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The shirt, the staple wardrobe mainstay of middle manager, chest armour of the bureaucrat, orientation of the ordinary. But it doesn't have to be. We have deconstructed, reconstructed, clashed banged and walloped some life into these one off pieces. They have been adorned and showered with detailed glory. 

 

These shirts are designed to infiltrate hives of mediocracy and incite pangs of discomfort and confusion in the mundane. 

Idle drones will judder, faces twitch and ears redden as they struggle to comprehend. A little floating butterfly or a crooked pocket will encourage cascades of doubt, fear, loathing and longing through their soggy minds then:

POW it hits them!

You are not one of them. They are not one of you.

 

They may just stir internally or embrace outwardly, scrabbling at anything they can say or do to keep control. They'll claw and clutch at their shrivelling grey rudder of understanding and try and fight but ultimately it's too late for them. You and your fucking awesome shirt will cut through the red tape of 'meh' and say 'yeah what of it?' knowing you are awesome and they'll know it too. 

 

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