LOOK AT ME! LOVE ME!
The desperate cries of some Puppetgirls under a Demonic Crone in a bestiary of affective capitalism
“Hello, you!” the Smoky Perfume Fringe Call Girl exclaimed with excitement while looking greedily and complacently at the bottle of Xaneyl perfume that the old witch had bought her in exchange for lust games in their hot beds smelling of sweat, stale perfumes and cigarette smoke. And the days passed, falling away like brittle dead leaves. The Smoky Perfume Fringe received another gift, a Strudion perfume bottle, and this time she spared her imagination with a simple celebration emoji, it was indeed another gift that the old hag and predator had given her as a demonstration of egotistical and toxic manipulation under the guise of love from an affectionate grandmother.
Smoky Perfume Fringe lived off the attentions of her beloved decrepit hag, to whom she was always sending pictures of glamorous beds and exclusive perfume bottles as to say “if you get me these perfumes, you can have me at your command, like a toy of lust.” This vortex of predation and submission enthralled the Smoky Perfume Fringe, who sought constant attention from the wicked eyes of the Demonic Crone, pleased as a monster to keep her girls suspended on a tightrope to exert her toxic egomaniacal power over her bedmaidens. Smoky Perfume Fringe was always on alert in case another Call Girl of the decrepit granny would replace her or take more advantage, and of course pricey gifts!
Hence, Smoky Perfume Fringe used different ambiences to allure the Crone, such as her alleged resemblance to iconic divas with cigarettes and fringes, sumptuous beds in lascivious furniture magazines, and photos of Xaneyl perfumes, always present in her imagination to show how sophisticated she was. In reality, Smoky Perfume Fringe was a dummy without personality or critical sense, only obsessed with luxury brands and perfumes. All that she could do was to get a social position, money, and pricey gifts from the Demonic Crone, hoping that one day maybe, she would get a mansion and something more…
Because at the end, Smoky Perfume Fringe was already enjoying her “privileged bed role” in the life of the vicious granny, having obtained a stable armchair in a luxury antiques dealer without any diploma papers to show. Smoky Perfume Fringe was contending the Crone’s attention with other lustful Call Girls, such as Sliced Rancid Cake and Phoney Literary Coffee. Both damsels were ridiculously jostling to gain more space in the arid and cynical heart of their lovely Unscrupulous Monster (our beloved Demonic Crone) who controlled and presided over them from a distance.
Bustling in front of the mirrors, Sliced Rancid Cake was looking for the best angle to show off her face with duck lips, flowing two-toned hair and hand in heart pose to pop a kiss and at the same time send a heart to her beloved and mischievous grandmother (of course, not her real grandmother!), Demonic Crone. Sliced Rancid Cake had just baked a cheesy book about love, pastries and stars, between a video game and a spree of pastries. Immersed in depressing music about stories of love and delirium, it showed images of inns and taverns where she was about to meet her obsession: Demonic Crone, who had invited this Call Girl to dine out.
Sliced Rancid Cake showed off proudly the catch of her fishing, which was all the gifts Demonic Crone had given her such as necklaces, aromatic museum tea selection boxes, porcelain services, expensive Dusgassy chocolate boxes and rocking horses (the latter to allude to one of their games in bed…), besides her entrance facilitated into a university filled with snow and vandalized books by one of her favorite Call Girls. Sliced Rancid Cake’s total instability showed a total trust in her teaser, and an absent critical sense that the vicious granny loved to be able to manipulate and manage the Call Girl at her command.
In the meantime, Phoney Literary Coffee was preparing one of her cultural videos with pinup poses and salacious attitudes among coffee cups and mischievous winks, providing pseudo-literary and fake cultural advice in a mellifluous Call Girl voice. She spent some time in the palace of the Demonic Crone, walking unclothed on the edge of the pool, while the Demonic Crone was staring at her with vicious eyes and greed. Buried in dusty books and chaotic coffee cups, Phoney Literary Coffee recommended books to the deluded crowd that she had never read and fed them pages of texts centred on saviour grandmothers overflowing with wisdom.
Shaking the Great Temple of Art at every step, the Demonic Crone fed on the residue and dust of the rare masterpieces of art she was methodically destroying with her own hands. Each day she shared her time between carnal encounters with her Call Girls, and the obliteration of all the most precious and magnificent artworks. None of her devilish close circle dared to question any decree of the despotic Demonic Crone, at the cost of their destitution. The Call Girls worshipped their decrepit mistress as a goddess and heroine, when in reality she was the queen of dysfunctional feminism and the complete subjugation of her foolish and shallow courtesans.
There was no salvation for the disgraced Great Temple of Art…unfortunately…every magnificent artwork fell into the abyss of obliteration and oblivion. Even the Monnalisa was just a faraway memory of a godly icon, now a blurred whisper of despair and horror, her smile dissolved into the filth and latrines, a ghost trapped among crumbled marble and scorched canvases. And the Call Girls, their voices plain and trembling, were yelling at their inept mistress: “LOOK AT ME! LOVE ME!”.
Elisabetta Esther
