# Daisy's House of Fashion The Storytelling Collective is hosting a Flash Fiction February event, in which writers are encouraged to write a piece of flash fiction every day in February. This is my first entry. [[Feb 1]] - [[Feb 2]] - [[Feb 3]] --- From the outside, it looked like a thrift shop specializing in trendy vintage clothing. From the inside, it _smelled_ like a thrift shop specializing in trendy vintage clothing. Supposedly, this little hole in the wall harbored some great secret in the world of vigilante operations. A magic bullet that could get you out of trouble. Even so, the odor violently assaulted my nose before the bell above the door finished ringing, but that was nothing compared to the actual beating I’d just taken after a botched attempt at taking out an illegal arms dealer. I didn’t want to come here. I somehow always managed to avoid it—but my father always ensured I knew of its existence. _If you’re ever in a spot so tight, you can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel, get your ass to Daisy’s House of Fashion. Tell her you’re my son and she’ll help you out._ After weaving through the racks, I approached the checkout counter where a woman with jet black hair, thick eyeliner, and dark purple lips flipped through a magazine. She sat on an antique ice cream parlor stool with a blue fuzzy seat cushion. The tread on her boots gripped the edge of the counter as her chair rocked back and forth on the two rear legs. “Are you Daisy?” She looked far too young to be an old friend of my father, but I didn’t know what else to ask. She plucked two wireless earbuds out of her ears and dropped her feet down to the floor with the chair coming to its proper upright position. “What?” “Are—are you Daisy?” Her eyes rolled. “No.” I looked back at the door I’d come in through. “Well, do you know where I can find her? Its an emergency.” “Oh. You’re one of those.” Her eyes scanned my wounds. She hopped down from the stool and disappeared under the counter. A moment later she came back up with a book nearly the size of a briefcase, which she plopped onto the counter and cracked open. “Name?” She asked without looking up at me. “Mark Decker.” She slipped her fingers behind a tab and opened to the D section. “No Mark Decker here.” “My father sent me. Grant Decker.” She took a pen and marked a box on the page next to my father’s name. There were two more empty ones next to it and one that had previously been marked. Then, she slammed the book closed again and stuffed it back under the counter. “How many?” “Three, maybe four.” She looked over my shoulder, out the windows of the shop. “Mira, play Shell Shock.” “Playing Shell Shock by Watermona,” an automated voice echoed through the shop. “Get behind the counter with me. And when the beat drops, you drop. Got it?” “When does the beat drop? “In about 53 seconds.” As soon as she finished her sentence, a song’s intro began booming through unseen speakers. My eyes flickered from my watch to the men approaching outside. In ten seconds, I was standing next to her. In another 20 seconds, they waltzed into the store, brandishing firearms. “Do you know where you are?” the girl next to me asked, yelling over the music. “A soon-to-be crime scene?” one of the men replied with a smirk on his scarred face. She laughed—no, giggled—in a way that sent a shiver up my spine. “Man, I love this part.” Then proceeded to start dancing to the EDM song playing over the speakers. The men seemed confused, but they wouldn’t have time to work it out. The beat was about to drop. The music built up to an intense crescendo and released a set of bass tones so deep, it vibrated through the glass case I stood behind yet somehow didn’t shatter it. In synchrony with the bass tones, the sound of gunfire exploded through the air from above us. From my position on the floor, I peered up to see a set of automated machine guns, pumping lead contemporaneously with the music. The guns changed their positions automatically and aimed for anyone standing in the store beyond the safe zone we were in. After a few moments, the shots stopped and the music continued. The woman who had saved my life stood and admired her handy work. Feathers floated gently to the ground. Shreds of fabric littered the aisles. Blood began to pool on the old blue carpeting. “For future reference, you can call me Vee. You have two more boxes to be checked by Daisy’s House of Fashion. If you wish to receive more services after those boxes are checked, we have several missions available for you to complete.” “Should I—help clean this up?” “Clean up is included in the service. See you next time, Mr. Decker.”