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.........................

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..."

...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.

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.

“I…” she announced to the crowd, “…am a VICTIM!” She waited until their gasps subsided. Any drag queen worth her weight in nipple rouge knew when to pause. She continued: “A victim of BLACKMAIL!” Again gasps filled the room. “And I know for a fact that the despicable pile of trash who is blackmailing me is, at the very moment, IN THIS BUILDING!”

Of course, Shandalier knew nothing of the sort. She had no idea who the hell was blackmailing her, let alone where the hell that person was right at this very minute. But at some point during her already-legendary rendition of 'Leave it There' (in the style of Clara Ward) she recalled reading a Reader’s Digest article which stated that 96% of blackmail victims are at the mercy of someone they see everyday. So chances were that whomever was blackmailing her was in this very room. It was a gamble to be sure, but Shandalier Wilson had some so far against odds that towered so high they seemed unsurpassable. But nevertheless, she had survived and she wasn’t about to be brought down. Well, not yet anyways.

“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!”

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..."

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........................................

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.

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...

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.......