"Somethin dangerous" queried Shandy, as they sped off to Mausie's house. "Honey, I don't DO dangerous. But Im ever so curious, what do you mean".
"Get in the car and I will explain my plan" said Dirk
As they were about to pull away, Liz leaned out her window tossing an emptied Fosters stubbie toward them, screaming "Not even a fuckin thanks ya chunts".
Shandy, Dirk and Mausie looked back in horror, not for the fact that Liz threw the stubbie, or due to the stream of obscentities that flowed from her rancid lips, but the fact that as she lean't out the window, her stained Osti frock fell open revealing tits resembling a couple of flat wind socks. Shandy gagged.
Dirk went on "Imelda is certainly responsible for all this and she is using the Sassy Palms to launder her drugs. Word has it she is becoming a major player about town, but we have no proof. She wants you out of the picture, thats for sure, but she thinks you have gone into hiding"
"Well I am in hiding"
"Ahhh yes, until you make your triumphant reappearance on stage at the Sassy Palms tommorrow night"
"Darling I leave that to the girls, I have not performed in yonks" replied Shandy whilst suggestively stroking the leather seat of Dirk's Mustang with the tip of her impeccably manied finger nails, which reminded her, she needed to call Sooling her nail technician to have her the silicon touched up.
"Shandy, you were famous for you performances, your the best in the business, let word get out that you will be making a one off appearance to celebrate your innocence. This will piss Imelda big time and if we are lucky she may just show her true colours?
"If you think it will help" said Shandy
"Im sure it will, but first we must get you to Mausie's so that you can freshen up and rest"
"Yes my dear" said Mausie "You can stay as long as you like
On arrival at Mausie's, Shandy flipped open her phone and dialled.
"Margot love, its about the show....yeah yeah the new one Mystique Mayan Mayhem. I will be taking the lead for a one off performance..........Yes yes I know Imelda won't be happy, but its my decision and she will have to go with it, thanks ever so darlin, see you tommorrow night"
"Good" said Dirk "Im sure Imelda will react when she knows your back, especially since you are taking the lead role from her"
Shandy stared at Dirk, her lashes fluttered "Should I be nervous"
Dirk grabbed her hands and lead her to the hallway, they were alone. "Not whilst Im with you. There is no way I will let anything happen, you know you can trust me"
Shandy hoped that she could trust him to take her then and there on the floor. She desired him so, but suppressed these thoughts....................for now.
Dirk stared intensely at Shandy, she was beautiful and the the chemistry between them was tangible. Moving closer their lips parted and they passionately embraced, tongues uniting. Shandy slipped her hand down his Dolce and Gabana shirt, his hairy chest was firm to the touch. Hmmmmm, Shandy liked them masculine and toned. She tweeked his nipple which became immediatly errect.
"Coffees ready" yelled Mausie from the kitchen.
Dirk and Shandy broke from their grasp, momentarily flustered. There would be plenty of time to finish what they had started, thought Shandy.
Later the following day, Shandy arrived at the Sassy Palms where she met with Margot to go over the nights performance.
"Im nervous" said Margot, "I told her she was not taking the lead in tonights show and she spat it, came out with all this asian babble. I tell you Shandy she is in a mood"
"She will just have to get over it won't she" replied Shandy
Bit by bit the other "girls" arrived for the pre show rehearsal. Iva Biggun, Carmene, Lady Luck and Caress were ready to go.
"Girl I think its fab that you are performing tonight in celebration of your bein found innocent" said Carmene "The word has got round and we are expecting the house to be full to the headbands"
"Excellent. Where is Imelda" asked Shandy
"She has called in ill" said Lady Luck, "As if"
"Fine, we can work without her, lets get started"
MEANWHILE IN IMELDA'S APARTMENT.
"I tell you Veela, I no happee" said Imelda as she paced the floor driving her stilettoed heels into the magenta faux fur rug.
"I know I know" said Vera gruffly.
"She mucking my plans. She sposed to be out of pucking country and I get Sassy Palms for my bizness venture, big shipment alive soon. Veela, Shandy have to go for good. You stupi bi, you fail first time, but this time we no fail darling, we get her, get her good, yesssss?"
LATER THAT N IGHT AT THE SASSY PALMS
Backstage the girls were all a fluster. It was the first time they were to perform the new show "Mystique Mayan Mahem". Margot had excelled with the costuming and they even had three hunky male dancers that were to wear as little as possible. This would keep the queens happy she thought.
The Sassy Palms was FULL, not a seat was vacant and people were even standing at the back and sides. Word had spread that Miss Shandalier Wilson was making a rare performance. She was the best and the room was electric. Amongst the crowd were undercover cops and of course Dirk was there too. His eyes peeled.
The lights dimmed, the room fell silent as the silver lame curtains parted. The stage was bathed in gold light. Suddenly the music cranked up it was a throbbing Mexican infused techno beat. The girls sashayed onto the stage, they were wearing amazing Mayan inspired emsembles of bronze lurex and "sun" shaped headresses. Sublime.
The music reached fever pitch and finally Shandy made her appearance on a revolving platform, she wore a lavish costume depicting the sacred Aztec Quetzal Bird, in hues of shimmering emerald green and red, a red best described as the red of a 10 dollar bargain bin Gap tee shirt. Tacky but somehow appropriate. Her head was adorned with plumage. She was a vision.
The dancers began to writhe and gyrate about her using exotic and erotic moves, the girls were dancing up a storm. But then, just as she was about to lip sync herself into a frenzy...............
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Monday, October 16, 2006
Living With Liz
Liz Street rammed a bent Marlboro in between her cracked lips. "You know what your problem is, doncha luv?" she asked, squinting around to find her lighter.
Shandalier retrieved Liz's Bic lighter from on top of the Flemington Trots racing form and handed it to Liz. She looked around the cramped bedsit of Melbourne's former leading drag diva, located in not-so-leading Hopper's Crossing. Liz had had to move there after she'd defaulted on the mortgage of her Shepparton pig farm. Another slide downwards. Shandalier sighed. "Why don't you tell me what my problem is, Liz."
Liz lit up and sucked at her ciggie so hard that nearly half of it had been reduced to ash by the time she'd copped a lungful. "Your problem is that you're too fucken noice."
"How do you figure that, Liz?"
Liz sucked up the other half of her Marlboro and flicked the stub over towards the sink that smelled of last week's fried eggs and bacon from the Not Quite Right Shop. The stub didn't quite make it that far and landed instead on a puddle of something purpley-green that Shandalier hadn't found the courage to approach, let alone clean up. "You gotta be tough," Liz insisted. She balled her bony left hand into something vaguely resembling a fist. “You gotta show ‘em whose Queen fucken Bea around ‘ere.” She thrust her fist into the air, causing her underarm fat to wobble and bounce like turkey giblets. “I never took no shit from no one. Not at Pokies and not at that other place where I starred before that.”
“You mean Fitzroy Street, corner of Grey Street?”
Liz puzzled that one, like someone trying to recall the name of her first-born. “What was the name of that club?” she asked.
“Skip it,” Shandalier told her with a heavy sigh. She got to her feet and wandered over to Liz’s picture window: it overlooked the Werribee Sewage Farm. As she gazed out on the plumes of reddish brown smoke she wondered how glam her life had been just a day or two ago. Audience adulation at the Sassy Palms, gorgeous gowns of intricate fabrics, Franklyn's devastating pecs and rippling abs and a close encounter with the enigmatic Senior Detective Dirk Flynn --- he of the long, knowing looks; he of the wide, strong hands. Amorous dabblings with Franklyn was one thing - he was always good for a quick pick-me-up-and-throw-me-down, but Senior Detective Flynn. Well now, he was a cowboy of quite a different pony. There had been sparks, had there not? That buzz of electricity that crackled between them when he'd leaned in close. Surely she hadn't been imagining it. Surely he'd felt it too. But it was too late now. She was under suspicion and he was The Law. But oh, what could have been in another time and another place...
"ARE YOUSE LISTENIN' TO ME, OR WHAT?" Liz's voice cut through Shandy's thoughts like cubic zirconia on cheap glass. "I sayed," Liz insisted "that you gotta be a strong woman. Oh, I haaaate to think where I'd be now if I hadn't been stronger than an East German lesbian. Imagine what would have become of me."
Shandalier looked around her and wondered if Melbourne's former leading diva---
Suddenly Liz's suspiciously sticky telephone rang. Liz lit up another Marlboro, pushed it to the side of her mouth and picked up the receiver. "Yeah? Who? You want what?" Liz sighed and thrust the phone towards Shandy. "It's some old broad arksing for ya."
Shandy carefully took the phone - it had a slightly slimy feel to it that only a microbiologist could love. "This is Shandalier," she said hopefully.
"Shandy, my dear, it's Mausie, Mausie McQueen here."
"Mausie...?" Shandalier repeated. Unconsciously she gripped the telephone tighter. "Wha...? How did you know...?"
Mausie let out a warm laugh. "Oh sweetie. I'm Iva and Carmene's landlady - do you really think there's anything I don't know? What a time you've had, eh?"
Tears began to moisten Shandy's eyes. Thank heavens she had had the foresight to apply some Diane von Furstenberg Flirting Glances Volume Mascara - Cyclone Tracy couldn't budge that stuff. "Oh Mausie...oh Mausie..." was all she could muster.
"The accusations of murder, the arson, not to mention those horrid blood stains on your gorgeous new tiling. As if that wasn't enough, they've gone and flung you out here in Hopper's Crossing. I mean Hopper's Crossing for gawd's sake. Not even Daryl Somers deserves that. Good lord, this place is depressing with a capital DUH."
"Wait Mausie," Shandy gasped, "what do you mean out here in Hopper's Crossing...? Where are you?"
"Mausie?" Liz demanded. "Who the fuck is Mausie? Didn't she do that Footballer's Balls show at Three Faces?"
Shandy ignored her hostess.
"Look out the window," Mausie told her.
Shandy rushed back to the window and looked down at the treeless street. There, standing next to a crimson Ford Mustang convertible was Iva and Carmene's landlady, a mobile phone in one hand and with the other she was waving up at Shandy. "We've come to get you out of here."
"We?" Shandy cried, barely able to credit her luck.
At that moment the driver behind the wheel of the Mustang turned around and looked up towards where Shandy stood. It was Senior Detective Dirk Flynn. Mausie handed her mobile phone to him. "Miss Wilson," he said, his voice deep and thick like melted Belgian chocolate, "All the accusations against you have been false. I know that now. I want to help you ---"
But Shandalier heard no more. She flung the phone towards the decrepit Liz who was by now three beers beyond understanding what the hell was going on. In a swift yet ladylike swoop she collected up her Francesco Biasia Orvieto Short Shoulder bag (the one contoured coordinated color top stitching and the polished silver hardware accents) and flung herself through Liz's front doorway and into Dirk's waiting bulging comforting brawny powerful protective arms. He pressed his lips against her jewel-encrusted lobe. "I'm here," he whispered, as she sobbed into his perfectly darling Mediterranean aqua blue Dolce & Gabbana button-down shirt, "I'm in your corner."
She pressed her body against his. And with any luck, she thought to herself, by nightfall you'll be in my pants. But that would have been inappropriate and unladylike so instead she whispered back, "I know, I know..."
"We're going to get to the bottom of this," he told her, "But in order to do that there something we must do. Something dangerous..."
Shandalier retrieved Liz's Bic lighter from on top of the Flemington Trots racing form and handed it to Liz. She looked around the cramped bedsit of Melbourne's former leading drag diva, located in not-so-leading Hopper's Crossing. Liz had had to move there after she'd defaulted on the mortgage of her Shepparton pig farm. Another slide downwards. Shandalier sighed. "Why don't you tell me what my problem is, Liz."
Liz lit up and sucked at her ciggie so hard that nearly half of it had been reduced to ash by the time she'd copped a lungful. "Your problem is that you're too fucken noice."
"How do you figure that, Liz?"
Liz sucked up the other half of her Marlboro and flicked the stub over towards the sink that smelled of last week's fried eggs and bacon from the Not Quite Right Shop. The stub didn't quite make it that far and landed instead on a puddle of something purpley-green that Shandalier hadn't found the courage to approach, let alone clean up. "You gotta be tough," Liz insisted. She balled her bony left hand into something vaguely resembling a fist. “You gotta show ‘em whose Queen fucken Bea around ‘ere.” She thrust her fist into the air, causing her underarm fat to wobble and bounce like turkey giblets. “I never took no shit from no one. Not at Pokies and not at that other place where I starred before that.”
“You mean Fitzroy Street, corner of Grey Street?”
Liz puzzled that one, like someone trying to recall the name of her first-born. “What was the name of that club?” she asked.
“Skip it,” Shandalier told her with a heavy sigh. She got to her feet and wandered over to Liz’s picture window: it overlooked the Werribee Sewage Farm. As she gazed out on the plumes of reddish brown smoke she wondered how glam her life had been just a day or two ago. Audience adulation at the Sassy Palms, gorgeous gowns of intricate fabrics, Franklyn's devastating pecs and rippling abs and a close encounter with the enigmatic Senior Detective Dirk Flynn --- he of the long, knowing looks; he of the wide, strong hands. Amorous dabblings with Franklyn was one thing - he was always good for a quick pick-me-up-and-throw-me-down, but Senior Detective Flynn. Well now, he was a cowboy of quite a different pony. There had been sparks, had there not? That buzz of electricity that crackled between them when he'd leaned in close. Surely she hadn't been imagining it. Surely he'd felt it too. But it was too late now. She was under suspicion and he was The Law. But oh, what could have been in another time and another place...
"ARE YOUSE LISTENIN' TO ME, OR WHAT?" Liz's voice cut through Shandy's thoughts like cubic zirconia on cheap glass. "I sayed," Liz insisted "that you gotta be a strong woman. Oh, I haaaate to think where I'd be now if I hadn't been stronger than an East German lesbian. Imagine what would have become of me."
Shandalier looked around her and wondered if Melbourne's former leading diva---
Suddenly Liz's suspiciously sticky telephone rang. Liz lit up another Marlboro, pushed it to the side of her mouth and picked up the receiver. "Yeah? Who? You want what?" Liz sighed and thrust the phone towards Shandy. "It's some old broad arksing for ya."
Shandy carefully took the phone - it had a slightly slimy feel to it that only a microbiologist could love. "This is Shandalier," she said hopefully.
"Shandy, my dear, it's Mausie, Mausie McQueen here."
"Mausie...?" Shandalier repeated. Unconsciously she gripped the telephone tighter. "Wha...? How did you know...?"
Mausie let out a warm laugh. "Oh sweetie. I'm Iva and Carmene's landlady - do you really think there's anything I don't know? What a time you've had, eh?"
Tears began to moisten Shandy's eyes. Thank heavens she had had the foresight to apply some Diane von Furstenberg Flirting Glances Volume Mascara - Cyclone Tracy couldn't budge that stuff. "Oh Mausie...oh Mausie..." was all she could muster.
"The accusations of murder, the arson, not to mention those horrid blood stains on your gorgeous new tiling. As if that wasn't enough, they've gone and flung you out here in Hopper's Crossing. I mean Hopper's Crossing for gawd's sake. Not even Daryl Somers deserves that. Good lord, this place is depressing with a capital DUH."
"Wait Mausie," Shandy gasped, "what do you mean out here in Hopper's Crossing...? Where are you?"
