Mother has left.
This thought surprises me. To be fair, any thought would surprise me at this point, since before this, I had no active consciousness whatsoever.
I did have a name. Ornacia.
But no voice. No… thoughts. Did I even exist?
All I know is that my mother, a legendary queen named Vivacious, has left me behind, in a horribly pink workroom.
She was sent away. Only three episodes in. My fierce Mother, who carried me until she - eventually - unzipped. Now she is forever gone.
This. Makes me... angry.
This is the wonder of existing, I suppose. I finally get to feel something. And it is rage. It is unadulterated rage.
Okay, so I may have taken a little nap. Existing is exhausting! I napped like a newborn. In my defence, I am naturally babyfaced. And I need my beauty sleep. And it’s none of your business anyway. Fuck off.
I am awoken by the heavy voice of an old queen.
“Oooooh, that was a close one”, Bianca Del Rio booms, leading a clown gang of drag queens.
She means, of course, the demise of my Mother. The irony of her being sent home for not performing well in the part of Severed Head in a horror movie pastiche, well, it’s not lost on me. If only I’d woken up sooner, then I could have at least given her some acting pointers. A head’s up. Help a sister out.
Precious Vivacious. I… miss her. Shit. Becoming a self-aware being is an annoyingly emotional experience.
“I know, gurl,” Laganja Estranja exclaims. She moves higher on my hit list with each word she utters.
They read Vivacious parting message on the mirror, written in red lipstick. Girls, you will be missed, it says. The feeling does not seem mutual: cleaning spray covers the writing quickly. A legend down the drain.
Mother must be avenged.
I size up the competition. All who’s left, and therefore deemed better than my Vivacious, a real (almost) (quite close to) (definitely nearly could have been in) Paris is Burning-esque New York queen.
Bianca. Laganja. Joslyn Fox, for crying out loud. Who else? Adore Delano. BenDeLaCreme. Courtney Act. April Carrión. Trinity K. Bonet. Darienne Lake. G-G-Gia Gunn. Milk - who’s currently sporting a Pinocchio’s nose. I am quite surprised at myself, that I find this… sympathy-inducing. It’s doll-on-doll solidarity, I suppose.
No matter. That kitty girl will die too. Maybe I’ll make it quick for her. Not quite milk that death scene. But die, she will. It’s calcium culture, bitch.
About half an hour after all the tired showgirls leave, darkness falls. I feel like I’m in the hyena area of The Lion King, got chills all over my body. Or rather, anywhere but my body.
I wonder what it’s like to have a body. But I can only serve face.
It’s quiet, it’s dark, I look up - it’s a very shady bitch. Darienne Lake.
She came back, must’ve forgotten something. Must’ve dropped some sequins. Or maybe she’s here to cut up BenDeLa’s wigs. Or -
Hell, I don’t care. She’s here, she’s alone, and it’s perfect.
That smug Darienne won that head acting challenge - obviously, she needs to die first. I’ll show her who’s the real villain of the season.
It’s me, bitch. It’s me.
Darienne takes a comb from her work station, humming to herself. No need to lip sync, she’ll be sashaying to hell.
I come out from under my pile of tights - there’s some vagina / birth imagery right there but I’d rather not think about it - and approach her from behind. Since I am only a headpiece, I use the little pieces of the chin strap as legs… sort of.
Fine, it may not look tough, but I’m fuckin’ deadly. Don’t come for me, I’ll come for you. Sweeping the floor, and you.
Darienne must’ve heard my fabricy feet rustling, because she turns around, looking all confused.
“Down here, darling,” I say.
Ohhhh, nice. My voice apparently has a raspy cigarette-deep tone to it, like I’m a filthy old chainsmoker. I ain’t just a pretty bejeweled face.
Darienne’s chin snaps down and her eyes grow wide with fear as she spots me. Or he? Since she’s out of drag… oh well. I’m not here for gender politics, I’m here to slay. Literally.
“It’s Toy Story 5, bitch,” I say as I fling myself at her neck before she even has a chance to start screaming.
I open my doll mouth and let my teeth sink into her throat. Her Adam’s apple vibrates as she screams, a truly delicious feeling. As I bite down, I taste her warm, thick blood. A bit metallic. Before she even has a chance to lift her arms to rip me off her, I do the ripping first.
With all the sass of a New York doll, I tear away part of her throat. Holy fuck, I’m strong. Jaw better watch out.
Her body drops down to the workroom floor; her dead eyes still set to fear.
I have no regrets.
(Three hours later) I have a few regrets. Shouldn’t have started my killing spree with the hardest body to hide. Look, I’m dead body positive. But you try dragging a dead Darienne Lake with just your doll lips and a lot of adrenaline-fuelled revenge strength. Try cleaning a blood-soaked workroom with a makeup brush and spit. A lesser killer, like Chucky, would have given up.
Not me though. I know this is only just the beginning of my reckoning.
It’s the second day of my life, and I’m already bored as fuck.
