Fashion Parachute

fashion parachute B

soundtrack

Cynthia grabs Jesus by the leather epaulette and spins him around.

Cynth: “What’s with this fax I just got from my friend Arial in Beirut? You actually asked the Phoenician government — the one you’re accused of owning —  for a 700-trillion shekle bailout, and you’re asking the government you own for this money while you’re on trial for extortion, criminal negligence leading to genocide, entrapment, and just generally being a thoughtless CEO?!! You even went so far as to threaten to shut down their water filtration plant if they don’t contribute to your non-existent recovery plan?!!

You know that closing that plant would lead to another million dead plaintiffs, and worse than that — another class action suit which I just don’t have the resources to take on right now, in the middle of my botox-reduction treatments. And those poisons in the water are from your own organ disposal plants which — while highly profitable — are now public domain.

Offering your own government of Phoenicia inc. the “choice” between poverty or death isn’t really the image we’re trying to cultivate here, Mary. Extortion isn’t marketable right now and I don’t know if I’d feel comfortable representing you if you give the tabloids any more reasons to put hidden cameras in my toilet.”

FMJ: “Cynth, of course I’d never do something insensitive like kill a million people by poisoning their water just to get my own way on something like this. It’s just not my style. I’m not an ideological monster, I’m a people-person.

And by the way, I own those tabloids that put those cameras in your toilet. I love people so much that I’m in the people-industry. And since the tabloids seem to make the people such happy shoppers, who am I to judge what common trash want.

…Remind me to tell Mark to tell Bernie to turn off the bathroom-cams tomorrow. And don’t ever tell Moe Silverberg or his shadow army of bloggers anything about them. He’s got such a constitution-obsession. As if the best-and-brightest can’t update their own texts once in a while. ” (eyeroll)

Jesus pauses to text for a sushi delivery, and notices Cynthia sizing up his freshly-dyed jet-black hair and Born to Rule leather motorcycle jacket.

FMJ: “Why are you gawking at my ear plugs and hair, Cynth? This jacket was a gift from the the president of the Federal Reserve of Phoenicia. It’s not some constructed rebellion statement, it’s just meaningless style!… Oh, fuck you, Cynth! Fuck Phoenicia and extreme fuck this trial!”

Jesus scrapes black nail-polish residue off the index finger of his left hand.

Cynthia resents that Jesus is resorting to working-class vocabulary and gothic fashion to make himself look pathetic. She has taken a night-course called Class Bias in The Language of Politics and senses that he’s just trying to manipulate her – his gorgeous and super-intelligent legal guardian — by situating his bored bourgeois grief in the ramshackle company houses of late 19th-Century England.

She looks up at his Rolex-themed terrycloth head-band and smiles.

Cynth: “Trying to look athletic for Jamil, are you, Mary? And after trying to sound so weak and pathetic for me just a few minutes ago. And all in one cigarette break. I guess it’s all those drama classes you took in college.”

She picks a piece of glitter off her velvet skirt.

“You know, I bet your pent-up sexual frustration is where all this recent aggression has been coming from.”

Free Market Jesus blinks in slow-motion and then speaks slowly and ironically.

FMJ: “I wonder how aggressive you’d be if you were being sued by the entire common-trash planet for some trumped-up celebrity crime. Like the biggest scapegoat in history, maybe?

Why is my re-financing of Phoenicia’s debt even an issue in this fashion trial? I bought that country fair and square! No wonder those people have no freedom or democracy. They chafe against the very thing they need when it struts there way in an Italian leather jacket and Dolce and Gabanna ear plugs.”

Her gaze fixed on the protruding buttocks of a male in his sexual prime, Cynthia opens her take-out sushi and then tips the half-naked Algerian delivery boy 5 billion shekels – 5 billion units of joy.

Click for more FMJ

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