Jenny, perched elegantly beside Karen, sported a dress that was less "unconventional" and more a bold, defiant statement against the tyranny of straight hemlines. Instead of a dreary horizontal finish, her entire hemline plunged into a audacious V-shape, a cunning architectural marvel that, with every delicate step, offered tantalizing, calculated glimpses of her truly magnificent legs.
This V-cut wasn't merely a design choice; it was a revolution, shedding the cumbersome bulk of traditional fabric and, while undeniably adding a touch of unique, almost alien beauty, it absolutely unleashed a torrent of raw, feminine magnetism. The dress didn't just look inspired; it looked like it had stolen inspiration directly from the goddesses of flirtation.
And as for Mary-Beth and the other ladies, adorned in their respective masterpieces? No further introduction was needed. Their ensembles were so utterly high-end, so spectacularly glamorous, they rendered the lavish attire of the surrounding noblewomen not just "incomparable," but utterly, painfully, laughably obsolete.
The opulent fabrics, the dazzling jewels, the suffocating layers of their competitors' gowns now seemed, in comparison, like the simplest, most aggressively vulgar garments plucked from a dusty, forgotten attic. Every painstakingly applied decoration on their rivals' dresses now screamed "utterly tasteless!"
Yes, utterly tasteless! Compared to the daring, fresh, and undeniably sexy outfits flaunted by Dutch's beautiful emissaries, the other women's clothing styles simply deflated, looking as common as mud and twice as dull. Those once-proud "classic" designs, those supposedly magnificent green emeralds adorning their sleeves? They didn't just lose their luster; they grew uglier the more one squinted at them, a grotesque monument to dated fashion.
It became painfully clear: their "extreme opulence" wasn't a fashion statement; it was a desperate, flailing attempt to indirectly conceal the gaping ugliness and fundamental flaws of their design. It made these clothes look not merely provincial, but downright peasant-like.
Therefore, a desperate, undeniable hunger ignited within the other passengers, a sudden, fervent desire for the clothes worn by the Van der Linde Gang's women. After a prolonged, frantic session of hushed, scandalized whispers in the train car, two ladies, dripping with what they thought was luxury, finally mustered the courage to approach the gang's table.
"Oh, excuse us, ladies," one began, her voice quivering with a bizarre mix of nervousness and frantic curiosity.
"May we… interrupt? Where, pray tell, did you acquire your clothes? Oh, the style! It looks so… novel! I've never, in all my days of endless shopping, seen anything designed quite like this! I wonder if you could possibly, mercifully, tell us where one might acquire such garments; we'd simply adore to buy a few… Oh, I'm so terribly sorry for our impertinence!"
From his perch at the bar, Dutch, ever the showman, watched their pathetic display with a knowing smirk. He raised a hand, smoothly ordering two cocktails appropriate for "ladies who are about to be amazed," then strolled over, radiating an almost predatory charm. Meanwhile, Mary-Beth and Karen, masters of the subtle art of seduction, had already begun to reel in their flustered admirers.
"Oh, thank you for your kind compliment, dear" Karen purred, her smile radiant enough to melt glaciers. She rose from her seat, her skirt swaying with a theatrical grace that seemed to defy gravity, a vision of effortless elegance. That swaying skirt, a living, breathing thing, truly was like a fluttering butterfly, dazzling every eye unfortunate enough to gaze upon it. As Karen delicately raised her hand, the luxurious sleeves slid down with her movement, causing the hem of her dress to ripple, a captivating dance that was both utterly charming and devastatingly elegant.
"Oh, dear, please, you must, must, MUST tell me," one of the eager ladies practically pleaded, her voice rising in a crescendo of desperation. "Where did you possibly acquire these clothes? They are so… beautiful! I cannot even imagine the sheer, blinding dazzle of wearing such an ensemble!" As Karen continued to move, her dress undulating with her, adding an almost hypnotic charm, the two ladies' breathing grew frantic, a desperate panting.