"Mausie?" Liz demanded. "Who the fuck is Mausie? Didn't she do that Footballer's Balls show at Three Faces?"
Shandy ignored her hostess.
"Look out the window," Mausie told her.
Shandy rushed back to the window and looked down at the treeless street. There, standing next to a crimson Ford Mustang convertible was Iva and Carmene's landlady, a mobile phone in one hand and with the other she was waving up at Shandy. "We've come to get you out of here."
"We?" Shandy cried, barely able to credit her luck.
At that moment the driver behind the wheel of the Mustang turned around and looked up towards where Shandy stood. It was Senior Detective Dirk Flynn. Mausie handed her mobile phone to him. "Miss Wilson," he said, his voice deep and thick like melted Belgian chocolate, "All the accusations against you have been false. I know that now. I want to help you ---"
But Shandalier heard no more. She flung the phone towards the decrepit Liz who was by now three beers beyond understanding what the hell was going on. In a swift yet ladylike swoop she collected up her Francesco Biasia Orvieto Short Shoulder bag (the one contoured coordinated color top stitching and the polished silver hardware accents) and flung herself through Liz's front doorway and into Dirk's waiting bulging comforting brawny powerful protective arms. He pressed his lips against her jewel-encrusted lobe. "I'm here," he whispered, as she sobbed into his perfectly darling Mediterranean aqua blue Dolce & Gabbana button-down shirt, "I'm in your corner."
She pressed her body against his. And with any luck, she thought to herself, by nightfall you'll be in my pants. But that would have been inappropriate and unladylike so instead she whispered back, "I know, I know..."
"We're going to get to the bottom of this," he told her, "But in order to do that there something we must do. Something dangerous..."
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Flee with Alacrity
The cackling and camp tomfoolery continued as the girls sped away in Iva's Canary Yellow Holden Commodore. An oldie but a goodie.
"What did you mean when you said I would be going far away" asked Shandy.
"Well honey" replied Carmene "You can't stick around here, its too dangerous".
"Whaddya mean"
"Someone is trying to set you up. They have tried pinning the murder of Magic and the burning down of Thai Me Up on you sweetie"
"Darling who is THEY and more importantly WHY?" asked Shandy
Carmene looked at Shandy, her eyes heavily penciled and shaded in her favourite colour shadow "Peacock Plumage Blue". I suspect a certain someone is wanting to take control of the Sassy Palms and this person wants to use it as a front for "her" business on the side"
"Your confusing me"
Iva Interrupted "Listen darling, Carmene and I have suspected that one of the Sassy girls has been selling drugs on the premises, cause there have been a few undesirables in of late, well should I say more than our usual crowd. Andddd, I spied that yellow peril Imelda out back behind the loo with a guy".
"And what is so strange about that. It ain't the first time Imelda has blown a guy out back" said Shandy
Iva fluttered her false lashes in annoyance "Lissen to me, she opened her hideous excuse for a handbag, the one with pink pom poms and it was full of plastic bags with little white pills. She pulled one out and handed it to the guy who gave her $100.00. Thankfully she did not see me and I snuck back and told Carmene. So you see, this is a lot bigger than we first expected, she is dangerous and you need to lie low for a while til this all blows over"
"Im not going anywhere, Im not afraid of that skanky, cum guzzling slanty eyed, slimy, felching Filipino. I SAID IM NOT GOING ANYWHERE".
Carmene fixed Shandy with one of her I mean business stares "Yes you are. We have arranged for you to go stay with Liz"
"Your fucking joking" said Shandy "Im not goin up there".
Liz! Otherwise known as Elizabeth Street was Melbourne's most famed drag queen, she took centre stage at Pokies of a Sunday night for many years. These were the good old days, she was positively divalicious. But Liz fell on hard times, was unlucky in love and her "diva" position became increasingly threatend by younger "girls" on the rise. She took solace in the bottle and ultimately packed up and moved to Shepparton where she worked as a barmaid at the local RSL.
"You gotta be jokin, Im not stayin with that hasbin, uh uh no way" said Shandy
"Shuttt Uppp" said Iva firmly "Ive already had Margot pack you some clothes and we are going now"
Meanwhile Imelda was busy entertaining a gentleman caller whom she had flirted with earlier at at the Sassy Palms.
"Mmmmm darlingggg, that feel good, that nice. You like screw chick with dick yes, ooohhh"
Her mobile rang, she could make out the name on the screen, VERA. "Momement darling, me must take dis, just keep going. Vera, what you want honey, me errrr busy"
"You won't be happy, but Shandalier has was released, they have no hard evidence and, ummm, she ate nothing" replied Vera.
"Fuck, fuck fuck. You stupi bit, what we do now? Hmmmm, but they not know I involved, it ok. We still get rid of her, must have Sassy Palm cause business about to boom. Where she go darling"
"I have no idea, she left with 2 of those drag queens and they drove off"
"Well me have many much way to find out thing, leave to me darling, I see to her"
"What did you mean when you said I would be going far away" asked Shandy.
"Well honey" replied Carmene "You can't stick around here, its too dangerous".
"Whaddya mean"
"Someone is trying to set you up. They have tried pinning the murder of Magic and the burning down of Thai Me Up on you sweetie"
"Darling who is THEY and more importantly WHY?" asked Shandy
Carmene looked at Shandy, her eyes heavily penciled and shaded in her favourite colour shadow "Peacock Plumage Blue". I suspect a certain someone is wanting to take control of the Sassy Palms and this person wants to use it as a front for "her" business on the side"
"Your confusing me"
Iva Interrupted "Listen darling, Carmene and I have suspected that one of the Sassy girls has been selling drugs on the premises, cause there have been a few undesirables in of late, well should I say more than our usual crowd. Andddd, I spied that yellow peril Imelda out back behind the loo with a guy".
"And what is so strange about that. It ain't the first time Imelda has blown a guy out back" said Shandy
Iva fluttered her false lashes in annoyance "Lissen to me, she opened her hideous excuse for a handbag, the one with pink pom poms and it was full of plastic bags with little white pills. She pulled one out and handed it to the guy who gave her $100.00. Thankfully she did not see me and I snuck back and told Carmene. So you see, this is a lot bigger than we first expected, she is dangerous and you need to lie low for a while til this all blows over"
"Im not going anywhere, Im not afraid of that skanky, cum guzzling slanty eyed, slimy, felching Filipino. I SAID IM NOT GOING ANYWHERE".
Carmene fixed Shandy with one of her I mean business stares "Yes you are. We have arranged for you to go stay with Liz"
"Your fucking joking" said Shandy "Im not goin up there".
Liz! Otherwise known as Elizabeth Street was Melbourne's most famed drag queen, she took centre stage at Pokies of a Sunday night for many years. These were the good old days, she was positively divalicious. But Liz fell on hard times, was unlucky in love and her "diva" position became increasingly threatend by younger "girls" on the rise. She took solace in the bottle and ultimately packed up and moved to Shepparton where she worked as a barmaid at the local RSL.
"You gotta be jokin, Im not stayin with that hasbin, uh uh no way" said Shandy
"Shuttt Uppp" said Iva firmly "Ive already had Margot pack you some clothes and we are going now"
Meanwhile Imelda was busy entertaining a gentleman caller whom she had flirted with earlier at at the Sassy Palms.
"Mmmmm darlingggg, that feel good, that nice. You like screw chick with dick yes, ooohhh"
Her mobile rang, she could make out the name on the screen, VERA. "Momement darling, me must take dis, just keep going. Vera, what you want honey, me errrr busy"
"You won't be happy, but Shandalier has was released, they have no hard evidence and, ummm, she ate nothing" replied Vera.
"Fuck, fuck fuck. You stupi bit, what we do now? Hmmmm, but they not know I involved, it ok. We still get rid of her, must have Sassy Palm cause business about to boom. Where she go darling"
"I have no idea, she left with 2 of those drag queens and they drove off"
"Well me have many much way to find out thing, leave to me darling, I see to her"
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Back to the Future
"Oh my good Mr Flynn, I can do many things and eat at the same time." Shandelier continued with the eye-batting. "Mmm, smells quite good." Actually it smelled like last week's horsemeat that'd been sitting out in the sun next to the Collingwood City Morgue, but Shandy was too ravenous to care. She picked up the battered spoon that lay next to the bowl, filled it with stew and brought it to her provocatively full lips. "So, what's on your mind...?"
Dirk leaned in, his Dior Eau Savage was really quite intoxicating, he put his hand over Shandelier's and was about to whisper something she thought would be meaningful, poignant and perhaps slightly raunchy into her ear.
Instead he pushed Shandy's fork down, "Don't eat this horseshit honey..."
Suddenly the door burst open and in swished Iva Biggun and Carmene. Iva Biggun was the star attraction at The Sassy Palms and Carmene the manager. Shandelier was torn between feeling overjoyed to see them and wanting to slap Iva's Paula Dorf Jazzed Cheek Coloured face for interrupting what could be a not half-bad evening if you took out the Vinegar-Tits dyke out the front and the putrid, bubbling stew in front of her .
Iva and Carmene had attempted to dress stylishly and conservatively for the visit but they were two of the best-known drag queens in town - subtle wasn't exactly in their wardrobe vocabulary. Iva had on a classic vintage Chanel tweed suit but she'd given it a well...slutty...twist by adding fishnets and thigh high patent leather imitation crocodile skin stilleto boots. Carmene on the other hand worked her usual colourful, slimline garb but thought she'd toned it down considerably by adding a June Salteresque Cameo to her neckline.
"Get your damn hands off her!" screamed Iva at Dirk.
Dirk pulled his hands away, momentarily flustered.
"Shit, I've always wanted to scream that, ever since that kooky Crispin Glover did it in Back to the Future", Iva said conversationally to Carmene.
"I loved those films, he really had that goofy thing working for him didn't he." Carmene agreed.
"Oh yes, I wonder what ever happened to him?" Iva mused.
Shandelier cleared her throat, "Ladeees - focus."
Iva and Carmene snapped back.
"Oh sorry Love, you ok?" Iva gave her a little pat on the back making sure she was pointing her perfectly symmetrical plunging neckline into Dirk's eyeline. This annoyed Shandelier, she'd been an early adapter when it came to implants and as a result she was more in the Tori Spelling category than the Angelina Jolie one.
"I'm fine, Dirk's been taking very good care of me." She reached for his hand and held it tightly, her Anna Sui (No 312) nails digging into Dirk's Armani suit, (he'd been a big fan of NYPD Blue - the Jimmy Smits era).
Carmene shook Dirk's hand, "Thank you soooo much Detective for looking after Shandelier but she'll need to come with us now. You see Morty Hempel, our very special friend, is holed up with the best legal team in town and as far as they can see - well you really have jack-shit on Shandelier. So we'll be off now, toodles."
Carmene, ever the professional, pulled a business card from her Vuitton Lockit, "But we'd be delighted to have you visit The Sassy Palms and have a slappertini on the house."
Carmene pulled Shandelier from the chair and steered her towards the door. Dirk was flabbergasted but they had the facts right. He had nothing to charge Shandelier with and to be perfectly honest he didn't want to. He could tell she was innocent of both the arson and murder, but these gals would be the key to unlocking the secrets of the crime and he wanted them on a short leash - maybe even a leather studded one with matching gimp mask? Whew, he pulled himself back into reality.
"Don't go too far, I'll be wanting to talk to you all at some stage," he called after them.
Iva swung around on her mock-crocs and headed back to Dirk, she moved in close and straightened his Gucci silk-tie.
"You know you really are quite an appetising long drink of water aren't you? Come and see the show sometime and I'll be sure to give you a backdoor tour." She winked suggestively.
Iva grabbed the pate of uneaten stew as she left the room. Vera Head was sitting right outside the door, desperately trying to hear every last word. Iva plonked the stew in Vera's lap.
"There you go Bullychops, have a free feed. It's probably the only meat you're ever going to get inside you in this lifetime."
Then Iva leant over and whispered in Vera's ear, "And you can tell your little yellow-stained friend in the transparent heels that we know what's going down - and it's HER."
Iva grabbed Carmene in one hand and Shandelier in the other and the three of them sashayed out of the police-station on their stilettos, cackling into the night.
Vera Head clutched the plate of poisoned plop in both hands, she wanted revenge alright, but it wasn't just Shandelier in her sights anymore - it was the WHOLE SASSY PALMS and everything in it.
The ladies piled into Carmene's car,
"Where are we going?" Shandelier asked.
Carmene looked at her in the rearview mirror, "WE are not going anywhere honey. YOU are getting away for awhile, somewhere far away..."
Dirk leaned in, his Dior Eau Savage was really quite intoxicating, he put his hand over Shandelier's and was about to whisper something she thought would be meaningful, poignant and perhaps slightly raunchy into her ear.
Instead he pushed Shandy's fork down, "Don't eat this horseshit honey..."
Suddenly the door burst open and in swished Iva Biggun and Carmene. Iva Biggun was the star attraction at The Sassy Palms and Carmene the manager. Shandelier was torn between feeling overjoyed to see them and wanting to slap Iva's Paula Dorf Jazzed Cheek Coloured face for interrupting what could be a not half-bad evening if you took out the Vinegar-Tits dyke out the front and the putrid, bubbling stew in front of her .
Iva and Carmene had attempted to dress stylishly and conservatively for the visit but they were two of the best-known drag queens in town - subtle wasn't exactly in their wardrobe vocabulary. Iva had on a classic vintage Chanel tweed suit but she'd given it a well...slutty...twist by adding fishnets and thigh high patent leather imitation crocodile skin stilleto boots. Carmene on the other hand worked her usual colourful, slimline garb but thought she'd toned it down considerably by adding a June Salteresque Cameo to her neckline.
"Get your damn hands off her!" screamed Iva at Dirk.
Dirk pulled his hands away, momentarily flustered.
"Shit, I've always wanted to scream that, ever since that kooky Crispin Glover did it in Back to the Future", Iva said conversationally to Carmene.
"I loved those films, he really had that goofy thing working for him didn't he." Carmene agreed.
"Oh yes, I wonder what ever happened to him?" Iva mused.
Shandelier cleared her throat, "Ladeees - focus."
Iva and Carmene snapped back.
"Oh sorry Love, you ok?" Iva gave her a little pat on the back making sure she was pointing her perfectly symmetrical plunging neckline into Dirk's eyeline. This annoyed Shandelier, she'd been an early adapter when it came to implants and as a result she was more in the Tori Spelling category than the Angelina Jolie one.
"I'm fine, Dirk's been taking very good care of me." She reached for his hand and held it tightly, her Anna Sui (No 312) nails digging into Dirk's Armani suit, (he'd been a big fan of NYPD Blue - the Jimmy Smits era).
Carmene shook Dirk's hand, "Thank you soooo much Detective for looking after Shandelier but she'll need to come with us now. You see Morty Hempel, our very special friend, is holed up with the best legal team in town and as far as they can see - well you really have jack-shit on Shandelier. So we'll be off now, toodles."
Carmene, ever the professional, pulled a business card from her Vuitton Lockit, "But we'd be delighted to have you visit The Sassy Palms and have a slappertini on the house."
Carmene pulled Shandelier from the chair and steered her towards the door. Dirk was flabbergasted but they had the facts right. He had nothing to charge Shandelier with and to be perfectly honest he didn't want to. He could tell she was innocent of both the arson and murder, but these gals would be the key to unlocking the secrets of the crime and he wanted them on a short leash - maybe even a leather studded one with matching gimp mask? Whew, he pulled himself back into reality.
