Wear and Tear
Posted on 24 Mar 2023 @ 7:42am by Chief Deputy Marshal: Ridge Steiner - FMS & Brek - Timeless Treasures Art Gallery & Moon-Young Chung & Messers Bernard, Fulcrum & Gilroy - BF&G&Co. Fine Gentlemens Apparel
Edited on on 06 Feb 2024 @ 10:44pm
Mission:
M3 - Into the Deep
Location: Obsidian Command: The Flying Saucer Diner, Promenade
Timeline: M3 D10: 1245 HR
6344 words - 12.7 OF Standard Post Measure
“Omigod,” Moon said, daintily holding her hand over her mouth while she finished chewing the last bite of her tuna melt. “Fif if foooo good.”
During her explorations the day before, Moon had wandered past this small restaurant, built to resemble a classic diner. Fifteen red pleather booths lined a large bank of windows that looked out to the Promenade. A long white counter trimmed with aluminum with round stools for chairs ran down the center of the diner and the chefs manned the grill and served the food from the other side. She’d been something of a diner connoisseur, often going to the nearest one after finishing grueling late-night fittings.
This one was just the right amount of boisterous. The lunch crowd of civilians had descended on the place and crammed onto every stool and into every booth, filling the air with the clanking of dishes, of silverware on china, and complaints about the ongoing yellow alert. The staff added to the din, wait staff bellowing orders, short-order cooks roughly shouting out that plates of food were done, while their grills sizzled away.
But the noise only was the atmosphere: the true joy came from watching the staff who moved like a well-rehearsed ballet. Cooks twirled and slid plates handed off plates to the wait staff who danced through the narrow confines behind the counter, grabbing the food and pirouetting to the customer. No plates dropped. No egg or sandwich lost to the floor.
She and Brek were smashed together on stools at the counter between an Andorian who kept elbowing Moon in the ribs while he ate his food and a large, green-skinned Gorn who kept reaching over Brek’s plate for napkins or condiments for his fried egg sandwich. It was perfect.
Once Moon had swallowed her ball of food, she called out to the chef, “Effo, wonderful! Just like the Tops in Newark. Better!”
Effo, the Endosian owner, turned from his grill and smiled. Long and thin like an orange noodle, Effo wiped his three hands on his grease-stained apron over his equally stained teal colored t-shirt emblazoned with Obsidian Command’s Galaxy Famous Flying Saucer Diner. He gave her three thumbs up before turning back to the work at hand.
“How was your food, Brek?” Moon asked her companion as she licked the last bit of grease from her fingers.
“Excellent,” Brek said, surprising himself. He had almost protested when he had discovered that Moon had invited him to a place he would otherwise have avoided. It was too loud, too bright, and too crowded. However, the food was remarkably good, and the portions generous. There was nothing left of the fajita sandwich he had ordered. A sandwich which he felt he had to protect every time that the Gorn, next to him, leaned forward to get more stuff for his food. “It is rather noisy, though. I almost lost my appetite hearing some of the rumours that circulate on this Starbase.” He took a sip of his expresso. “So, my dear, Moon, did you manage to find your diplomat, or is he still on Obsidian?”
Brek felt rather distinguished, wearing one of his brand new suits (the black one), with a bright orange jumper. His first idea had been to wear a white shirt instead, but he had found the lack of bright colors too dispiriting.
She immediately felt a little self-conscious at the question. They had barely talked while she stuffed food into her mouth as if she hadn't eaten in a week. Just as quickly, she moved on. A trifle shouldn't be dwelled on.
"I did. He came back. Late. But we had a good talk. To cut to the chase, now we're getting married," she immediately grabbed Brek's arm. "Oh! You're the only person I know here. Obviously, you'll have to be my maid of Honor. Er. Ferengi of Honor?"
Brek, who felt sure that Moon would comment on the quality of his suit, frowned. "Ferengi of honor? Are you trying to ruin my reputation? You are asking too much of me." He caught the attention of a waitress (striking blue eyes and delightful curves), and he ordered a slice of red berries cheesecake. "I'd be delighted to be present at your wedding, though. It would be a crime to ignore free food. I may even say a few words about your... hmm... qualities. Isn't it what readers do?"
