Stick thin models create a final montage. Then break, to stand inclining like saplings in a grove. The auditorium erupts. Hands clap joyful applause.

“Bravo!”

Designer bows are taken. Hugs shared.

The Quentin Darling Spring Collection had stalked the catwalk like a tigress.

Suited in white, Sable cape flung across one shoulder, the Master awaits accolades. They arrive. Fly past him and land on Roberto Francisco Benelini.

Benelini designs floated. They levitated -bathed the catwalk in light. Buyers gasped.

Benelini bows and scrapes. Kisses fly. Triumph waves in his hand.

Quentin Darling splutters. “This is not possible. My collection is the pinnacle. Mine! Benelini... pah, Benelini is an upstart. I have the vision. I am the genius.” Rage shines in his bootblack eyes.

Backs turn.

Quentin runs at Benelini, cape flying. Pink lipstick mouth screaming, “You vile imposter. I taught you everything. Everything! Darling designs adorn royalty. Caress starlets. Command fortunes. Yours are rags in comparison. You…, you were my lackey.”

Benelini mocks, laughing, “Jes! jou Yankee pufta, once, perhaps. But I am not your lackey now. Darling nock-offs, they litter the malls. Ugly women, they walk in your creations. Face it. Jou are finished. I, I am maestro now.”

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