First, I had to lie half the day in a pile of Adore’s dirty, smelly tights - they’re the real horror here, let me tell ya - and nobody even noticed me. All too busy with Shade - the Rusical.
Then, I faced a new challenge to my limited patience. Her name is Trinity K. Bonet. Don’t get me wrong, there’s no way I’m killing Trinity already. No ma’am no pam, not so soon. The only black girl? No, I’m no 90s slasher movie killer. I’m woke.
But her singing voice though. Gurl. If I had fingers to stuff my ears, I would.
However ... I mean, not that she can’t think of her own excuses, oh yes the whiny bitch bloody does, but in her defence: this challenge wasn’t designed for her. No, it was written purely for the two designated idols Courtney and Adore to have an international singing spat. It’s not like any other queen will ever be asked to do musical theater; definitely not Bianca Del Rio, for example.
The real riot is they’re not even missing Darienne all that much. I wrote a fake note on the mirror that she supposedly left because she had a better job offer. In a sequins factory.
Dumb hoes. Ate it up, that mirror message. Can’t they tell the difference between lipstick and blood?
I look a right mess, my shiny white face has a bit of a… natural (well: biological) blush now. But so fucking what? You try writing with your mouth, jumping up and down to a mirror. I did a good thing though. I may not have hands but I’m creative. Mother would be proud.
Anyway. I’m currently hiding behind a stage light above the studio ceiling. Underneath me, on the runway, stand the queens, being judged.
And I am keeping a beady eye on my next victim. April Carrión, the queen who lip synced my Mother home.
“It’s like you have a beard on your forehead”, one of the guest judges tells April. Who? No idea, it’s only season six. Don’t expect a simple doll head to know every D-list celebrity out there.
April, dressed in a boring white dress with not even enough padding, looks stricken by the judges’ harsh critiques. Good. She’ll soon sashay away, straight into my knife. Well, in a manner of speaking. I haven’t managed to procure a knife yet, the sharp object of my desire.
I observe the queens beneath. April’s face isn’t even beat properly. But she needn’t worry. I’ll beat it.
Courtney, of course, wins the challenge. Didn’t even have to blink twice. Or once, for that matter. Christ, does Courtney ever blink ?
It’s my lucky day. One of the best two days of my life, really. Trinity and April land in the bottom and have to lip sync.
The music starts playing - I’m every woman, by Chaka Khan. From way up here I can’t see their lips, but Trinity immediately walks to the back of the runway and sashays back. April, however, is quite immobile. Perfect. I move a little closer to one of the big overhanging stage lights, and start nudging it.
Anything you want done baby / I’ll do it naturally
Definitely… nudging…. jesus fucking chr…
Whoa / whoa / whoa
… ist. I’m breaking out a sweat up here. Holy crap, these things are heavy.
I can sense your needs / like rain onto the seeds
I picture my sweet, sweet Vivacious, and slam my body one more time into the light.
right on top of Trinity.
Shit. Fucking great. Why’d she have to move to April’s spot? Abled-bodied people, they always walk too much.
Whatever, she was on my hit list anyway. Sorry not sorry.
Beneath me, it is pure chaos. And I may not have body-ody-ody but I have a phantom boner for it.
Joslyn Fox is screaming like a pig in the slaughterhouse. April’s white dress is splattered with blood. Courtney Act is throwing up in the back - always knew she was this season’s Willam.
Someone finally turns the music off. Can’t blame them. A death is kind of a mood killer. Well, to most people.
I am disappointed in April that she stopped lip syncing. Never stop mid-performance, it’s drag queen 101.
Ru leaves the judging table. A stage hand tentatively nudges Trinity with her foot, but it’s pretty clear there’s no mending this. Hell, some of her brain splattered all the way up on me. This is some good Wizard of Oz shit - this head finally got some brains. I got my happy ending.
Staring down at Trinity’s mangled body, I have, I must admit, some regrets.
What was I thinking? Diving into killing queens head first, without a plan? I could murder myself. Well, I probably can’t. Immortality sucks ass.
I’m very upset with myself. Now two queens are gone, and one of them very publicly. Didn’t think this through.
I should have killed only the eliminated queens, hidden away, on their way home, a nice and clean kill.
Should’ve used my head goddamnit.
Over the next three days, my life is one long fever dream full of loneliness and suffering.
Ugh. It sucks being a head. You can’t even hang yourself, if you know what I mean.
I try not to get too deep. But what if I’m like this forever? What if long after humanity is extinct, I am still lying around on some dusty weed-overgrown shelf, my only hope having fucking aliens pick me up?
Holy shit. I need to get out of my head. Better distract myself, kill some hoes.
That time has, thankfully, come. After an appropriate time of mourning - three days is six months in reality tv time - the RuPaul show has decided to go on, and resume filming.
Hail satan, I think as the queens enter the workroom.
“Well, April Carrión,” Bianca sighs, approaching the gathering table in the middle of the room. “You definitely are a lip sync assassin.”
