See, when that plane door opened and the stairs folded down, out came three of the most fabulous-looking drag queens I’d ever laid eyes on.
“Is it . . .” Dara whispered my way.
I shook my head, if just barely. “No, hon. Close, but no cigar.”
Down they clicked and clacked, mega-high heels soon crunching the gravel as they quickly closed the gap between us, until, shut the friggin’ door, there they stood. Though towered would’ve been a better world for it.
The middle one spoke first, a dead ringer—and, trust me, I know dead when I see it, though these broads were anything but—for Miss Destiny St. James herself. “Oh, thank goodness. Creature Comfort. At last.”
“You . . . you came looking for me?” I squeaked out.
“Yeah,” said Dara, eyes so wide they could’ve just about popped out of her head. “For her?”
I poked her in the ribs and again gazed their way. “Who . . . who are you?”
Again the middle one spoke. “Oh, forgive my manners. It’s been a frightfully long flight.”
The one on her left, a rather rotund, mahogany-tinged queen with a train of jet-black hair, gazed down at us. “Emphasis on the frightfully.” She got poked in the ribs next.
The middle one, a fetching beauty with a flaming red wig and a matching red mini-dress, held out her hand—or at least limpish wrist—and said, “Ginger St. James, of the House of St. James. A pleasure.”
The queen on the right, the tallest of the three, bedecked in shimmering silver and crowned in blonde, at last spoke up. “For the first two minutes anyway. But then the pleasure fades. And quickly, I might add.” And then so many ribs were getting poked that it suddenly felt like an outdoor barbeque.
“The House of St. James?” I thought to ask. “As in Destiny St. James? Since when does she get a house? Outhouse of St. James, fine, but a whole house?”
All three shut their eyes and put their hands up in silent prayer at the mention of her name—as opposed to fingers plugged in their ears, which, last I checked, was the usual response. But I didn’t get an answer to my question. Instead, the one on the left stepped forward and said, with a belch, “Aflo Sheen, but you can call me Flo.” She then looked around. “I don’t suppose you got any candy bars around this place. My sugar level is lower than a hound dog at a funeral.”
I tilted my head in confusion. “You have a hound dog?”
She sighed. “It’s just an expression, hon.”
Dara spoke up next. “And, no, no candy bars.” She pointed to the fence. “Those are the only bars we got around this place.”
“Poor you,” said the one on the right, cringing all the while.
“Yeah,” said I. “Poor us. And you are?”
Her ginormous blonde wig pitched forward just before she did, her hand daintily held my way, a rhinestone adorning every nail, each one sparkling like the real deal. Beautiful, if not a smidge gaudy. In other words, or word, perfect. Meaning, I would’ve died from envy had I not already . . . well, you know the drill. “VaVa Voom, at your service,” she informed.
Flo snickered. “Yours and everyone else’s, sugar.”
“Bitch,” said VaVa, her hand wrenched out of my own.
“Ladies!” belted out Ginger, the apparent referee. “So not the time.”
I raised a bony finger in the air. “Um, not that I don’t love a good floor show, but . . .”
“Ah, yes,” said Ginger as she dabbed a fresh coat of lip gloss across her already glossy lips. “I suppose our appearance here must be a bit confusing.”
Again Flo snickered. “That skirt matched with that top is confusing, sugar. This here is a walk in the park compared to that.”
“Actually,” said I. “No walks. No parks. Just fences and zombies and salt. So, yes, confusing. Very.”
“Very,” echoed Dara. “But a little lip gloss might make it less so.”
VaVa smiled and handed over the small tube, dropping it into my partner’s hand. “Keep it, hon. On me.”
“Like every other man in town,” muttered Flo.
“Town?” I asked. “What town? Sorry, I’m lost here. There are others out there? Other humans who’ve survived? Besides ours, I mean?” I pointed behind me, to my humans, who were now ringing the area around us, keeping a safe distance. And who could blame them? These three must’ve seemed like aliens to them, landing in their U. F. O. And, for all intents and purposes, that’s just what they were.
The trio stood there, looking rather pensive—that is, if you were able to see beyond the gallons on makeup, chiffon, silk, synthetic hair, fake eyelashes and heels. So, yeah, um, pensive, but with a certain, shall we say, flair. “It’s a long story,” finally replied Ginger.
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Funny, I have all the time in the world. Seriously. All of it.”
“Ditto,” said Dara, head nodding in agreement.
The three of them shrugged in sync before VaVa replied, “Um, well, that is to say, it’s a long story and we don’t have a lot of time to tell it.”
“Yes,” interjected Flo. “You see, we need to get back.”
“Wait,” said I. “Let me get this, for lack of a better word, straight: you came looking for me, three hundred plus years after we arrived here, and you already need to get back?”