She was slow to remove her hand from his arm, surreptitiously feeling the fabric. Yesterday, she seemed to have hurt his feelings with her comments on his suit. She didn't plan on making the same mistake.
"First of all, I'm the daughter of retired ambassador to Cardassia, I'm marrying a former undersecretary of the Department of the Exterior, and I'm an award winning costume designer with two Tony's, a Laurence Olivier, and a Mahindra Excellence in Theater Award. If anything, you'd have a better reputation, thank you very much.
"Second, I think we're just going to go to a captain or an admiral or someone and get it done. Maybe tomorrow or next week. Big weddings are passé. I doubt there'll be free food. You can still come. Maybe wear that suit you had on yesterday?"
Plagued with a rather disreputable ancestry, Brek sighed. “I find that, without any food, a wedding is not a very interesting affair... Also, you misunderstood me. What I said about honor had nothing to do with you, Moon. Certain words are best not used with my species. Honor, honest, poor, fair, to name but a few. Which is why I certainly won’t wear that substandard suit from yesterday. I found much better, see.” He touched the fabric of his lapels. “New suit, new man.” When Moon didn’t compliment him, he added: “Do you find fault with it too?”
Moon cursed herself. She couldn't just let it go could she? "It's nothing. It's nothing. It's a...er...suit of...really fine...er...craftsmanship?"
She bit her lip. Nope. Couldn't do it. "Okay! Okay! Yesterday's suit was a little, you know, out of style. But at least it was real wool and the tailor really did a great job piecing it together, it really fit you nicely. This one doesn't even fit. Too tight across the chest, the collar is too loose around your neck, the cuffs are too short..." She sighed. "And black? With orange? You look like you're the DJ at a kids' Halloween party." She signed again. "And the stitching...it's...it's...look."
Moon reached out grabbed the his sleeve and jerked down. The stitching popped like tiny firecrackers and little black threads showering them both as it came apart at the shoulder. "It's shit. I mean, I guess the replicator did an okay job at the fabric, but other than that."
It just so happened that the slice of cheesecake that Brek had ordered landed in front of him the moment the word ‘shit’ was pronounced. The waitress looked amused and he dispelled her glee by staring at her with an unpleasant sneer.
“Darnation,” Brek then mumbled as he now focused on the stitching, inferior in every way. “Cheap and nasty...” He hissed. “Those two tailors, this morning, they tricked me... What is wrong with me?” Vexed by his lack of discernment, he removed his jacket, preferring to be seen in his bright orange jumper. “I’ll have to settle accounts with those retailers...”
The Ferengi got to his feet, looking like he was going to that shop right away. “Before I do so, though, I need to say that with such a fine lineage as you have, Moon, you and your former undersecretary of the Department of the Exterior deserve a grand wedding. Anything else will look... well, as shabby as this stupid suit of mine.”
"Yeah, yeah, of course, but let's focus on what's important: are you telling me you didn't replicate this? That someone made this?"
“Two Humans, pretending to be gentlemen, gave me the illusion of spending a great amount of care, time and energy to design not one, but three suits,” Brek said in a low voice, almost a whisper. His main concern, well equal to the extortionate price he had paid, was the damage caused to his reputation. He liked to be seen as a decent Ferengi. Not too greedy, but also not a fool so easily duped. The idea that, in this instance, he had been seen as an easy target made him feel dizzy. Thankfully, it only lasted a couple of seconds.
Moon bounded to her feet, throwing her napkin down on her plate furiously. Fury didn't even begin to sum up her feelings on the matter. These people let someone leave their shop in that monstrosity? She wouldn't put that suit on the understudy to the understudy to a chorus line singer.
"Effo," she called out, "I will be back to discuss whatever it is you want for this meal. I need to discuss the finer points of suit making with some so-called tailors."
Here Brek kept quiet. His decency didn’t extend to being chivalrous and maybe, offering to pay for a woman’s meal. Heck, anytime he could do away with paying for his own food, he saw it as a personal victory.
