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🦠🏁 | Fake Drag Race - S1E1: "Corona-She-Betta-Don't" [PART ONE]

A swedish beauty; unconventionally black hair and glistening pools of honey for eyes, puddles of maple swirling around the pupil and shining as to have been struck by the purest ray of sunlight. Her eyes framed with bold and brazen eyebrows which, in full bloom, would not fray from being thick. This stark, charcoal feature was contrasted by the healthy sheen to her smooth honey-sickle skin, glazing over her plump lips which had been pressed against the bud of a rose; a quaint pink pigment complimenting her slight, blushing undertones.
Nestled in her cupid bow was a beauty mark, soon to be hidden by the placement of an AB crystal that illuminated her face in a kaleidoscope of colours from the refraction of light. A show of Northern Lights subsequently danced on her canvas, contorting as she angled her face in a mirror into a variety of poses.
It was only when the focus shifted in the mirror from the spectacle of beauty to the reflection that the realization that she was in no boudoir; nor an inside setting occured. A concrete jungle of skyscrapers towered like goliath in the distance, the approaching cars miniscule in comparison. Natural, diegetic sounds faded in; the classic harmony of crowds, cars beeping - and people beeping with cusses - during rush hour. The orchestra of New York, or more specifically, Manhattan.
The cusses were actually from a man parked behind the queen, who herself sat in an unexpected vehicle; a mahusive, dingey truck which had been stained from time and many journeys through polluted streets. A perfume of must and damp, a node of oil-leakage somewhere and a slight trace of retired Victoria Secret perfume.
“If I turned around and called him a cuck I’d be called a tranny-” she twists the radio’s volume dial to block out the sound of ignorance, seemingly looking down at what was thought to be an empty guest chair “- I should just send you to sort him out, huh.”
Her downward gaze drew focus to a petite, auburn pomeranian, twisting her head at her owner as if to be serving Stephen Hawkings in a face category. The dog’s paw scratches at a lone watch in the mid-section between the two chairs, yapping in excitement.
“Oh shit, it’s time. I almost forgot. Good baby.”
The camera traces her hand down to the glove compartment, pulling out a veil of rhinestone netting and pulling it over her head. An empty gap was left open for her lips to be squeezed through, two holes cut for her eyes also, albeit not too much use as she opted for a pair of opaque black cat eye sunglasses instead that she’d left on the floor.
A final action-match shot showed the puppy's paw pushing forward the gear and the ‘womans’ hand twisting the radio volume dial up more; an appropriate song beginning to play as she gripped onto the wheel. Her boot slammed down onto the reverse pedal, crushing the cussing man’s car behind her before turning right into the road - currently ‘empty’ with the virus outbreak chaos.
“Telling Fantasia that Smacahoe had coronavirus didn’t work-” she looks up to red lights, continuing to race past anyway “- but the second I told her Starry had it, she left straight from work. If my triangulation of fast food restaurants is right, this fatty should be on the next road…”
The last leg of the race. The upcoming, right-turn avenue would be her final destination, the queen speeding and swerving down into the lane and slamming on the acceleration. A rhinestoned sports car is seen pulling out, but unaware of the oncomi-
She slams the truck straight into the sports car, sending that bitch flying like Quinn and whipping it straight into a pole near Grand Central Park. Fantasia, who had been driving the car, was yeeted out of the shattered front window and bounced across the road onto the path. People walked past the helpless queen with fear that touching her would infect with them gay, and corona, virus; her body surrounded by a cesspool of pink rhinestones and glass shards which scattered a rainbow veil on the concrete around her.
Her crippled body twitched, her eyelash still as wonky as before, staring off into the gates of the park and awaiting for help. It was not too long she had to wait, a click-clack of heels heard strutting over, Naomi Campbell was here to save he-
“It’s my time to shine now, mother.”
The black-heels, now in-frame of the shot, twisted in the rubble as to conjure a plume of rhinestone dust to enhance her arrival, with evidently no motion to help the queen up. A gloved hand lowers to pat the queens back, a cold, everlasting touch.
“You never even gave me a number name, you spent more time facilitating obesity on Reddit Dragula than you did ever care for me.”
She’s not wrong. Still doesn’t mean it’s ok. Neither is leaving her mother crippled on the floor, but who doesn't love a good mother-daughter rivalry. The camera switched to an above angle as the heels left the shot, the pool of fragmented car parts spelling out: Fake Drag Race, Fantasia’s now-risen surrender flag showing an imprint of checkerboard fabric billowed in the wind, the title sequence glitching and contorting.
Time for a new age. And a new pair of legs.
The conundrum of static colour, manifested from the prior glitching and subsequent pixelation, gradually began to diffuse. Silhouettes of variant, purple, white, black and blue colour could be seen as each pixel slowly restored back to normal; such shapes revealed to be mannequins, wigs, spotlights - everything drag.
The room was vast, as if it were a Manhattan penthouse from the upper-east side, renovated to be an open plan space albeit the notes of luxury left with the stylistic choices. A double-vaulted ceiling, towering exposed brick walls that had been painted stark white or black to compliment the contrast against otherwise bright, neon lighting.
