Too Heavy for Milan

“That enormous bloated hippo has been gobbling the pancakes again. Look at those thunder thighs.”

“She looked better in Milan,” Mr. Binky agreed.

The live video feed covered the closing catwalk march of this year’s Lingerie & Nightwear Trade Fair from Dortmunde. The last walk of the show went to Celeste, as usual. She was the highest paid model on the circuit and the holder of the most prestigious catalogs with six covers this year.

“We’ve got to get her back in shape for Paris. It’s only four weeks, Binky.”

“Sew her mouth closed until then, perhaps.”

“We need to do something. She’s going to eat us right out of the spotlight if we don’t stop her.”

Backstage, handlers moved in like practiced and ordered machinery, peeling the hair sprayed bustiers and panties from the models and issuing warm bathrobe replacements. Celeste walked directly to her personal dressing room, ignoring the prattling chaos.

Celeste spoke as she stepped inside, “Mission ‘Catwalk’ completed.”

“Not quite,” Anna Marie pounced. “We need to have a talk, Celeste. About your overeating, you’re putting on far too much weight.”

“This unit does not eat.”

“Shut up,” Anna Marie screamed. “Tell her, Mr. Binky.”

“The stuffed toy does not speak. The stuffed toy has never spoken,” Celeste replied.

Anna Marie Brownlee raised her large-caliber automatic pistol and aimed it directly at Celeste’s forehead.

“Look to your left,” Celeste responded.

To Anna’s left was a full-length mirror. Reflected in it were two dazzling and nearly identical supermodels. The model with disheveled hair was holding a handgun and a plushie unicorn.

“This android unit functions only as your security double in public exposure situations. This unit is incapable of putting on weight.”

Mr. Binky whinnied. “That bitch is cray cray,” and the gun went off.

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296 words, for ZeroFlash (February)

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