Sated Attire

Ron Koppelberger

Sated Attire

He worked long into the evening, fashioning his garland and the suit. The exterior of the suit was silk and the interior was a reflection of his anger, his unabiding hate for the man. He lined the inside of the suit with sandpaper and when he was done he smiled at his clever creation. Perhaps he would itch and fret, maybe even bleed a bit, great gouts of blood he thought to himself. Perhaps he’d rub all the flesh from his body leaving a bleach white skeleton, clacking and clinking as it meandered about in the sandpaper. Shiny bones he thought, shiny bones like glass, easy to break, to smash into a thousand bits of splintered refuse.
The hour rapidly approached and he waited with anticipation for the man to don the sandpaper suit. Bloody flesh and scraped skin, leaking in torrents, maybe in buckets of crimson pain, sandpaper for the governor Sir, sandpaper for the governor. He hoped and prayed for the sandy grind against the man’s flesh, leaking blood and viscera, spilling to the ground in great stinking heaps. He smiled as the man approached the door to his tailor’s shop and he sang with joy.

“Wonderful splatters of blood

For the matters of his crud,

Dripping, oozing in drips and drops,

In snits and spots,

Let the sandpaper march begin with

The pardonable sin!”

The man entered the shop and looked at the suit, “Beautiful my good man, absolutely splendid!” Striping from his cloths he put the suit on.
“This is superb my fine tailor, how did you know of my skin condition? Neverthemind my man, this is a perfect fit for my dry aching skin, for you see I am affected with scales and dry patches from head to toe, thank you my man thank you!”
The man left the shop after paying a small fortune to the tailor. The suit maker sat quietly wondering at his genius and waiting for the next customer to arrive, his hate lessoned by the promise of a job well done.