"Don't go too far, I'll be wanting to talk to you all at some stage," he called after them.
Iva swung around on her mock-crocs and headed back to Dirk, she moved in close and straightened his Gucci silk-tie.
"You know you really are quite an appetising long drink of water aren't you? Come and see the show sometime and I'll be sure to give you a backdoor tour." She winked suggestively.
Iva grabbed the pate of uneaten stew as she left the room. Vera Head was sitting right outside the door, desperately trying to hear every last word. Iva plonked the stew in Vera's lap.
"There you go Bullychops, have a free feed. It's probably the only meat you're ever going to get inside you in this lifetime."
Then Iva leant over and whispered in Vera's ear, "And you can tell your little yellow-stained friend in the transparent heels that we know what's going down - and it's HER."
Iva grabbed Carmene in one hand and Shandelier in the other and the three of them sashayed out of the police-station on their stilettos, cackling into the night.
Vera Head clutched the plate of poisoned plop in both hands, she wanted revenge alright, but it wasn't just Shandelier in her sights anymore - it was the WHOLE SASSY PALMS and everything in it.
The ladies piled into Carmene's car,
"Where are we going?" Shandelier asked.
Carmene looked at her in the rearview mirror, "WE are not going anywhere honey. YOU are getting away for awhile, somewhere far away..."
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Eat My Beef
"Shut up with the buttering up," Imelda's caller snapped.
Imelda shifted on her trailer trash chaise lounge. "But as I 'member, darlingggg" she pouted, "you veddy fond of butter. And I no mean on your Vegemite toast darlingggg."
"Shut yer god-damned, collagened-up-the-ass trap. I don't have much time." Imelda's caller had dropped to a hoarse whisper.
"Speak to me darlingggg," Imelda purred. "Make Imelda happy and tell her that Missy Shandalier, she in duh clink."
"You'll be pleased to know that your plan worked like a witch's charm. She's here all right."
"Perrrfeeeect darlingggg." Imelda kicked off her vulva-pink plastic mules and stretched out like a 10-buck Hong Kong knock-off Eartha Kitt. "I knew my plan--"
But Imelda's caller cut her off. "Not so perfect."
Imelda did not like the smirk that laced her crop-haired informant's gravelly baritone voice. "What the fluck do you mean, darlingggg? What happen?"
"Dirk Flynn is what happened."
"Dirk Frynn? Who dat? Who dis Dirk Frynn?"
"Dirk is a six feet four smoldering pile of irresistible, hulking, hunking, muscley, musky manliness with a dash of Eau Sauvage...if you go in for that sort of thing. And from what I just saw, Miss Shandalier goes in for that sort of thing big time."
Imelda crossed over to her retro-60s Ikea bar and poured out some of that fake Scotch she nabbed the last time she was in Honkers buying her new tits. It was rough shit but it did the job. She slammed a gulp down her throat. "So darlingggg, what are you saying...?"
"Dirk Flynn is the best prober in the business. Give him ten minutes with Miss Fabulous in there and he'll have her on her knees begging him to let her give him more."
"Sounds rike a nice position to be in, if you ask me, darlingggg."
Imelda could hear her caller drag her thick sausage fingers through the spikes in her heavily-gelled hair. "Not more of that. I mean more information. I'm telling you - Flynn is like a walking lie detector test. He's going to know within the first five minutes that Shandalier is innocent and has no connection with the fire at Thai Me Up."
Imelda's lips - a mad mess of Maybelline - pouted again. "But what about Black Magic, darlingggg? That is the perfection of my plan. She was caught with a dead body in her bathroom. If we don't get her for arson, we get her for murder. Either way she's history, darlingggg, rather like your sensible shoe collection ought to be, but I fear it is not."
Imelda's partner-in-cahoots gave an earthy grunt. "From what I know of Miss Shandalier, she can wiggle out of anything. Except for maybe a Size Four. I say let's get her. Let's get her good."
Imelda slugged another mouthful of Honkers firewater down her gullet. "Just because she dumped your sweet little brother for some new meat in town--"
"She broke his heart! He was never the same after their backstage affair and I'll never forgive her. NEVER!"
Imelda sighed at these amateur dramatics. Honestly, do these dykes really think they can pull off high drama better than drag queens? Hardly. "So what do you suggest, darlingggg?"
"It's meal-time in 20 minutes. I could slip something into her beef stew. Couldn't be easier."
Imelda's eyes squinted down into sleazy slimey slopey slits. "Even better darlinggg: why don't you give the beef stew to Mr Frynn. He can take it into her. The poor bitch must be starving by now. He can play the White Knight and deliver the stew right into her mouth...as well as...well, whatever else..."
Imelda shifted on her trailer trash chaise lounge. "But as I 'member, darlingggg" she pouted, "you veddy fond of butter. And I no mean on your Vegemite toast darlingggg."
"Shut yer god-damned, collagened-up-the-ass trap. I don't have much time." Imelda's caller had dropped to a hoarse whisper.
"Speak to me darlingggg," Imelda purred. "Make Imelda happy and tell her that Missy Shandalier, she in duh clink."
"You'll be pleased to know that your plan worked like a witch's charm. She's here all right."
"Perrrfeeeect darlingggg." Imelda kicked off her vulva-pink plastic mules and stretched out like a 10-buck Hong Kong knock-off Eartha Kitt. "I knew my plan--"
But Imelda's caller cut her off. "Not so perfect."
Imelda did not like the smirk that laced her crop-haired informant's gravelly baritone voice. "What the fluck do you mean, darlingggg? What happen?"
"Dirk Flynn is what happened."
"Dirk Frynn? Who dat? Who dis Dirk Frynn?"
"Dirk is a six feet four smoldering pile of irresistible, hulking, hunking, muscley, musky manliness with a dash of Eau Sauvage...if you go in for that sort of thing. And from what I just saw, Miss Shandalier goes in for that sort of thing big time."
Imelda crossed over to her retro-60s Ikea bar and poured out some of that fake Scotch she nabbed the last time she was in Honkers buying her new tits. It was rough shit but it did the job. She slammed a gulp down her throat. "So darlingggg, what are you saying...?"
"Dirk Flynn is the best prober in the business. Give him ten minutes with Miss Fabulous in there and he'll have her on her knees begging him to let her give him more."
"Sounds rike a nice position to be in, if you ask me, darlingggg."
Imelda could hear her caller drag her thick sausage fingers through the spikes in her heavily-gelled hair. "Not more of that. I mean more information. I'm telling you - Flynn is like a walking lie detector test. He's going to know within the first five minutes that Shandalier is innocent and has no connection with the fire at Thai Me Up."
Imelda's lips - a mad mess of Maybelline - pouted again. "But what about Black Magic, darlingggg? That is the perfection of my plan. She was caught with a dead body in her bathroom. If we don't get her for arson, we get her for murder. Either way she's history, darlingggg, rather like your sensible shoe collection ought to be, but I fear it is not."
Imelda's partner-in-cahoots gave an earthy grunt. "From what I know of Miss Shandalier, she can wiggle out of anything. Except for maybe a Size Four. I say let's get her. Let's get her good."
Imelda slugged another mouthful of Honkers firewater down her gullet. "Just because she dumped your sweet little brother for some new meat in town--"
"She broke his heart! He was never the same after their backstage affair and I'll never forgive her. NEVER!"
Imelda sighed at these amateur dramatics. Honestly, do these dykes really think they can pull off high drama better than drag queens? Hardly. "So what do you suggest, darlingggg?"
"It's meal-time in 20 minutes. I could slip something into her beef stew. Couldn't be easier."
Imelda's eyes squinted down into sleazy slimey slopey slits. "Even better darlinggg: why don't you give the beef stew to Mr Frynn. He can take it into her. The poor bitch must be starving by now. He can play the White Knight and deliver the stew right into her mouth...as well as...well, whatever else..."
* * *
"Fuck I'm starving," Sandalier muttered to herself within the shadowy confines of Cell Block H. At least the lighting is low in here, she thought, I must look positively tragique. And with that divine Flynn creature within blowing distance, tragique is not the look I'm going for.
Just then the cell door swung open and in walked Dirk Flynn, in his meaty hands a tray and on the tray a large steaming bowl. "Why Mr. Flynn," Shandalier fluttered her two inch false eyelashes, "all that and you cook too?"
Flynn flashed her one of his disarmingly charm-laden smiles. That's not all I hope you'll be flashing me, she thought. "I thought you'd rather get it from me, rather than Vera Head," he said.
"Oh, you bet I would," she breathed in her best huskiness.
He laid the tray out in front of her. "I have some questions if you don't mind answering them you eat."
"Oh my good Mr Flynn, I can do many things and eat at the same time." Shandalier continued with the eye-batting. "Mmm, smells quite good." Actually it smelled like last week's horsemeat that's been sitting out in the sun next to the Collingwood City Morgue, but Shandy was too ravenous to care. She picked up the battered spoon that lay next to the bowl, filled it with stew and brought it to her provocatively full lips. "So, what's on your mind...?"
Just then the cell door swung open and in walked Dirk Flynn, in his meaty hands a tray and on the tray a large steaming bowl. "Why Mr. Flynn," Shandalier fluttered her two inch false eyelashes, "all that and you cook too?"
Flynn flashed her one of his disarmingly charm-laden smiles. That's not all I hope you'll be flashing me, she thought. "I thought you'd rather get it from me, rather than Vera Head," he said.
"Oh, you bet I would," she breathed in her best huskiness.
He laid the tray out in front of her. "I have some questions if you don't mind answering them you eat."
"Oh my good Mr Flynn, I can do many things and eat at the same time." Shandalier continued with the eye-batting. "Mmm, smells quite good." Actually it smelled like last week's horsemeat that's been sitting out in the sun next to the Collingwood City Morgue, but Shandy was too ravenous to care. She picked up the battered spoon that lay next to the bowl, filled it with stew and brought it to her provocatively full lips. "So, what's on your mind...?"
Monday, August 14, 2006
Jail Bait
"The last time" asked Thorne as he raised his perfectly shaped eyebrow.
"Yes, I had trouble some years back. Lets just say there was a misunderstanding with a business venture. To cut a long story short I was incarcerated for 6 months in a... and I use the word loosely... Ladee's Detention Centre. Vile and horrid place that it was, full of loathsome creatures. But I was inno-cent of the wrong doings they accused me of".
"Well" said Thorne "We are simply taking you in for questioning, Franklyn you too, we need to discuss the murder of the ummmm, lady in your bathroom .
"Your jumping to conclusions" snapped Shandy, neither of us have done anything.
Thorne grabbed Shandalier's arm to lead her to the doorway.
"Oh for fucks sake, alright, enough already" snapped Shandy as she grabbed for her Mandarina.
Later, at police headquarters. Shandalier waited in an interview room. Franklyn waited in another. She opened her bag, plucked out her dusky pink swarovski crystal encrusted mobile and hit auto dial.
"Excuse me Miss" said the female police officer in the room with her "You cannot make phone calls" Shandalier ignored her as Iva answered the call "Honey, where the hell are you, have you heard the news"
"Shhhh, I don't have time, get yourself and the girls down to police headquarters NOW, cause"
At that momement the phone was snatched from Shandy by the female police officer, Vera Head. She was a big boned lass, with cropped red hair and a face only a mother could love.
"Excussse meeeee" said Shandy "What the hell do you think your doin".
"I SAID NO PHONE CALLS"
"Well pardon moi CUNTstable, I do believe I am entitled to one phone call" replied Shandy.
"At our discretion and certainly not using this Barbie fashion accessory you call a phone"
"Hmph" said Shandy who was now reapplying her Guerlain Apricot Shimmer No 5.
Suddenly the door burst open, in walked Senior Detective Dirk Flynn. Shandy gasped under her breath as this striking figure of a man moved towards her. He was at least 6 foot 4, she guessed about 50, broad shouldered, well defined physique (which Shandy loved), greying hair and piercing blue eyes.
"Well Miss Wilson, what can you tell us about either the arson attack on Thai me Up or the murder of Rajan Shani Davidson"
"Who?.............Oh yo all talkin about Miss Black Magic, god rest her soul. Well Ive told all I know to those 2 detectives who came a calling to my loft at Rochelle House earlier this evening"
As Detective Dirk leaned in towards Shandy, she felt intoxicated by the distinct aroma of musky man sweat mixed with Dior Eau Savage (yes yes it made sense to Shandy, Sauvage being french for wild and untamed). "I think you need to open up for me, surely you have more to offer........in the way of information".
"Well Detective Dirk, never let it be said that I left a man unsatisfied" (she said fluttering dark luscious lashes framing her hazel flecked emerald green eyes).
Detective Dirk's concentration was broken, not only by Shandy's heaving decolletage but by the raucous commotion coming from the police reception area.
Thorne entered the room. "Sorry to disturb you Dectective Flynn, but its drag queen central out front and they're here to support her" pointing at Shandy.
"Well best we sort this drama out" replied Dirk.
Meanwhile......................In Imelda's boudoir. Imelda lay sprawled on her chaise lounge which was luridly upholstered in blood orange velour with gold flock. She smirked as she placed another hazelnut praline into her mouth. At that momement her phone rang.
"Hurro, who dis, OHHHHHH how youuuuuu darlingggg"
"Yes, I had trouble some years back. Lets just say there was a misunderstanding with a business venture. To cut a long story short I was incarcerated for 6 months in a... and I use the word loosely... Ladee's Detention Centre. Vile and horrid place that it was, full of loathsome creatures. But I was inno-cent of the wrong doings they accused me of".
"Well" said Thorne "We are simply taking you in for questioning, Franklyn you too, we need to discuss the murder of the ummmm, lady in your bathroom .
"Your jumping to conclusions" snapped Shandy, neither of us have done anything.
Thorne grabbed Shandalier's arm to lead her to the doorway.
"Oh for fucks sake, alright, enough already" snapped Shandy as she grabbed for her Mandarina.
Later, at police headquarters. Shandalier waited in an interview room. Franklyn waited in another. She opened her bag, plucked out her dusky pink swarovski crystal encrusted mobile and hit auto dial.
"Excuse me Miss" said the female police officer in the room with her "You cannot make phone calls" Shandalier ignored her as Iva answered the call "Honey, where the hell are you, have you heard the news"
"Shhhh, I don't have time, get yourself and the girls down to police headquarters NOW, cause"
At that momement the phone was snatched from Shandy by the female police officer, Vera Head. She was a big boned lass, with cropped red hair and a face only a mother could love.
"Excussse meeeee" said Shandy "What the hell do you think your doin".
"I SAID NO PHONE CALLS"
"Well pardon moi CUNTstable, I do believe I am entitled to one phone call" replied Shandy.
"At our discretion and certainly not using this Barbie fashion accessory you call a phone"
"Hmph" said Shandy who was now reapplying her Guerlain Apricot Shimmer No 5.
Suddenly the door burst open, in walked Senior Detective Dirk Flynn. Shandy gasped under her breath as this striking figure of a man moved towards her. He was at least 6 foot 4, she guessed about 50, broad shouldered, well defined physique (which Shandy loved), greying hair and piercing blue eyes.