The Promenade Frontage of Messer's Bernard, Fulcrum & Gilroy & Co. Purveyors of Fine Gentlemens Apparel & Bespoke Tailors, By Appointment, was a testament in refined understatement. Occupying a double-sized unit, in the two large windows either side of the glossy gray door, with its shiny brass fittings and an impressive brass Serpents-head door knocker, were two simple displays of the above-mentioned Messer's' proclaimed craft. It was of note that the sign did not designate to whom the Messer's were appointed.
In the left window, was an antique tailor's mannequin, in a Humanoid male shape, with a partial suit jacket draped over it, the jacket was in a tasteful dark gray pin stripe, mostly completed on the left side, while the right still showed the tailor's chalk lines and was in rough-cut form. On one side of the mannequin was an equally ancient trouser-press and shirt hanger. Neatly draped over the back of the press was a pair of matching trousers, the ends pink-shear serrated and with similar chalk marks. Hanging from the press's hanger was a crisp white shirt and dark blue silk tie, with narrow, diagonal, red and silver stripes. On other side of the mannequin was an elegant dark bent-wood chair, with a richly embroidered seat, on the seat was a dark green shoebox, On the side was printed B F & G & Co in cursive gold letters. The lid was removed and lay against the chair back, from the box protruded light gray tissue paper and a pair of Humanoid male shoes, gleaming black leather, with stitching detail over the toes and heels. Next to the chair was a tall and thin wine-table, in a similar dark bent-wood style, on the dark green leather top was a large brandy balloon, partly filled with a rich brown liquid, a crystal ashtray and an unsmoked Churchill-sized cigar. Behind the display the window was screened off with a black velvet curtain, hanging from a shiny brass pole.
In the right window, was a large cutting table, in the now familiar dark bent-wood style, placed slightly at an angle to the window. Like the wine table, the top was covered in dark green leather; along the front edge of the top was a brass ruler, fixed to the table. A table lamp was set on one corner, a brass tubular design rising from a heavy circular base, with an antique green Tiffany glass shade. At the back of the table, furthest from the window, several bolts of cloth were stacked. Next to the stack, one bolt was unrolled across the table, a dark blue serge. The cloth was marked with tailor's chalk, several paper patterns were pinned to it. One pattern, that of a jacket sleeve, was partially cut out. The shears lay next to the cloth, along side a silver container of pins and a neatly roleld tape measure. Like the left window, the back was screen off with a black velvet curtain.
Upon entering the premises, one arrived in a large room, the walls were shod in dark wood paneling, the floor was of dark gray stone tile, with several patterned rugs, of a Persian design. The ceiling was a similar gray, from which depended six large light fittings, like the table lamp in the window, they were of green Tiffany glass. To the left of the door was a seating area, a dark green leather chesterfield couch, two matching winged-back chairs and an ottoman were arranged about a dark bent-wood coffee table, also with a green leather top. The whole ensemble placed on one of the Persian rugs.
To the right of the door was a counter and glass-fronted display cabinet, dark wood, with brass hand and foot rails. Two shelves lay behind the glass, one held ties and ascots, the other handkerchiefs, all in an array of styles and colors. There was also a display of cufflinks and tie pins. Some plain, silver or gold, others with a variety of gemstones. Before the cabinet lay a long narrow Persian runner, topped at one end by a wooden chair matching the one in the window. At the same end of the counter was a small and discrete register. Behind the counter was a tall, dark wood, chest of drawers, with brass handles, reaching almost to the ceiling.
Moving beyond the seating area and the counter, there were several brass tubular display racks of clothing, unlike many stores each rack only held a few items, rather than being crammed full. Some of shirts, some of sports coats, others pants or sweaters. At the rear of the premises, the left side was devoted to footwear; there was another dark green leather chesterfield couch, beyond which wooden shelves held an array of shoes and dark green shoe boxes. There was also a table upon which lay wooden shoe-forms, some solid and carved to set dimensions, others with screws and levers by which they could be adjusted to various sizes.
