“Ego loves identity. Drag mocks identity. Ego hates drag.”
– RuPaul
“I’ve been thinking a lot about how to approach this piece.”
The Carnage arena is empty save a single occupant. Seated on the canvas in the center of the ring, Silvio Leon shuffles his tarot deck. He wears jeans, a black and yellow Nirvana t-shirt, and red Converse.
“Ordinarily, I’d do a tarot reading for the other team; try and tell their fortunes. Figure out where this match is going to go for everyone.”
He purses his lips, fingers closing around the cards.
“But I got to thinking about this and…it isn’t often I come across a group of people on the roster I just have zero respect for. With Insidious, I could at least extend my sympathies if not my respect. But for the Wild Cards?”
A hissing breath is drawn in through Silvio’s teeth.
“Oooh…no dice, folks. I admit, they’ve shown us that they can present a danger in the ring. Matthews is a former world champ and when he’s not letting Winter beat him like a rented mule, he’s shown he can hold his own. If you’re keeping up with the Sad Siblings, you know they’re no strangers to brutality. But the thing is…”
He shrugs, raising a brow.
“…I just don’t think you guys deserve it. Not because you’re not a threat in a fight, but because you’re all just awful people. No fortunes, no talismans, no mystifying oracle. Not for you folks. Now, I can feel the hackles rising, and I get it – my audience comes to me with a certain expectation. If not for the Wild Cards, then won’t you do it for the people, Sil? You’ve got an obligation to entertain, right? Fear not, Legion, entertain I shall. Because your boy has a few more tricks up his sleeve…”
Getting to his feet, he grins, giving the viewer a wink.
“…and I don’t need a deck of cards to read a bitch.”
Lifting his hand, Silvio squeezes the sides of his tarot deck until the cards burst forward, obscuring the audience’s view momentarily in a flurry of arcane symbology. Once clear, Silvio is not as he was before, instead dressed up as a carnival barker by way of Swarovski; jeans and t-shirt replaced with glittering purple trousers and jacket. A metallic-sheened purple straw boater sits at a rakish angle on his head, white bow-tie at his throat, cane in hand and a grin on his face. His make-up has been done in such a way as to bring out his face’s sharpness; the angles and other facial features emphasized almost to the point of cartoonishness. To his right stands Zacharie DuBois, face beat for the gods, dressed in a pink fit-and-flare patterned with strawberries, glossy, candy-apple red pumps, and manicure on point. Belle Silva stands to Silvio’s left, a gauzy blue gown clinging to her like azure mist, diamonds glittering on her hands and in her hair; truly, this queen is dusted.
“Greetings, Legion! Allow me to introduce myself.”
Taking his hat off, Silvio sketches a quick bow.
“My name is Silvio Slay-on, your humble emcee and head judge for Carnivorous! Carnage’s premiere drag show and talent competition!”
Gesturing to either side of him, he smiles.
“Joining me tonight are my guest judges. Please welcome make-up maven and Metis muse Zacharie DuBois, and Carnage’s own enchanting and irrepressible interviewer Belle Silva.
“For those at home who may not have been following along, tonight we will be rendering judgement on the looks The Wild Cards have presented so far this season. We have Eve Matthews! Dog Jones and Cyrus Question, the Sad Siblings! And, of course, their illustrious leader, the…Christ, I swear she’s always adding some new title to make up for her lack of one made of gold and leather…Wild Card Venomous Bastard of Baltimore, First of Her Name, Involuntary Taker of Naked Walks, Invoker of Spousal Abuse, Alexa ‘I’m A Mental Back Birth Who Apparently Doesn’t Know Champagne Is Wine’ Winter!”
A table has been set up in the ring behind the trio of judges, and they move to settle into their seats.
“Remember, darlings, each piece needs to tell us a story. We’re looking for consistency and a clear progression in quality based on our notes. With that in mind,” Silvio says with a smile, “Allow me to introduce our first contestant of the evening! She is the Straight-ish Shooter, The Master…Technically, Eve Matthews!”
The cameras turn to the ramp which has been converted into a runway; a stage situated at its end. Some god awful mash-up of country and industrial music briefly terrorizes every person within earshot, and luckless viewers who could not find the mute button in time. As these listeners contemplate the sweet release of death, Eve Matthews emerges through a cloud of her own tedium onto the runway. If one didn’t know better, they might say she closely resembled Axton Gunn, but that would be ridiculous.