In one way, it was a boudoir room on steroids; a lineage of marble-varnished mirrors lined against the furthest wall besides a glass surface-top and alternating colour stalls beneath. Stacks and pyramids of make-up cases provided by Jaclyn Hill beauty placed like jenga puzzle pieces on a platinum-pole luggage cart which had been emblazoned with intermittent crystals, not too distant from clothing racks neatly tucked away in the adjacent wall.
The floor was too marble in the make-up area, the space occupied by a pair of giant, velvet lips which also acted as a sofa and a giant lipstick (for your pleasure) reminiscent of the season’s promotional work. An arrangement of marble-slate top workstations orbited the center of the room, each topped with a sewing machine and seamstress tools hanging from nails on either side.
Fabric for the sewing machines could be found up the stairs on the nearest wall, traced by a gallery of empty frames which were filled with paintings of the competitions inspirations: Tiffany, a profile of Christian Sirriano’s rat looking ass besides a collage of his work, the series concluding with a family portrait of Smacahoe and her sister Flashback Mary.
Actually up these stairs was the open fabric room, each wall lined with bolts of both rich and questionably tacky fabrics for the queens to use, as well as an artillery of stolen jewelry to accessorise their runways.
This was the competition's work room, on Floor 64.
Oh, and there’s also a mini-bar for the alcoholics on the one side.
“Let’s destroy them!”
The unexpected voice of Rebecca More and Sophie Anderson echoes around the boudoir room, coming from the entrance; or for that matter, the ring of the elevator. Stylised to be exquisitely ‘old-fashioned’ but renovated with a cohesive platinum twist, the restored number dial rising with a recognisable flicker of gold luminescence. Rumour has it, you enter on the bottom floor in rags, and step out on floor 64 with the riches, a star. It’s your choice whether you believe it or not, but these contestants would soon test this as to be real, or a old-wives tale.
Speaking of contestants, if the floor-integrated spotlights flickering blue-white dramatically was anything of a sign, we were to expect our first fake queen or king to enter. Each click of the elevator rising reminisced in the room, the echo fading and making way for a sound of churning electrical current.
The lights dim with a spotlight near the workroom entrance, and a queen walks in. She is tall but slim, with legs that could only be rivaled by Naomi Smalls. She walks in wearing a simple black cocktail dress, carrying a simple black purse. The top of the dress is flooded with sequins, and the bottom is made of tulle, with rhinestones scattered here and there. She is wearing black heels, which have also been bedazzled with more rhinestones. She is sporting her natural golden blonde hair in an updo, with a fascinator that matches her dress. She walks into the workroom and says -
"Oh, don't mind me; I shouldn't be long. I'm just here for my crown and 100 grand, then I'll be on my way."
May, the first queen, declares to an empty room. Crickets could quite literally be heard, but a chorus of applause was played through speakers via producer interference to save for the awkwardness. She turned from staring blankly - into blank spaces about the room, to smiling back at the camera.
[MAY I. HAVANOTHER]: My name is May I. Havanaother, I’m 21 and from Denver, CO! I signed up for this as it seemed like an interesting experience, and I thought it would be fun to try it out. My drag style in 3 words would be polished, elegant and comedic, and I would definitely see myself as a hero this season, maybe even this season’s Miss Congeniality. If I don’t win, that is. I plan to bring my friendly self, along with some amazing runway looks. I will admit that I’m not as experienced in the drag world, but who says you need to be experienced to do well in this season? Be warned, fellow competitors.
“First one in? Hopefully not the first one out.”
She takes a curious step over to the nearest workstation, her eyes taking bewildered glances around the werkroom. That is until she spotted the mini-bar, wandering on over and preparing a martini as she waited for the next queen. Not for the next contestant, but herself.
“I don’t even like martini’s but anything to look more glamoro-”
Oh shit, onto the next one!
May drops the glass and spills it’s contents on her dress.
“That fucking elevator bell.”
Elegant music can be heard as Rose Schwartz enters the werkroom. The sound of her stomping her heels takes over the entire room. She is a vision in red. From her red finger wave wig, to her gorgeous, tailored red suit, down to her 6 inch red pumps. She is accessorised with long, red nails, a red necklace with matching red rings, and two small earrings shaped like the letters "R" and "S" (also, red). Her makeup is a beautiful red mug, with plump red lips and a glistening red eyeshadow. In her left hand is a wine glass, taller than any wine glass that's ever been seen on television. The glass is full of a red liquid, mirroring the color of Rose's look (did I mention it was red?). Rose stops and poses, lifting the wine glass up into the air, and putting her right hand on her waist.
- she says in a sexy tone, with a seductive smile on her face. She then proceeds to drink the entire glass in a single sip, and gently drops it to the floor. She sighs in satisfaction, and then she......BURPS?!!! The elegant music stops abruptly and a rattlesnake sound effect is played. After a few seconds of awkward silence, Rose puts her hand on her mouth and giggles.
“My bad," she says. "Also, don't worry that was just cranberry juice".
A revival of an instrumental house-music beat plays as the queen enters the workroom, taking her time to pose in the camera like a clapped covergirl model.