On the right side were two changing booths, screened by black velvet curtains on brass rods, matching those at the front. Two dark green wing-back chairs and a wine table sat to one side of another Persian rug, in the center of which was a dark wooden set of stairs, two steps high with a rectangular platform. The dark paneling on the wall was here covered by a large floor to ceiling mirror. The store smelt of leather and cedarwood, from unseen speakers softly came string chamber music.
Between the shoe display and the changing booth was another glossy gray door, this opened and out came two male humanoids, both of a mature age. One tall and thin, wearing a sharply cut double-breasted suit, light blue shirt and gold silk tie, pinned with a black obsidian crystal tie pin. The tie matched the folded handkerchief in the breast pocket. Above the tie rose a thin neck and long face, a similarly long nose protruded above thin lips and below heavily lidded dark eyes, which in turn were below a tall forehead and slicked back, shiny black hair. His companion was shorter, a little more rounded, wearing pants and waistcoat, in black with a fine silver pin-stripe, over a white shirt, with long folded-back cuffs, fixed with gold cufflinks and a purple tie. His neck was thicker, the face was fuller, with small round eyes, which peered over an old-fashioned pair of spectacles, his hair was thinning, gray, and also slicked back. Around his neck was draped a tape measure.
The pair came forward, the tall one with a sort of forward-leaning stalking movement, the shorter one with a gentle waddle. They stopped before the couple, the short one took both ends of the tape measure in his hands, while the tall one clasped his hands together at his waist and peered down his nose at them.
After a long moment he cleared his throat and said "Good afternoon... Sir Welcome... to Messer's Bernard, Fulcrum & Gilroy. Mister... Broke is it?" He queried, chin held high, as though unsure, his eyes darted to Moon. "And with a...lady companion.... He gave Moon the slightest nod, "Madam."
Despite his diminutive size, Brek barged into the Bespoke Tailors’ shop like he was going to destroy it. To be called Broke (he who, in his younger years, had heard the singsong ‘Break, Broke, Broken’ too many times) only incensed him further. However right when he was about to speak, Moon, imperative, took the lead.
Stepping between the two males, she fixed the tall one with a visage that could cause a mature oak to whither in an instant. "Are you Bernard, Fulcrum, or Gilroy?"
"I am Mister Fulcrum... Madam" the taller replied through thin lips, watching Moon from arched brows as though peering at a particularly strange insect that was crawling around the floor.
"And you with the tape?"
The shorter one blinked several times and gave a weak smile. "I am Mister Gilroy, Madam"
"Chung Moon-Young. Pleasure," she said in a way that immediately telegraphed that it wasn't a pleasure. "I believe Mister Brek has had an issue with his suit. If you'll excuse me."
Moon darted around the pair and entered their store. She approached the tubular display and plucked the tweed jacket. She looked back at the three men by the door and gave them a tight smile, before holding the sleeve up to her face and rubbing the cloth between thumb and forefinger.
The pair turned to watch, Fulcrum pivoting from the waist, while his feet remained firmly planted in place. Gilroy rotated around, and used one finger to push his spectacles further up on his nose.
“I’m curious, how does that one compare to the poor suits I have been sold this morning? Is there anything of value in this sewing factory? One would like to know.” The Ferengi looked at the two tailors, the tall and the shorter one, who, this morning he had so completely trusted.
Fulcrum swung his body back towards Brek. "Sewing factory? Sir, this is not a... sewing factory This is a Gentlemans Emporium. We do not... sell things" He spoke the last words as though they were quite distasteful. "We are purveyorsof fine gentlemen's apparel.
As to your question... The garment the... young lady... with you..." He paused, then asked "She is with you, I presume?"
“The young lady is a friend of mine,” Brek replied, choosing to ignore the latent sarcasm about the unlikeliness of seeing a Ferengi in the company of a charming young lady - unless she was dumb and starving for latinum. “A friend who happens to have a vast knowledge of refined apparels.”