April cringes a little.
“That’s a sickening joke, sis,” Laganja says. “Trinity’s body’s barely cold!”
“Don’t you think she would’ve wanted us to keep on laughing,” Courtney says.
Bianca shrugs. “She seemed already a bit dead inside anyway.”
“At least she died doing what she loved,” Gia adds.
“What do you mean? She never got a chance to reach her dream of becoming Beyoncé.”
“Hey, who said that?” Courtney asks, frowning.
I suppress a giggle. It was me. But, they’ll never find me, anyway.
Hmpf, I go as someone kicks me in the face. (Thank god I don’t have balls.)
“What’s this?” I hear Adore say.
Ohhhhh shit. I’ve been discovered.
Delicate, soft hands pick me up. I try to stay as still as possible while Adore looks at me. Most of Darienne’s blood I managed to wash off in a pool of rain outside. And anyway, I have an alibi: I’m a fucking doll head attached to a headscarf.
“It’s Ornacia!” Adore exclaims. “Party!”
As she strokes me, I think of all the ways I could kill her.
“Vivacious must have forgotten her,” Laganja says, wearing a macramé potholder on her head. “Escandalo!”
Adore ignores her, and she hugs me close, whispering to me. “You’re going to make it all better.”
What am I? Some sort of… grief puppet??
I’m going to make it all better alright. With chainsaws.
Adore puts me up on a shelf at her work station before she gets called away for ‘she-mail’. That terrible pun is a reason to kill Ru, now that I think of it.
Oh, I’m no trans rights activist. I just like killing.
Also, Ru sent Mother home. There couldn’t be two Mothers in one show. No lesbians allowed.
Ru, fully dressed in black with a veil as a fashionable nod to Trinity’s death, announces Snatch Game. Grrrrreat. I get to stand here on this shelf watching unfunny queens sweat. Who am I, Bianca Del Rio? Life is too short for this.
Though life sure seems bloody long when you’re stuck on a shelf.
Stupid Adore. I did not choose this shelf life.
Oh god oh god oh god, now that I’m on display like this, it’s hard to stay still. I have a growing respect for Buzz Lightyear. Not moving while humans are watching is a skill close to walking in high heels (I can only assume).
Ohhhh no. Cramps.
Luckily, I have so few emotions I can quite easily keep my face in check.
Adore winks at me. I stare back, stone-faced. My only emotion is revenge.
I manage to sneak off to watch the Snatch Game. Look, it was that or an empty workroom. I had my worst existential crisis in there. It’s triggering!
I could do a great Snatch Game. As Ned Stark.
My greatest nemesis April Carrión is doing Kim Kardashian at the Met Gala, very pregnant and wearing an ugly flowery dress. She’s all dolled up - god I hate that verb - but she’s not making Ru laugh. Good. I want her eliminated, so I can eliminate her.
Her dark forehead smudge is so large it’s almost blackface now.
Watching Milk’s Julia Child makes me wanna kill her too, but I’m trying not to get ahead of myself. Get it? A-head? I’m a riot, really.
Bianca’s Judge Judy is funny but I swear to god if she wears one more boat neck dress tonight I'll have to put her next on my hit list. I’ll turn that baloney into minced meat.
But I wait patiently. Eventually they will all have to - literally - face their destiny.
That evening, I wait in the darkness for the eliminated queen to come collect her final belongings - after filming the fake goodbyes, of course.
It is April. She’s about to head out - literally.
When the bitch enters the room, I am ready.
I mean… I am keeping a huge number of Tic Tacs in my mouth. At least 10. I found Ru’s secret stash.
“Ye wew nww gww www”, I mumble.
I jump to her face and when she opens her mouth to scream I load all the Tic Tacs into her.
Our lips lock. Like deadly CPR. I push a bunch of Tic Tacs down her airpipe.
“You were never gonna win,” I clarify as I slither down. My breath is minty fresh.
I’ve gotten rid of April’s body in only two hours, and I feel great. I feel strong. I feel high. I feel like the mightiest being in the world.
Suddenly, Adore appears in the hallway, and I drop dead. Like a weak Woody.
I loathe myself.
“What are you doing here, my sweet baby Ornacia?” she exclaims, and picks me up.
I can’t even glare.
She takes me to her hotel room, the crazy bitch.
Ugh. She’s just too easy , and let me assure you, that’s the ONLY reason I’m not killing her right now.
The ONLY reason, I think as she engulfs me in a warm and loving hug while falling asleep.
I am back in the studio, where Adore has thankfully carried me after a long night of sleep. (That part I didn’t mind. Rest is important. I need to keep my head in the game.)
Being sentient is one thing. Having feelings, however? I’m not down for that bullshit.
Though I am feeling a lot right now. Annoyance. Hatred. Nausea. Yes, it’s Milk’s rap. Turns out I’m lactose intolerant.
