It was approximately tens minutes until show time. Although a few small groups of individuals lingered near the bar area, most others had already taken their seats in the audience. The show was sold-out and expectations were staggering. In addition to the diversity of performers featured in the contest, rumors of back-stage diva tantrums and histrionic catfights had fueled intense interest in the event. The scent of blood was in the air, and every bitter service industry drone in the bi-state area wanted to be there for the carnage.
Since I had decided to forego the event while re-evaluating my career goals, the owner of The Vise convinced me to accept the role of emcee. Although the pay was miniscule, I was promised an endless supply of free drinks and the opportunity to write all of my own material. I found these perks simply too delicious to miss out on. Forget that old cliché about revenge being a dish best served cold. I intended on it being freezer-burned.
“Starting us off tonight is a fiery little ingénue who burst onto the scene just a few years ago. Please give a warm Saint Louis welcome to Jizzabelle.”
The room darkened momentarily as the opening notes of “Total Eclipse of the Heart” emanated from the new sound system that had been installed just days ago. Before Jizzabelle had even mouthed the first “turn around bright eyes,” I bolted to the nearest available bartender and ordered another cocktail. Due to the length of the song and her strained attempts to infuse even more melodrama into an already overwrought piece of material, I was able to polish off another drink before the tedious finale.
She continued bowing long after the polite yet brief applause ended. I winked at her and tilted my head sideways towards the dressing room, indicating that it was time to skedaddle. She finally got the hint and then fluttered away, the white satin fabric of her flowing beaded gown skimming across a pool of vodka that I had spilled on the floor minutes before show time.
“Wasn’t that something?” I said with raised eyebrows. “Bonnie Tyler just leapt out the window of the nursing home where she’s been since ninety eighty seven.” I shook my head in disapproval. “That powder keg was a dud, honey.”
The crowd seemed largely apathetic about her mediocre performance and my attempts to milk it for easy laughs. Oh well. The night was young, and I had three more tragedies waiting in the wings. My arsenal of insults was as well-stocked as Courtney Love’s medicine cabinet.
“Our second performer tonight is a ginormous talent.”
Murmurs and whispers rippled through the room, and then a momentary silence was punctuated with the sounds of a few people loudly clearing their throats. Apparently it was now unacceptable to make fat jokes at a goddamned drag show. Surely these assholes didn’t expect me to tow the line on political correctness.
I continued. “That’s right. When she’s not chugging gravy from a cooler or hoarding Lipitor samples from her doctor’s office, you will find this next artist tirelessly perfecting her craft. Please give it up for a woman who thinks that pork rinds...”
The crowd went ballistic. In addition to the predictable hissing and hurled obscenities, a few of the more incited patrons lobbed ice cubes and loose change at me. I retreated backstage, passing Lady Von Hindenburg as she lumbered from her make-shift dressing area towards the spotlight.