"Quite so, Sir," Fulcrum nodded as though Brek's reply was of no real consequence, then continued "The garment the... young lady is... perusing... is Tweed. Harris Tweed to be... precise. "
Gilroy turned back around to Brek and added, "It is a closely woven woolen fabric, that garment is in a naturally dyed herringbone weave, the wool coming from a heritage flock on the Island of Skye, in Scotland. That would be on Earth, Sir." He peered at Brek through his glasses, as though Brek might not know where Earth was.
"It is a very durable and robust fabric, commonly used for Hunting Jackets and outdoor wear, Sir. That jacket is of our exclusive Heirloom Collection, that could be passed along to your grandchildren, Sir,"
"Do you... hunt... Mister Brick?" Fulcrum enquired, in a tone that implied he highly doubted Brek did "Or participate in any... outdoor pursuits? Sir?"
“No, Mr Fulsome, I do not hunt. My pursuits are strictly aesthetical,” Brek said, his tone icy. “As such your heirloom collection is of no interest to me. My purpose this morning was to purchase formal suits from your emporium.”
Moon guffawed from across the story. "This isn't a Harris. The wool isn't virgin. It's a donegal tweed. Or it would be if it wasn't made from cashmere. And it's not heritage flock. The red thread isn't dyed. About a decade ago, red wool became all the rage. A mill in Alpha Centauri City spent the next three years genetically engineering red sheep. That would be on Alpha Centauri, Mr. Gilligan. To be precise."
She flashed a caustic smile, dropped the tweed coat on the floor in a heap, and reached for another off the rack. "Oh. Viscose. How avant-garde." The coat followed the tweed to the floor with a soft plop.
Gilroy bustled over and retrieved the hunting jacket, picking it up and dusting it off he replaced it on the hanger. "Madam, cashmere comes from goats! This is finest Skye lamb's wool Tweed!
We do have cashmere and pashmina, but in scarfs and cardigans, over there!" He pointed to another rack then hurried over to the dropped coat "And this, madam, is a worsted serge."
He lifted it and laid it over his arm "A gentleman's classic heavy overcoat, with a military style, and epaulets! Viscose indeed it is not madam!" He returned the coat to the rack and glared at Moon.
Moon's eyes widened and her voice hit a new octave, "Oh, you didn't just...I designed the costumes for the Downtown Abbey revival in the West End. I basically dreamed tweed for a year and half. The Alpha Centauri sheep were genetically engineered. They crossed them with goats from Mongolia. So the sheep, or excuse me 'shoats' or 'geeps,' produced cashmere. And don't even with the worsted serge. That thread is synthetic!"
"Madam, we are purveyors of high quality gentleman's apparel!" Gilroy protested, "I am a senior member of the Federation's Master Tailors Guild! We do not make costumes! here!" He stopped trailing around after her and gripped both end of his tape measure tightly.
"A senior member? A senior member? Like, wow, oh my god. I'm so sorry. Should I genuflect and kiss your ring or would a simple curtsy suffice? Oh! I know. How 'bout you kiss my..."
"Am I to understand that you are in some way... disappointed... in your purchase this morning Sir?" Fulcrum asked Brek, distracting the Ferengi from the Moon's colorful retort.
“Thank you for noticing the general mood, Mr Fulsome,” Brek remarked, quite impressed by the difference between Moon’s assessment of the garments on display, and Fulcrum’s and Gilroy’s praise for their wares. “You have, in front of you, a dissatisfied customer. Moon, do you see anything in this... er... Emporium that you would consider buying? If not, I’m afraid, gentlemen, that I’ll have to insist on a refund.”
"Me?" she picked up a scarf and chortled loudly and dropped the offending garment back on the table. "No. I don't make it a habit of dressing like my fourth great-grandfather. I will say that all of this stuff is better made and at least comes from somewhere. As opposed to the dreck they sold you. Replicated fabric, Mr. Full O'Shit? Really? Were you trying to embarrass him? Make him seem like an idiot? That's my friend!"
"Perhaps, your... lady-friend... might like to take a seat, while you and I discuss... matters, like... gentlemen sir," Fulcrum suggested turned towards Moon, pivoting again from the waist and gesturing loftily to the chesterfield. "Madam appears to be a little... over excited"
“You sound like a product of a very dark age, Fulcreme,” Brek commented, staggered to hear words on this Station, that would sound so totally normal on Ferenginar.