Her make-up? Perfection. Her wig? An ethereal cloud of glittering golden curls. Her dress?
Busted as shit.
It looks as if she was going for a classic, ‘little black dress,’ look in a number that glitters with intricate jet beadwork. The effect is, however, completely ruined by the inexplicable application of what appear to be playing cards haphazardly affixed to her garment with duct tape.
She clears her throat as her music mercifully cuts out and gives a little wave to the judge’s table. “Mr. Slay-on, not to be a bother, but you did forget one of my monikers.”
“He did?” Zach queries, raising a brow.
“Oh, yes,” Eve laughs breezily. “It’s such a surprise seeing as it’s used so often to refer to me! Everyone knows I’m The Ace!”
The judges exchange puzzled glances.
“You are?” Belle says.
“Yes! I am! And frankly,” she huffs, pointing an accusatory finger at Silvio, “I’m livid that you would horn in on my territory!”
“Hunty,” Slay-on says, folding his hands before him on the table and leaning forward. “I have notes on every bit of footage we’ve aired, and never once have you referred to yourself as The Ace. Not a single time. And you’ve never used card iconography in any of your work here. In fact, the only times you’ve been referred to as, ‘The Ace,’ was once by my stablemate, Adrienne, and once by the ringside commentary after I released that promo that has you in a tizzy. Which honestly makes me wonder how closely you’ve been paying attention. I had an entire piece months ago in which I compared my stable’s ace cards with the tarot ace cards and you didn’t make a peep.”
“Okay, I didn’t notice when you did that segment, but I was known as The Ace in other places before!” she complains.
“And I would know that…how, exactly?” Silvio asks. “Also, why would it be relevant to this competition in this particular show?”
“You know, ‘ace,’ has multiple meanings, right?” Zach says. “It can refer to playing cards, but it can also mean someone is really good at something. You can’t claim that whole concept as–”
“It’s mine!” Matthews erupts, stomping her foot. “Maybe I was just saving it to shatter your perceptions later! But now you’ll never know my tragic backstory where I lost five grand in a high-stakes game of Go-Fish!”
There is a baffled silence before Zach leans forward and says, “Is…that the whole tragic backstory? Exactly what you just told us?”
Matthews blinks in confusion before a look of rage overcomes her and she lets out a howl of frustration.
“Anyway!” Silvio says airily. “We only have this place for so long, so let’s get to work, girls. Eve, let’s review your highlight reel, starting with your piece, ‘Single-Serving Friend–’ pardon me, ‘Disposable Heroes.’ Eve, your work here was utterly derivative. You go on about how you have simple dreams and you’d rather be a superb soldier than a sub-par general, which was surprising. Because when we saw your second piece, you were saying how Carnage lacks a leader; implying that you should fill that role. You also completely changed your persona from a brooding edgelord to a salt of the earth, truck-driving, blue-collar, working class hero. You claimed you wanted to be, ‘The People’s Champion.’ Here’s what I find puzzling, Eve. You got to be! It’s unquestionable that the Chaos Championship is the working class title. You go in every show, you put in the time, and you defend what’s yours. You build it up and add to its history with every victory. But you basically said it wasn’t good enough for you, you didn’t care about it, and you lost it immediately. Care to explain?”
“Listen,” Eve says, spreading her hands. “It sounds really good when you include the masses, but we all know they’re not like us; they’re below average at best. I’m a better class of people and I deserve a better class of belt.”
“If you don’t bring prestige to the belt you already have,” Belle says, “what makes you think management will believe you’ll bring prestige to any title you could earn?”
“Because,” Eve says, looking into the camera and over-enunciating every word, “I’m the Ace!”
“Jesus. Moving on! You had a real gem with JC and I wish we could have seen more like that. Instead, you have this overarching thing with Winter and just fail to make much of an impression. You’re always scrambling to put together a cohesive vision of who you are, but you don’t give anything time to breathe. We can’t really know you because you seem determined not to let us. When you talked about shattering our perceptions of you, there wasn’t much there to be broken. You are beige on grey. You are cream of wheat. You are khaki cargo pants.”