[ROSE SCHWARTZ]: Hi everyone! My name is Rose Schwartz, I'm on the edge of seventeen and I'm from the faraway land of Israel! I signed up for FDR, because...well... I don't really have anything better to do! But also, I LOVE competitions, & I wanna show the world what I'm capable of, and have some fun doing it! In 3 words, I would describe my drag as A.S.S: Authentic Silly & Stunning But don't be expecting to see any a/s/s from me, because your girl is skinny as hell and I can't leave the house to buy me some butt pads! What I'm gonna bring to this season is a lot of creativity, a lot of humour, a lot of interesting lerks, and definitely some shade! So I hope I won't end up as the villain (but if I do, c'est la vie... the other girls probably had it coming). Any final words? I wanna wish the other contestants good luck, and I hope that they stay healthy and safe, cause that's exactly what they're gonna be in this competition...
A scrunched, stained napkin comes from the right-side of the frame, landing beside the voguing queen's foot and halting her to a stop. She stares down at the conspicuous napkin whilst frozen with hands still framed around her face and her back still bent back -
“Damn, someone’s already here?”
- she leans back forward, kicking the napkin to the side as she heads the direction it came from.
“Hi!” Rose spots May beside the bar, heading for a hug before- “You’re… wet?”
“Sophie Anderson, martini, kind of a long story haha.”
The queen tips her glass upside down, realising not one drip had remained of her cock destroyed drink that she’d been pretending to sip as Rose walked over. She sighs, pulling Rose into a wet, slimy hug; giving up her failed attempt of appearing like a mid-menopausal Gossip Girl mom and embracing her namesake as clown.
“Hopefully they’ll bring in another queen who’s an actual clown so I can still look half decent.”
Give them what they want, motha. Only that this time, the steel womb of the elevator was coughing up something more… manly.
The werkroom stills, waiting for the next competitor to walk in. The queens already inside hear a loud clonking sound - clonk, clonk, clonk. Soon after, they see its source - Frankie M. Cyanide stomps in, wearing their signature glitter platform pimp shoes - some of the sparkles have been rubbed off from overwear, but they're still bright enough to distract the casual viewer from realizing. Frankie's legs are tightly confined in a pair of pleather biker pants, showing off an impressive bulge and feminine hips. Their torso is cinched for the gods in a black corset emblazoned with rhinestones, covered with a chic biker jacket covered in pins that they'd picked up from DragCons past. They've drawn on some impressive cleavage.
Frankie's hair is styled in their signature curly brown pompadour, gelled to perfection like a greaser, or perhaps like that one character in that JoJo's Bizarre Adventure anime that Frankie's never actually seen. Their sideburns are gelled down into their cheek contour halfway to their stately nose, framing their face and eyes. They've done their lids in turquoise and hot pink with dramatic white and black liner, their lips are a deep red, and their brows are sharp and thick.
Frankie cocks their head to the side -
"Gender? I hardly knew 'er!"
[FRANKIE M. CYANIDE]: My name's Frankie M. Cyanide! What's the M stand for? Good question. Usually it just stands for "Mmmehhhh...?" I mostly perform out of Connecticut and I'm working on taking over, as Doofenshmirtz would say, the entire tri-state area. Where I'm from is of no importance (but it's New York and I will defend it to the death). For years, I was always the youngest person in all my social groups... then I got into drag, and apparently to many at 27 I'm considered middle-aged now. Just like everyone else, I'm bored and want something to do while quarantined... Also, since I perform in the real world too, this'll give me inspiration for future looks if the apocalypse ever ends! My drag style in 3 words would be cheesy, ridiculous, dramatic. "Hero", "Villain"... These words mean so little in today's day and age, no? But idk I'd say I probably average out to Chaotic Good. I’m going to bring stupid fun and sideburns! Some of history's greatest artists did their best work while quarantined for plagues. ...Of course, many more probably died during that time so that shouldn't really inspire you much.
As with the previous entrance, the house music returned to play in synchrony with this king’s appearance, only that it was now remixed with clown honks in a cartoonish beat. Perfect for Frankie’s apparent silliness and enthusiastic, comical expressions. You’d hire him as a clown, but I don’t think you’d trust him at the kids parties; his first motion being a wank gesture at the two ladies.
“I don’t know whether to spread my legs and squeeze my prolapse like it’s a clown nose or use the sweat off my taint to slip him up.”
May turns to Rose, grabbing her legs and enclosing them having noticed them start to gradually open.
“Hey guys!”
Frankie winks at the pair with a charm and sparkle, side-stepping and sliding over to them. He spins on his toes for them to get another full, 360 look at his entrance look before taking a second to hug and observe the competition himself.
“You’re god damn chaotic but I love every second of it.”
[ROSE SCHWARTZ]: We’re 3 people into the season and this cast is already looking stacked. That king is one hell of a personality and May has the same congenial, yet clumsy presence of Big Momma.
All aboard, and all eyes to the elevator. Chaos and excitement settles as their enthusiasm is drawn back to the arrival of a new contestant. The metal doors capture the momentary reflection of the adjacent double-vaulted windows of the Manhattan sky, before ripping apart and showing the only star left to be seen in frame.
As the fellow contestants wait, the sound of heels from the elevator come into ear, and Venetia comes into frame. She’s wearing pants in a shimmery dark green with a somewhat exaggerated geometric hip starting at the waist and tapering above the ankle. She has on a stoned and sparkly tube top and and an off the shoulder jacket in a matching green as the pants. She is wearing minimal jewelry, stud earrings and a false nose ring, along with a simple silver pump to match the jewelry and top. For the makeup, she’s going with a simple base that matches her olive complexion with green tones for shadow and a nude lip color. She’s wearing a side parted black wig that has that “fresh out of the shower” look. After a couple steps into the “werkroom” she says-
“Watch out everyone, Venetia is in the building!”
