Runway

“Fashion has a price,” the Armani clad assassin said as he pulled the trigger.
The world of high fashion had gone to the wolves after the murder of Versace.
Ever since then— fashion season became open season— with many former runway models turning to wetworks to pay the bills.
Dangerous? Of course it is, but that’s Prada, bitch.

New York may be the fashion hub now, but the men from Milan are the worst enemies to have. A double stiletto death is their customary kill and it’s far from quick. Luxury takes time. A quality kill is languid— like the pour of amaro.

Chanel is sneaky— and Dior convoluted. Mostly, the murders were showcases of skill.
The tact of silence and the beauty of dispatchment. The more seamless the hit, the more acclaim it received.

The arsenic powder delivered via a show fab was an unmitigated disaster— as it involved civilians and thus police. Which of course prevented any more shows being held in Seville.
However— the air injection via syringe between the toes at a pool in Monaco? Simple, but effective.
The real show stopper had to be the insulin overdose in Brussels. Death by chocolate? The irony was exquisite.

Now, many of the younger generations detest the bloodshed. And yet, they fiend for the stories and status.
Which brings to mind the quote by a mustachioed man, — “Blessed are the weak who think they are merciful, because they have no claws.”

Once these young upstarts gain a fresh set of nails— they’ll get to work.
But now with the web— with Instagram and Tik Tok— fashion has been turned over to the masses and the results are messy.

No more style in the hits— no honor to be had. Only carnage.
With each viral video— a new target arose. Even without the hits— most would fade to obscurity.
But that’s not the point. The point is that the industry had rules. A code.
And now? Call the cowboys, because it is the Wild West.