Altered States by Paul J. Newell Page B

is a cross between a bar, a restaurant and a clothes-store. The idea is that you get the chance to browse and buy the latest fashionable apparel whilst enjoying your food and drink – or waiting for it to arrive.
    Items of clothing for sale are deposited about the place in a seemingly random, but actually extremely strategic, fashion. The staff are all dressed in purchasable garments too. And each time they nip out-back to fetch your curly fries they are preened and styled like catwalk models – which they mostly are. It is well understood that nothing will sell a product better than draping it over someone unfeasibly attractive, or draping someone unfeasible attractive over it – whichever is geometrically more plausible.
    The clothes for sale are those brands deemed suitable for the clientele. Not the ridiculously expensive made-to-measure shit; just whatever are the coolest off-the-shelf brands at the time. The kind where someone on an average wage would only have to forgo a single week’s pay for a pair of boxer shorts. That kind of level.
    This concept of plying vain fashion victims with alcohol to the point of intoxication and then offering them the opportunity to buy overpriced branded items is genius; and you have to hand it to the smug marketing bastards who dreamt up the idea.
    BlueJay, New Meadows, was the original, established only about five years ago. It proved so successful that there are now a couple of dozen stores open or opening across the major cities of America.
    I made my way into the establishment, studying the environment and its denizens as I moved. At the tables some people watched foot-tall holograms of themselves meandering amongst beer glasses and plates of nachos, sporting the latest catwalk styles. This was a pretty nifty piece of kit new to this flagship BlueJay store, and was creating quite a stir with the punters. I noticed how the holograms all looked particularly more stunning – usually about seven or eight pounds more stunning – than their real-world counterparts, and decided that if I wished to try something on I’d use a method less open to silicon-minded interpretation.
    I cut my way through the crowd, heading for the large circular bar at the centre of the room; the best place to take a reasonable stab at not looking too conspicuous by myself. The bar itself was rather like those you find at a sushi restaurant in that it had a conveyor belt running inside it. Only, instead of cold rice and raw fish, it proffered trendy urban kickers and neatly pleated chinos. You had to be real careful where you waved your credit card in these places.
    I grabbed a stool at the bar and got myself a drink and some cigarettes. I don’t actually smoke, by the way. Well, I do in the strictest sense of the word, in that I occasionally suck air through smouldering sticks of dried tobacco. But it’s not through pursuit of pleasure, and that’s the difference. And I’m not just some latent addict in denial. I genuinely hate the things. They make me feel nauseous, and that’s not a sensation I wish to pay for. Nevertheless, I feel that my role and my associated image necessitates that I light up from time to time. Especially in places like New Meadows; especially when I’m on the hunt for bad guys. It just seems right.
    BlueJay was getting busier with the evening crowd. I could hear them but I wasn’t paying particular attention. My beer was company enough for the moment. As such, I was slightly irked, not to mention surprised, when a young semi-transparent lady rose up beside my beverage. An extension to their holographic mannequin technology I presumed.
    ‘ Hi,’ she said in a song-like tone. She had a tight dark bob showing off large heart-shaped earrings and was dressed in a pink cat suit. ‘Don’t forget to treat your loved-one this Valentine day. Be sure to visit our promotional display in the West Wing to check out our exclusive designer range of lingerie from only the best names in