“Watch out y’all, she’s warning us of that stank must she’s brought into the room.”
[VENETIA]: I’m Venetia, a 23 year old queen from Chicago! I'm signing up for FDR because I want a creative outlet to bring the fabulous drag queen in my mind to life, as that’s not something I can do in my current situation. I’m a triple F, Funny, Fierce, and Fashion and I think I’ll straddle the hero/villain like I tend to be a nice queen but I won’t hesitate to give my opinion when I feel it’s necessary. I’m also going to bring an energy that this show needs. I’d say that I’m a queen who’s young and has fresh ideas, but also has a strong sense of polish and “she knows what she’s doing” as opposed to some young queens who don’t. My final words would be how fun I think being cast would be, to meet new friends and be a part of something! Thank you for your consideration!
Frankie glares at the queens sparkles as if to be a magpie, chirping in excitement to see someone as equally glittery and bright. The sunlight of sunset pouring into the renovated penthouse makes a spectacle of Venetia, as she takes a longer pause to pose for the camera. She’s sidetracked by the actual spectacle of the luxurious room around her, then drawn to the sound of wolf-whistling competitors.
A mischievous smile dawns her face as she blushes from the appraisal, shimmying and gesturing to herself, taking in every last compliment.
“Damn guys, it’s not charity work-” Venetia steps over and greets each individually “- you can stop making me flustered now. I already look like I’ve been clapped between two thighs.”
“I’ll clap you with my thighs…”
May smirks, breaking out into laughter as she invites the queen to sit next to her with the tap on a vacant stool.
[MAY I. HAVANOTHER]: No seriously, I’d clap her between my thighs. Maybe she’ll pass out and we can continue with one less stunner.
One less stunner? How about one more? The voice of Kylie Jenner is the next to be screamed by the elevator -
Is that a little pig?
- even though we’re expecting this incoming wolf to blow the other piggies houses down.
“Venetia-” Frankie pats her leg concerningly “- she’s speaking about you.”
With one elegant turn on her heel, Peach comes round the entrance corner. She's completely stoic in the face, stone-eyed, gentle pout, tall and slim. She pauses, hands-on-hips, and then poses. A beat. In glittering silver heels that look deathly to walk in, she struts into the werkroom as if it's her runway. She's wearing a complete Vivienne Westwood inspired look; a white sheer lace dress that stretches from the top of her neck (where it frills) down to her ankles (where it parts to create a slight train behind her heels), the sleeves are long, and ridiculously ruched at the top as if two magical transparent clouds are on either shoulder. Atop the dress is a white silk corset which cinches the body incredibly tight, and cups the shape of her pecs which are visible beneath the lace of the torso area in the dress. The defining accessories are a brown leather belt with sword attached (in a brown leather case). They match in colour exactly, as with the brown of her long straight middle-parted wig which slinks down her chest. Her mug is earth and neutral tones, hollowed out dark-contoured cheeks with a brown gradient eye shadow and glossy nude lips and completely browless. Her eyes are a grey colour, matching the silver jewels on her ears.
When she reaches her mark, she takes the sword out its clasp and - without so much as flinching in the face - licks it.
[PEACHES] [PEACH]: My name is Peach just like the Princess, the fruit, and the Timothée Chalamet sex toy! I’m originally from London, England but currently I’m a small Peach in a Big Apple (that’s a New York City reference). I’m 21 years old and I signed up for FDR because I’m a writer, I love drag, and I’ve always dreamed of being a drag queen but sadly lack the talent and money in real life! My drag in three words would be… new age witch. I’d be a villain, because I’m a cunt. I’m going to bring a dynamic blend of fashion, art, and magic, with an incredible lack of decorum. I’m just what drag race has been looking for: another skinny white queen!
Did she just reference Timothee Chalamet? That’s just about white. The ominous presence this villain-esque queen demanded may have been the first chill to breeze into the room, although her happy, wide-spread grin when first seeing and meeting the others grants a welcome warmth that says otherwise.
[PEACH]: Don’t be fooled. I was happy at that moment. Remember that beautiful grin as it’s the only time you’ll see it, other than when I’m winning challenges.
“You so bad-”
Venetia sings to her, Peach looking like a paralytic being able to twitch for the first time as she attempts to twerk on her way over to the group.
“- and baby I want you so bad, yeah.”
To which Frankie and May finish the lyrics, greeting the queen with a symphony which satisfied her villainous ego and presence. She said she was a cunt, so let’s hope she doesn’t swallow these queens whole.
“Nice to meet you all-” She greets the others, holding her hand out to Frankie who kisses the back of it “- especially you.”
“Did it taste like cold stone?”
Venetia turns to Frankie and asks after his slobber remains imprinted on Peach’s hand -
“Nope, just like a shop bought peach… filled with another familiar taste.”
- shrugging at his response and squinting in an attempt to think of what that ‘other taste’ would be. Although merely a joke; the self-proclaimed vemenous queen actually proactively made sure to say hello to each, the lens focus shifted from a constipated looking, confused Venetia to the hugging in the background. Her spit may be acid but there must be some good juju in this tapped water, keeping everyone congenial, albeit likely due to their mutual excitement.