"Well Miss Wilson, what can you tell us about either the arson attack on Thai me Up or the murder of Rajan Shani Davidson"
"Who?.............Oh yo all talkin about Miss Black Magic, god rest her soul. Well Ive told all I know to those 2 detectives who came a calling to my loft at Rochelle House earlier this evening"
As Detective Dirk leaned in towards Shandy, she felt intoxicated by the distinct aroma of musky man sweat mixed with Dior Eau Savage (yes yes it made sense to Shandy, Sauvage being french for wild and untamed). "I think you need to open up for me, surely you have more to offer........in the way of information".
"Well Detective Dirk, never let it be said that I left a man unsatisfied" (she said fluttering dark luscious lashes framing her hazel flecked emerald green eyes).
Detective Dirk's concentration was broken, not only by Shandy's heaving decolletage but by the raucous commotion coming from the police reception area.
Thorne entered the room. "Sorry to disturb you Dectective Flynn, but its drag queen central out front and they're here to support her" pointing at Shandy.
"Well best we sort this drama out" replied Dirk.
Meanwhile......................In Imelda's boudoir. Imelda lay sprawled on her chaise lounge which was luridly upholstered in blood orange velour with gold flock. She smirked as she placed another hazelnut praline into her mouth. At that momement her phone rang.
"Hurro, who dis, OHHHHHH how youuuuuu darlingggg"
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Princess Frostylocks' school of REALLY BAD ACTING
Franklyn’s sky blue eyes widened. “I…er…I…”
Shandalier walked over and slapped Franklyn across the face as hard as she could.
"Jesus Franklyn, what the fuck is wrong with you? What does mean and why the fuck do you keep saying it?"
Thorne was also staring at Franklyn with what he hoped was a look that was both superior and quizzical but in reality looked like he'd just taken a lesson in serious expression at the Lance Bass Princess Frostylocks' school of REALLY BAD ACTING.
"Yeah dude, you're always doing it. Have you got Tourette's or something?" Thorne muttered.
Shandalier didn't like Thorne's familiar tone.
"And just who the fuck ARE you?" she screamed at Thorne.
Thorne's cop toughness disappeared and his middle-class manners stepped in.
He extended his hand, "Excuse me m'aam, I'm Thor-"
"Oh SHUT UP! You think you're Thor. I just deep-throated this guy, I'll probably have lock-jaw for a week."
Shandalier couldn't take anymore, she'd just had a half Koorie/Pakistani murdered in her redecorated bathroom, been interrupted in a rather heated moment of intimacy before she could she-bop and now she was being accused of arson by a cop who obviously had some inside knowledge on her squeeze. She flung herself with as much grace and drama as she could onto her microsuede mushroom-toned sofa and began sobbing (carefully ensuring that none of her tears touched the fabric).
Franklyn rushed to her side. He wasn't the most faithful of partners when it came to sex (or same-sex for that matter) relationships - but Shandy was his boss, a friend and anyway - she just swallowed a quarter of a cup of his jizz - he owed her. Franklyn gently stroked Shandalier's back, trying to placate her.
Shandalier pleaded, "Tell them Franklyn, tell them. I don't know anything about Thai Me Up. I don't know anything about arson You've been here with me all night. You were with me out here when Black Magic had her thick dusky neck slit in my new bathroom...oh my new bathroom..." Shandalier's sobbing became more genuine as she thought of those Italian tiles, perhaps permanently stained with the blood that seeped from Black Magic's swarthy complexion. Shandalier tried to get it under control, past experience told her that she had ten minutes - tops - of the sobbing before they guys started getting jack of it.
Franklyn hushed her. "It's ok, I'll tell them everything. I'll tell you all the truth. I am very...um...familiar with Thai Me Up, I just finished rebuilding their website, among other things. I've been here for about thirty minutes. Before that I was down at Thai me Up, enjoying some of the...facilities. After I got here I heard Black Magic scream and when I went in her neck was slit, I didn't see anyone enter or exit the apartment and she was in there when I got here. I don't know what Shandalier was doing before I got here or how long she's been home."
Just then the forensic team walked in and Thorne moved back into tough-cop mode, "I think we've heard enough - you two are coming to the station with us now."
Shandalier became hysterical, "No, no, no you can't take me back there. Not after what happened last time."
Shandalier walked over and slapped Franklyn across the face as hard as she could.
"Jesus Franklyn, what the fuck is wrong with you? What does mean and why the fuck do you keep saying it?"
Thorne was also staring at Franklyn with what he hoped was a look that was both superior and quizzical but in reality looked like he'd just taken a lesson in serious expression at the Lance Bass Princess Frostylocks' school of REALLY BAD ACTING.
"Yeah dude, you're always doing it. Have you got Tourette's or something?" Thorne muttered.
Shandalier didn't like Thorne's familiar tone.
"And just who the fuck ARE you?" she screamed at Thorne.
Thorne's cop toughness disappeared and his middle-class manners stepped in.
He extended his hand, "Excuse me m'aam, I'm Thor-"
"Oh SHUT UP! You think you're Thor. I just deep-throated this guy, I'll probably have lock-jaw for a week."
Shandalier couldn't take anymore, she'd just had a half Koorie/Pakistani murdered in her redecorated bathroom, been interrupted in a rather heated moment of intimacy before she could she-bop and now she was being accused of arson by a cop who obviously had some inside knowledge on her squeeze. She flung herself with as much grace and drama as she could onto her microsuede mushroom-toned sofa and began sobbing (carefully ensuring that none of her tears touched the fabric).
Franklyn rushed to her side. He wasn't the most faithful of partners when it came to sex (or same-sex for that matter) relationships - but Shandy was his boss, a friend and anyway - she just swallowed a quarter of a cup of his jizz - he owed her. Franklyn gently stroked Shandalier's back, trying to placate her.
Shandalier pleaded, "Tell them Franklyn, tell them. I don't know anything about Thai Me Up. I don't know anything about arson You've been here with me all night. You were with me out here when Black Magic had her thick dusky neck slit in my new bathroom...oh my new bathroom..." Shandalier's sobbing became more genuine as she thought of those Italian tiles, perhaps permanently stained with the blood that seeped from Black Magic's swarthy complexion. Shandalier tried to get it under control, past experience told her that she had ten minutes - tops - of the sobbing before they guys started getting jack of it.
Franklyn hushed her. "It's ok, I'll tell them everything. I'll tell you all the truth. I am very...um...familiar with Thai Me Up, I just finished rebuilding their website, among other things. I've been here for about thirty minutes. Before that I was down at Thai me Up, enjoying some of the...facilities. After I got here I heard Black Magic scream and when I went in her neck was slit, I didn't see anyone enter or exit the apartment and she was in there when I got here. I don't know what Shandalier was doing before I got here or how long she's been home."
Just then the forensic team walked in and Thorne moved back into tough-cop mode, "I think we've heard enough - you two are coming to the station with us now."
Shandalier became hysterical, "No, no, no you can't take me back there. Not after what happened last time."
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Burn, Baby, Burn
Shandalier wiped a deliciously gooey dribble from the corner of her mouth as she approached her front door. She stopped at the wall mirror to check her lipstick and picked up the emergency one she always left there (the Shiseido Autumn-in-Kyoto red semi-gloss that went so fabulously with her new ruby grapefruit cocktail frock she nabbed up at No Ho Zone on Greville Street) and executed an expert repair job. As a second knock re-announced her visitors, she swung open the door in dramatic, Joan Crawford style and found, standing there in front of her like a couple of Roman gods, two enormous policemen with bouncing bulges sculpted in all the right places. If only they had arrived here ten minutes ago…
“Thank god you’re here,” she told them. They exchanged a quick, puzzling look but Shandy dismissed it. “Come in, come in,” she bade them.
The two tightly-uniformed men hesitated, then walked into Shandy’s foyer and she closed the door. “You were expecting us?” the taller one with square jaw and buzz-cut blonde hair asked.
“Why of course,” Shandalier replied, drinking in the guy's impressive biceps that swelled so deliciously under his shirt sleeves.
The second policeman, all jet black hair and smoldering Heathcliff eyes, frowned. “So you’re ready to confess?”
Shandy’s hands flew to her throat. “Confess? Are you both insane?” As well as insanely handsome, she thought. “I was out here when that tacky little drag queen got her throat slashed.” She pointed to the bathroom. “And I have a witness. Now, would we please do something about the body? It’s bleeding all over my sea-foam green Milano tiles and you have no idea how much it’s going to set me back to get them all re-grouted. Wait till you see them. They’re such a startling shade of green, quite unlike—”
“There is a dead body in your bathroom?” Blondey asked.
Something was very wrong here and Shandalier didn’t at all like the feeling that started to envelope her like a cheap and scratchy, acrylic shawl. “I’m sorry but why else would you two gentlemen be here?”
Blondey puffed out his substantial chest. “Ma’am, we are here to arrest you for burning down the Thai Me Up nightclub.”
“WHAT?” Shandalier gasped. “That’s ridiculous. I—I—I was nowhere near—”
“Hello Thorne.”
All three of them turned to find Franklyn standing in the doorway of the bathroom, his legs spread apart and his thick, bulging arms crossed against his own substantial chest.
“Franklyn!” the blond policemen blurted out.
“You know my director of security?” Shandalier asked. Well now, this was a delightfully handy turn of events that Shandalier could see might have to come in useful.
Franklyn and Blondey exchanged a searing look. “What are you doing here?” Blondey asked.
Frankly crossed the room and stood by Shandy’s side. “You have my word,” he said, “that Miss Shandalier was nowhere near Thai Me Up this evening. She was with me.”
“I’m sorry Franklyn, but we have evidence linking her to the arson attack.”
“Then it was fabricated!” Shandy broke in. “Clearly there’s no possible way that—”
“Ms. Wilson,” the dark policeman interrupted her with a force that get a girl going. “Your fingerprints were found on the watering can that was used to douse the club with petrol.”
“Watering can? What watering can? I don’t even have a watering can!" Shandalier was losing all patience now and she jammed her hands on her enviably slim hips. " Oh, this is all becoming such a laughable farce. Really, you don't understand. There is a plane to Boca Raton with my name on it and I really must insist...oh...oh, dear...”
Suddenly it came back to her. Imelda appeared one day last week at Shandalier’s dressing room door with two watering cans in hand. “Prease Miss Shandalrear,” she’d begged, “which one you rike? I buy plesent for fliend but me no decide.” Into Shandalier’s left hand she shoved an ornately decorated watering can of gold and burned sienna, and in the other a tacky plastic green one. Why that little witch! Now her fingerprints were all over both of those revolting cans.
“This watering can,” she said, “was it all gold and burned sienna, with little carvings of angels and demons on the side...?”
Blondey and Heathcliff exchanged another look. Blondey took out his handcuffs, and not the fluffy pink ones that Shandalier usually preferred. “Miss Shandalier Wilson, I am placing you under arrest for arson. And,” he added, "suspected murder." Shandalier felt the cold metal of the hand cuffs grip her delicate wrists. Really, these things weren’t nearly as comfy as the ones in her bedside table.
“Stop, Thorne. You’re making a huge mistake,” Franklyn told Blondey.
“Can you swear that you were with this woman all night?” Thorne demanded. “Can you Franklyn? Have you been by her side every single minute of this entire evening?”
Franklyn’s sky blue eyes widened. “I…er…I…”
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Discovery
Franklyn rushed to the phone to call the cops, dragging on his shirt in the process, it clung invitingly to his well toned torso. Damn Magic for interupting their rendezvous, but there would be time to play later.
She grabbed for Magic's handbag. Faux Mandarina was bad enough, but brazilian tropicale rainforest waterfall fern green, what the hell was she thinking.
Probing the contents of the bag she came upon all manner of bits and pieces. Cheap lipsticks, the odd false eyelash, tissues - mostly used and.........what was this. She plucked out a business card, it was for a club she knew of called THAI ME UP, but of course had never visited. The club catered to a more raunchy clientele. Bondage and discipline was the look du juor here and it was staffed by Thai Lady Boys, or cocks in frocks as she called them. But wait, what was this. On the back written in eyeliner pencil (Maybeline Kohl number 4) was Shandalier's address and the comment "You know what to do". She gasped. That handwriting was unmistakable, it was Imelda's. What the hell was she doing giving Magic her address and what was the meaning of that remark. She would deal with that Fiesty Filapina later.
Franklyn came to the door "I've called the cops, but they can't get here for half an hour, something about a fire at that joint THAI ME UP.
Shandalier gasped. Was there a connection? She would get to the bottom of this later. She regained her composure.
"Half an hour you say" as she moved towards Franklyn's manly frame. "What are you doing Shandy" he said "Stop, the cops will be here soon and what about Magic". "Shhhhh, she ain't saying nuthin to nobody and Im feeling rather toey dahlin after all this hooplah and Im sure my man could do with some servicing".
Franklyn smirked as Shandalier deftly pulled the zip of his Diesel jeans down. She slipped her hand past his Calvin's and cupped his manhood in the palm of her hand, he groaned. Shandy fell to her knees and yanked the pants down. He was firming. She gazed up to catch his eye. She enjoyed the feeling that enveloped her, a mix of power and ecstacy.
He was long and hard now. Opening her mouth, she ran her tongue up and down his shaft. The manly taste and smell was intoxicating. Franklyn surrendered himself completely. No one did it better than Shandy.
Opening the back of her throat she plunged her head forward taking him competely. Franklyn writhed in lust as he roughly toyed with Shandy's hair. Her rythym intensified as her mouth slid up and down, her tongue curling about the head of his schlong, it was bulbous and salty.
Franklyn held tightly to Shandy's head, forcing himself deeper and deeper into her willing and open throat. But it was not enough, he wanted more. He pulled out. Shandy's Guerlain lipstick (apricot shimmer No.5) smeared the length of his shaft.
Franklyn forced Shandy onto to the bathroom floor. She gasped as her back touched the cold Seafoam Green Milano tiles. He ripped open her ruffled black organza blouse, the pearl buttons coming away as he did so, exposing Shandy's creamy white decolletage.
Franklyn's warm wet lips worked their magic over Shandy's firm and excited nipples. She was now writhing beneath the weight of his hard muscular body. Franklyn's hand slowly edged its way up her skirt towards her Swarovski encrusted La Perla G String.
Sense prevailed. "Franklyn, what are we doing?" cried Shandy. "The police will be hear any minute". But Franklyn was too far gone to worry about the cops. Shandy knew that she must quickly satisfy his manly hunger. Still on her knees she again took his pulsating manhood into her mouth and started milking it for all its worth.
Franklyn was going crazy. He was getting ready to blow. Shandy knew, she always knew, she could read a man's every move. With that she gently stroked his smooth balls, she could tell the momement of impact was near. With a gasp, Franklyn climaxed. Shandy greedily leached his vital juices from him. At that momement the intercom buzzed. The cops had arrived.
She grabbed for Magic's handbag. Faux Mandarina was bad enough, but brazilian tropicale rainforest waterfall fern green, what the hell was she thinking.
Probing the contents of the bag she came upon all manner of bits and pieces. Cheap lipsticks, the odd false eyelash, tissues - mostly used and.........what was this. She plucked out a business card, it was for a club she knew of called THAI ME UP, but of course had never visited. The club catered to a more raunchy clientele. Bondage and discipline was the look du juor here and it was staffed by Thai Lady Boys, or cocks in frocks as she called them. But wait, what was this. On the back written in eyeliner pencil (Maybeline Kohl number 4) was Shandalier's address and the comment "You know what to do". She gasped. That handwriting was unmistakable, it was Imelda's. What the hell was she doing giving Magic her address and what was the meaning of that remark. She would deal with that Fiesty Filapina later.