Moon shot Fulcrum a murderous stare and muttered under her breath about the various creative ways she could think of to raise the excitement to a whole other level.
Swivling back to Brek he continued "Did you say... Insist..? Mister Breek, on a.. refund?" Fulcrum's eyebrows rose higher, "On what... basis... do tell?"
Brek cursed under his breath in Ferengi, yet the most primitive part of his brain couldn’t help admiring the tailor’s persistent technique. “My dear Mister Vulgrim, would you rather I keep the three substandard suits you had the nerve to sell me, so that I can advertise their poor workmanship everywhere I go?”
"I see..." Fulcrum replied "You will recall... Sir.... that you selected our.... discounted... line, under our Three for One promotion. I would.... therefore... refer you to the Wear and Tear guarantee as printed on your... receipt."
He leaned forward over Brek and peered down at him. "Sir, does have his... receipt... does he?"
“I would rather we continue our business right here. And true enough...” Brek gave an apologetic glance at Moon. "I took advantage of a promotion that I saw as being quite irresistible. But I would never have imagined that you would actually sell me suits that are so poorly made. How can this ‘Wear and Tear’ line have found its way into your Emporium? This is a disgrace. And yes, I have my receipt,” Brek added, as he produced his PaDD, on which there was a scan of the receipt. He presented it to the tailor, along with the jacket that he had brought with him. "Here you had better take that back," he continued, giving the jacket to Fulcrum.
"What the eff is a 'discount line?' And what the hell is a 'promotion?' And 'wear and tear?' And what for the love of all that is holy does a 'receipt' have to do with anything?” Moon loudly asked. She was lost by the conversation - this had something to do with currency, she was sure - but felt the unsettled rumble of an epiphany on the horizon.
No one paid attention to her questions and her back stiffened considerably.
Fulcrum unclasped his hands as Brek held out jacket and PaDD. He extended his right arm and took the device, holding it gingerly between index finger and thumb. Then his left arm and took the jacket in a similar grip, holding both at arms length.
He cleared his throat. "Ahem... Mister Gilroy, are you free?"
Gilroy looked around, as though checking the store for a customer, there were none other than Brek and Moon.
"I am free, Mister Fulcrum."
"Your assistance please, Mister Gilroy."
"Certainly Mister Fulcrum." He waddled over and Fulcrum handed him the jacket, holding it out at arms length.
"Wear and tear Mister Gilroy?"
Gilroy pushed his spectacles back up his nose and peered closely at the torn sleeve. "It would appear to be torn Mister Fulcrum."
"Torn?... Mister Gilroy"
"Torn, Mister Fulcrum"
"I see..."
"Deliberately torn, Mister Fulcrum."
"Deliberately torn?... Mister Gilroy"
"Yes, Mister Fulcrum"
"I see..." Fulcrum pivoted back and peered down at Brek "Deliberately torn... Mister Berk?"
Brek grunted. “Of course you would say that. However, this suit was barely worn and already it tore at the seams. It is simply not fit for purpose. Low quality doesn't mean it should fall apart within hours.”
Fulcrum reached up and took the PaDD in his left hand, he extended his right index finger and pecked at the control panel, peered at the screen, pecked again, peered again and then held it out to show Brek.
Our Wear and Tear Guarantee... Mister Birk," he paused, coughed and recited, "Under The Biding Terms Of Purchase of Any And All Discounted, Sale, And/Or Other Promotional Sales Of Any Description The Liability Guarantee Is Hereby Waived And All Rights Are Forfeit."
He paused and then said, "You wear it and tear it.... there is no guarantee... Mister Bruk!"
“I shan’t do such a thing, Mister Fullofit!” Brek countered. “You are not trading on an Orion or a Ferengi outpost, where everything goes according to the whims of storekeepers. Federation citizens are protected by consumers rights and those state that goods should be fit for the purpose they are supplied for, as well as any specific purpose a customer made known to the retailer before agreeing to buy the goods. I told you, this morning, that I needed formal suits. I’m not a vagrant, I run an art gallery on this station!”
