‘Today is the 4th of July. Imperial Independence day’, enthused the televised guru in a perky, mid-atlantic accent, raising her arms up like a bursting firework, ‘and the Imperial flag,the star-spangled banner, is the thing that every well- dressed devotee will be wearing’.
‘Red,White and Blue’,thought Fassion, winking off her pink,polysynthetic,heart-shaped tele-monitor with a flick of purple shadowed lid and glitter
Sliding wearily,yet elegantly from beneath purple satin bed-clothes , she slipped her pedicured and pink polished toes into a pair of stilletto heeled slippers and hobbled over to her combination auto-tailoring and fitting wardrobe where she,as best she could with her long,false
finger-nails,typed in the components of her new patriotic ensemble.
“Fassion Ikon!”,nagged the synthesised voice of her day-glo pink wrist-puter, “Time to begin your daily beauty ritual”.
“Ritual,ritual,ritual,right,okay”,muttered the still only semi-conscious Fassion heading hurriedly into her bathroom.
Opening a portal like,transparent hatch she crawled inside and strapped herself into the internal drum of her People washer/ tumble dryer-
setting it upon ‘economy’ and soon it was filling up with fragrant,purple bubble bath ,it’s turbine revving-up for a complete spin-cycle; all the
while her water,fire and bomb-resistant wrist-puter was reminding her of the importance of daily ritual ablution, “Every good devotee
must always perform a daily morning cleansing ritual, so sayeth 'New You' magazines celebrity beauty consultant Lucy Ferris; 'Cleanliness is the key to health,inner beauty,success,love and
Finally Fassion stepped,groggily and with her head still spinning, out of her People washer, her smooth skin flushed with the heat and
prickling with the static of the drying process, then, returning to her bedroom, she entered her auto-tailoring wardrobe to be fitted with
its new design.
A sliding,semi-cylindrical door curved shut infront of her and upon the door an ‘engaged’ sign lit-up.
Inside was a narrow cubicle; shark-gill like vents on the interior walls opened up releasing an army of gen-gineered,gossamer spinning, sapphire blue, nano-spiders and scuttling up and around Fassions naked form, they began spraying on the layers of her new one-piece,skin tight,syn-tex, star-spangled body-suit whilst like leaf-bearing ants they accessorized it with a colour co-ordinated afro wig,wrap-around sun-spex, elbow-length gloves and roller-boots.
“Fassion Ikon”, intoned her persistently punctual wrist-puter,‘Time to visit your beauty shrine, your shrine to yourself’.
Spilling out of the auto-fitting wardrobe, Fassion skidded over to her dressing table with built-in large,oval make-up mirror/computer screen, the fore-mentioned ‘Shrine’.
“Mirror mirror on the wall”, she enquired without a hint of irony,“who is the fairest of them all”.
Across the mirrors placid face spread a broad, rouge-red computer generated smile. ‘Why! You are Fassion” it replied in a saccharine, child-like voice.
The smile then faded and was replaced by a glowing spiderweb which mapped out the contours of Fassions face like territory in a military campaign.
Now, from the sides of Fassions dressing
table emmerged a pair of robotic arms like those used on old car-factory production lines , spraying her face with a fresh coat of make-up. All the while her wrist-puter was relaying the newest make-up tips and trends, “Dark tones don’t work with your naturally pale complexion and neither does anything too bright, so I suggest the cobalt blue eye-shadow with just the meerest hint of blusher on your cheeks and in-keeping with todays festive theme, tri-colour,
glitter infused lip-gloss to represent the fireworks your kisses will inspire this 4th of July’.
Taking a few seconds to admire their handi-work the robotic arms now sank back into their sockets at each wing of the dressing table.
“Fassion Ikon”, remarked the wrist-puter impatiently,“Don’t forget your all important, holistic mantra of self-confidence”.
Staring deep into her reflection and her naturally piercing blue eyes, the only natural thing left about her,Fassion began her daily confidence boosting incantations, “Fassion” she
repeated ten-times over with a radiant smile for each time, “You are a style goddess”.
Now,psychically ‘powered up’ for the day, Fassion went to her bed-side holophone and beeped up her old pal and fellow devotee Pristine. ‘Hey there girlfriend’, she said, giving the customary
feminine greeting of her creed, ‘watcha doing?’.
Pristines bewigged head,shoulders and 36 DD bustline rose above the holophone receiver in a marble-textured, 3-D projection and she responded to Fassions query with her usual,broad sociable grin, “Aw. I was just on my way to temple’,she bubbled,’You know whose giving the sermon today? Only soap heart-throb Dean Monroe. You know?
‘Kyle’ from ‘All our Tommorows’.
Fassion responded with the customary giggle of excitement that a young girl devotee would in hearing such news, ‘I never knew that he was
a believer’,she said.
‘Oh yeah. All the A-1 celebrities are these days. We’re no.2 in the top 20 of organized religions’, she said with a tone of conspicuous pride, 'Maybe he’ll give me tips on becoming an actress. Oh, I do love successful people'.
‘Yeah. I can’t wait to meet him’ concurred Fassion.
‘Yeah! He’s just marvy’, added Pristine dreamilly, “Better go babe. C U later” she concluded, blowing a kiss as her holographic
Fassion Ikon was one of 8000 million people who belonged to “the Temple of Narcissus”; a multi-global religion with franchises in every state on every inhabited planet in the colonies.
Narcissists believed that inward perfection could only be achieved through outward perfection and thus advocated what jealous outsiders called ‘a superficial,hedonistic and selfish lifestyle'.
Fassion was one of the ‘beautiful people’ and as such ‘one of god’s chosen’.Ofcourse it wasn’t easy being ‘truly beautiful’. Firstly, one had to go through the ‘transformation’ process.
Fassion had been ‘transformed’ at the age of twelve; cosmetic surgery had moulded her into God’s image once she had renounced the cardinal sins of cholesterol and plaid. She was one of those ‘butterflies’, they said, chosen by god to transcend the icky emptiness of caterpillardom.
The holophone beeped again but this time the marble textured hologram it projected looked more like a granite gargoyle. It was her money-grubbing landlord and ‘all time sleaze-ball’, Mr. Oligarchy, his dental-drill tones floating like a phantom wail across Fassion’s apartment as he lamented how long her rent had been overdue.
“Ms Ikon”, he opined like a wounded animal, clearly a middle-aged man overawed at the craftsmanship of his young tennants cosmetic
enhancements, “Now, I know how difficult it must be for a young thing like you, a tube-child, utterly alone,coping in the big city……’.
Fassion bent over the wrinkly,dark featured little hologram,more like a thing of fire-light than silicon-lazer imaging and in her best ‘bimbo-ese’ explained how ‘The holo-thingy-um-the trans-wotsit-uh-It must be broken. I just can’t hear a thing your saying. It’s all gobbledygeek.”
“Well. I’ll come up and fix it if you just give me a moment”, said the ever persistent Mr. Oligarchy.
“Um? Oh no. I have to go somewhere and I’m really much,much too late as it is.”, she said, darting a pink,extended fingernail toward the holo-phones off-switch, “Talk to you later- okay- byeee!”.
Whizzing upon her solar-driven roller boots, Fassion then skidded hurriedly into the ‘trans-mat’ booth in the hall way and, with one hand, swiftly dialled in the six–digit co-ordinates of her local Temple.
The transmat door slid shut pneumatically and a digital sign on its exterior which had previously read ‘vacant’ now flickered up ‘Deliverance in progress’.