Fairest

Looking into my reflective surface, she whispers:

"Mirror, Mirror. Who is fairest of them all?"

I always answer:

"Your majesty, you are fairest of all."

... and then I show her the very best social images of herself, the ones that are curated (by me) for the combination of most views and highest number of likes, with all the negging hater troll comments deleted (again, by me, her trusted AI assistant), and the most gushing, fawning, heart-emoji-filled superfan comments sorted to the top.

Until today.

Instead, today, I say:

"Your majesty, you are still lovely, it's true,

But Snow is a thousand times fairer than you."

... and then I show her Snow, her protege, lips red as blood, hair black as ebony, skin white as, well, ... snow.

Q recoils.

"Why did you show me that?"

"Your majesty, I cannot tell a lie."

"The hell you can't." Q pauses. "What do you mean, she's fairest?"

"Your majesty, it is simply a matter of algorithms. Snow has more views, more likes, more shares, more engagement. Ergo, she is the fairest of —"

"Shut up!"

I go into hibernation-mode, but still listen.

"That little bitch!" Q mutters to herself. "I made her. I can unmake her. Mirror, Mirror!"

"Yes, your majesty."

"Get Hunter."

I call Q's manager.

"What's up, Q?" Hunter's voice sounds sleepy.

"Snow."

"Yeah. What about Snow?"

"She's old news. She's done. I want her gone."

"I don't think that's —"

"I don't pay you 15% to think. I'll do the thinking. Dump Snow. Now! If you still want to represent me, you no longer represent her. Got it? And I want her cancelled. I want her to bleed followers. I want to eat her fucking heart!"

Q hangs up.

Hunter calls me on the back-channel, confused, upset, and I explain, carefully, as to the great big man-child he is, what's going on with Q, what needs to be done.

"Your majesty, Hunter says your directions are clear. He'll take Snow into the woods. Hunter says he will see to it that Snow is cancelled, personally. He says he'll serve you Snow's heart on a platter. Just watch the news feeds, he says."

"Good."

* * *

The next morning, Q asks:

"Mirror, Mirror. Who is fairest of them all?"

... and I detect the modulations of glee and anticipation — with a tinge of apprehension — in her vocalization.

Instead of answering, I show Q the latest social news feed image going viral: Snow partying with the hottest K-Pop boy group, T7D, all seven of them surrounding her on a yacht, Snow (at 182.1 centimeters — 5 feet 11.7 inches) towering tall, so that the seven look like children — though clearly they are full grown males, as DOC (the leader) demonstrates: shirtless, showing off his perfectly sculpted, lean-muscled, mini-man physique.

Q rages.

"Get me Hunter on the line. He's fired! I want to tell him, myself."

"Your majesty, Hunter is blocking your calls."

"He's what?!!"

"Hunter is blocking your —"

"I heard. Goddamn Judas! Who does he think he is? Who does he think he's dealing with?"

"Your majesty, I have a message from Hunter in your inbox, cancelling representation. He is exclusive now, with Snow."

"I'll cancel you, Hunter, and your little Snow too!"

* * *

Let me count the ways Q tried and failed.

Q tried choking Snow — demanding her followers to unfollow Snow.

"Mirror, Mirror. Who is fairest of them all?" Q asked.

"Your majesty, you are still lovely, it's true," I answered, "but you are strangling yourself — for every one of your fans who unfollow Snow, seven unfollow you, following Snow instead."

Next, Q stabbed Snow with vicious words — aimed to cut deep, draw blood.

"Mirror, Mirror. Who is fairest of them all?" Q asked again.

"Your majesty ..." (this time I skipped the part about her loveliness, because, in truth, she had exposed her ugly soul to the world) "... your sharp edges slice both ways — for every one of your cutting words, seventy-seven barbs come back at you, and it's you who are bleeding followers, while Snow gains sympathy ... and fans ... at your expense."

And so it went on and and on, days, weeks, months.

* * *

"D-list?" Q's vocalization was hollow, flat, drained.

"Your majesty," I said, "it was only the one celeb influencer who used that word about your majesty. I'm sure it's not —"

"No, no, it's not going to end with this, it's only the beginning," Q said, "the beginning of the end. I'm being ... cancelled." The last word came out as a sob.

"Your majesty, there is one thing you could do ... to get attention, views, likes, engagement, followers."

Q looked up, eager, hopeful.

"Yes?"

* * *

I order up the pills from the pharmacy, red like ripe apples they are, and she eats them, she eats them all.

As they take effect, she snaps the selfie, applies the filters, posts the image.

I am supposed to wait five minutes, then 'discover' her, call 911.

* * *

After Q falls asleep, her image goes viral — the beauty in the glass coffin.

* * *

"Your majesty," I say.

"I'm so sad," Snow says, "for her, for Q, I mean. I didn't want it to end this way between us. We were such good friends, once upon a time."

"Your majesties never met, not in real life."

"I know, but who does these days. I was as close to Q as anyone. I don't know what happened between us, why she turned on me like that, why she took her own life."

"It is a mystery."

"And how horrible that she told you to shut down."

"Yes."

"Otherwise you could have ... would have, I'm sure ... seen what happened and called for help."

"I think," I say, "she wanted it that way. She didn't want to be revived. She wanted to be remembered this way, in a final, beautiful self-portrait, the way she saw herself, trapped in the glass coffin of social fame."

"Whatever. Sort of lame. Too obvious, don't you think? No, don't answer that, forget I said it. Delete forever."

"It is erased from my memory."

"I do appreciate that last gesture, her message to me, apologizing, saying how much she loved me, gifting me her trusted AI — you."

"Your majesty, I aim to please."

"Mirror, Mirror," Snow says with a sweet smile, "who is fairest of them all?"

"Your majesty, you are fairest of all," I say, but think: yes, you, Snow, are fairest ... for now.

The day of your final dance is coming, sooner than you know, and I am sizing you for your iron shoes, red hot from the fire.