Moon’s eyes widened. "Wait, wait, wait. This suit was made poorly on purpose? On purpose?" Fulcrum didn't give her any sign that he was going to dignify that question with a response, which Moon took as affirmation. "Oh my god! This isn’t how civilization works."
"This indeed... Civilization... Madam," Fulcrum replied airily.
“And for a civilization to function, Moon,” Brek added hastily, “it is best not to be too civilized, as demonstrated by these two gentlemen.”
Moon’s mouth fell agape.
“In any case, under the consumer rights act 2395, I’m entitled to reject the faulty items I bought, within fifteen days of making the purchase." Brek added. " If you create more difficulties, Fulcrum and Gilroy, I’ll involve Civilian Affairs into this petty dispute.”
"Sir is, of course, completely... correct," responded Fulcrum smoothly. "However... items which have been... deliberately... damaged, are not covered under that... legislation, Mister Breek. Which would most certainly be the position of Messers Bernard, Fulcrum and Gilroy..." He held out the PaDD for Brek to retrieve and returned to clasping his hands together before him.
"As for the involvement of... Civil Affairs... I do not believe that there is currently an appointed administrator to whom sir could... complain." He gave Brek a smug smile, eyebrows peaked.
"Although, I have heard, Mister Fulcrum," Gilroy added "That there is a some Ferengi Art Dealer supposedly running for the offi..." He trailed off and turned to look at Brek
Fulcrum's eyebrows raised even higher as the smug smile dropped away.
He recovered quickly though and cleared his throat. "Ahem... However, Mister....Brek... at Messers Bernard, Fulcrum and Gilroy we do pride ourselves on ensuring our clients are completely... satisfied."
"It may be... that... the garment Sir purchased this morning was... Ahem... not completely... on par... with our normal.... standard," Fulcrum began, "And... we would indeed wish to... ensure... sir's.... complete satisfaction."
He turned to Gilroy, with his usual waist pivot. "I do believe, Mister Gilroy, that we are still offering a... lifetime... guarantee to all clients opening a... New Account... are we not?"
Gilroy looked confused for a moment, and adjusted his spectacles, blinking through them at Fulcrum, then caught on. "Ah... yes, Mister Fulcrum I do believe we are. With a complimentary personally tailored bespoke suit too!"
"Ahem... yes...quite, Mister Gilroy," Fulcrum swallowed but swung back to beam a smile at Brek.
"Do please dispose of... that... Mister Gilroy," He unclasped his hands and made a dismissive gesture towards the jacket Gilroy was holding.
"Certainly, Mister Fulcrum."
Gilroy waddled over to the counter and tossed the torn jacket behind it. Then moved back to the rear of the store where the pedestal was, removing the tape measure from around his neck and holding it out ready.
"This way please... Mister Brek," Fulcrum leaned forward and waved Brek towards the fitting pedestal.
"I don't mind if I do," Brek said, feeling nervous for the first time today. It was true that he had shown an interest in the civilian affairs position, but he had not pushed the matter too actively. The fact that Gilroy knew about his move showed that he had important connections on the starbase. This was impressive, and perhaps a little dangerous too. “But before I submit to your ...ministrations, gentlemen, I need a quiet word with my friend.”
"Ahh... yes... as sir wishes," Fulcrum gave a slight bow and retreated out of earshot to stand with Gilroy by the pedestal.
So instead of claiming his ‘victory’ and proceed to the pedestal, Brek encouraged Moon to join him by the table on which several shoes were on display. Those looked impressive to him, but perhaps that they were not, he was definitely not an expert in the clothing arts.
“I know what you will say, Moon,” Brek whispered. “You haven’t seen anything of value in this shop and I’m wasting my time. But I’d like to take their offer to have a new suit made. You see, I have political ambitions, and I don't want these two as enemies. So...” He took a deep breath. “What sort of wool would you recommend?"