Franklyn came to the door "I've called the cops, but they can't get here for half an hour, something about a fire at that joint THAI ME UP.
Shandalier gasped. Was there a connection? She would get to the bottom of this later. She regained her composure.
"Half an hour you say" as she moved towards Franklyn's manly frame. "What are you doing Shandy" he said "Stop, the cops will be here soon and what about Magic". "Shhhhh, she ain't saying nuthin to nobody and Im feeling rather toey dahlin after all this hooplah and Im sure my man could do with some servicing".
Franklyn smirked as Shandalier deftly pulled the zip of his Diesel jeans down. She slipped her hand past his Calvin's and cupped his manhood in the palm of her hand, he groaned. Shandy fell to her knees and yanked the pants down. He was firming. She gazed up to catch his eye. She enjoyed the feeling that enveloped her, a mix of power and ecstacy.
He was long and hard now. Opening her mouth, she ran her tongue up and down his shaft. The manly taste and smell was intoxicating. Franklyn surrendered himself completely. No one did it better than Shandy.
Opening the back of her throat she plunged her head forward taking him competely. Franklyn writhed in lust as he roughly toyed with Shandy's hair. Her rythym intensified as her mouth slid up and down, her tongue curling about the head of his schlong, it was bulbous and salty.
Franklyn held tightly to Shandy's head, forcing himself deeper and deeper into her willing and open throat. But it was not enough, he wanted more. He pulled out. Shandy's Guerlain lipstick (apricot shimmer No.5) smeared the length of his shaft.
Franklyn forced Shandy onto to the bathroom floor. She gasped as her back touched the cold Seafoam Green Milano tiles. He ripped open her ruffled black organza blouse, the pearl buttons coming away as he did so, exposing Shandy's creamy white decolletage.
Franklyn's warm wet lips worked their magic over Shandy's firm and excited nipples. She was now writhing beneath the weight of his hard muscular body. Franklyn's hand slowly edged its way up her skirt towards her Swarovski encrusted La Perla G String.
Sense prevailed. "Franklyn, what are we doing?" cried Shandy. "The police will be hear any minute". But Franklyn was too far gone to worry about the cops. Shandy knew that she must quickly satisfy his manly hunger. Still on her knees she again took his pulsating manhood into her mouth and started milking it for all its worth.
Franklyn was going crazy. He was getting ready to blow. Shandy knew, she always knew, she could read a man's every move. With that she gently stroked his smooth balls, she could tell the momement of impact was near. With a gasp, Franklyn climaxed. Shandy greedily leached his vital juices from him. At that momement the intercom buzzed. The cops had arrived.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
The Da Cinchy Code
A high-pitched shriek sliced through the night air. "What the hell was that?" Franklyn was through the doorway before Shandalier could stop him. In several manly strides he crossed over to Shandalier's bathroom and burst open the door. Shandalier heard Franklyn gasp. "It's Black Magic! And she is dead."
"What?" Shandelier pushed Franklyn's ridiculously handsome frame aside and strode into her impeccably fashionable bathroom. She took a moment to admire the new white high gloss tiles and frameless shower screen before kneeling down to check on Black Magic. Her rather large frame was sprawled across the floor in a crucifix-like pose, her funky faux fox fur hood pushed over her face and adding to Shandelier's discomfort a rather large pool of blood was spreading over the new tiles.
Shandelier wasn't going to be fooled by this blackmailing, limelight-seeking, half-Koorie/Pakistani princess. Black Magic was no more dead than Shandlier was a bible-toting choirboy from Boiling Springs...anymore.
Shandelier sighed as she leant to pull back the hood, "You can cut out the theatrics my tinted sister and you'd better hope like hell this fake blood comes out of the light-grey grout...Jesus, Fuck, Christ, Holy Mary Mother of God..." Shandelier screamed as she pulled the hood back to reveal that Black Magic's neck had been slashed.
"Fuck Franklyn, pull your Saba shirt on and call the cops, an ambulance and Carmene... this is serious."
Franklyn made the call while Shandelier held Black Magic's hand, "Honey, I don't know if you can hear me but hang on if you can, hang on, help is on its way." Shandelier knew it was hopeless, Black Magic was gone and she was never coming back. There would be times for tears later, right now Shandlier had something to do. Shandelier muttered the words as her other hand reached for Black Magic's Mandarina. She rifled through the bag and found her knickers and smiled, "Black Magic, you cheeky devil, there was no stain on these."
Shandelier shoved her knickers in her pocket but as she was closing the bag something made her stop. She let go of Black Magic's hand and gasped again, there were more secrets in Black Magic's bag and secrets that didn't answer any questions but simply raised more.
"What?" Shandelier pushed Franklyn's ridiculously handsome frame aside and strode into her impeccably fashionable bathroom. She took a moment to admire the new white high gloss tiles and frameless shower screen before kneeling down to check on Black Magic. Her rather large frame was sprawled across the floor in a crucifix-like pose, her funky faux fox fur hood pushed over her face and adding to Shandelier's discomfort a rather large pool of blood was spreading over the new tiles.
Shandelier wasn't going to be fooled by this blackmailing, limelight-seeking, half-Koorie/Pakistani princess. Black Magic was no more dead than Shandlier was a bible-toting choirboy from Boiling Springs...anymore.
Shandelier sighed as she leant to pull back the hood, "You can cut out the theatrics my tinted sister and you'd better hope like hell this fake blood comes out of the light-grey grout...Jesus, Fuck, Christ, Holy Mary Mother of God..." Shandelier screamed as she pulled the hood back to reveal that Black Magic's neck had been slashed.
"Fuck Franklyn, pull your Saba shirt on and call the cops, an ambulance and Carmene... this is serious."
Franklyn made the call while Shandelier held Black Magic's hand, "Honey, I don't know if you can hear me but hang on if you can, hang on, help is on its way." Shandelier knew it was hopeless, Black Magic was gone and she was never coming back. There would be times for tears later, right now Shandlier had something to do. Shandelier muttered the words as her other hand reached for Black Magic's Mandarina. She rifled through the bag and found her knickers and smiled, "Black Magic, you cheeky devil, there was no stain on these."
Shandelier shoved her knickers in her pocket but as she was closing the bag something made her stop. She let go of Black Magic's hand and gasped again, there were more secrets in Black Magic's bag and secrets that didn't answer any questions but simply raised more.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
A Mysterious Visitor
Black Magic pushed back the hood of her fabulously funky faux fox fur so that her dusky cheekbones fell into the light. She pressed a bejeweled finger to her shimmering Revloned lips. "SH!" she insisted in a low whisper. "No one must know I am here." She gripped the edge of the hood and pulled it forward again, casting her face back into enigmatic shadows.
Oh puh-lease, Shandalier thought, I simply don't have the time for Black Magic's amateur Mata Hari theatrics. Come to think of it, she realised, she never would, and certainly not since she accidentally discovered that Black Magic, Sassy Palms' resident nigress, started out life as Nigel Blick, born to a Koori half-blood and some Pakistani tourist with an excessive fondness for garlic and Fosters. "Black Magic," Shandalier said, "now's just not a good time. Perhaps if I called you in the morn--"
Black Magic thrust out a size 11 Manolo Blahnik knock-off and prevented Shandalier from closing her front door. "We must speak!" she demanded.
Shandalier made a dramatic show - one that Helen Keller couldn't miss - of looking at her watch. Nobody knew of the occasional assignations between she and the impossibly handsome Franklyn and that situation must not change. Jealous accusations of favouritism would fly across the stage thicker than the faux fog during Margot Bourgeois' "I Will Survive" number. Plus, if one of those bitches knew just how glorious Franklyn's abs were to the touch, they'd all want a piece of that action. Franklyn was due at Shandalier's door within moments. Should Black Magic see him, there would be hell to pay, not to mention the probable end of their furtive bonkings. "Really, Magic, whatever it is--"
"I have a certain article of clothing."
Shandalier stared into Black Magic's unblinking, Dior-lined orbs. Reluctantly she swung open her front door and watched as Black Magic catwalked into her spacious loft. "What have you got?" she asked breathlessly.
Black Magic whirled around like a skilled dervish. "It is pink."
Shandalier's eyes narrowed. "What shade?"
"Officially I believe it's known as Summer Solstice Samoan Sunset pink. There is a narrow waistband, darker in colour, more of a Mid-Winter Devonshire Rambling rose. Oh, and there's a stain right where--" Black Magic lowered her double-false eyelashes discreetly. "Well, let's just say there's a stain..."
Magic had described Shandalier's missing knickers perfectly. "Where did you get them?" she hissed.
But Black Magic remained silent as she opened her brazilian tropicale rainforest waterfall-fern green Mandarina Duck knock-off shoulder bag and withdrew Shandalier's secret Victoria's Secret. "I want to make a deal," Black Magic twirled the panties from a bony finger. "In exchange for these incriminating pair of evidences, I want you to demote Iva and give the role of the Sassy Palm's lead drag queen...to MOI."
"You're not half the drag queen that Iva is!"
"And you have no idea what I am capable of. I WANT THAT SPOTLIGHT!"
Just then came two knocks, a pause then one knock: the irresistibly handsome Franklyn's secret "I'm here and I'm horny" knock.
"I need you to do me a favour," Shandalier said.
But Black Magic sneered. "I am not in the mood for favours."
Shandalier pointed at a glossy white door. "If you want the lead spotlight at Sassy Palms you'll go into that bathroom and not come out until I have gotten rid of whoever this is."
Franklyn knocked again. Black Magic pursed her lips and then spun on her cheap heels. "You've got three minutes."
When she opened the door, Shandalier found Franklyn already shirtless. His round, firm pecs, sprayed lightly with a dusting of feather soft hair, shone invitingly in the moonlight. "Oh baby," he groaned, "Frankie needs his sugar."
But Shandalier pressed a hand to a hard, squared shoulder. "I'm sorry", she whispered, " Massive headache."
Frankly held up his broad hands. "Massage!"
"No, really, tonight isn't--"
A high-pitched shriek sliced through the night air. "What the hell was that?" Franklyn was through the doorway before Shandalier could stop him. In several manly strides he crossed over to Shandalier's bathroom and burst open the door. Shandalier heard Franklyn gasp. "It's Black Magic! And she is........."
Oh puh-lease, Shandalier thought, I simply don't have the time for Black Magic's amateur Mata Hari theatrics. Come to think of it, she realised, she never would, and certainly not since she accidentally discovered that Black Magic, Sassy Palms' resident nigress, started out life as Nigel Blick, born to a Koori half-blood and some Pakistani tourist with an excessive fondness for garlic and Fosters. "Black Magic," Shandalier said, "now's just not a good time. Perhaps if I called you in the morn--"
Black Magic thrust out a size 11 Manolo Blahnik knock-off and prevented Shandalier from closing her front door. "We must speak!" she demanded.
Shandalier made a dramatic show - one that Helen Keller couldn't miss - of looking at her watch. Nobody knew of the occasional assignations between she and the impossibly handsome Franklyn and that situation must not change. Jealous accusations of favouritism would fly across the stage thicker than the faux fog during Margot Bourgeois' "I Will Survive" number. Plus, if one of those bitches knew just how glorious Franklyn's abs were to the touch, they'd all want a piece of that action. Franklyn was due at Shandalier's door within moments. Should Black Magic see him, there would be hell to pay, not to mention the probable end of their furtive bonkings. "Really, Magic, whatever it is--"
"I have a certain article of clothing."
Shandalier stared into Black Magic's unblinking, Dior-lined orbs. Reluctantly she swung open her front door and watched as Black Magic catwalked into her spacious loft. "What have you got?" she asked breathlessly.
Black Magic whirled around like a skilled dervish. "It is pink."
Shandalier's eyes narrowed. "What shade?"
"Officially I believe it's known as Summer Solstice Samoan Sunset pink. There is a narrow waistband, darker in colour, more of a Mid-Winter Devonshire Rambling rose. Oh, and there's a stain right where--" Black Magic lowered her double-false eyelashes discreetly. "Well, let's just say there's a stain..."
Magic had described Shandalier's missing knickers perfectly. "Where did you get them?" she hissed.
But Black Magic remained silent as she opened her brazilian tropicale rainforest waterfall-fern green Mandarina Duck knock-off shoulder bag and withdrew Shandalier's secret Victoria's Secret. "I want to make a deal," Black Magic twirled the panties from a bony finger. "In exchange for these incriminating pair of evidences, I want you to demote Iva and give the role of the Sassy Palm's lead drag queen...to MOI."
"You're not half the drag queen that Iva is!"
"And you have no idea what I am capable of. I WANT THAT SPOTLIGHT!"
Just then came two knocks, a pause then one knock: the irresistibly handsome Franklyn's secret "I'm here and I'm horny" knock.
"I need you to do me a favour," Shandalier said.
But Black Magic sneered. "I am not in the mood for favours."
Shandalier pointed at a glossy white door. "If you want the lead spotlight at Sassy Palms you'll go into that bathroom and not come out until I have gotten rid of whoever this is."
Franklyn knocked again. Black Magic pursed her lips and then spun on her cheap heels. "You've got three minutes."
When she opened the door, Shandalier found Franklyn already shirtless. His round, firm pecs, sprayed lightly with a dusting of feather soft hair, shone invitingly in the moonlight. "Oh baby," he groaned, "Frankie needs his sugar."
But Shandalier pressed a hand to a hard, squared shoulder. "I'm sorry", she whispered, " Massive headache."
Frankly held up his broad hands. "Massage!"
"No, really, tonight isn't--"
A high-pitched shriek sliced through the night air. "What the hell was that?" Franklyn was through the doorway before Shandalier could stop him. In several manly strides he crossed over to Shandalier's bathroom and burst open the door. Shandalier heard Franklyn gasp. "It's Black Magic! And she is........."
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Bon Voyage
"Im going to use this there extra money and Im takin it with me to America and Im gonna visit some of my ole haunts and pick me up some fine and dandy a-coo-trey-mont of our trade. Im talkin feathers, Im torkin beads an the like, but not any ole stuff, I mean the creme de la creme" said Shandalier.
She went on, gazing out at the audience who were hanging on her every word. "You know. Since runnin this joint, I have always wanted to put onnn the best goddam drag cabaret money can buy, an now with all of your help IM GONNA DO ITTT" A tear trickled down her cheek.
Imelda piped up. "what you mean. You no like what I wear! I have good style lady, me wear nice thing. In Manila, me famous for my frock".
"Well darlin" replied Shandalier. "A style maven you are not. I have more taste in my
per-fectly mani'd nails, then you have in your entire body".
"Hmph, you a stupi bit" was all Imelda could muster.
"So I thank you'all for your generosity and I look forward to seein you when I get back. Watch this space cause we will be puttin on a hum dinger of a show. I love you all your all my chillren". With that Shandalier left the stage and made her way to Morty's table. She knew much of what was donated came out of his billfold.
"Morty your too generous" Shandalier lent down and embraced him.
"Cupid, its nuthin, you deserve it, you have kept this joint goin and for that I owe you. So go and enjoy"
With that Morty got up, kissed Shandalier on the cheek and left.
Shandalier was in serious need of a drink, she went to the bar. "Honey, mix me up "my"
Mimosa". This mean't the usual champagne and orange with a heavy splash of Absynthe to take the edge off.