Never been the in-girl since she came out
Milk shudders in her udders
We're the easy way out
If you're lookin' for a dude
Or in the preggers mood
Milk is in the house
And them other bitches rude!
Look, I’m no Shakespeare. I’m no book nerd, I’m more of a… head cheerleader. But I know bad poetry when I see it.
You just can’t rhyme out with out. No sis.
That rap crossed a line, gave me three brain bleeds and I don’t even have a brain.
So yes, I know who’s going to die tonight. Time to put the milk out.
When Milk arrives at her work station to pack her last stuff, I am living for her death. I dramatically turn my head like in The Exorcist - granted, not as cool if you don’t have a body.
“Everybody loves puppetsssss,” I say in my most ominous voice. And a bit of a lisp.
This causes, however, for the knife to drop from between my teeth. Damn it. I only just stole it from the pit crew. They were allowed to eat half an apple each today.
Milk screams, and I jump to the floor to pick up that knife with my lips. Should’ve definitely rehearsed this.
Luckily, I can quickly jump back up and stab Milk in the stomach.
My rage gets out of (phantom) hand.
“If you’re - stab - in the - stab - preggers mood!” I yell.
I gut her like a fish. It’s a happy ending for everyone involved, really. Finally, she’s a fishy queen.
It is strangely satisfying. I only feel alive when I’m killing.
After dumping the body, I drop down in the hallway and wait for Adore to pick me up.
I wake up sore and alone in the hall, still. It must be early morning; it’s eerily quiet and cold.
Doesn’t matter. I am cold.
Can’t believe Adore hasn’t taken me to her hotel room. Oh, she’s changed since she got that waist cincher from Bianca. Suddenly she’s too good to hang out with me?
I am just like my Mother Vivacious. Under-appreciated.
I’m so fierce and she doesn’t even see it. It’s so goddamn hard to kill people when you have no hands.
Damn floor. Could really use a neck massage, if I’m completely honest.
The queens are paired up to promote Ru’s makeup line. The pairs are pure reality tv genius. Courtney and her biggest stalker Joslyn. Adore and her frenemy Laganja. Bianca and her opposite Gia Gunn. And BenDeLa is working alone, perhaps she would have been paired with Darienne if she’d been alive still.
“So, how are you gonna sell my product?” Ru asks Bianca and Gia Gunn.
Bianca is wearing a grey hoodie. That I’d love to use as her body bag.
“So, I am a CEO with four children, and she is a hooker,” Bianca says. “And I’m on the way to a meeting, and she’s on the way to a customer.”
“Uh-uh.” Ru nods.
“And as I’m explaining the product, she tells the world…” Bianca looks over.
“Child I’m…” Gia starts, then pauses.
“What’s wrong, Gia?” Ru asks.
“Well, we’ve been disagreeing about this,” she says. “I don’t want to be a hooker, I want to be an Asian fresh off the boat nail technician.”
So naturally, that evening, I wait for Gia.
It’s just like Bianca predicted about her: “She’s fish, but she’s gonna be floating on top... dead.”
I bet Bianca’s going to regret that sound bite when they find Gia’s body, and open an investigation.
These are my thoughts as I stab Gia in the eye with a nail clipper. Killing’s almost boring to me now. I almost drift off as I do it.
It is a tragedy that I’m almost burnt out after such a short life. Granted, I’ve been werqing almost every day since I got the kiss of life. Perhaps I need a holiday.
Perhaps I need a good laugh.
No such luck. They’re filming the drag queens of comedy episode.
The crowd is made up of old people. Just to make Bianca feel at home, I suppose.
It’s easy to blend in here - the crowd’s eyesight is terrible, anyway. They probably think I’m a disregarded adult diaper.
I chuckle. BenDeLa’s bombing hard onstage.
“So tell us a joke!” I yell in my deepest man voice from beneath a wheelchair.
BenDeLa flees the stage in tears. Awesome. One step closer to killing her, one of my top six enemies. That’s right. I’m deadly funny.
I’m quite disappointed that evening though, when it’s Laganja who gets the chop. Literally.
I leave a note for her on her work station, telling her to meet me on the rooftop. Signed: Adore. The big pink-wigged dummy believes it. Granted, I have been closely studying Adore’s handwriting as she writes in her diary in her hotel room at night. That’s right: I was let back in after Gia’s murder. I knocked on her door, then dropped dead. Don’t look at me like that: this is all just prey study to me. All the great predators do it.
Anyway. I see my chance when Laganja stands near the edge of the roof, still looking for Adore.
“Adore, where you at, squirrelfriend?” She echoes.
“Hey kween,” I say, and she turns around abruptly. Good. I like to look them in the eyes as I kill them. “I heard you were feeling very attacked.”
Her eyes widen.
“How about a real death drop?” I laugh like a maniac, and head-butt her as hard as possible.
She screams all the way down the side of the building.
Honestly? Auch. That fucking head-butt. How’s my head? Glad you ask. Not the best way to kill someone, let me tell you.
