The Moustachioed Gent in the Fabric Of His Days

“retrospective tailoring.”

no moustachioed gent had said these words to a moustachioed gent before but now, in the forecourt of a quiet tailoring station, a moustachioed gent stood in his usual clothes and heard what the tailor said to him in hushed tones.  he took the words and folded them into his ears like precious cotton buds, knowing that he came to this tailors because the tailor was moustachioed and when he made this decision he was letting in bounding oddness.

“we are a dying breed, you and i,” said the tailor, “and i know old and expensive secrets.”

the moustachioed gent’s heart leapt at the sound of secrets and though he had come in for a mere pair of trousers he had a feeling that he would leave with much more.

“tight green elvish trousers at the age of twelve would have changed your early teenage life and had a knock on effect for the next twenty years.  striding around town in cricket whites, holding a bright white parasol would have put you at the height of elegance aged thirty.”

the moustachioed gent gasped.  “you can make those changes.”

“for a price, i can re-clothe you at any time of your life and you could enjoy the fruits of fashion hindsight.  i could put you ahead of every trend for the last forty years.”

the moustachioed gent thought about it long and hard for a few minutes.  “what about back-dated tailoring technology?  How many years back could you tailor me a parallel universe waistcoat?”

“for a price,”  the tailor stroked his moustache as though it brought unknown powers.  “for a price i could go back as far as five years.  your waistcoat would shift around you with intimate and instinctive knowledge of the fashion of thousands upon millions of parallel universes.  i do not properly understand the concept behind it, or the science involved but i can certainly do it.”

“and what is the price?”  the moustachioed gent asked giddily.

the tailor leaned closer so that their moustaches were almost touching.  “to most,” he whispered, “their souls. but as you are moustachioed like me i’ll ask just your bones.”

the moustachioed gent could not but agree.  he said a strange goodbye to his bones whilst the tailor knocked up a new waistcoat in the back of the station.  they had served him well but what more need could he have for them when he had his waistcoat of parallel universes.


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