That excitement however is not enough excitement, we need more, and subsequently more contestants. The elevator pings, ovulation had been completed - now it was time for discharge.
About 5 or 6 girls have already made their way into the workroom. Everyone is being cordial and friendly—but it’s now time for the next girl to make her entrance.
A few chuckles is heard from beyond the workroom entrance. They are quickly followed by these words in a familiar tone to that of Bounce Artist Legend, Big Frieda:
“I did not come to play with you hoes!”
That iconic quote is heard with an encho -que drumline-esque, Beyonce homecoming-esque music-
With brown chocolate skin, standing at about 6”3 with heels, thicker than a snicker, giving you padded bawdy for the gods, Armani Devereaux appears just before the week room entrance—but she’s standing backwards! The camera slowly pans from bottom to top. Viewers first see that Armani is wearing a sickening matte black boot that is covered by black flared out pants with ruffles at the bottom. Then you see her fists on her hips; at which point you cannot help but to see the distressed denim black jacket that adorns Arman’s shoulders. The light is perfectly catching the giant black and gold bedazzled black power fist that outline takes up the majority of the jacket. Upon closer look, the names of a few influence black women and queer icons are written in white painted in a graffiti style. The initials AD (Armani Devereaux) can be seen in the lower right panel of the jacket.
As the camera reaches the top, Armani is seen in a beautiful textured black and brown afro.
After a moment, Armani begins to march backwards to the camera, when suddenly, she swiftly flips her arms up and over which causes the jacket to fall to the side. Armani then flips her hair and spins all in one moment. The hair flip reveals a black box braid set with gold braid clamps throughout that goes all the way down to Armani’s ass-topped with a beautiful black beret. Viewers can now see Armani’s full outfit as she faces the camera: a beautiful simple and polished black long sleeve jumpsuit with mesh paneling and a gold metal belt. She is wearing a strong black lip with intricate liner and light Smokey eyeshadow.
Armani does her final pose and says:
“The blacker the berry, the bigger the GAG.”
Spotlights installed into the floor glitch as the queen's powerful stride sets the bulbs into a blazing distortion, a demanding final pose declaring her first impression complete as she stands before the camera.
[ARMANI DEVEREAUX]: My drag name is Armani Devereaux, I’m 24 years oldand I am from New Orleans, Louisiana. I think this would be an amazing way to express myself and dip my toe into drag, so to speak. We’ve all had those “I would’ve done this if I was on drag race” and, well, here’s my chance.I’ve contemplated trying drag out in real life but because of personal circumstances, I am unable to at this time. I think this would be an amazing outlet to be really creative, have a lot of fun, and meet a whole bunch of queens with whom I share a lot in common with. My drag in three words would be black, contemplative, and entertaining. I think I would be perceived as a hero this season. I’m not looking to screw anyone over to get to the crown, but however, I have hands and they work 24/7. First and foremost I am going to bring commitment to this season. I am going to really push myself to be as creative, funny and entertaining as possible. You’re going to get a strong perspective and character from me as well. Armani is going to bring that sweet Louisiana banter with some ratchet NOLA 504 flavor. I will be able to not only command attention in the room, but will be able to be relatable and vulnerable as well. I plan to put my best foot forward to not only make this an enjoyable experience for myself but for everyone else involved and especially the viewers. My final words? “Well Armani, why are YOU Reddit’s Next Fake Drag Superstar?”. I am Reddit’s Next Fake Drag Superstar because I pay my fucking taxes.
“Damn, she’s stunning.”
Peaches mouth gapes, amongst other things, as she watches Armani enter the room. It was probably unlike her, and the others, to be so fond of complimenting other queens so instantaneously, but when sitting with your balls tucked in what seems to be a real-life Gossip Girl game that’s been coded with insane queens, and an even crazier king, your first thought probably isn’t to shade another.
“Thanks! You’re all looking great yourself. I can’t see a flaw in any of you.”
“Don’t worry, you didn’t see how short May and Venetia’s entrances were.”
Rose responds, siren bells ringing as steam exudes from their ears.
“Such a bitch.”
Both of them respond, in synchrony. The shade is finally setting in, ironically whilst the sun almost completely set in the skyline view from the windows. Such shade was soon to be diffused, another star to be tossed into the workroom, already waiting behind the sliding doors.
Val sucked in a breath as she stood behind the opening elevator doors, hearing a few of the kings and queens chatting from a distance. She looked down at her outfit, which one of the trapeze artists had helped Val sew before leaving for the competition. Though Val knew it was probably more simple than what the other competitors had on, Val couldn’t help but love it: it was a white leotard with a collar on her neck that revealed a little black bow tie. Draped over her shoulders was a long red overcoat, with gold lettering on the back spelling her drag name, the waistline adorned with gold fastenings that could keep her waist cinched, despite them being undone for now. Underneath the coat and over the leotard was a pair of black pinup shorts, stretchy enough to accommodate for her planned entrance. On her feet was a pair of sleek black stilettos, and pinned on top of her short curly black wig was a mini black top hat.