She glanced about the room. The Sassy Palms had changed little over the years, which of course was what made it so popular. It was kitsch, but in a good way. The place was a mix of Disneyland's Enchanted Tiki Room and Mrs Howell's hut. Lots of faux bamboo, the bar was clad in it. The walls were covered in flocked palm frond paper and the lampshades were covered in tropical motifs, all in luridly bright colours to dazzle the eye. She loved it just the way it was, but she hope for more, she new that her girls were talented, but she lacked the money to put on a truly spectaculer performance. That was about to change. She would come back with renewed vigour to take the Sassy Palms to the next level.
As she sipped on her "Mimosa", Franklyn appeared at her side. He was unbearably handsome. Theirs was more than just a professional relationship. They had been known to indulge in the odd sexual encounter now and again. Nothing serious, Shandalier had no interest in relationships having been there and done that. But girls had urges and needs and who better to service them but Franklyn. Mind you, she knew that he had a taste for both sides of the coin and he often would link up with the odd piece of trade that came through the doors.
"You look tired" said Franklyn.
"Im just a bit emotional, but its all good honey" replied Shandalier
"Is there anything I can do to help" said Franklyn with a highly flirtatious look in his eye
"Welllllll, now that you say that, hmmmmm, why don't you come by my place after we close, Im sure we can discuss this further over a drink".
Later that night in the early hours of the morning, at Shandaliers warehouse apartment in Collingwood, she was readying herself for Franklyn's arrival. He had to close up the Palms. She had changed into a filmy kaftan in lemon, trimmed in amber coloured crystals. It looked fabulous against her skin. She was just pouring herself a drink when the intercom buzzed. She pushed the button to release the door. "Come on up good lookin".
Momements later her doorbell chimed. She flung open the door............ "Oh my god, what the fuck are you doin here". She was shocked to see.........................
She went on, gazing out at the audience who were hanging on her every word. "You know. Since runnin this joint, I have always wanted to put onnn the best goddam drag cabaret money can buy, an now with all of your help IM GONNA DO ITTT" A tear trickled down her cheek.
Imelda piped up. "what you mean. You no like what I wear! I have good style lady, me wear nice thing. In Manila, me famous for my frock".
"Well darlin" replied Shandalier. "A style maven you are not. I have more taste in my
per-fectly mani'd nails, then you have in your entire body".
"Hmph, you a stupi bit" was all Imelda could muster.
"So I thank you'all for your generosity and I look forward to seein you when I get back. Watch this space cause we will be puttin on a hum dinger of a show. I love you all your all my chillren". With that Shandalier left the stage and made her way to Morty's table. She knew much of what was donated came out of his billfold.
"Morty your too generous" Shandalier lent down and embraced him.
"Cupid, its nuthin, you deserve it, you have kept this joint goin and for that I owe you. So go and enjoy"
With that Morty got up, kissed Shandalier on the cheek and left.
Shandalier was in serious need of a drink, she went to the bar. "Honey, mix me up "my"
Mimosa". This mean't the usual champagne and orange with a heavy splash of Absynthe to take the edge off.
She glanced about the room. The Sassy Palms had changed little over the years, which of course was what made it so popular. It was kitsch, but in a good way. The place was a mix of Disneyland's Enchanted Tiki Room and Mrs Howell's hut. Lots of faux bamboo, the bar was clad in it. The walls were covered in flocked palm frond paper and the lampshades were covered in tropical motifs, all in luridly bright colours to dazzle the eye. She loved it just the way it was, but she hope for more, she new that her girls were talented, but she lacked the money to put on a truly spectaculer performance. That was about to change. She would come back with renewed vigour to take the Sassy Palms to the next level.
As she sipped on her "Mimosa", Franklyn appeared at her side. He was unbearably handsome. Theirs was more than just a professional relationship. They had been known to indulge in the odd sexual encounter now and again. Nothing serious, Shandalier had no interest in relationships having been there and done that. But girls had urges and needs and who better to service them but Franklyn. Mind you, she knew that he had a taste for both sides of the coin and he often would link up with the odd piece of trade that came through the doors.
"You look tired" said Franklyn.
"Im just a bit emotional, but its all good honey" replied Shandalier
"Is there anything I can do to help" said Franklyn with a highly flirtatious look in his eye
"Welllllll, now that you say that, hmmmmm, why don't you come by my place after we close, Im sure we can discuss this further over a drink".
Later that night in the early hours of the morning, at Shandaliers warehouse apartment in Collingwood, she was readying herself for Franklyn's arrival. He had to close up the Palms. She had changed into a filmy kaftan in lemon, trimmed in amber coloured crystals. It looked fabulous against her skin. She was just pouring herself a drink when the intercom buzzed. She pushed the button to release the door. "Come on up good lookin".
Momements later her doorbell chimed. She flung open the door............ "Oh my god, what the fuck are you doin here". She was shocked to see.........................
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Pants Music..
Iva Biggun knew nothing for sure but she was going to follow her hunch. Her hunch led her yellow plumes straight to the door of Imelda's dressing room. Iva pushed open the louvred western-style swing doors and sashayed inside. Imelda was already half undressed from her performance and about to slip into one of garish polyester disasters. Iva threw her a roll of Hollywood tape.
"You'd better push that banana fritter back between your pork buns Honey. You're coming with me."
"Whaaaaaaat? No waaaaaaaaay, I finish with my show tonight." Imelda squealed in her nails-on-the-blackboard falsetto.
Iva pushed Imelda back against the lime-green fake bamboo wallpaper. "No. You. Have. Just. Started."
Imelda was uncharacteristically silent. Iva ruffled through Imelda's dress-rack, screwing her nose up in distate at each outfit.
"Have you got ANYTHING in this collection that says 'SHOW' instead of 'SLAG'?"
"What you want?" Imelda squeezed herself back into her pink bedazzled lycra monstrosity.
Ivan turned to Imelda and spoke quickly, "Listen to me Crispy-Skin I know exactly what's been going on with the blackmailing. You'll be going down faster than a five dollar hooker if you don't do what I say. So pull yourself together and get that pathetic excuse for an ass on to the stage. I can get you out of this but trust me you are going to owe me and I will make you pay."
"But I never heard of blackmail..." Iva shot Imelda a look that silenced her.
"And you can bring some cash." Iva said, picking up one of Imelda's hot-pink nubuck wedge-heeled knee-high ugg-boots and tossing it to her. "I know you've been dipping into the tip jar for the bar-staff and hiding it in here so you may as well grab it all out now.
Imelda's painted on eyebrows could not have gone any higher but she knew better than to try lying her way out of this one. Perhaps her staccato screeches and preening purrs would have worked on one of her tricks but no-one gets anything past Iva Biggun. Especially a two-bit
Rice Queen with nubuck wedge-heels.
Iva and Imelda swung onto the stage, looking as composed as possible, with the eyes of The Sassy Palms audience firmly fixed upon them. Iva slipped into her best showgirl persona, draping her feather boa around Shandalier's shoulders.
"Ooooh Shandalier, we know all about your secret needs, your innermost desires...we know what you need."
Shandalier tapped her stilettos wondering whether to play or stay. Imelda was making a pathetic attempt at following Iva's lead, trying to keep up.
"That's right Shandalier. We know we needed to do something special to get you here tonight and our ruse worked. So now you're here grab a seat and check out our little show and we have a lovely little gift for you as well."
Iva gave a nod to Franklyn, The Sassy Palms ridiculously handsome technical assistant and the lights dimmed and the karaoke version of Adam Ant's 'Antmusic' hit the speakers.
Iva spun, grabbed the microphone and let loose with her own incredible version with Imelda stumbling for a little limelight in the sidelines.
"Well I'm standing here looking at you
What do I see?" Iva shot an incredulous look at Imelda, the crowd loved it.
"I'm looking straight through
it's so sad when you're young
to be told
you're having fun."
"So pull out the plumage we're doing you a favour
You need some R & R so try another flavour,
Pants music."
"Well I'm standing here what do I see?" Another nod to Imelda.
"A big nothing
threatening thee
It's so sad when you're young
to be told
you're having fun."
"Don't tread on an ant
She's done nothing to you
There might come a day when she's treading on you
Don't tread on an ant you'll end up black and blue
You cut off his headlegs come looking for you ."
Imelda beckoned Franklyn onto the stage for the final verse, having a ridiculously handsome technical assistant shaking his hot pants around the stage is enough to make anyone forget their problems - even if it is blackmail..or blackmailing.
Iva dragged Shandelier back on to the stage and made an announcement. "Shandelier, we know how much you've been missing home so we're doing a whip around for you tonight, we're paying your airfare back to the US of A with two week's accomodation in a luxury aparment at Boca thrown in." Iva winked at Morty, he shrugged his shoulders, it wasn't the first time Iva had sprung something on him. And if she was offering two weeks in Boca he assumed the luxury apartment was his condo.
Iva pulled out a top hat and begun passing it around, first to Imelda. Imelda dropped in some of her ugg-boot stash but under Iva's gaze she put in the whole amount. The hat did the rounds of the club and the crowd dug deep. The Sassy Palms had really turned it on tonight, there'd been the usual acts but then there'd been Shandalier's gospel number, accusations of blackmail, a new version of Antmusic and of course a ridiculously handsome technical assistant shaking it on stage. When the hat finally landed back to Shandalier there was more than enough for an airfare to the States, in fact there was enough for two airfares.
Shandalier looked into the hat and burst into tears. "Oh honey" she said hugging Iva, "I was thinking the worst and look what you all have done."
Iva hugged her back, "Hey Shandalier, you need a break Honey."
Shandalier looked into the hat again at all that money, into the faces into the crowd and back at Iva.
"There's more than enough money for my airfare and I'll tell you what I'm going to do with the rest..."
"You'd better push that banana fritter back between your pork buns Honey. You're coming with me."
"Whaaaaaaat? No waaaaaaaaay, I finish with my show tonight." Imelda squealed in her nails-on-the-blackboard falsetto.
Iva pushed Imelda back against the lime-green fake bamboo wallpaper. "No. You. Have. Just. Started."
Imelda was uncharacteristically silent. Iva ruffled through Imelda's dress-rack, screwing her nose up in distate at each outfit.
"Have you got ANYTHING in this collection that says 'SHOW' instead of 'SLAG'?"
"What you want?" Imelda squeezed herself back into her pink bedazzled lycra monstrosity.
Ivan turned to Imelda and spoke quickly, "Listen to me Crispy-Skin I know exactly what's been going on with the blackmailing. You'll be going down faster than a five dollar hooker if you don't do what I say. So pull yourself together and get that pathetic excuse for an ass on to the stage. I can get you out of this but trust me you are going to owe me and I will make you pay."
"But I never heard of blackmail..." Iva shot Imelda a look that silenced her.
"And you can bring some cash." Iva said, picking up one of Imelda's hot-pink nubuck wedge-heeled knee-high ugg-boots and tossing it to her. "I know you've been dipping into the tip jar for the bar-staff and hiding it in here so you may as well grab it all out now.
Imelda's painted on eyebrows could not have gone any higher but she knew better than to try lying her way out of this one. Perhaps her staccato screeches and preening purrs would have worked on one of her tricks but no-one gets anything past Iva Biggun. Especially a two-bit
Rice Queen with nubuck wedge-heels.
Iva and Imelda swung onto the stage, looking as composed as possible, with the eyes of The Sassy Palms audience firmly fixed upon them. Iva slipped into her best showgirl persona, draping her feather boa around Shandalier's shoulders.
"Ooooh Shandalier, we know all about your secret needs, your innermost desires...we know what you need."
Shandalier tapped her stilettos wondering whether to play or stay. Imelda was making a pathetic attempt at following Iva's lead, trying to keep up.
"That's right Shandalier. We know we needed to do something special to get you here tonight and our ruse worked. So now you're here grab a seat and check out our little show and we have a lovely little gift for you as well."
Iva gave a nod to Franklyn, The Sassy Palms ridiculously handsome technical assistant and the lights dimmed and the karaoke version of Adam Ant's 'Antmusic' hit the speakers.
Iva spun, grabbed the microphone and let loose with her own incredible version with Imelda stumbling for a little limelight in the sidelines.
"Well I'm standing here looking at you
What do I see?" Iva shot an incredulous look at Imelda, the crowd loved it.
"I'm looking straight through
it's so sad when you're young
to be told
you're having fun."
"So pull out the plumage we're doing you a favour
You need some R & R so try another flavour,
Pants music."
"Well I'm standing here what do I see?" Another nod to Imelda.
"A big nothing
threatening thee
It's so sad when you're young
to be told
you're having fun."
"Don't tread on an ant
She's done nothing to you
There might come a day when she's treading on you
Don't tread on an ant you'll end up black and blue
You cut off his headlegs come looking for you ."
Imelda beckoned Franklyn onto the stage for the final verse, having a ridiculously handsome technical assistant shaking his hot pants around the stage is enough to make anyone forget their problems - even if it is blackmail..or blackmailing.
Iva dragged Shandelier back on to the stage and made an announcement. "Shandelier, we know how much you've been missing home so we're doing a whip around for you tonight, we're paying your airfare back to the US of A with two week's accomodation in a luxury aparment at Boca thrown in." Iva winked at Morty, he shrugged his shoulders, it wasn't the first time Iva had sprung something on him. And if she was offering two weeks in Boca he assumed the luxury apartment was his condo.
Iva pulled out a top hat and begun passing it around, first to Imelda. Imelda dropped in some of her ugg-boot stash but under Iva's gaze she put in the whole amount. The hat did the rounds of the club and the crowd dug deep. The Sassy Palms had really turned it on tonight, there'd been the usual acts but then there'd been Shandalier's gospel number, accusations of blackmail, a new version of Antmusic and of course a ridiculously handsome technical assistant shaking it on stage. When the hat finally landed back to Shandalier there was more than enough for an airfare to the States, in fact there was enough for two airfares.
Shandalier looked into the hat and burst into tears. "Oh honey" she said hugging Iva, "I was thinking the worst and look what you all have done."
Iva hugged her back, "Hey Shandalier, you need a break Honey."
Shandalier looked into the hat again at all that money, into the faces into the crowd and back at Iva.
"There's more than enough money for my airfare and I'll tell you what I'm going to do with the rest..."
Monday, April 17, 2006
...and then there were nine.
The music was thumping, the toned bodies of the sexy young dancers were glistening with a wild concoction of Bev's Bootylicious Body juice and sweat and the crowd were perched on the edges of their gold-lame-padded retro kitchen chairs - this was going down in history as one of the wildest nights in the hsitory of The Sassy Palms.
Shandy kept her back to the crowd. Her long toned legs jigging as she shook her buns of steel to the rhythmic Mayan beat. The stage was packed: Shandy, Iva Biggun, Lady Luck, Caress, Margot Bourgeois and the three dancers and then of course Carmene and Morty waiting in the wings. Ten little Mayan Indians having the time of their lives - and for one of them, that life was about to end. Snuffed out like the career of a former child-star who thought making a gay sex tape was a good idea at the time.
Shandy spun, hiding her face from the audience with her slender, perfectly manicured hands (nails painted in Mayan Musque for the occasion), she slowly drew her hands back, teasing the audience who were desperate to gaze upon her elegant visage. The music took a dramatic turn and Shandy pulled her hands back, flicked back her hair with the merest shake of her newas excited.
