“And then we’re going to have Delilah go,” Ophelia muttered, looking over her notes and nodding to herself. “And then Cy and--” A sudden shout, followed by a great commotion of noise and yelling, made her look up, startled. “Are they that anxious for us to begin?” she mused aloud.

Delilah shrugged, then opened the curtains separating the backstage area from the main part of the stage. She stared out at the audience area for several seconds, then over at Ophelia, her eyes wide with shock. Then, as though she could not believe what she had seen, she looked back out.

“What is it?” Ophelia asked. “Did some big-shot celebrity show up or something?”

Delilah hesitated, trying to think of the best way to break the news of what she had witnessed. Over the clamor, she asked, “How many people were we expecting to attend?”

“Counting the press, maybe about two or three hundred. Why?”

“I think we might need more chairs.”

“Oh, really? How many more?”

Delilah looked out again, and then back at Ophelia. She swallowed hard, then replied, “Total, or to replace the ones that just got destroyed?”

“Destroyed? How did they get destroyed?”


“There’s a whole lot of women out there, and they look pretty angry. And one of them-- this crazy-looking redhead-- she was standing on this chair, yelling something about the company, and this skinny chick with short curly hair… well, she basically kicked the chair out from under the redhead. And…” She looked out again. “It looks like two chairs have been destroyed so far, from them going at it. And there’s this dude… I swear to God, I think I’ve seen him somewhere. He’s trying to pry them apart.” She looked over at Ophelia. “Are all your shows this exciting?”

“Not normally. Is that redhead wearing an exceptionally nice pantsuit?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Oh, God, not her again,” Ophelia groaned.

“Forget about her!” Delilah cried out, backing away from the curtains as though they were on fire. “He is the one I’m worried about!”

“Why? Did he get knocked out?”

“I just remembered where I saw him. A few years ago, I went through a brief period doing the whole groupie thing. Don’t ask. Oh, man, don’t let that dude see me.”

“I’m not. It’s too dangerous for you to go out there anyway,” Ophelia replied, peering out the curtain at the mayhem that was unfolding.


It was chaos, pure and simple. The protesters had not counted on being so greatly outnumbered, or even having any resistance to their intentions. Instead, when they arrived at the fashion show site, they were met with several hundred angry (and a few possibly drunk and/or stoned) people, most of whom dressed in Elemental Fashion clothing or Xero Gravity band shirts.

“What’s going on here?” one of the protesters muttered to Julia.

“Doesn’t matter. We need to show them the light. We have to show them what terrible things this company does,” Julia replied confidently. Climbing onto a chair, she announced, “You have all been misled. Elemental Fashions does not empower women or provide suitable alternatives to the revealing clothing that comprises the majority of today’s fashions. Instead, it allows the objectification of women to continue, thus allowing the patriarchy to remain in control. But you can change! There is still hope! You can walk away and choose not to support this patriarchal establishment!” She pointed to the slim curly-haired woman sitting nearby, beside an attractive man with light brown hair. “You, Miss. Come here. What is your name?”

“None of your business,” the woman replied, rising and approaching Julia.

“Fair enough, I suppose. Tell me, is that your partner?” she asked indicating the man.


Smirking slightly, the woman replied, “In a manner of speaking, I suppose you could say that.”

“In a manner of speaking? Oh, honey, don’t tell me you’re one of those escorts. Or a kept woman. You know, it’s a real shame that women like you choose to live like that. I bet you’re really intelligent--”

“--I’d say the same if I weren’t such an honest woman,” came the sharp response.

Ignoring this snide remark, Julia asked, “Tell me, what are you doing here today?”

Narrowing her eyes and smiling ever so slightly, the woman replied, “Dealing with a bunch of small-minded people. And I guess you’re the first on the list.” With that, she whipped a leg out to the side and with one powerful kick, knocked the chair out from under Julia, who was caught by her fellow protestors. Leaning in close, the woman added, “And by the way, you wanted to know my name. They call me Taste of Honey.”

Then, several hundred dark-clothed adolescents and young adults rushed toward the comparatively miniscule group of protesters en masse.