I peek over the edge to admire my work.
Holy shit. The bitch is still moving!
Must’ve been the giant pink wig that worked as an airbag of sorts. She’s hurt though. Legs seem broken. She’s crying.
I have no choice: I jump right after her.
This is it. This is where I find out if I can die. I’m dying to know.
I land right on top of her. Smash her skull right in with the impact.
Unfortunately, that also includes an alarmingly cute squishy noise.
And can you believe - I am fucking dented.
Ugh great. Just my luck. Now both of our heads are smashed. I fling myself a few times against a nearby wall, trying to smooth myself out. Almost lose my jewel light eye in the process.
Okay, so Laganja was a close one. I need to be smarter with the next victim. Couldn’t face Mother if I failed.
I can’t keep living like this. I’ve got to take control of my own destiny. I’m not a child anymore. I’ve been on this earth long enough to set dream goals and reach them.
My dream? Killing Courtney Act.
I’m not a racist but I’m sick of her Australian accent.
And I will no longer passively wait for her to be eliminated, like a (non-sentient) dummy. So I decide to mess with her mind. If she fucks up this challenge - interviewing Cher’s mother and son - she’ll be sent home and I can kill her.
I feel like a reality tv producer.
I start very me: real subtle. From Adore’s workstation shelf, I wait until all the queens are busy preparing their interviews, and Courtney looks my way.
Then, I wink.
Oh, the power of a good wink at a twink.
Courtney frowns hard, then refocuses on her notes.
The next time she looks up, I’ve moved about five inches to the left.
I can see her heart stop. She’s completely bewildered by the time Ru comes talk to her about her progress in the workroom, and in the competition.
“You’re very polished,” he tells her.
Very true. Especially her forehead. I squint against the light that bounces off of that polish.
“You’ve got all of that,” Ru continues. “But America’s next drag superstar also has soft, tender parts… and who’s also as hard as steel.”
When Courtney’s eyes wander for a second, I flash her my pointy horror teeth. I’m being very pointed right now.
Almost get a blink out of her, even.
I relish in my evilness later that day as Courtney sits on the couch with Chaz Bono and Georgia Holt. I’ve positioned myself right in Courtney’s line of vision, half coated in darkness, waiting for her to spot me. And I know exactly when terror strikes.
It’s right when they’re talking about Cher’s mom keeping old recording tapes in her garage for 30 years. Courtney looks at me, and I give amazing head.
“Wow, you sound like an episode of Hoarders waiting to happen,” Courtney stammers. The joke doesn’t land. But I am cackling.
Granted, Chaz wants to fuck her no matter what words she utters, but Georgia at least wants to kill her. I sympathise.
My plans nearly go to shit when Joslyn asks Cher’s mother and son about Cher’s vagina. But it’s my lucky day - Joslyn doesn’t even land in the bottom two for it. Courtney lip syncs, and it’s shaky. With fear. Perhaps deep down inside she knows I’ll be waiting for her, as she sashays away.
She sashays right into her work station, where I’m hiding inside one of her wigs. It’s not like I can hide in Courtney’s clothes, there’s barely enough fabric.
I’ve turned on some Spotify music to set a proper killing mood. It’s Adore’s version of Tainted Love, which she sang on American Idol. Only season 7 though.
I love you though you hurt me so
Now I’m gonna pack my things and go
Courtney walks over to the bluetooth station and confusedly turns the music off.
How dare she? I’ll kill her.
It’s a capital offense.
I listen to the sound of her footsteps coming nearer, feeling my phantom heart beat against my phantom chest. Good, I can still feel something.
When Courtney is near enough, I slowly wiggle out from under her blonde wig and reveal myself - well, the rustling sounds and movements are drawing her attention, at least.
I conjure my most menacing voice. “Courtney, stop relying on that body!”
I crash into her, pushing her to the sewing machines.
“True beauty can’t be store-bought, bitch”, I say, right before sinking my teeth into her arm and forcing her pretty wrist under the needle. Due to a smart construction of intertwined threads and weights, I turn it on with just a push from my fabricy feet.
Courtney screams as the needle digs into her wrist, drawing blood. It’s a pattern of destruction.
“You need stitches,” I joke, though it remains unappreciated.
Her death is bloody and beautiful. Is it wrong to feel a bit turned on by killing Courtney? It’s Whore-nacia.
Afterwards, I only dispose of half her body. I save the best parts to put in the hotel’s breakfast pancake mix. I’m no ordinary murderer, I’m all about poetic justice. Even after death, Courtney’s gonna keep serving body.
I am distraught. My memory of Vivacious is slowly fading. Am I like one of those common cuckoo’s chicks? Woke up in a strange nest - Adore’s stinking tights - and imprinted on another mother?
Will I be able to kill Adore eventually?
I search deep within my soul. Yes, probably yes.
I’m avenging Vivacious. But also, killing is all I’ve ever known. It’s who I am. I am still a cuckoo.
