Talk to Icy Sedgwick on the Fictionville blog
Early morning sunlight tosses handfuls of summer across the green expanse of suburbia. Dogs prowl their back yards, eager for the day to begin. A bicycle wheel squeaks as the paper boy cycles around his neighbourhood, whistling tunelessly as he tosses newspapers onto damp front lawns. The early morning quiet stops at the door of the Tislocke household. The smell of sizzling bacon drifts through the house, accompanied by the sound of Rex Tislocke singing in the kitchen. Cheesy pop music spews from the living room, where Tina Tislocke enthusiastically follows her fitness DVD. Her sneakers thud against the hardwood floor in time to Maretta Morgraine's shouts of encouragement. Rex offers her a steaming plate of bacon and eggs before sitting at the table to read the business news over breakfast. Clad in Maretta-approved Lycra, Tina opts instead for a granola bar from the Maretta Morgraine diet food range.
Upstairs, their daughter Emily stands before her full-length mirror. She holds a Maretta Morgraine tape measure around her waist, an expression of pure joy lighting her face as she sees she has lost another inch. She marks her progress onto a chart bearing Maretta's grin and most famous slogans, marvelling at the speed at which she has lost over twenty pounds. Emily sets up her webcam and poses in her underwear, printing off the photo to add to her weight loss collection. She looks good now. In a couple of weeks, she'll be able to send the 'before' and 'after' photos to Maretta's website. Maybe she'll be a featured slimmer.
A few towns away, Amanda Pyretti enjoys a frugal fruit breakfast, washed down with a Maretta Morgraine diet shake. She thinks it tastes the way Pepto-Bismol might taste if you dissolved a lump of chalk in it. This makes her frown, but it helps her lose weight so she gulps it down and rubs a slice of lime on her tongue to kill the aftertaste. Her husband Marcello is in the basement, running a few miles on his Maretta Morgraine treadmill before he leaves for work. He used to run out in the streets; now he prefers to stay indoors to exercise.
In a nearby city, a group of lithe young women glisten under the hot lights at their local Maretta Morgraine gym. The blonde pumps away on the fixed stairs, while the redhead peddles for her life on a Maretta cycle. A brunette takes a breather, leaning against a vacant cross trainer. She swigs a Maretta approved isotonic sports drink from a plastic bottle. The women know they look good, and they know that the $200 they pay every month to Maretta’s corporation is worth it. The blonde tires slightly, feeling the burn in her calf muscles. Her flushed face moulds into a grimace. She flicks her eyes upward, glancing at the inspirational photo of a slim, toned, smiling Maretta on the opposite wall. She keeps going.
Money pours into Maretta’s coffers throughout the day. Copies of her slimming magazine fly off the shelves of news vendors across the country. Book stores struggle to restock their shelves with her recipe books as copies are snapped up with startling speed. Women throw Maretta branded drinks, diet shakes, ready meals and snacks into their carts at supermarkets. One convenience store in Florida runs out of a week’s supply of low fat cereal bars in just eight hours. The ground shakes with the impact of thousands of people working out using Maretta’s official equipment. Maretta Morgraine gyms are full.
The sun begins to set over a community centre in a picturesque small town in the mountains. Half of the town’s population are regulars at the weekly Maretta Morgraine slimming class. They spend an hour discussing diet with a trained Maretta nutritionist, who dishes out recipes and coupons for Maretta’s food range. The other hour is spent following a specialist in aerobics. At the end of the class, the townsfolk snap up discount items from Maretta’s slimming range. Tape measures, weight loss charts, diet powders and even hypnosis tapes are especially popular.
It is twenty minutes after sunset. Maretta Morgraine sits at a mahogany desk in her study, deep in the bowels of her headquarters. She flips through a mock up of the next issue of her magazine. As usual, it is filled with “innovative” recipes, photos of slimmers, weight loss tips and motivational articles. She approves most of the content; indeed it is rare for her to make changes. She trusts her design team, sourced from the best magazines in the country. Her gaze briefly flickers across the framed magazine covers that occupy one wall. They have come a long way since she set up her own publishing company to produce the magazine.
“Ms. Morgraine?”
Repa slips into the room. Clad in a black suit, her black hair is swept up into a bun. She is the picture of professionalism. Repa has worked very hard to make herself indispensable, and Maretta feels confident leaving the running of the empire in her perfectly manicured hands.
“Yes?”
“You asked for an update report?”
“So I did.” Maretta closes the draft magazine and sits back in her padded leather chair. She likes the chair, but finds it less comfortable than her Queen Anne chair. She looks forward to the Queen Anne chair returning from its restoration. She hopes the upholsterers have done it justice; she would love to see the chair looking as it did when she bought it in 1713.
“Shares in the Corporation are going up, as predicted, and the manufacturing division are finding it difficult to keep up with demand. Maretta gyms are the most popular in the country, your books are consistently sold out on Amazon, subscriptions to the magazine are being taken up at a rate of around 300 per day, and we’ve managed to persuade four favourite celebrities to endorse your food range,” replied Repa.
“I’m pleased to hear it. And the plans for the TV channel?”
“Progressing nicely. We predict that Maretta TV will be on air within months. The online message board indicates that the channel will be a resounding success.”
Wrapping her fingers around the tall wineglass brought by Repa, she gazes across the room at the portrait of her uncle. Vlad would certainly be impressed with the extent of her empire. She may not have drawn blood in the family tradition, but she was sucking the simpletons dry all the same. She knocks back the dark red liquid in one swallow, feeling its warmth slip down her throat. She turns her golden eyes to Repa, and smiles.
“Praise the Gods for capitalism, eh, Repa? Lifeblood of this great nation.”