tardis time // disneycoven task
There were but three words in the English language guaranteed to make Cruella weak at the knees: Adrian Adolph Greenberg
Adrian. Adolph. Greenberg.
Framed pictures on the walls of Hell Hall chronicled his life's most astounding work. Joan Crawford smoldered in her silver frame, a vision in mink. If looks could kill, Greta Garbo appeared to be utterly deceased at the hands of her stole.
Costumey? Bitch, please. Greenberg furs were elegant and ostentatious: the way Cruella firmly believed all quality garments should be. She would roast through the Louisiana summer, shrivel and die on her bones, if only they could be caressed by classic furs.
Many women did. The fifties had been a simpler time for women. Those were the year that department stores were safaris, with floor-length pelts and flowering bushels of squirrel hats practically purring for their freshness. Summer cocktail parties were spent sweltering under the weight of a million capes, their well-to-do wearers reluctant to be seen without their trademarks of wealth.
Fashion was fierce and fine, soft and shameless. You were nothing without your mink. PETA was but a whisper of a nightmare. ,
And although it predated her significantly, Cruella could not help but yearn for those bygone years as she strolled past her gallery, her newest attire dripping with red paint. She stopped midstep, locking eyes with Lana Turner in her silky black winter coat, and wallowing momentarily in her yearning to join the gallery.
"If only," said Cruella with a roll of her eyes. Red paint dripped sorrowfully on the carpet. "When I die of lead poisoning, I'll come back as Katharine Hepburn."