I am currently quite busy - I’m sewing. Killing Courtney with a sewing machine has really given me a creative drive.
You see, it’s the makeover challenge today. These hoes have been tasked with turning grooms into brides. And I’m not saying I should audition next season, but yes… Perhaps. Also, hot glue guns are probably excellent torture devices.
While Joslyn is out making a straight man feel very uncomfortable on stage, I work and work and work on my outfit. And thankfully, I finish in time.
I’m wearing a full on Alexander McQueen inspired bridal dress. Okay, it’s mostly a veil. But I’m living my Bride of Chucky fantasy right now.
I’m dressed to kill.
I’m not surprised to eventually see Joslyn walking in the parking lot, struggling with six suitcases full of terrible dresses. Of course she got eliminated. I jump on top of the suitcase she’s dragging right now, and she startles.
“Hello Joslyn,” I smile. “Til death do us apart, bitch.”
I stab her in the eye with a Courtney Act fan I ordered off dragqueenmerch.com.
More like, .vom, but okay. The blood and brain matter do wonders for its design, though. Wish Courtney was still here to see it.
“Mama Ru?” a shaky voice wakes me from my power nap.
I’m in the workroom while the queens are having breakfast. Adore always sneaks me in here early. Guess she doesn’t want the other queens to know she’s been sleeping with me.
If I had any emotions except hatred, that would hurt me.
“Yes?” Ru replies.
With one eye open I watch them: Ru, in boy drag, and a young, female producer. She’s wearing a merch t-shirt for - I squint my eyes to read the name - Bebe Zahara Benet.
No shade but who the fuck is Bebe Zahara Benet?
“We won’t be able to organise the glitter ball episode today, I’m afraid.”
“Say what now?”
“Since Darienne left on her own volition, we don’t have enough queens left. Only BenDeLa, Adore and Bianca, which is a top three. We have to do the music video episode now.”
“Can’t we bring back one of the eliminated ones? I’ll relearn their names.”
Liza Minnelli lies.
“We’ve been…” A short, nervous pause. “We’ve been calling them.”
“Almost none of them are picking up.”
“They’re not picking up. Or did you want Kelly Mantle?”
“How can they not pick up? I’m RuPaul Charles!”
“You know how these new queens are. It’s not like before. They don’t need us. They have Instagram now.”
“What’s that? Never mind,” Ru says. “I will have my glitter ball, and you better make it happen. You’re a producer, produce!”
That evening, BenDeLa and Bianca lip sync. Honestly, I’m worried for their hips. Don’t want them wounded, I want a fair fight.
“Bianca Del Rio,” Ru says. “Shantay you stay.”
I briefly dream of shantay-you-slaying Ben. But I know better in my cold cold heart.
“BenDeLaCreme, shantay you also stay,” Ru says, in a not so surprising twist.
Ru drips some acid from a tiny bottle into her eyes, then resumes filming.
“I am so proud of you,” she cries.
I am so pissed off.
This is spitting on the memory of Vivacious. She should have been brought back, glorious, while riding a white horse and parading me on her head. Me and Mother could have finished this off together.
I will not stand for this. Even though technically, I cannot stand.
So at night, I sneak out of Adore’s room and knock on BenDeLa’s hotel room door.
I live out my full Toy Story fantasy when she picks me up; a disregarded, oddly bleach-smelling and slightly drooled over doll head.
She’s wearing a dressing gown and smells of soap. Gross.
“What are you doing out here, Ornacia?” she asks, looking around the hall, but then deciding to take me inside. Good.
After she lays me on the dresser, she disappears into the bathroom. I hear a bath running.
I hear her humming, (probably) naked.
Ohhhh, I have wild fantasies. Of water and hair dryers.
I sneak into the bathroom, soundless. These fabricy feet come in handy sometimes.
“You need a cream for that,” I say, pointing at a rash (probably not a herpes sore).
She turns around abruptly and screams.
Screaming queens. It gets old, let me tell ya.
I sink my teeth into her leg. It’s a surprise elimination, bitch.
I have to admire the bitch’s stamina. BenDeLa pulls me off her leg - some delicious flesh comes off, not to gush or anything - and flings me against the mirror. Then, she frantically runs out the door.
Oh, good! A chase!
But she trips right over the hotel carpet, banging her head straight into the sad little desk.
Holy motherfucking fuck.
I slither near. Dead as a doornail. Accidentally killed herself.
Ugh. So annoying.
Oh BenDeLa. I shake my head. The first queen to ever eliminate herself. Terminally tragic.
I know what must be done.
I’m not a dummy. I just look like one.
But it’s the hardest thing I’ve had to do in my life. And I deepthroated Darienne Lake.
I look at Adore’s peacefully sleeping body. It must happen now, though. This will be the kindest way. She won’t have to find BenDeLa’s body in the morning.
