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.