I absolutely, positively, completely cannot believe this happened. First the headache, and now, here I am, standing in the main street of town, after a two hour train trip, and now, only now, I see I am still wearing my slippers – even worse, two different slippers. The left slipper is an old familiar, a Christmas present from my boyfriend, but the right slipper is new to me and so unlike something I would own given my overwhelming aversion to sequins and the colour fuschia. I wonder what happened to the aging hooker I obviously stole it from.
I realize this is no way to talk about my mother. Even though she did the best she could after my father ran off with that taxi driver. Of all the cabs in the city, imagine my surprise when it was Randolph who picked me at the bus depot. And imagine my confusion at having taken a two hour train ride that landed me at a bus depot. I decided that I need to make an emergency plan so I filled my shoes with urine in case Randolph got frisky. It was surprisingly easy to find a hobo willing to pee in my hideous slipper, and, bonus, it’ll help with my athlete’s foot.
As I slid into the back of the taxi, my dad’s boy-toy asked me where he could take me; I know taking me places is his job occupation, but considering how creepy he was I couldn’t help but think there was some sexual innuendo included. Thinking reverse psychology was a good weapon I smiled and answered in my best Bettie Page voice “You can take me anywhere you like big boy!”, but my impersonation sounded more like a cross between Johnny Cash and Kathleen Turner!
I don’t know what happened next, but I woke up at the circus dressed as a clown, with a guy named Dinky. Since I can’t remember much, I can’t vouch for whether the name Dinky was apropos or not. The silver lining is that I’m at least wearing matching shoes now. This wasn’t just any circus, mind you; this was The Amazing Dorgon’s Magical Circus of the Disenfranchised (and former Starbucks franchisees). Dorgon and I go way back, back before he was anything but amazing.
I remember some wild nights with him…and a monkey, or it could have been the mixture of pain relievers and too much tequila. I always wondered what happened with that monkey, but then I remember the trollop of a chimp that he ran off with. So now I need to brace myself for the inevitable morning after “how do I get out of here” dilemma coupled with fighting the need to retch. I suddenly realize that retching would be bad because I’m fresh out of mouthwash. It can be so hard to plan for moments like this.
Let’s see what I do have in my possession: a fanny pack complete with a lighter, some chapstick, two sticks of gum, my pair of sunglasses, and a napkin with some guy named Diego’s email address written on it. It was like a MacGyver starter kit! I tried to think of what sixty-four year old Richard Dean Anderson would do in my predicament, but without any Metamucil I was clueless.
“She seems to have come to,” I heard Randolph’s dulcet voice say through a fog of lion roars, children’s laughter and the unmistakable rhythm of Culture Club’s Karma Chameleon. My head was pounding and I felt like the world around me was enveloped in a dense fog, I thought it was Randolph leaning over me holding a glass of water but he was dressed in a headpiece and sequined leotard similar to a Vegas Showgirl.
“Here, drink this,” he said, barely audible over the rustle of sequins. “It’ll take some of the edge off that mickey they slipped you.”
Taking the elixir from him my hand is shaking so badly I miss my mouth and the soothing syrup runs like a river through my cleavage to my belly. He didn’t need much encouragement to help clean me off, one lick at a time. The unmistakable taste of bile filled my throat and I near lost consciousness again. Instead, I pulled myself to my feet using his adam’s apple for leverage and pushing his face into the floor, such that I finally had the upper hand. I thought I was going to get out quietly, but I ran smack into Dorgon on my way out.
“Shit–what the f*** do you want from me?!?” I moaned.
“It’s less what I want from you and more what I have for you,” he hissed back in his snake charmy ways.
With that, he withdrew a long vial about the length of his hand that contained a blue-green powder and my first thought was “So, it’s true.” Without realizing I was doing so, my hand reached out for the vial, and Dorgon hesitated before finally releasing it to me, nervously licking his eyelid. Only slightly repulsed by Dorgon’s self-ministrations, I suddenly realized that what I was holding was the missing vial from Professor Humble’s Lab and Surf Shop, the very same vial that cost the good Professor three of his toes and eight bars of homemade sex wax.
“You didn’t have to knock me out to give me this,” I said, considering how much three fewer toes would make my shoes fit better. “You could’ve merely sent me bus fare.”
Dorgon, smiling half-heartedly while extracting his tongue from his left ear, simply shrugged and reminded me, “What fun would that have been?” Dorgon was a dick, but he was also the only other person who truly understood the power of the Venus Powder…and how many lives were lost in keeping that secret. So I decided to get inside Dorgon’s mind the easiest way I know how and wrestle the secret from him.
But first, I needed to convince him that it was not a set up when I stroked him and whispered in his ear “I’ve missed you my love.” Sliding closer, I whispered the sibilant mantra Dorgon taught me on our foray into Budapest all those years ago: “Dracst scollumeer poalsstanner.” And yet the thing which would most free his mind to my will is the thing which makes me retch. And I still don’t have any mouthwash.