I love fashion but I hate you.

Style Fiction

courier.

courier.

A brush pass is as basic as it gets.


the fat man.

the fat man.

October 9. A Thursday.


the ninth.

the ninth.

the ninth.


rule no. 7

rule no. 7

Rule number seven of being a private eye is never fess up to what you’re doing while on assignment, even if you’re caught pants down flaming lipped red handed.


the date.

the date.

It was the kind of question asked in a bad philosophical exercise. Now Maria posed it as plainly as asking where the toilet was.


chit chat.

chit chat.

“I’m telling you, baby girl had ass like whoomp. Couldn’t even see around it. Shit had fucking gravitational pull.”


moving.

moving.

The funeral was on a Thursday. The very next day, Justin moved to New York City.


detachment 5.

detachment 5.

“Mechanized Combat Task Force Sierra – Detachment 5, called ‘D5′ in brief, called ‘Dead Five” in grim brief, was made up of a slurry of men and equipment.”


dowsing.

dowsing.

Five hundred seventy million three hundred sixty two thousand five hundred ninety five…


five w’s.

five w's.

To this concoction Candace liked to sprinkle in her own spice: the What the Fuck’s.


the fourth partner.

the fourth partner.

The photo reached across time and space and brought with a dabbling of tears for Troy’s eyes.


half-kilo.

half-kilo.

La-Ra. Grime. Ring-pop. Shoulder-molder. Rezi. There were a lot of names for DDHP.


torn

torn

torn.