I've been listening to nothing but Rob Zombie, as I previously mentioned, but it's now mixing in with like blues and southern rock songs and Johnny Cash and things of that like, and while Rob alone breeds Bambi Colorado, that combination breeds this.
☼ Montgomery, Adelaide (22) (July 9 1990)
Hometown: Nashville, Tennessee
Theme song: Too Old to Die Young-Brother Dege
Scent: Demeter, Beeswax
Never without: 19th century Winchester revolver-it’s a family heirloom; dark sunglasses, a beat-up paperback and her favorite stuffed rabbit, Mittens.
The tramp/specialization: Miss Adelaide is all about the short-range guns-revolvers and pistols shot with a clever one-liner; she likes a good old-fashioned quick draw that’s always in her favor. She’s excellent at covering up the messes she makes--except for a tiny brand of her zodiac sign [cancer] that she burns behind the victim’s left ear.
Likes: Preppy sweaters over collared shirts, trenchcoats, hedgehogs, southern blues music, southern metal, Django Unchained, Burberry, men with tattoos and cowboy hats, foamy lattes, desserts with honey, gin, camping in the desert and stargazing, classical studies, speech writing, being up at sunrise.
Dislikes: Texans, foreign languages, hostels, cold weather, pop music and ‘indie’ music, television, internet memes, basically anything current, soft hands, fishing, being told who to kill when--Addie does things on her own time.
Bio: Adelaide is a coin toss; she is the intellectual cowgirl, the preppy outlaw, an ignorant genius both sophisticated and classless, a rebel of Southern Athens who once upon a time just wanted to go to a local college and major in public relations and political science, or maybe music production. This isn’t to say she lost her ambition--Miss Addie is an ingrained type A, no matter how you flip her--but sometimes a course just gets recharted. Plans change. Parents get murdered. Houses burn to the dust. And she only heard about when the authorities bothered to call her at school a week later, with a package of the few surviving heirlooms. Addie dropped out of college and left Tennessee with nothing but a weeks worth of clothes, a locket of mom and dad, Mittens the rabbit, and Charlie the revolver, with revenge eating her heart. The Montgomery family bank account was left all to her, and she bought a ticket to England where she soothed her ache by playing guitar in local pubs along with her new pet Hedgehog, Elvis. But instead of being scouted for a record deal, she found herself pursued by the local fashion industry. Walking in London Fashion Week for lesser known designers got her involved in a shallow pond she never expected herself to be in--but it took her mind off the worse in life for awhile. That is until the murderer struck again back home in the states, and Addie got some anonymous mail with the suspect’s face. She wanted blood, and that was the moment she snapped. Her modeling career took a tumble as she took up heavy drinking and self-righteous vigilantism on the streets of London, Venice, and Munich, until she was finally arrested in Berlin, and was sent back to an English Mental Institution for after pleading not guilty by insanity. It’s been a year, and they say Adelaide is cured, but she’s just gotten really good at managing her two sides, the lone gun-woman sheriff trying to clean up the entire world and the sweet southern frat girl trying to stamp her name on it. When a source tips her off about Prague, she’s repacked with what she had before--Mittens, Charlie, and Elvis as companions--determine to be the Adelaide Montgomery she was going to be, but first only to once and for all satiate that unsatisfied bloodlust under the perfect guise in a place so very far from home.
Model: Kasia Struss
Taken by: @ducktape
a. Tell us about you. What’s your name, how old you are your background.
I was a teenage prom queen, you know, and Humme-Fogg class of '09s valedictorian not to mention. Once upon a time, I sure was someone you would want to bring around to your parent’s house--not that I’m propositioning any romantic inclination, darling, don’t go getting yourself all wet now. Adelaide Montogomery, voted most likely to succeed. I always thought that was a little generic. Did they mean success as in riches and glory, a nice glass home with a view and pool full of vodka and music room full of has-been platinum country stars? Did they mean success as in a loving husband, a few beautiful babies and a lovable mutt in the suburbs, a job that never left us hungry or fighting about bills? Or did they mean power, me, a senator, a president, the first woman, with an accent thick as Clinton’s. Did they mean that, or did they mean this? I think I’m succeeding; the real reason I was voted as such was that I’m always succeeding, the moment I wake up in the morning til the moment the sun comes down. I will never let my self down, and for that, I am rewarded. I was plucked up off London out of a hundred faces to strut my pretty self through flashing bulbs and house music, slim and genetically prepped for this line of...work. How can it be, that I’m so lucky? It’s just so, that’s all. I’m good luck. Even when I’m at my worst, I’m at everyone else’s best.
b. Why should we even consider you for a job? What could you bring to the agency that we haven’t seen before?
Well, English probably. I can’t pronounce a damn one of those eastern European girl’s names on the fashion week roster and I felt like a fool every time I asked them to pronounce it. So I won’t be having anyone tongue tied, my name is fairly straightforward--well actually, it might be French, my first, but anyhow. I have the walk of confidence--it’s /the/ prime entrance strut, almost masculine but whole femme fatale. I use it to my advantages whenever I get the chance. Oh, don’t believe me? Watch this.
c. How much experience do you have? Any unusual talents?