Letting out the breath, Val entered the workroom, paying no mind to anyone else in that room. Instead, she threw the overcoat off her shoulders, and got into position. In one swift fluid motion, she lunged forward with her right leg and raised her arms, then lowered them while raising her back leg. Turning her body sideways, she placed her hands on the floor, and pushed off on her front leg, bringing her legs up in the air. Finally, she landed on her feet, finishing the cartwheel by bringing her hands to her waist and grinning.
Glancing at the other contestants, Val saw them staring at her. Whether it was because of the cartwheel, the innumerable tattoos adoring Val’s arms and legs, or even the fact that she still hadn’t said anything. Laughing sheepishly, Val shrugged her shoulders.
“Yeah,” Val said, “I didn’t have an entrance line prepared.”
A circus ring of fire spawns around the queen as she strikes her final pose, diffusing a prosperity of multi-coloured sparks that would flutter and progressively fade. The CGI effect dissipates as she turns to the voices of the other contestants -
“Producers, you know the clown music you probably played for Frankie? Play that again here.”
May exclaims, the camera panning over and zooming onto her baffled - yet intrigued - expression.
[VAL KYRIE]: My name is Val Kyrie, I’m 24 and from Austin, Texas! After ten years of being in the circus, I want to establish a name and brand outside of it. My drag in three words would be clownish, vaudeville and showgirl. Honestly, Val is a ‘love-it-or-hate-it’ kind of girl: you’ll either think she’s enthusiastic and charming, or a show-off with her circus experience being a gimmick. It’ll just depend on the kind of person you are. I’m going to bring a unique choreography due to being from the circus, and an excitable and enthusiastic attitude towards most challenges. Any final words? Here’s a character description then: Val’s a drag queen who’s based in the circus. After living with a homophobic foster family, she ran away from them to join the circus (who were passing by in her town at the time) and has been with them ever since. She’s primarily a trapeze artist and contortionist, so her specialty is anything physical. She also knows how to make clothes, but her looks can come across as simple and costume-like. Due to being young, she has some maturing to do, but she’s very excited to branch out from the circus, despite loving her work with them.
“Hey all!”
Circus queen Val crosses through the workstations and heads to the others, slightly more timid in demeanour than her entrance. She may have been used to the circus life, but a room full of clowns from otherwise drag backgrounds - probably not her natural habitat.
“That little performance you just did coming into the room? Sickening.”
Armani, being the first queen she’d reach, compliments her entrance. The others agree and commemorate her the same, although probably worrying about going against her in lip syncs. Which isn't happening this season.
“Thanks, years of practice. Probably like that beat of yours.”
The pair chuckle as they admire each other. Miss Big Frieda and Britney from the circus over here living for each other.
“Alright guys, leave the brown-nosing for afterdark.”
Venetia puts the scissor sisters to a halt, pointing out the elevator rings, to which the lens cuts back to. The doors warp in technicolour before the opening and bursting with rainbow lights, a silhouette stepping out from the midst. Gay jesus?
The lights in the werkroom doors flashed once in a bright white light. BAM ! in walks Euphoria Adams. The dotted stage lights surrounding her in the door frame lit up her corset covered in Swarovski Crystal and shattered disco ball. The other queens stare as she leans on the elevator frame with one arm up. She looks up and down to the other queens and winks. She struts to the middle of the room and rips off her skirt revealing the corset is a bodysuit with the same crystal details. She pulls a pin out of her hair and lets her blonde braids fall.
“Euphoria; a state of intense happiness and self confidence.”
[EUPHORIA]: My drag name is Euphoria Adams. I’m from a little town in Ireland, and I’m 17. I used to compete in lots of competitions like this on Instagram and I did very well, now I wanna compete here. My drag style is seductive, creative and inventive. If I like you I’ll be a hero, and if I don’t like you then you’ll know about it. This season I want to bring CUNT. And if I can’t bring that, then I’ll just be one. Good luck to myself and good riddance to everyone else.
“Damn, didn’t know I’d ever get to meet Zendaya.”
Rose looks over the shoulders of the groaning queens stunned by the blast of light, getting the first look at the queen. Euphoria waves to the recovering crowd, heading over to greet Rose first as she’d be the closest. Her hand bumps into a stack of cocktail glasses as she steps back, grabbing onto the mini-bar for balance.
“I must be late to the party.”
“Not that late, there’s still some more to come by the looks of it.”
Euphoria’s face reads disbelief as Venetia suggests more contestants, looking minute in comparison to the cesspool of queens and the king. Floor 64 was going to be filled by the end of the entrances, which due to the reddit post character count limit technical difficulties, must be put into another episode part. So for now, enjoy a good coronavirus cough. Or stay listening to the tune of ‘Love Come Down’, a disco beat playing as the scene fades on the current cast.
Welcome to the first few contestants! This is not split premiere - the episode was much more detailed, and in my opinion, more well written until I was reminded of the 40k character limit. All contestants not featured in this part will be featured in the following second one.
These entrances have been great fun to read and are honestly sickening. Good job guys!
Didn’t get some references? This might help...
  • Smacahoe - winner of Reddit Dragula 2, panel judge for this season.
  • Flashback Mary - Reddit Dragula 4 alumni, jokes mentioning her being a part of Smacahoe’s drag family.