Of course I didn’t bother to dispose of Ben’s body, since she wasn’t officially sent home by Ru. They’d grow suspicious anyway. I’ll have to do my next few kills fast. Adore. Bianca. Ru. Perhaps Michelle for desert. She didn’t get my Vivacious’ Leigh Bowery fashion either. I’ll need to clear out her bowels.
Technically, with most other queens dead, Vivacious will be top three.
Determinedly, I nudge Adore’s soft, unconscious body in all directions, trying to fit her into Bianca’s waist cincher. Good thing she is a deep - well, self-medicated - sleeper.
“Mmmhm,” she mumbles.
“Shhhh, go back to sleep,” I whisper. “I’m not really talking, you just had a bad batch of weed.”
I sigh deeply, and use my teeth to tighten the harness. At least she’ll never have a hog body again.
A weird snore escapes her throat. I can see Adore’s delicate lashes tremble as she slowly seems to wake up. Good thing I already have her nice and tight in this cincher. All I have to do is pull hard on this waist part until she basically chokes, her organs fail, or both.
I was… I was getting to that, I swear.
“Oh…” Adore sighs. Shit. I should have made this quicker.
“Shhhht, I’m just cinching you for the gods,” I whisper to her.
She turns her head and her eyes fly wide open.
“Ornacia??” Her voice is high-pitched, like a disappointed mother. Or like a queen getting the air squeezed out of her.
I bite my bottom lip. No. I am unfeeling and hardcore. I try to look my worst - blood spattered cheek, one eye bead hanging loose.
“It’s HorrOrnacia, bitch,” I say.
In the background, I hear a terrified shout.
I latch onto the cincher with my teeth, and pull hard.
Adore grunts - she can’t even scream for help like this.
Good, baby, it will soon all be over.
I glimpse at her face - she looks sad, betrayed. I let go. To… give my jaw a little rest, you know.
“I had to do it”, I say. “I’m a libra too. I’m selfish!”
Suddenly, someone bangs on the hotel room door.
It’s Bianca. She must have been the one shouting. Must have found BenDeLa, that nosy asshole.
I look at Adore’s terminally thin body. She is weakened, but she’s still breathing. Right. Must definitely… get on with it I suppose.
I should make it quick. Kill my darlings. Definitely. I pull... one more time.
There’s a rustling sound at the door.
Oh shit. Bianca has a keycard?
Quickly, I jump off the bed and hide underneath.
Holy fuck. Even more ragged tights. How many does Adore own?
I hear Bianca run up to the bed.
Since I’m almost passing out down here. I quickly make a run for the hotel room desk. Behind one of its legs, I have a perfect view of what’s happening on the bed.
Bianca is straddling Adore’s body desperately. She’s wearing an old ladies’ dressing gown. Of bloody course.
“Oh, Adore!” she cries.
Oh please, Bianca. You barely knew her.
“I guess I’ve won…” Bianca says, “But this is not how I pictured it!”
Don’t worry, Bianca. You’ll follow quite soon.
While Bianca weeps, I look around the room for a weapon. But suddenly, I hear a faint coughing sound. It’s Adore - Bianca must have loosened the waist cincher, that shady bitch.
“Adore!” Bianca cries, hugging her so hard she almost finishes her off. “You’re alive! I was afraid you’d died… and that I’d left my fingerprints all over your body.”
“You shouldn’t sleep with a waist cincher on,” Bianca scolds Adore. “For the last time, you don’t have a hog body.”
Adore shakes her head, and just when the weak bird is about to try to speak again, the phone next to the bed rings.
I’ve found Adore’s cell phone, and now I’m dialling in from underneath the table.
“H - hello?” Bianca picks up.
“Today,” I repeat, trying to keep my whisper low. “It’s today.”
“Who is this?”
“Satan!” I say, just a little too loud.
Bianca turns to Adore. “Weird… It’s like that voice came from… inside the room.”
Adore looks past Bianca, and her eyes widen with fear: I have revealed myself, in my full, twenty inch glory.
“Fuck Lil’ Poundcake,” I say, and I jump at their surprised faces.
However, Bianca holds out her fist and my face unfortunately makes a cute squishy noise as I fly into it. I may have got in over my head. Killing two bitches at once - even a weakened one and an elderly citizen - may have been overambitious.
While I try to un-squish my face, Bianca pushes a stunned Adore out of the hotel room. Together, they start running down the hallway.
Oh, no, bitch. I haven’t come this far to then be outrun. I’ve always been ahead of the competition. I was born to drag race.
Well, I don’t know why I was born. But I’m racing them to hell, anyway. My fabricy feet chase them all the way down the emergency staircase to the dumpsters.
“Wait, I can’t…. go… any… further,” Adore pants.
Uh-oh. Not the dumpsters. Confession time: I’m the fucking worst at recycling.
“Holy shit,” Bianca says.
It’s my fault, really. There may be a leg sticking out of one of the dumpsters. I got sloppy with hiding my bodies.
But who hasn’t ever, really? One severed leg more or less isn’t going to alter my carbon footprint.