Moon flatly regarded at Brek. The suggestion that she help him pick out clothes here was perhaps the most offensive thing she’d heard all day. No, all year. “Why start with wool? Let’s start with shoes.”
She picked a brown cap toe oxford and shook it under Brek’s nose, “This says, ‘Hi, I’m a Ferengi who is parading around in knock-off antique shoes. I obviously know what I’m talking about. Vote for me!’”
Moon dropped the shoe onto the table and whirled away to the coat racks again, plucking yet another coat from its berth. “This says, ‘My name is Brek. I’m wearing a cheap suit that my friends at Bilked, Forgery, and Gullible, and Conmen convinced me was in my best interest to pay for – with currency. You can trust me to get the best thing for you!’”
“Oh! Ties. Can’t forget those pointless bits of cloth,” she flung the coat high into the air and marched over to another display table yanking a red cravat up from a handsomely put together display. “This is wonderful. It’s almost silk. And it would announce to the world that you’ll sell yourself out the instant someone offers you a deal. That’s perfect. You’ll get along swimmingly with all the Starfleet officers who take their oaths very seriously. Everyone knows they loath people with principles.”
The tie was flung aside with vigor. “Not only that, but people who are serious about buying art tend to have discerning eyes, so you dress yourself in any of this and you’ll be saying, ‘Go somewhere else! I beg you!’ It’s genius really. With these two as friends, you’ll have no need for enemies. So, I guess I'd start with the viscose suit.”
With his hands on his hips, Brek observed Moon's motions as she chose items here and there, that were almost what they ought to be. So much passion and outrage, directed at clothes, and his own words too, it was both frightening and entertaining. This said, the accusation she made against his character weren't so easy to digest. Due to this, he looked at the scene, baffled, with what might pass for an uncertain smile plastered on his face.
"Moon," he finally said. "You'll not survive five minutes on this station if you always say the first thing that comes to your mind. You need to apply discretion. Also not repeating words given to you in confidence would be a great quality to have."
"Shouting the first thing that comes to my mind is my right as a New Yorker!"
"I see... Well, Gentlemen," Brek added, turning towards Fulcrum and Gilroy. "A viscose suit would be perfect, with the tie and shoes that my friend has selected. On second thought, there is no need for you to take measurements again - you already did so at great length this morning. Please, send three suits - my initial order - to Timeless Treasure."
“Why stop at three? Why not five synthetic suits. Why not six? It’s really a shame you don’t know an award winning costume designer. That’s all clothes are, after all,” she flung a menacing look at Gilroy, “They’re just costumes. Oh, hang on a second. You do know someone. Me. Let me design and make your suits. Let these two sell to wandering Englishman from the 22nd Century.”
"You should calm down, Moon. There is nothing wrong with the twenty-second century or Britishness." Brek insisted. "If you have something to say about designing clothes, don't shout it. Open a shop and express yourself with what you create. I'll even insist on being your first customer. Is this matter settled now?"
"Did you just tell me to calm down? Oh, Brek, I am going to make you wish you hadn’t – "
"Ahem... "It would appear Fulcrum and Gilroy had not been quite out of earshot
"Perhaps... Madam... would be interested in a... commission... to design a more.... Ahem.. en vogue gentlemen's collection? " Fulcrum murmured , hands clasped together, leaning forward with his widest smile.
"Perhaps a... small.. initial ensemble... to.. Ahem... gauge interest? A couple of jackets, trousers, shirts?"
"Our cutting room and facilities would be at your disposal," Gilroy added.
Moon regarded the three of them and rolled her eyes. "Brek, you and are going to be talking about what and what not to say to me...and possibly, the shop idea. You two...ugh. I don't even..." She turned on her heel and stalked out of Messer's Bernard, Fulcrum & Gilroy & Co. Purveyors of Fine Gentlemen's Apparel & Bespoke Tailors, By Appointment.
"Right. Gentlemen, I too must be off now." Brek said with a grin that curiously wouldn't leave his face.. "'Twas quite interesting doing business with you."
He then left the Tailor's Emporium. "Moon, will you please wait for me!?"
