusted at Milan Fashion Week. He was right in the middle of giving an interview on camera.”
“Holy shit.” Joe parked next to Laura on the sofa. On the TV, they heard Jacques de Brassiere mutter, Mon dieu, what is happening, a second before the first flames licked out of his collar, raced down his body, and engulfed him from pompadour to Cuban heel. “Just like when you forget a frozen pizza in the oven,” noted Joe. The footage cut off just before Marissa van der Wanderby’s shrieks.
“Ha. You’re so funny. Not.” Aunt Laura swigged more coffee. The broadcast cut back to the anchor, who had, between segments, switched to the face for Concerning Yet Baffling Events.
“This tragedy comes the same week as yet another mysterious butter heist, on a remote highway outside Turin, in northern Italy. The truck, carrying more than a ton of top-quality butter from the butter mines in the Italian Alps, apparently swerved to avoid an animal in the road, crashed into a barrier, and was swiftly hijacked by a masked bandit. The whereabouts of the bandit and the butter are unknown at this time, and Italian police are investigating.”
“Wow, crazy times in Italy, Linda,” observed the co-anchor, looking appropriately concerned yet baffled.
“Yes, indeed, Tom.” The anchor turned to a fresh camera angle. “And now, in lighter news: a man who collects rutabagas that remind him of Communist dictators! Stay tuned.” The broadcast cut to commercial. Laura clicked the TV off.
“What, another one?” Joe’s brow furrowed. “Butter heist, I mean, not Commie rutabaga.”
“Yeah, isn’t that weird? Some asshole is going around stealing butter shipments across Europe. It happened in Spain and Portugal last month. Now Italy. You gotta wonder what the fuck.”
“Yes, but only for a minute, because life is short and there’s always more butter.” Joe sat up and stretched. “You wanna go see the new Avengers movie? It’s been out a couple weeks.”
“If we must.” Laura poked under the coffee table, looking for her shoes.
“I thought you were excited to see it.”
“I am, but I hate going to see movies in theaters. Some dickhole always sits right behind me and talks through the whole thing.” Locating her sandals, she began to strap them onto her enormous flipperlike feet. “Not even talking about the movie, just continuing whatever inane conversation they were having outside. It’s like, hello, there’s something going on here.”
“Well, maybe they’ll spontaneously combust this time.” Joe grabbed his keys and opened the door.
Laura laughed. “We should be so lucky.” They both headed out the door.
Grey fog shrouded the city of Zurich as the clocks all struck nine. A black Mercedes glided up to the curb outside the headquarters of the Banque Nationale, the driver leaping out to open the door for a cadaverous middle-aged man, dressed soberly in dark suit and tie, a briefcase in his right hand, a trench coat slung over his arm. Across the street, a black poodle barked from the front seat of a delivery van; the van’s driver hushed it, tucking a strand of ginger hair into a knitted watch cap. Nodding at the chauffeur, the pale man made his way through the glass doors of the building, crossed the baroque marble lobby, and entered the elevator beyond the concierge desk. Slowly, the numbers ticked upwards, until they stopped at the thirty-third floor.
High in the Banque Nationale tower, two other men jumped up from their seats as the door of their conference room swung open, admitting the pale man. “Alexandre,” the older of the two said, stepping forward to clasp his hand. “Thank you for coming. We are very sorry to bother you at such a time, but the clients in Bern, they say that it cannot wait.”
“Please accept our condolences, Monsieur de Brassiere, on the unfortunate death of your brother,” said the younger man, also shaking hands. “I know that Jacques was much beloved by many.”
“Thank you. He probably was,” returned Alexandre de Brassiere. “And due to the nature of his demise, at least the cremation is a fait accompli. Shall we?” He gestured to the conference call speaker in the middle of the table. The three men took seats; the younger reached out and pressed a button.
“Monsieur Schwarz, are you there? Monsieur de Brassiere has joined us.” Aside to de Brassiere: “Schwarz, of the Swiss Butter Producers’ Collective.”
A tinny voice came over the speaker. “Monsieur de Brassiere, how kind of you to come in. I was sorry to hear of your brother, and I promise that we will not bother you further, as soon as we have solved the problem of these maudit butter thefts.”
“Another has occurred?” De Brassiere raised his eyebrows. “Where this time?”
“Outside Bern, on the highway from the Alpine mines. The same pattern: a mysterious masked hijacker accompanied by some kind of animal. A whole truckload of first-quality butter, lost!” The voice on the speaker trembled with indignation.
“I see.” De Brassiere extracted a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped his brow. “And how is it that we may assist you?” He loosened the knot of his impeccable silk tie.
“Well, Monsieur, with the loss of this butter, it is possible that we will not be able to meet the repayment schedule that we had previously agreed upon. Further, we would like to explore the possibility of borrowing additional funds, to provide security until this crisis is past.”
“I regret, Monsieur Schwarz, to tell you that this is impossible.” Alexandre de Brassiere, sweat dripping off his nose, poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the table. He chugged it in one gulp, gasping as he finished. “All loans are expected to be repaid in full before further loans are considered.” Aside to his companions, he hissed: “Contact building maintenance at once. The furnace is turned up abominably high. And it is making an infernal humming sound.”
The younger man rose to obey, but stopped cold at a shout from the older man. “Monsieur de Brassiere, what on earth are you doing?” Turning back, he observed his counterpart staring open-mouthed as their boss, the head of the Banque Nationale, stripped off all his clothes and dumped the contents of the water pitcher over his own head.
“Hot! Hot! Hot!” screamed de Brassiere, rolling on the ground. Flames were beginning to bloom on his skin; he batted at himself frantically, trying to extinguish them.
“Call the fire department, quickly!” cried the older assistant, but it was too late, for even as the fire alarms began to blare and the sprinkler system kicked on, Alexandre de Brassiere ignited, and burned to ashes within seconds.
“Monsieur de Brassiere? Are you there?” called the voice on the speaker. “Hello? Hello?”
“Joe.” A prod in the ribs.
“Nnngh.” Joe rolled over and tried to hide beneath a pillow.
“Joe. Joe, wake up. There’s a pattern.”
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Copyright Laura Watkins 2018
Tales for Gullible Children 