The Sartorialist is Dirty and Depraved

This Scott Schuman is an awfully short person. I was walking along the street today- I ended up crashing the motorbike into the Dior salon- and an incredibly short man wearing a suit came up to me. "Karl, could I take your photo?" he asked. His eyes were beady- little black ball bearings. He peered up at me like I was some god- as well he should- the top of his face becoming almost horizontal with the ground as he struggled to see me. I said: "who the hell are you?"
The man was taken aback by this. "I, well, I am The Sartorialist" he said. "So you're another one of those superheroes?" said I, "we've got enough of them, you know. We've got Batman, and Superman, and Spiderman (although I think he mostly does office work these days)- all of them. Anyway. What is your magic power?"
"Shouldn't it be super power?" the little man said.
"Whichever- what is it?"
"I can take photos."
"You can take photos! My my my," I said attempting to put on a southern accent whilst sounding like rubber bent around a tree.
"Not just any photos. I take The Sartorialist (TM) photos."
"And what is special about Sartorialist photos?"
"Uh..they're Sartorialist."
"What does Sartorialist actually mean?" quirried I.
"It means I'm a really good photographer."
"Photographry is not a super power unless your name is Nick Knight or something."
"But I'm The Sartorialist," he said. He rather reminded me a petulant five year old speaking to his five year old friend- "but I'm being the fireman today." Or more aptly- "but I'm being Superman today." But in this case, the child really does believe that he is Superman.
"I don't care whether you're The Sartorialist or a sociologist, to be quite frank."
"The Sartorialist: Selected as one of Time magazine's top 100 design influences."
The man actually quoted this- as if quoting something, word for word, will make it true.
"Pray ask, which designers are you influencing?"
"Uhm," he uhm-ed, the h being very audible.
"So?"
"It was in Time magazine though. It must be true."
At this point Bob Dylan came along and said this:

The littlest photographer seemed not to have been moved. He kept saying, over and over, "But it was in Time magazine, it was in Time, it was in Time."
"You have American Apparel ads on the side of your blog."
He couldn't really reply to that.
"Would you like to come back to my house", he finally said.
"Why would I want to come back to your house?", I said.
"I have...biscuits."
"I don't eat."
"I'll take your picture...at my house...we could play dominoes."
"Dominoes?"
"And then maybe we could go for a movie."
"You know Scott, you're a bit of a creep."
"Hello Clarice." He did that Hanibal Lecter tounge thing- where he sort of slurps.
"Dominoes," he said once more.
And then- and then he said this: "I would like to dress you, Karl, in a little schoolboy blazer and take your picture"- I was incredibly creeped out by this, and ended up walking out. Creep.