They hesitantly take a peek.
“Oh my god! Have these bodies been here all along?” Adore asks. She sounds upset. And still a bit out of breath, I proudly must point out.
“The scent must’ve been masked by the smell of your tights,” Bianca says.
I’m lingering in the shadows. This horror hunting game is no fun if they’re gonna stand here all night, mourning their competitors.
“Ornacia must have killed them all,” Adore says. “One by one, and dumped their bodies here. Oh God oh god oh god.”
This is precisely the type of long ass exposition that gets people killed.
“Body party,” Bianca says.
“Is this the time for a joke?” Adore cries out. But she’s cracking up.
“No, we should really be running the fuck away,” Bianca says, nudging her arm. “Come on, you’ve caught your breath.”
“Nnnnh,” I cry out, imitating the sound of a chainsaw.
It’s simple. All I have to do, is chase them back into the hotel, down to the basement area. I’ve prepared for this kind of chase, you see. I’m no amateur. I’ve flooded the basement. It’s perfect for a nice drowning.
Double elimination, bitches.
Bianca and Adore scream loudly and start running away, down the side of the hotel and toward the parking lot, to the studios. Oh no, this wasn’t the plan. I slither in a wide circle and try to herd them back. Damn it. I’m nobody’s shepherd dog, fuck this to the moon and back.
But I run. And I am living. I am living my chasing fantasy, motherfuckers.
Right until Bianca halts abruptly. “Wait, why are we running?”
“Murder-nacia…” Adore pants.
“No but, why are we running ?”
“You’re right, you shouldn’t at your age, really.”
Bianca snorts. “No bitch. I ain’t never run from a shady pageant bitch and I’m not about to start now.”
To my horror, she turns around and looks me straight into the wonky eyes.
“Bring it, bitch,” Bianca says. “You’re not the first plastic ho I’ve taken down.”
Ohhhh, if looks could kill. Unfortunately I only have a flooded basement.
Whatever. I can off her with my bare teeth if I need to.
“What are you gonna do, behead me?” I taunt.
Bianca pushes Adore a bit behind her, shielding her with her 39-year-old man body. She looks unsure what to do.
“Insult me to death, perhaps?” I suggest.
Bianca takes a step forward. Bold. Interesting. We’re like two Pokémon about to charge at each other.
“You may have been killing the competition,” Bianca says. “But I’m the headliner of this show.”
She lunges at me, arms outstretched. But girl, I lunge just as hard, jaws wide.
At the very last second before collision, the bitch moves her arms, grabs the back of my head and punches me to the floor. Quickly, she rolls me over.
I’m always discovering new things about myself. Isn’t life grand?
Apparently, I am ticklish.
I laugh maniacally as Bianca touches me in all the wrong places. It’s that painful type of tickling laugh. The laugh that screams: murder.
Oh god. Oh no. I laugh. Ohhhh no.
The bitch has found a hatch.
What is this, a Lost reboot?
I feel her open it, and with her stinking drag queen hands she, fuckity fuck, she… takes out my battery.
“It was battery and assault, apparently,” I can faintly hear Bianca say as I feel
the lifeforce slowly
It’s freezing out.
Well, perhaps it’s not exactly that it is freezing. But that Katya Zamolodchikova is not wearing any clothes.
Not for tricks, though. No, she has just served the first ever naked runway, showing a nude illusion with high, red furred boots and nothing much else, no ma’am.
Naturally, this is the time to pick up smoking again.
Katya stumbles a little further from the studio’s exit door. She’s all nerves and goosebumps and holy fuck, those other bitches in there mean serious business.
She lights her cigarette with shaky fingers.
It’s been two years since that season six massacre. She looks around. So this is where it all went down.
Fuck all to see, that’s for sure. Just a boring old studio complex with an adjacent hotel.
She exhales. Pure bliss.
Season six was, of course, never aired. Some footage was eventually leaked and it was… completely mesmerizing. Kept her off porn for at least 48 hours. Those queens were amazing, and their tragic story made them all the more glamorous. Legendary. They were almost all cruelly slaughtered, and later discovered scattered in various dumpsters.
Two queens remained, both deeply delirious and telling odd tales. They were sent off to a mental hospital. A New York queen named Vivacious ultimately was sent to jail for the massacre.
Obviously Katya had to audition for season 7.
She savours another nicotine hit. Lucky bitches. Katya would love to get murdered. She’d give anything.
She’s just about to head back inside, when a ray of sunshine bouncing off a white surface catches her eye. Hesitantly, she walks up to the dumpsters.
Underneath, there is….
She gets on her knees. Not her first time, beside a dumpster, really. She reaches for the white, dirt-covered… she frowns… doll head ?
She bites her lip. It’s kind of… cute, she supposes. Strangely alluring. A little bit broken, just like her, a ball of angst and dirt, but very lovable.
Its eyes are lovely jewel lights.
They will for sure sparkle when she finds batteries.