A bell tinkled above a well oiled door as Bobby and his entourage pushed into the local tailors. Aisles of outfits of every shape and size met his eyes, a veritable buffet of artisan clothing, made the proper old fashioned way with none of the characterless mass produced bullshit of modern department stores. There was a gramophone somewhere in the shop playing classical music, the crackling sound complementing the ambiance of the tailors perfectly and combining with the dim lighting to give Bobby the impression that he had just stepped back into the past.
A large plump woman, wearing an outfit that made her even larger, pushed through the narrow central aisle towards the group. A pleasant smile lit up her face as she saw Bobby, “Bobby dear, long time no see, what happened to your last suit?” The woman grimaced as she reached out with a finger and rubbed the cheap polyester lapel of his spare suit
Bobby scratched his nose sheepishly, “Sorry Madam Chic, I accidentally ruined it,” By dying in it, “I need 3 new suits, one for each of us.”
The grimace left Madam Chic’s face as she turned to Mcgunkin and Gary, “Ahah, new customers, what a delight, is there anything particular you are looking for?”
Bobby hummed, “Three piece all round, black wool with a notched lapel, but go crazy with the liners and throw in a few ties, shirts and socks.”
Madam Chic led them to the back, although she demanded the possum stay outside, which Bobby agreed to, if someone asked nicely he wasn’t going to deny their request, especially if it didn’t conflict with his interests. Chic produced a tape measure from somewhere and thoroughly quantified the three men over the next couple of minutes. Each of them had very separate reactions; Mcgunkin stared directly ahead, uncaring, Bobby aided the woman, eager to help, whereas Gary awkwardly flinched at her prodding, never having gotten measured by a tailor in his whole life.
When the woman had finished she led them to a fabric storage cupboard so she could hold up the fabrics she used in making liners and highlights for her suits to see which matched the eyes of each individual. Bobby greatly respected someone who put that much dedication to their craft to ensure it suited both their form and their appearance.
Then they were ushered out of the shop and told to return in a few days. Smiling at the news Bobby took them to the next place, a nearby shoe shop. This one was much smaller than the tailors, sandwiched in between a cafe and the supermarket, it had a strong smell of shoe polish and the floors were stained. But pristine cleanliness isn’t the important thing when shopping, no it’s whether the shop owner is good at his craft and this shop owner was definitely the best.
Rack after rack of study leather boots filled the shop and other than a singular aisle for trying shoes out, shoe boxes were piled up so that moving at any speed through the shop required the surefootedness of a goat, which was demonstrated by a tall but impossibly nimble man who leapt up from a squat workbench in a corner and spidered his way to meet his customers.
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“We need boots,” said Bobby.
The man didn’t verbally reply, simply nodding and pointing to a surprisingly modern foot measuring device in the corner. Bobby took off his trainers and stood on it, prompting the machine to list off a bunch of data. The others followed suit and soon they were sitting on a low bench while the shop owner sorted through boxes and racks.
“Why do we need boots?” Asked Gary.
“There are two things every man needs in life to be taken seriously,” said Bobby, dispensing some sage wisdom, “The first is a smart suit and the second is some proper boots.”
Gary pointed at Bobby's scuffed trainers, “Why aren’t you wearing any then?”
“I lost my last suit and boots in a freak vending machine accident.”
Gary looked confused, then was hit by a shoebox which had been thrown across the room by the shop owner. Bobby leant over and cackled with laughter, the veterans’ expression was priceless. Then Mcgunkin joined in, but the sound was so terrifying that Bobby made him stop. Somewhere along the line of his ego getting damaged he’d lost a fundamental component that made him human and Bobby didn’t think it would return for a long time if ever.
The shopkeeper eventually found boots for Bobby and Mcgunkin, which fit as snuggly as gloves. Bobby was so happy with them that he immediately swapped into them, he tried offering his scuffed trainers to the shop keeper as he probably wasn’t going to wear them again with such a better alternative, but the shopkeeper didn’t want them, so he tied the laces together and wore them round his neck. Then they paid and left, heading back to Bobby’s little red hatchback to get back home.
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As he drove Bobby thought about the magic that always seemed to be waiting and begging to be used. I like the feeling it gives me when I use it, but I don't like that I like it. The calmness and readiness that he experienced under the energy seemed to completely strip him of his sense of morals, it was not a good state to be in and he was kind of scared what he might do under its effects in the future or even worse that he might get addicted to the feeling.
If it was any other time in his life he would just abstain from using it, but over the past few days he had come to realise how necessary it was and that he had no hope of accomplishing the task he’d been given without it. All the same the constant usage of it might end up warping me into something that isn’t me.
It had the potential to be the ultimate irony—becoming a slave to the power that you used to make slaves. As a sign warning of sharp bends ahead flew by his window he decided on a little ritual he would perform after every time he had to draw on his magic for too long.
How many people have I killed today and can I justify their deaths? He asked himself.
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