Oops! Forgot about one very important person. (Self Confessed)Queen of Antwerpen. Pooja, wife of Rahul. She is here to accompany her husband. I don't know much about this ever similing lass with lot of self respect. But keep watching this space! But here cooking, although for a few days was a revelation for the rest of us in Belgium.
re to accompany her husband. I don't know much about this ever similing lass with lot of self respect. But keep watching this space! But here cooking, although for a few days was a revelation for the rest of us in Belgium.
Shandy kept her back to the crowd. Her long toned legs jigging as she shook her buns of steel to the rhythmic Mayan beat. The stage was packed: Shandy, Iva Biggun, Lady Luck, Caress, Margot Bourgeois and the three dancers and then of course Carmene and Morty waiting in the wings. Ten little Mayan Indians having the time of their lives - and for one of them, that life was about to end. Snuffed out like the career of a former child-star who thought making a gay sex tape was a good idea at the time.
Shandy spun, hiding her face from the audience with her slender, perfectly manicured hands (nails painted in Mayan Musque for the occasion), she slowly drew her hands back, teasing the audience who were desperate to gaze upon her elegant visage. The music took a dramatic turn and Shandy pulled her hands back, flicked back her hair with the merest shake of her newas excited.
Oops! Forgot about one very important person. (Self Confessed)Queen of Antwerpen. Pooja, wife of Rahul. She is here to accompany her husband. I don't know much about this ever similing lass with lot of self respect. But keep watching this space! But here cooking, although for a few days was a revelation for the rest of us in Belgium.
re to accompany her husband. I don't know much about this ever similing lass with lot of self respect. But keep watching this space! But here cooking, although for a few days was a revelation for the rest of us in Belgium.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
A Dramatic Announcement
A restless tide swept through the ragtag crowd. Now intrigued, they leaned forward, their breaths held as one. Whatever she was going to reveal, it was going to be a doozie. And if there was something the Sassy Palms crowd loved, it was a doozie. Slowly, dramatically, the fourteen chunky gold bangles clanging at her wrist, Shandalier raised her left hand and laid it on her shoulder pad. Two quick tugs, a pause, then another quick tug.
Beyond the heady glare of the spotlight that now flooded her, Shandalier could make out Franklyn’s ridiculously handsome silhouette as he rushed to the front foyer. It had been a full week – and God only knew how many extra dry vodka martinis – since Shandalier had instructed he keep his eyes on her if anything sudden and unexpected should happen. The shoulder pad tug was her signal to him to run as discreetly as possible and lock the ornately carved front doors to the Sassy Palms. They were the only doors in and out of the building. Naturally such a situation was utterly against the City of Abbotsford's fire regulations, but as long as Shandalier continued to bestow the fire inspector with those closed-door…ahem… favours, that flagrant flouting of the law was SO not going to be a problem.
Secure in the knowledge that nobody could escape Abbotsford’s most fabulene drag bar, Shandalier gripped the microphone imperceptibly tighter. She was about to gamble with her entire future. This was the moment from which all future moments would be measured. She would either triumph, the adoration by the Sassy Palms patrons and cast gushing to new heights, or tonight would herald the start of a bitter and humiliating descent into a half-forgotten existence littered with cheap booze, no-brand lipstick and martini olives from the Not Quite Right store.
“The doors of my establishment have been locked,” Shandalier told the shocked gathering. “Nobody is going home until the guilty party has been flushed out like a high colonic. Everybody remain where they—”
A high-pitched scream shot across the stage like a ninja star. The clatter of cheap stilettos rat-a-tat-tatted off the left side of the stage. Shandalier spun around in time to see a headdress of cascading yellow feathers and fake peacock plumes disappear behind the end of the curtain. Shandalier pointed one of her inch-long acrylic nails.
“STOP THAT TREACHEROUS DRAG QUEEN!”
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Redemption
...is rise above the occasion.
Shandelier glanced about the room. All eyes were upon her: the table of dumpy faghags and a few queeny friends in for their regular catch-up; a large fortieth birthday party for a rather unsuccessful drag queen; a group of early twenties inner-city types who thought they were hip to be sqaure and then of course Mausie, Morty and the ruggedly handsome Saul. It was Saturday night the place was packed to the gaudily decorated rafters.
It had been a long time since Shandelier performed and although she'd been an adequate showgirl she was never in the league of Iva Biggun. Carmene had always been the biggest star in Melbourne but when she'd decided on management instead of any more surgery Iva had really come into her own. Shandelier had been a reliable third or fourth billing but she was savvy and she figured it wasn't long before she could sell The Sassy Palms and retire disgracefully. That was as long as the blackmailer backed off and she found out whatever it was she was being blackmailed about. And how dare the blackmailer call her underpants cheap! The red lace g-string had been USD$50 on its own, plus delivery from the US.
She'd come a long way from Boiling Springs, South Carolina: a confused girly-boy with nowhere to go - to the owner of a successful cabaret venue on the other side of the world. OK, Abbotsford was no Paris but it sure as hell was a few rungs up the ladder from Boiling Springs. Just then Franklyn, the witty and ridiculously handsome technical assistant (if you liked that Brad Pitt + 10 years - 5 inches look) knocked a switch and the spotlight's glare became brighter. Staring into the white light Shandelier felt something stir inside her she hadn't felt for years, something that felt sort of special. The crowd moved uncomfortably in their seats, waiting for something to happen, Iva was just about to grab back the microphone and let fly with a bit of June Carteresque quick talking sass when Shandelier opened her mouth and started singing.
Abbotsford didn't know what hit it when Shandelier found herself transported back to Boiling Springs, the front pew of the church, the star of the choir - her beautiful voice (a touch disconcerting with its fine baritone) found itself again and she let rip with 'Leave it There' in the style of Clara Ward. Franklyn dropped the lights back to a soft single spotlight and the crowd sat in awe. When she finished the place erupted, everyone rose, they applauded and screamed, Iva was uncharacteristically overwhelmed and everyone in that room knew they'd been present for a unique and amazing episode.
Shandelier clutched the microphone, "Thank you everyone. Thank you Jesus. I'm glad Iva brought me up here I have an announcement to make..."
Shandelier glanced about the room. All eyes were upon her: the table of dumpy faghags and a few queeny friends in for their regular catch-up; a large fortieth birthday party for a rather unsuccessful drag queen; a group of early twenties inner-city types who thought they were hip to be sqaure and then of course Mausie, Morty and the ruggedly handsome Saul. It was Saturday night the place was packed to the gaudily decorated rafters.
It had been a long time since Shandelier performed and although she'd been an adequate showgirl she was never in the league of Iva Biggun. Carmene had always been the biggest star in Melbourne but when she'd decided on management instead of any more surgery Iva had really come into her own. Shandelier had been a reliable third or fourth billing but she was savvy and she figured it wasn't long before she could sell The Sassy Palms and retire disgracefully. That was as long as the blackmailer backed off and she found out whatever it was she was being blackmailed about. And how dare the blackmailer call her underpants cheap! The red lace g-string had been USD$50 on its own, plus delivery from the US.
She'd come a long way from Boiling Springs, South Carolina: a confused girly-boy with nowhere to go - to the owner of a successful cabaret venue on the other side of the world. OK, Abbotsford was no Paris but it sure as hell was a few rungs up the ladder from Boiling Springs. Just then Franklyn, the witty and ridiculously handsome technical assistant (if you liked that Brad Pitt + 10 years - 5 inches look) knocked a switch and the spotlight's glare became brighter. Staring into the white light Shandelier felt something stir inside her she hadn't felt for years, something that felt sort of special. The crowd moved uncomfortably in their seats, waiting for something to happen, Iva was just about to grab back the microphone and let fly with a bit of June Carteresque quick talking sass when Shandelier opened her mouth and started singing.
Abbotsford didn't know what hit it when Shandelier found herself transported back to Boiling Springs, the front pew of the church, the star of the choir - her beautiful voice (a touch disconcerting with its fine baritone) found itself again and she let rip with 'Leave it There' in the style of Clara Ward. Franklyn dropped the lights back to a soft single spotlight and the crowd sat in awe. When she finished the place erupted, everyone rose, they applauded and screamed, Iva was uncharacteristically overwhelmed and everyone in that room knew they'd been present for a unique and amazing episode.
Shandelier clutched the microphone, "Thank you everyone. Thank you Jesus. I'm glad Iva brought me up here I have an announcement to make..."
Monday, April 10, 2006
Suspicion
Shandalier tentatively made her way onto the stage. As the harsh glare of the spotlight enveloped her, the entire room broke into "Happy birthday to youuuu".
Shit she thought. Shandalier had completely forgotten it was her birthday. What with the drama of the last few days and the arrival of the poisoned pen letters, she had more than enough on her plate. Furthermore, birthdays were something she preferred to forget, she had celebrated too many and never discussed her age. Not that she looked it. People often commented on her flawless skin. "Honey, black don't crack" she would drawl
Born in Boiling Springs South Carolina way back when, she was the youngest of 6 children, although "she" was actually born a "he" and had been named Leroy by his strict Episcapalean parents. They saw to it that their children had a strict religous upbringing.
Leroy's fondest times were spent singing in the local church choir. He loved entertaining, but wondered why he was different from the other boys about town. Never would he be out playing ball, preferring instead to stay indoors watching his mother cook. He loved to sew, he hand stitched cousin Maisy's wedding quilt. It was sheer perfection.
But as he moved into his late teens he knew something was wrong. He had always been a feminine child and he came to the realisation that he was not happy being a boy. He felt himself a girl but in a male form. He attempted to discuss this with his mother but she quickly dismissed him saying these were sinister thoughts. It was the work of the devil and she would see to it that he met with the local priest. She also gave his behind a good walloping for good measure.
Leroy decided he was not sticking around. He raided his mothers purse and hopped a bus to Charlotte. It was here that he fell in with the wrong crowd, or perhaps in his case the right crowd, for at the age of 21 he took the plunge and had "the" operation to make him complete. Shandalier was born.
As the years progressed. Initially to make ends meet, Shandalier worked as a pole dancer, but later she went on to dance burlesque at some of the fancier digs about town. She had many gentlemen callers in her time. And unlike others in her field who spent as quickly as they earned, she socked most of her money away, until she happend upon the opporunity to purchase the Sassy Palms.
Here she was, on stage peering down at all before her. She eyed Morty and Saul who sat smirking at her. Was it they who were blackmailing her. What was she to do. She had a plan. All she need do is........................................
Shit she thought. Shandalier had completely forgotten it was her birthday. What with the drama of the last few days and the arrival of the poisoned pen letters, she had more than enough on her plate. Furthermore, birthdays were something she preferred to forget, she had celebrated too many and never discussed her age. Not that she looked it. People often commented on her flawless skin. "Honey, black don't crack" she would drawl
Born in Boiling Springs South Carolina way back when, she was the youngest of 6 children, although "she" was actually born a "he" and had been named Leroy by his strict Episcapalean parents. They saw to it that their children had a strict religous upbringing.
Leroy's fondest times were spent singing in the local church choir. He loved entertaining, but wondered why he was different from the other boys about town. Never would he be out playing ball, preferring instead to stay indoors watching his mother cook. He loved to sew, he hand stitched cousin Maisy's wedding quilt. It was sheer perfection.
But as he moved into his late teens he knew something was wrong. He had always been a feminine child and he came to the realisation that he was not happy being a boy. He felt himself a girl but in a male form. He attempted to discuss this with his mother but she quickly dismissed him saying these were sinister thoughts. It was the work of the devil and she would see to it that he met with the local priest. She also gave his behind a good walloping for good measure.
Leroy decided he was not sticking around. He raided his mothers purse and hopped a bus to Charlotte. It was here that he fell in with the wrong crowd, or perhaps in his case the right crowd, for at the age of 21 he took the plunge and had "the" operation to make him complete. Shandalier was born.
As the years progressed. Initially to make ends meet, Shandalier worked as a pole dancer, but later she went on to dance burlesque at some of the fancier digs about town. She had many gentlemen callers in her time. And unlike others in her field who spent as quickly as they earned, she socked most of her money away, until she happend upon the opporunity to purchase the Sassy Palms.
Here she was, on stage peering down at all before her. She eyed Morty and Saul who sat smirking at her. Was it they who were blackmailing her. What was she to do. She had a plan. All she need do is........................................
Saturday, April 08, 2006
In the spotlight's glare.
Shandalier Wilson just knew something was up the moment Iva strode onto the stage in the sunset orange Charlize-at-the-Oscars Vera Wang knock-off that Margot Bourgeois had stitched together last week. Poor old Margot couldn’t lip-synch her way out of a trailer home, but oh honey, what that girl couldn’t do with a Pfaff wasn’t worth thinking about. And the way that faux-Charlize swirled and flowed around Iva’s fabulous figure really did flatter her in all the best possible ways. But Shandalier knew – she just knew – from the strut in Iva’s walk that Iva Biggun was up to something.
Shandalier threw another bucket of bourbon down her throat. Oh god, what if it had something to do with why she’s been so absent from the Sassy Palms recently? But how could Iva know about that? NOBODY knew about what she’d been doing since she woke up the morning after the Fifth Annual Sassy Palms Easter Extravaganza, the last hour and a half of which was an inky blank.
She’d woken up that morning sitting inside her shoe closet, with her 20-inch “Ode to the Statue of Liberty” bonnet (the one with those fabulous hot-pink ribbons that matched her five-inch mules to absolute perfection) still strapped firmly to her head like a crash helmet. In fact, to her utter surprise, she woke up that morning still fully dressed except…mysteriously…her Victoria Secret underwear. At first, she hadn’t paid her missing panties any mind. After all, it was hardly the first time Miss Shandalier had woken up in an inexplicable room of the house with her underwear missing. I mean really, who hasn’t?
But then the first anonymous note arrived in the mail. “Missing anything…?”
And then the second: “Cheap underwear for a cheap WHORE!”
And then the third: “Wanna know Victoria’s secret?”
And then the fourth: “We know on whose face your panties ended up even if you don’t. Come up with 20,000 bucks, missie, otherwise your reputation will be ruined.”
But the latter part of that whole evening was a vexing void: Who the fuck had she fucked? The frickin’ Pope? After that she'd holed up at home, deserted of the strength to show her face in public.
Shandalier scanned the room desperately. Over on the far side of the dance floor she spotted three people seated at the VIP table. She recognized the old broad with the Liza With A Z hairdo, and with her of course was Morty Hempel, the guy she bought the Sassy Palms from. But who was the young and – unquestionably – ruggedly muscular youth with them? He looked familiar…vaguely familiar…but—HOLY FUCK! It was Saul, Morty’s jailbird son! Oh my god, Shandalier gasped and downed another bucket of straight bourbon. Was it Morty’s ex-con off-spring who was blackmailing her?
Suddenly it was all so vomitously clear. Iva lived in Mausie’s apartment block. Mausie used to sleep with Morty. And now Morty wanted to get back the Sassy Palms for his good-fer-nuthin’ (but admittedly ruggedly muscular) son. They knew she had Buckley's to get 20,000 smackers together so they were going to pull it out from under her using any means possible. HA!, she thought defiantly, over my dead slingbacks. Why, I’m gonna—
But Iva’s announcement sidelined Shandalier’s thoughts. “Ladies and gentlemen – and the rest of you – we have an announcement to make. Miss Shandalier Wilson, the owner of the Sassy Palms, would you please make your way to the stage.” The spotlight swung away from Iva and hit Shandalier like a flying hatbox, blinding her. She raised her hand to shield her eyes. Everyone was staring at her. She had no choice. She had no escape. She had to join Iva on stage.