  • Fantasia - the Reddit Dragula host, although this persona will evidently not be used to host this competition. The mention of the new host persona not being given a ‘number name’ is because all persona’s created as part of this drag family all end with a number, e.g. Fantasia Four, Anastasia Five.
submitted by bbukrpdr to FAKEDragRace

My First Vampire the Masquerade game

When I was but a small child, I had played the hell out of Vampire the Masquerade Bloodlines. I really like the plot of VTM, but for the longest time, fate conspired to keep me from playing Goth DND.
However, shortly before DTD hit KS, I got the opportunity to play VTM. One of my regulars in my usual PUG at the FLGS offered the other players and myself an in. I happily jumped at the opportunity(both to stop GMing games, and to actually play VTM), and the other players followed suit.
We were given a little information. It was in New Orleans, but we were asked to not read New Orleans by Night(odd, but sure, whatever. Surely the ST just doesn't want us to assume his special snowflake chronicle uses story beats from it.). We were told that we'd be using his special continuity, where the final nights are not actually impending(Cool, I mean, so much for the metaplot, but whatevs), and that he had run games in before, so we might run into ex-PCs(and this should have been a major red flag.). We roll up characters. I decide to roll best clan, Malkavian, and ask whether I get Malkavian's cool clan power or if I am playing a Ventrue with a different clan curse. I get no Dementation. Instead, I lean heavy into the crazy seer archetype. Schizophrenia, hears voices. Has malk time and can see ghosts, so sometimes the voices are horrible Vampire dad telling him about the future, and sometimes the voices are the literal dead talking to him, and sometimes it's just because he can't process the world properly thanks to vampirism. My character of course, just always defaults to "it's ghosts." I get made a lot of promises about the prominence of the dead in the story, and the ST says that he personally is excited to see my character because his wife has also made a Malkavian.
The other Coterie members are pretty good characters too, the wizard player branches out and plays a Toreador instead of a Tremere, The rogue player rolls a Ventrue, and her friend rolls a Tremere. The fighter goes Gangrel, and the last player rolls a Caitiff because he is bad at lore diving and this gives him more of an excuse to not know anything.
Cut to the day of the game. Our various characters meet the prince of New Orleans, but while milling about we get to hear about the STs previous characters, which uh, brings the red flag from earlier into prominent position. I desperately pretend not to see it, while messing with the Toreador who's currently undergoing a mental overload from shiny digs and simultaneously having a conversation with a definitely real ghost, when the STs wife introduces herself.
She starts by describing how her character is wearing a tattered gothic lolita dress. Immediately my first thought is "is it just me, or does it smell like fish all the sudden?" She continues by adding the crazed look in her eyes, and finishes off with her character carting around a viscera stuffed bear who she's muttering to. She alludes wryly about her being kinfolk(aka, the kid or sister of a werewolf that is in and of themselves, not a woof.) before being embraced, and then goes on to interact with the game proper. The red flag from before falls down and smacks me in the head for ignoring it, and then rolls off to the next game in need of warning. She immediately interrupts me messing with the Toreador to scream at us semi-incoherently in character. and I realize that I extremely dislike this person I'm sitting next to.
We finally get to meet the prince, and ST and his wife spend an ungodly amount of time rping with each other, while the rest of us get a minute or less to talk. We get pressganged into investigating what is probably hunter activity, a murder at Lafayette cemetery. I personally smile a bit, because woo, ghost stuff. I get to be extremely useful instead of only mostly useful.
The scooby gang piles into the Gangrels arms dealing panel van and the Ventrue's hot rod, and rather than investigating, they proceed to arm up in case of hunter attacks. To be fair to the ST, the players spent a good bit of time talking about equipment, and while I, the Ventrue, and the Tremere were investigating, the others were uparming. My investigation nets not much, but I notice a suspicious lack of ghosts around the motherfucking Lafayette graveyard. The Tremere finds nada as a result of a botched roll, and the Ventrue is "helping."
A security guard wanders up, and shortly calls for backup over the very large arms deal he's blundered into. The Fishmalk immediately uses dementation to render him completely insane, and screaming about demons on the radio. I silently curse my luck and the Ventrue and Tremere jump into their car and peel out. The Caitiff and Toreador try in vain to fix the situation over the radio, and the Gangrel debates staying or leaving. I, having Obfuscate, become part of the Architecture and watch horrified. Some police show up to figure out what's going on, and the Fishmalk immediately says that she collapses to her knees and starts crying blood. Mentally, I scratch off one party member. Toreador(who now that I think about it, is suspiciously good at physical skills for a painter) channels his inner roadrunner, and zooms through the graveyard and escapes. The Caitiff tries to run away, but is not good at running, and gets caught. There is no investigating capable of being done, as the graveyard is now full of cops. I settle in for a long night, and hope that at the worst, people just assume someone was grave robbing and left a corpse out.
Apparently, the prince bails them out, and doesn't immediately kill them all for being terrible at being vampires and getting captured by mundane police while acting like low level criminals. I presume the ST is trying to be nice, but gives them all a lecture, except his wife's character, who caused the problem.
The next night, I awaken, hop out of my post, and immediately get shot at by a crossbow bolt. It misses, and the would be assassin runs away at a speed I cannot even hope to catch. I do an investigation, succeed, collect my evidence, and stop by my house to find a summons(presented by New Orleans Police who... know where my house is for reasons?) to talk to the prince. I curse my luck, and show up. He goes on a long rant at my character, who just shrugs and suggests that he kills the very obvious sabbat member in their midst by tying her to the weather-vane overday(Because only antitribu have Dementation, and this malk is a walking masquerade violation) and presents his evidence, suggesting that with proper resources that aren't a bunch of morons with guns, he could do a half-decent investigation. I promptly get told that there will be rewards for solving his issue, and dismissed. The numerous red flags that have accrued all game are doing a nice parade down main street.
