And Dutch's audacious gamble paid off, a masterstroke of psychological warfare. The initial flurry of compliments from the banquet's gentry, focused solely on the Van der Linde ladies' breathtaking gowns and their impossibly graceful figures, abruptly shifted.
Once the subtle, yet undeniably bold, words embroidered onto the fabric were discovered, the collective attention of the elite successfully pivoted. From fashion, their stunned gazes locked onto the concept of feminism and the three formidable women associated with it.
"Oh, shit! It's utterly unfathomable that Dorothea, Ann, and Alice could devise such a stunningly beautiful way to promote their cause!" A matron from the Heidi Family gasped, fanning herself furiously, her eyes wide with bewildered admiration. "This method of promotion... it's simply revolutionary!"
Advertising at this stage of the world was rudimentary, a blunt instrument of persuasion. Dutch's approach was a whispered revelation, a subtle, yet devastatingly effective, glimpse into a future they couldn't possibly comprehend.
The Lemieux Family, hosts of the evening, were equally staggered, their shock laced with outright disbelief. They knew the caliber of these "desperadoes"—or at least, they thought they did. How could such crude ruffians possess this level of cunning, this audacious intelligence? A murmur of astonished whispers rippled through their ranks.
Bronte, a dark star surrounded by his own sycophantic satellites, caught sight of the Van der Linde contingent. His eyes, predatory and calculating, narrowed almost imperceptibly, then blossomed into a wide, disarming smile.
He leaned in conspiratorially to the lackeys nearest him. "Hahaha, I confess, I like this gentleman. He's... different. He even possesses a certain shadow of my own genius, wouldn't you agree?" He puffed contentedly on his cigar, a knowing glint in his eye.
The chorus of approval from his cronies was immediate and practiced, a low hum of agreement. Bronte's smile remained plastered on his face, a mask of geniality, even as his mind, and his internal monologue, spewed vicious curses in rapid-fire Italian.
"Hahaha… you pathetic scumbags, you truly believe these cattle-smelling fools can replace me? Hahaha… a bunch of filthy pigs!"
He savored each unspoken insult, his outward demeanor radiating benevolent happiness. His tone sounded so exceptionally cheerful and kind that the circling elites, utterly oblivious to the venomous Italian, nodded and babbled along in obsequious agreement, a perfect display of high-society politesse.
While the entire ballroom still buzzed with bewildered compliments, Dutch and his entourage were smoothly escorted by a demure maid towards the villa's grand second floor.
Upon reaching the landing, the first to greet them were Alice, Ann, and Dorothea themselves, practically vibrating with suppressed excitement.
"Oh, Mr. Callahan, you're finally here!" Ms. Alice exclaimed, her hands clasped before her, her voice a breathless whisper of joy as she stepped forward. Dorothea and Ann, flanking her, practically beamed at Dutch.
"Oh, Mr. Callahan, Arthur!" Ms. Dorothea cried, her eyes wide, tears glistening on the verge. She practically launched herself at Dutch, her voice thick with emotion.
"We truly, truly don't know how to thank you! Oh, Arthur, I never imagined all your promises would be fulfilled! Do you know… do you know how utterly thrilled I was when I saw the feminist symbols on these clothes, and read the words on those tiny tags?"
She clutched Dutch's arm, then, with an almost frantic energy, leaned in and planted a surprisingly firm kiss on his cheek, leaving a faint imprint of her lipstick.
"Arthur, you will forever be a friend of our Wicklow Family! From this day forward, your clothing business will be under the unyielding protection of our Wicklow Family!"
Ann, not to be outdone, surged forward, practically tackling Dutch in a fierce hug. She then planted a wet, lingering kiss squarely on his cheek, her lips leaving a wet smudge.
"Oh, dear," she purred, her eyes like liquid silk, a blatant invitation shimmering within them. "I've already left the door open for you. I truly, truly don't know how to express my gratitude. From now on, you can use the trains in Lemoyne free of charge. Consider it our small, small token of gratitude!"
Ann's gaze was pure, unadulterated lust, and Ms. O'Shea, standing nearby, practically blazed with barely contained fury, her eyes narrowed into fiery slits. This disgusting woman, she seethed internally, from the very first moment she laid eyes on Dutch, she's been dripping with insatiable desire. Damn it, can't you just entertain yourself with someone else!
It was no wonder they were so unhinged. Their afternoon had been a whirlwind of escalating shock and awe. The initial discovery that the beautiful, intricate patterns woven into the fabric were, upon closer inspection, actually their three names, had almost made them collapse on the spot. But then, the clothing tags.
The sight of the bold call for feminism alongside their own three enormous names had sent them into an entire afternoon of uncontrollable, ecstatic frenzy.
The clothing tag read as follows, a subversive declaration tucked into the folds of fine fabric:
To the great feminist movement, we offer our highest respect. Ladies, UNITE! Our strength can overturn mountains and seas!
We will not be confined to skirts; we will not be trapped by gender. Our bodies are equally strong, and our souls are equally firm and tenacious!
This clothing is sponsored by the Saint Denis feminist representatives: Dorothea Wicklow, Alice Lemieux, and Ann Heidy—three fearless feminist fighters.
Women also demand equal rights. Perhaps you disdain it, perhaps your life is blessed, but please, do not mock our efforts. Men and women will eventually be equal, because… we were once here.
A small card couldn't hold much, but every single word on it had been meticulously, almost fiendishly, chosen by Dutch.
Especially that last, chillingly powerful sentence—a direct, brazen copy of Che Guevara's iconic quote.
Abridged, yes, but even more impactful in its brevity. Especially when juxtaposed with the preceding statements, it struck a direct, visceral blow to the complacent women of this era.
Coincidentally, Che Guevara hadn't even been a glint in his father's eye yet, so, no plagiarism here, just pure, unadulterated visionary brilliance. This potent blend of power and novelty had deafened the three ladies who first read it, illuminating their minds with a blinding flash of enlightenment.
Now, they had the name, the rallying cry, and the perfect, insidious promotional channels. Feminism in Saint Denis, and indeed across the entire state of Lemoyne, was practically winning by simply existing.
Especially for the three "leaders"—Dorothea, who had paid absolutely nothing and stood to gain pure profit, was undeniably the biggest winner. How could they not be ecstatic? How could they not be eternally grateful to Dutch? These intrepid explorers on the path of the feminist movement had just been dimensionally crushed by Dutch, a man armed with knowledge from a future they couldn't even dream of.
Ms. Alice, her face glowing, also moved to give Dutch a grateful kiss, but Ms. O'Shea's icy, laser-focused glare stopped her dead in her tracks. Alice could only helplessly take a step back, then looked at Dutch, a flicker of regret in her eyes. "Oh, Arthur, my father is waiting for you in the room."
"Alright, ladies." Dutch, ever the diplomat, nodded with a suave smile, then strode purposefully towards the room Ms. Alice indicated.
Hosea watched his back with a familiar mix of concern and grudging admiration. Arthur, John, and Charles, like loyal, slightly confused bloodhounds, followed close behind, their ears strained, trying to decipher any muffled sounds from within the closed door.
"Oh, gentlemen, please take a break first," Ms. Alice chirped, turning her attention to the rest of the gang. "Sir, please bring more coffee and desserts, and a bottle of your finest wine for these four gentlemen!" Her enthusiasm was almost overwhelming as Dutch, the puppet master, disappeared into the room.