It was nearly prom! Which meant formalwear! Tink loved formalwear. People looked ever so pretty in formalwear, and most of them even bathed themselves.
There were
racks and racks filled with dresses, and a
good selection of
tuxes and
suits as well.
Let's not forget shoes.
Pixie Dust was open.
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The girl had brought the dress to burn it? For burning purposes? To burn and drink some hard liquor and hope to erase its painful, painful presence from the inside of her skull? Bleach. Bleach was required. Right?
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Oh, no! This girl had been kidnapped by that insane cult of people who kidnapped them and hid them in the basement and made them all insane homeless mental patients who had no fashion sense whatsoever! Like the crazy lady who hated shoes!
(This was, in fact, the start of the Kerrigan/Tink war, in a nutshell. The war that Tink was still unaware of.)
Okay. She should breathe into a paper bag or something and hand Tink that dress and Tink would take it into the back room, where she burned things, and they would find her a new dress. One that wasn't horrifyingly tacky.
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Had the girl considered Saran Wrap? Colored Saran Wrap and Christmas lights? That would get attention.
Tacky, yes, but ... well. So was the dress. And at least Saran Wrap seemed avant-garde.
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She was serious? She was wearing that dress? Tink couldn't talk her into something slinky and red and sequined and utterly fabulous? There were ways to get attention that weren't ... that ... thing.
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First - this was important - shoes. In the searing neon yellow accent color, would be Tink's recommendation. What sort of shoes? Wedges? Strappy heels? Chunky and casual? Sleek? Faaaaabulous? Tink always went for faaaaaabulous, herself, but if this girl liked that dress, all bets were off.
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They would figure something out, with the shoes. Take them. Now. Accessories!
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Oh, Tink loved shopping. Wasn't it ever so fun?
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