Whatever. My character decides to try and figure out what the fuck is going on with all the ghosts, and why his mentor hasn't helped him at all. He goes and does research on the sigil and finds the next stops on his investigation, but day arrives and he has to take a nap. It's been almost a week in this city and he's almost been killed twice. My in game patience for New Orleans is wearing thin. The ST's blind favoritism to his wife is starting to show, and most of the players who aren't her are similarly exchanging looks of confused boredom. Presumably aware of this, the next night we get summoned again by cops. I am given my first opportunity to notice something is wrong, and proceed to make excuses. My reward is an incendiary bullet to my chest. I immediately get every box filled with aggravated damage and fall down as I suddenly fail to be alive. My out of game patience is gone. I say in no uncertain terms that I am dead. ST argues with me for a solid ten minutes before I give up and shrug. The rest of the players are given literally no opportunity to notice that something is wrong and just get kidnapped without taking 5+ aggravated damage(AKA, the baddest type of damage). They all get interrogated. The ST talks about them pumping blood into my character to wake him up, and I point out that he's out for at least two days. ST starts to argue the point, and I open the rule book to the page on torpor from wounds. He grumbles a bit, and I feel that I've won a moral victory. Suddenly, all the players are rescued by a badass super spec ops team, which drops from the roof in true movie fashion. The rest of them are evacuated by rope in true cinematic fashion, but my character has to be lifted like the corpse he is.
The other characters get told that the prince is a bad, and that their rescuer is totally a good person who saved them for completely moral reasons, and they should help her, or else she'll murder them. They agree, because those terms aren't exactly a good position. When my character gets woken up, she makes the same offer, he shrugs and says that he's not interested in her bid for princedom, but he won't tattle on her, and that's the best she'll get from him. A few dice rolls later that are luckily in my favor, she halfheartedly agrees, restoring just a little bit of faith in the game. we are forcibly relocated to her safehouse because the lolpolice know our homes somehow. My character decides to just sleep off the aggravated damage, and the rest of them go out to feed instead.
This turns out to be a terrible idea.
On their way back, fishmalk terrorizes a local police officer for the lolz, and he immediately calls for backup for the horrible non-existent shadowmonsters he sees coming after him. Superpolice show up in short order, armed with flamethrowers. Presumably because she believed her plot armor from being the ST's wife made her truly invulnerable instead of just mostly invulnerable, Fishmalk becomes fishsticks in short order, reduced to a small pile of ash. I pointedly do not press F to pay respects. Toreador wisely absconds, and avoids sharing the death of fishmalk. Fishmalk announces to the table how this is going to be a huge big problem for us because her character's father, a Werewolf, is going to take revenge on the city. I sigh loudly, which gets me a glare. The next night, having healed a grand total of 4 aggravated damage, I go into the city to investigate a church associated with the symbol. I see what is obviously a hunter standing in the belltower menacingly, and Auspex his aura for shits and giggles. ST makes me roll occult to remember what aura colors mean just to be a dick. I fail because my character doesn't specialize in knowing occult shit. ST makes snide jokes at my expense, and I decide that this game sucks. My character decides that this town sucks. He's almost died twice, there's Jojo characters standing in belltowers around here in the middle of the night, and neither of us want to deal with this shit. I tell the ST I leave town to hunt down the symbol in some of the other places noted from my research. ST asks how I'm paying for leaving town, because apparently me spending several minutes insisting that my character is dead was not obvious enough to him, and this definitely isn't.
I sigh, shake my head and say "I'm quitting this game, and giving you an excuse for why my character has suddenly disappeared, rather than just getting up and walking away." In an emotion that I can only surmise as suddenly realizing he's an asshole, the ST just kinda looks away, and says "oh." Not having any of it, I continue "Why did you think I argued for ten minutes that my character was dead? I'm not having fun. Your wife gets 75% of the game time to go off and be a weird sabbat Malk, and you explicitly try to make sure we fail as much as possible."
Presumably, this upset the lady who had been playing fishmalk, because she goes into a rage screaming about how she'll show me sabbat and will make a settite next. For the most part, I fail to follow the rapid fire angry shouting, but I do manage to work up the will to say "It doesn't fucking matter, I'm not playing any more games with you" which just causes her to launch into another cavalcade of insults. ST tries to calm her down while everyone else watches in some weird combination of confusion and horror. Once I get bored of being yelled at, I wandered towards the door, bought a few packs of New Pyrexia, and shrug gormlessly at the equally confused owner of the FLGS, who's not quite sure what all the shouting was about.
The next week, I went back to hosting my regular pick up games, slightly offset to account for the VTM game. I may have quit and had a mild row with the ST's wife, but I'm not the asshole who tries to make players choose between games. From the other players, I heard quite simply that it had lasted about one more session, with about half the players gone after I had left for roughly similar reasons of not having fun being the side character's to the ST's wife.
submitted by flamingcanine to rpghorrorstories

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