Oh, just the one season.But I took it up quickly. I always take up things quickly. If I have my heart set on it, it will be done. You should define unusual, because I have a vast array of talents that range from giving people nicknames to coffee foam art to speaking ancient greek to underwater ballet to guitar playing and crooning to psychics to being able to tell you a hundred stories just from looking at the stars. I can do whatever you need me to.
d. What’s your greatest weakness and what’s your greatest strength?
My greatest strength is my greatest weakness--and that’s my self. I push myself forward, constantly; if I stop I’ll probably die. And when I do that, I slow myself down, wear myself out. Work myself to blood and dust. If I keep going I’ll probably die.
There’s no other ending to this story.
e. What are you passionate about?
I love music, and I love public speaking. That’s usually the worst fear of some, not me. I have this notion that I can do I lot of good in the world, that I have a voice that needs to be hear. The problem is I don’t really have a message or a cause.
Oh, and yeah. Fashion, I guess. Go haute couture?
f. Describe your work style.
Clean. You gotta keep it clean, you got to look presentable, just changeable. I’m always under a trench, and stopping through puddles in boots; I keep heels in my purse, in case of an emergency. But I love hats too; it’s the one thing that sets me apart from those LBD factory models.
PARIS, Fall 2011 Fashion Week
“Se mettre en position! Le spectacle a commencé!”
The old queen was snapping at all the backstage dolls in French again. I had one had on my boot and grabbed for my only trusted American assisstant--the Brit model agent who was otherwise the real life incarnate of Stanley Tucci’s character in the Devil Wear’s Prada and my personal life support in this circle of Inferno I accidentally agreed to be part of.
Charlie Daniels the Third [not the fiddle player who bested the Devil, I joked to myself since the day I met him] went a bit wide eyed and leaned down himself to tie the laces on my shoe while replying, “Get your skinny ass in line, Dolly. You’re on sixth.”
“Call me that w*tch’s name again and you see if I don’t walk out on...which one am I at?”
“My god, child” he raised his eyes and hands to heavens briefly, “It’s only Chanel?”
“Oh, I know that one.” I stood up, grazed a Euro kiss around his forehead, and felt myself being dragged into a military precision line-up. “Hey, Chuck, do I look fabulous?”
“You’re a blonde this season, darling, of course you do.”
I rolled my eyes, but smiled and shot him gun-slinger a-ok fingers, and he shot me back. Then I braced myself for the lights.
LONDON, Three months later.
The rain should have washed away all this blood by now, but my hands were dripping with it, and shaking like I was going up to the confessional and had just been rolling around with Billy Hayes like a no good town sl*t the night before. I wish I had a priest right about then, and the cross around my neck, my mother’s cross, wasn’t granting any of my prayers.
I had my Chanel boots on. That had been a mistake.
The bullet holes through the guys’ chest, that might have been a mistake too.
But I have great aim. My Daddy made sure of that; it was my right back home in America. And right now I was feel pretty sorry I wasn’t at the mercy of that potentially flawed but so beautiful right to a trial. When the officers found me, they would read me no Miranda rights. Things haven’t happened that way over here quite yet.
But I stood frozen in the ally, too shocked with myself to move. Too paralyzed with my own success in what I had just done and feeling mighty guilty about it.
Had I reason to?
No. No I really fucking had no reason to. This guy, he had followed me from the bar. I tried to dodge him about a half a block up, but that only made him cease to be discreet about it. He caught up to me, pinned me.
He tried to rip into my skirts, so I ripped into him.
We have this saying. If someone tries to hurt you, hurt them back.
But this--/this/--this isn’t what I had meant to do. It was just--I always had Charlie with me, not in case of something like this, but because it was the last piece of Dad I had. The necklace, God, silver, that was Mom. Heritage, country, violence, that was Dad.
“You see this,” I had told my unsuccessful r*pist when I pointed and c*cked it to his unshaven chin, “This is Charlie. Charlie is the one who goes up against the devil. And you know what Charlie did?”
And I pulled the trigger.
“He won the goddamned golden fiddle.”
By then his body grumbled to the cobblestone, blood mixing with rain until it slithered out of him like cornsnakes rushing shelter; but I kept shooting--one, two, three rounds, until--click, my pistol was out and tree gaping holes spilled his chest.
I heard the sirens now. I blinked, for the first time in what seemed like a hundred years. Someone must’ve heard the gunshots. Someone must’ve called.
The authorities couldn’t have me, and they sure as hell couldn’t have my Charlie. I pocketed my weapon and left that body for them to find alone. Who’d miss the lonely barfly? The case would drop, and I’d be a shadow slipping behind the sun.
As I ran, the voice of an old friend entered my head, another Charlie.
“You know, darling, killing people isn’t very Chanel.”
And I replied to empty streets, “I was never cut out for fashion anyhow.”