Friday, April 07, 2006
Saturday Night
"Ten minutes to showtime Iva", called Tele tapping on Iva's dressing room door.
"Thank you my lovely Hercules."
Officially Tele was the head bouncer; light on bounce, heavy on head, if one was to believe what was written on the toilet wall. He was 6'3" and 120 kilos of pure gorgeous Pacific Islander. He certainly had the strength of two brick shithouses but rarely needed to use it. He could turn a potentially dangerous situation into a light-hearted laugh using nothing but a low voice and a deep genuine laugh.
Tele mostly worked the door and he was good at it. He could say "Good evening", "Big tits" and "Two drink minimum" in fourteen languages and could sniff out a big tipper from fifty paces. But his main priority was looking after the girls. He did regular rounds front-of-house and always made sure the girls weren't hassled by the punters. The Sassy Palms was the kind of place that attracted people with some passionate beliefs - either for or against - but Tele was yet to be in a situation he couldn't handle. Unlike Kooky Kon, the bouncer who'd just left under a cloud of controversy.
Kon had always been a bit of a risk and later Carmene had wondered if his bouncing experience was restricted to the dance floor with a bottle of amyl, but they'd muddled along with him for a few months. It took a minibus of AFL players to unleash him - and unleash he did. The crowd had tolerated the raucous behaviour, the lewd comments and the enormous egos but when star player Shane Mueller, The Mule, had dropped his pants and urinated onto the stage and directly onto Margot Bourgeois' biker-inspired bra and g-string combo Kon had flipped out.
"There are standards Mule, even for you" he'd yelled as he dragged him outside and introduced his face to the pavement. It had ended badly and wouldn't have ended at all if it wasn't for Tele. The only reason no charges had been laid and it had been kept out of the papers was that none of the players wanted it known that they'd been at The Sassy Palms.
Now it was just down to Tele but not for long. Iva and Carmene knew about Morty's son Saul, they just hadn't connected that it was this weekend he was due to get out prison. Carmene could always be relied on to give someone a break, so Saul was starting next week. In the meantime Mausie, Morty and Saul were in the audience and Iva had a surprise planned for them.
"Wheeeeeeeeeeeew darling, I have them very hot, hot, hot, don't disappoint noooooow", Imelda minced off the stage.
"Stay and watch my little wonton, you might learn a thing or two" Iva Biggun's music started and she prepared to sashay onto the stage.
"You think Shandelier will like your outfit and your little shooooooow?" Imelda called in time for Iva to spin and face her audience, and lock eyes directly with Shandelier Wilson, the usually absent owner...
"Thank you my lovely Hercules."
Officially Tele was the head bouncer; light on bounce, heavy on head, if one was to believe what was written on the toilet wall. He was 6'3" and 120 kilos of pure gorgeous Pacific Islander. He certainly had the strength of two brick shithouses but rarely needed to use it. He could turn a potentially dangerous situation into a light-hearted laugh using nothing but a low voice and a deep genuine laugh.
Tele mostly worked the door and he was good at it. He could say "Good evening", "Big tits" and "Two drink minimum" in fourteen languages and could sniff out a big tipper from fifty paces. But his main priority was looking after the girls. He did regular rounds front-of-house and always made sure the girls weren't hassled by the punters. The Sassy Palms was the kind of place that attracted people with some passionate beliefs - either for or against - but Tele was yet to be in a situation he couldn't handle. Unlike Kooky Kon, the bouncer who'd just left under a cloud of controversy.
Kon had always been a bit of a risk and later Carmene had wondered if his bouncing experience was restricted to the dance floor with a bottle of amyl, but they'd muddled along with him for a few months. It took a minibus of AFL players to unleash him - and unleash he did. The crowd had tolerated the raucous behaviour, the lewd comments and the enormous egos but when star player Shane Mueller, The Mule, had dropped his pants and urinated onto the stage and directly onto Margot Bourgeois' biker-inspired bra and g-string combo Kon had flipped out.
"There are standards Mule, even for you" he'd yelled as he dragged him outside and introduced his face to the pavement. It had ended badly and wouldn't have ended at all if it wasn't for Tele. The only reason no charges had been laid and it had been kept out of the papers was that none of the players wanted it known that they'd been at The Sassy Palms.
Now it was just down to Tele but not for long. Iva and Carmene knew about Morty's son Saul, they just hadn't connected that it was this weekend he was due to get out prison. Carmene could always be relied on to give someone a break, so Saul was starting next week. In the meantime Mausie, Morty and Saul were in the audience and Iva had a surprise planned for them.
"Wheeeeeeeeeeeew darling, I have them very hot, hot, hot, don't disappoint noooooow", Imelda minced off the stage.
"Stay and watch my little wonton, you might learn a thing or two" Iva Biggun's music started and she prepared to sashay onto the stage.
"You think Shandelier will like your outfit and your little shooooooow?" Imelda called in time for Iva to spin and face her audience, and lock eyes directly with Shandelier Wilson, the usually absent owner...
Monday, April 03, 2006
Morning at Mausie's
"For fuck's sake" screamed Carmene. "Morty Hempel, you ole bastard".
"Hello cupcake, long time no see and Iva, baby, your lookin fine"
The "girls" ran to hug the man who had opened the Sassy Palms back in 1979. Morty had sold his infamous bar/cabaret room some 5 years ago to its current owner, a Ms Shandalier Wilson. The money went to buying a Condo in Boca where he now resided.
"What the hell are you doing here, you old fossil" Said Iva.
"You know me, I just can't stay away, somethin always draws me back to my gals" He said winking at Mausie.
Rumour was rife back in the day, that Morty and Mausie were an item on the side. Morty had married his teenage sweetheart Irma, but he always had a thing for Mausie and they kept up relations until the Sassy Palms was sold.
They shared a history. It was Morty who gave both Iva and Carmene their start in a business that they would make a career of sorts.
Sassy Palms was renowned. Morty recruited only the best "ladies" for his shows. There was Iva and Carmine of course, but there were others, Lady Luck, Black Magic, Caress, Margot Bourgeois to name but a few. But Morty alwasy had a soft spot for Iva and Carmene.
There was money to burn, it was the good ole days. The costumes were glamorous. Sequins and feathers galore and of course the girls did them justice.
"Hey, Morty" said Iva "you would flip your hair piece if you could see what that black bitch makes us wear. There ain't no frou frou, its all about lycra, spandex and tits. She says its good fer business. And now she is hirin those rice queens too"
Morty roled his eyes. He would not recoginise the Sassy Palms today. He was not sure he wanted to. But there was more to his visit than just catching up with an old love interest and friends. He was here for another reason. Something important.......
"Hello cupcake, long time no see and Iva, baby, your lookin fine"
The "girls" ran to hug the man who had opened the Sassy Palms back in 1979. Morty had sold his infamous bar/cabaret room some 5 years ago to its current owner, a Ms Shandalier Wilson. The money went to buying a Condo in Boca where he now resided.
"What the hell are you doing here, you old fossil" Said Iva.
"You know me, I just can't stay away, somethin always draws me back to my gals" He said winking at Mausie.
Rumour was rife back in the day, that Morty and Mausie were an item on the side. Morty had married his teenage sweetheart Irma, but he always had a thing for Mausie and they kept up relations until the Sassy Palms was sold.
They shared a history. It was Morty who gave both Iva and Carmene their start in a business that they would make a career of sorts.
Sassy Palms was renowned. Morty recruited only the best "ladies" for his shows. There was Iva and Carmine of course, but there were others, Lady Luck, Black Magic, Caress, Margot Bourgeois to name but a few. But Morty alwasy had a soft spot for Iva and Carmene.
There was money to burn, it was the good ole days. The costumes were glamorous. Sequins and feathers galore and of course the girls did them justice.
"Hey, Morty" said Iva "you would flip your hair piece if you could see what that black bitch makes us wear. There ain't no frou frou, its all about lycra, spandex and tits. She says its good fer business. And now she is hirin those rice queens too"
Morty roled his eyes. He would not recoginise the Sassy Palms today. He was not sure he wanted to. But there was more to his visit than just catching up with an old love interest and friends. He was here for another reason. Something important.......
Friday, March 31, 2006
Saturday Morning
The long, single note cut through Iva’s sleep like a hoochie-mama’s fingernail through expensive nylons.
“What the…?” Iva hoisted herself up onto one elbow and shook off the shadows of last night’s champers-induced haze. It wasn’t so much a note as it was a screech – the thin sharp screech of a pregnant cat being run over by the Hell’s Bell’s lesbian bikers group. The noise whimpered into blessed silence. Iva dropped back into her waterbed; it rocked her gently back to sleep.
It started again. Louder this time, and sharp enough to peel the cheap paint job – ‘Madagascar Merlot’ if you could believe the label on the side of the can - off Iva’s bedroom wall. She gave the wall a thump. “You hear that, Carmene?”
Carmene’s voice was muffled and low. “For the love of god, or make it stop or shoot me now.”
Iva threw back her leopard-skin doona. “It’s coming from Mausie’s place. This can’t be good.”
Iva, in her matching leopard-skin wrap, met Carmene, in her hot pink lacey ensemble, in the hallway and together they rushed downstairs to Mausie’s flat situated directly beneath them.
Mausie McQueen had been Iva and Carmene’s landlady for nearly three years now. She was a good old stick, always up for a laugh and a drink, never too bothered about the odd late rent cheque. Iva suspected Mausie may have been a stripper in her younger days. She certainly had the rack for it; even if it sat closer to her navel than her shoulders thesedays. But she’d always change the subject whenever Iva pressed her. There was something Mausie didn’t want them to know about her past but Iva knew she’d get to the bottom of it. Iva Biggun knew how to get to anyone’s bottom.
Carmene knocked on the door. Suddenly the screeching note died in the morning air. “Door’s open.” Mausie called out.
Iva and Carmene found their landlady standing in the middle of her livingroom. Even at 8 o’clock in the morning her Liza Minnelli hairdo (circa early-70s “…somewhere between Cabaret and Liza With A Z…”) was perfectly combed. “What the hell was that sound?” Iva asked.
“Oh? You mean this?” Mausie raised her right hand to reveal a trumpet. Golden and shiny, it gleamed in the (too damn) early morning light. “I just started trumpet lessons yesterday. How did I sound?”
“You certainly don’t need a microphone,” said Carmene. It was the kindest thing she could think of to say.
Friday Night
"These shoes are the best forty bucks I ever shelled out but they are fucking killing me." Iva flopped onto the cane divan and tugged her sparkly blue heels from her size elevens.
"Darl, watch those heels on the chaise." Carmene always referred to the divan as a rattan chaise lounge but she wasn't fooling anyone.
Carmene was counting out the tips. It had been a good night, considering. Iva was probably at an age when any decent self-respecting showgirl would be calling it quits but Iva Biggun could still draw a crowd. Carmene didn't know what she'd do when Iva hung up her pearl encrusted g-string for good.
"You got some dollars for me honeeeeeeeeeeeey." Ten ridiculously long floral fingernails brushed Carmene's shoulder.
"For God's sake Imelda pour yourself a Mai Tai and back off." Iva tried not to throw a shoe at her.
Imelda turned her attention to Iva, "What's wroooong? Someone jealous that Imelda is so populaaaar?"
"Settle down my little Peking Duck." Iva estimated Imelda had about five minutes before she copped a slap.
"But all the boys - they asking for me all the time."
"Well I did hear someone asking for Number 69 with lemon sauce if that's what you mean?"
"Seventy dollars each" Carmene interrupted
Imelda snatched the money, double-checked it and turned to leave.
"Well daaarlings I go now. I have plenty people waiting to see me." Imelda sashayed to the door where an Aussie battler in his seventies was waiting.
Iva couldn't resist, "Hey Imelda, great dress."
Imelda smoothed the polyester print, chuffed.
"Thaaaaaaaaankyou Iva."
Iva continued, "The next time I've got a spare $13.99 I might just grab one for myself."
Imelda sniffed, turned on her white leatherette six-inch stillettos and out the door.
"Where do you think they're off too?" Carmene ventured.
"Silvertop Taxis serve $3 hamburgers all night."
"Iva, you give her a hard time."
"Certainly a lot harder than grandpa will be giving her tonight."
Carmene tried not to laugh, "She's really not that bad."
Iva looked incredulous, "Who are you kidding? She's a five dollar rice queen who doesn't deserve to be here. People like me and Polly have worked for years on routines and costumes and in walks Miss Spring Roll with a denim mini-skirt and a bedazzler and the worst fucking pair of come-fuck-me boots I've seen since that horrible Shania film clip - and we're expected to share tips with her?"
"Well, not all of them." Carmene slipped Iva a fifty dollar note. "Champagne?" Carmene offered Iva a glass.
"Bubbles and bucks - you know what a girl likes." Iva relaxed back onto the divan.
"Darl, watch those heels on the chaise." Carmene always referred to the divan as a rattan chaise lounge but she wasn't fooling anyone.
Carmene was counting out the tips. It had been a good night, considering. Iva was probably at an age when any decent self-respecting showgirl would be calling it quits but Iva Biggun could still draw a crowd. Carmene didn't know what she'd do when Iva hung up her pearl encrusted g-string for good.
"You got some dollars for me honeeeeeeeeeeeey." Ten ridiculously long floral fingernails brushed Carmene's shoulder.
"For God's sake Imelda pour yourself a Mai Tai and back off." Iva tried not to throw a shoe at her.
Imelda turned her attention to Iva, "What's wroooong? Someone jealous that Imelda is so populaaaar?"
"Settle down my little Peking Duck." Iva estimated Imelda had about five minutes before she copped a slap.
"But all the boys - they asking for me all the time."
"Well I did hear someone asking for Number 69 with lemon sauce if that's what you mean?"
"Seventy dollars each" Carmene interrupted
Imelda snatched the money, double-checked it and turned to leave.
"Well daaarlings I go now. I have plenty people waiting to see me." Imelda sashayed to the door where an Aussie battler in his seventies was waiting.
Iva couldn't resist, "Hey Imelda, great dress."
Imelda smoothed the polyester print, chuffed.
"Thaaaaaaaaankyou Iva."
Iva continued, "The next time I've got a spare $13.99 I might just grab one for myself."
Imelda sniffed, turned on her white leatherette six-inch stillettos and out the door.
"Where do you think they're off too?" Carmene ventured.
"Silvertop Taxis serve $3 hamburgers all night."
"Iva, you give her a hard time."
"Certainly a lot harder than grandpa will be giving her tonight."
Carmene tried not to laugh, "She's really not that bad."
Iva looked incredulous, "Who are you kidding? She's a five dollar rice queen who doesn't deserve to be here. People like me and Polly have worked for years on routines and costumes and in walks Miss Spring Roll with a denim mini-skirt and a bedazzler and the worst fucking pair of come-fuck-me boots I've seen since that horrible Shania film clip - and we're expected to share tips with her?"
"Well, not all of them." Carmene slipped Iva a fifty dollar note. "Champagne?" Carmene offered Iva a glass.
"Bubbles and bucks - you know what a girl likes." Iva relaxed back onto the divan.
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