"DAMN IT!" they collectively thought, their minds racing with consumer lust. "These clothes are too, too beautiful! If one wore such clothing, the 'Return Rate' of male gazes and the sheer, unadulterated attention on the entire street would be astronomically high! Her husband would be utterly, gloriously unable to control himself when she returned home! And at any wretched banquet, she would be the most talked-about, most radiant creature in the entire room!"
Before Karen could deliver the final, glorious revelation, Dutch, having orchestrated his grand entrance, arrived from the bar, two perfectly crafted cocktails in hand, a benevolent smile plastered across his face. "Hahaha, ladies, hello! It is an immense pleasure to make your acquaintance. These exquisite clothes you so admire were, in fact, designed by yours truly."
Dutch delivered the line with the practiced ease of a seasoned actor, drawing the two ladies' immediate, undivided attention. With a flourish that was almost too much, he gallantly offered the two cocktails.
"Oh, sir, thank you ever so much!"
"Thank you, sir!"
The two ladies accepted the cocktails Dutch offered, their faces alight with pleasant surprise. They were almost instantly, irrevocably, and quite thoroughly impressed by Dutch's utterly disarming, gentlemanly demeanor. Cocktails on a train were not, strictly speaking, exorbitant, costing only a few measly cents.
But personally delivering them, offering them to two strangers, was an act of rare, almost mythological chivalry, even in the supposedly "high" society circles of the era. It might be common nowadays, but back then, with all the lingering discrimination, it was practically unheard of for the general public. At the very least, this feeling of being highly, almost absurdly, valued, made the ladies deliriously happy.
"Oh, sir, you are truly a gentleman!" the older woman, appearing to be in her forties and clearly the more dominant of the pair, spoke first. Her face was wreathed in smiles, her demeanor and tone unconsciously softening, becoming a touch more intimate, thanks to Dutch's perfectly timed cocktail.
Her attire, even by the train's opulent standards, was exquisite and elegant, her appearance undeniably proper; one could tell at a glance that her life was a symphony of opulence and undeniable nobility. Indeed, every soul in that particular train car was swimming in wealth. After all, a train ticket alone cost two dollars – which, back then, was the equivalent of a staggering one thousand dollars in today's money. In this Wild West, no mere pauper could afford such a luxury.
"Yes, dear Ms.," Dutch purred, his voice a honeyed blend of warmth and calculated charm. "These creations were indeed born from my very own hands. In fact, I am a humble fashion designer. Arthur Callahan, at your service. It is a genuine pleasure to meet you, and I am truly delighted that you appreciate my humble designs."
Dutch extended his hand, gently shaking the two ladies' hands. He exuded an aura of such genuine warmth, such disarming politeness, that it greatly, almost ridiculously, increased the two ladies' goodwill towards him. When one is out and about in the world, one's status, as Dutch well knew, is entirely self-proclaimed. If Dutch declared himself a fashion designer, then by God, he was a fashion designer!
Only Karen and the other women, along with Arthur, John, and the others, permitted themselves the faintest, almost imperceptible chuckles, careful not to betray their leader's magnificent fabrication.
"Damn it," Arthur's mind raced, a thought both incredulous and admiring. "Since when was Dutch a fashion designer?!" He mused that Dutch's pronouncement sounded rather noble, actually. Perhaps he could also adopt the esteemed title of "fashion designer" in his future endeavors.
"Oh, it's an absolute pleasure to meet you, Mr. Callahan. I am Ms. Camille Jones. And this," she gestured to her companion, "is my dear cousin, Ms. Shirley Jones. Your fashion designs are, quite frankly, incredibly striking. Are these garments for sale? Or rather, may we be granted the immense honor of purchasing clothes designed by you? Oh, these clothes are so unbelievably beautiful, I've never witnessed such unique designs, they are truly irresistible! And of course, Mr. Callahan, money is absolutely no problem!"
Ms. Camille and Ms. Shirley's faces glowed with an almost childlike anticipation, their eyes wide with the promise of fashion supremacy.