“Now that’s going too far!” Eve exclaims. “I’ve been doing riveting work with Winter and Kylie!”
“See, that confuses me. Winter and The Wild Cards have been behind so many of your problems here. The Wild Cards apparently, ‘gifted,’ you,” Silvio says with disdain, “a human being. Setting aside how hideous that concept is for a moment, Winter also brought over an adversary from your past to join his stable and make yours and Kylie’s lives miserable.”
“And no one in the locker room helped to subdue The Wild Cards!” Matthews declares. “…Except Adrienne beating Winter. Or Knox stopping him from playing dirty. Or Ahmya beating Jones. Or Rock Lobster beating her and Cyrus. Or Amber and Mac…you know what, forget it! No one helped!”
“Did you let anyone know you needed help, or did you just let everyone operate under the impression that you had your own shit under control?”
“You should have known!”
“No one knew,” Slay-on says. “Also, people have their own lives to look after. No one can be everywhere at once. Instead of telling anyone you needed a hand, you went and joined the very group that’s been causing you so much trouble. You realize you’ve been duped, right?”
“See, here’s what you don’t get,” Eve says smugly. “When a snake bites you, you need an antidote for the venom. To make an antidote, you have to use that same kind of venom! When a snake bites you twice, the second bite neutralizes the first. It’s a metaphor.”
All three judges are rendered speechless.
“That’s not how that works!” exclaims Belle at last. “That’s not how any of that works!”
“Okay,” says Silvio, “we’ve spent enough time on you, Eve.”
“Ace.”
“Just sit down. Our next competitors are a duo known as The Sad Siblings! Dog Jones and Cyrus Question!”
Doom metal booms through the arena as the lights go down for a moment. When they flicker back to life, two hulking figures stand side by side at the entrance to the runway. If one didn’t know better, they might have mistaken the pair for Mitch Heart and Zane King, but that would be, again, ridiculous. Cyrus’ beard is a lace-front lovingly applied to a bejeweled face mask. Above this, his eyes have been expertly painted, eyeliner wings sharp enough to shank a man. Dog’s swath of black hair shimmers beneath the lights, and while she would not shave her beard for this bit, I love you Leon, but I’ll punch you in the mouth if you get that razor near me, it has been lovingly decorated with glitter.
Aside from that, the only thing the pair seems to be wearing is a lot of blood – like, just stepped out of that elevator in The Shining amounts – and slabs of meat strategically placed to make this video not illegal.
“Hold up!” Silvio says, getting to his feet. “You can’t wear the same look twice in a row. You did this meat and blood stuff on your last piece and…”
Silvio makes a face, flicking through his notes and shaking his head.
“…actually all of your looks are meat and blood. How did I not realize this? Must be the fugue state I go into after judging these things. Ambien, you cruel mistress,” he mutters. “It seems like there isn’t much variation here. I get having a gimmick, but you don’t really personalize your work to your opponents. Snapping bones, shedding blood, ripping tendons, and…holy shit breaking into people’s hotel rooms?”
“It wasn’t breaking in!” Dog protests. “I had a key the concierge gave me.”
“…The concierge just…gave you a key? And told you Knox was staying in the hotel? Without even calling him first to confirm he knew you and wanted you there? Completely ignoring the security risk that would pose and putting themself and their employer at risk of serious legal liability?”
“Uh…yeah!”
“Rrrright. Moving on, is there anything about you besides blood and meat?”
“Well, you know, I tried to do a little expansion; a little exploring. But frankly, The Set just wouldn’t let me!”
“They…what do you mean?” Zach asks.
“I tried to play nice with Mitch and his little sister, but they were so unpleasant. I offered to help, and they treated me like I had the plague!” Dog exclaims.
“You were offended when a little girl who doesn’t know you and has only seen you being violent decided not to trust you?” Silvio says, raising a brow.
“That isn’t all I am!”
“Based on what we just went over, that’s all she could have possibly known about you. You’re continually saying you’re not a nice person and your actions back that up.”
Dog rolls her eyes, making a dismissive gesture with one hand. “Well, anyway, there is more to us than just violence. There’s our unbreakable familial bond. We know each other so well. We’re perfectly in sync; inseparable. When you’re siblings like we were, you share everything. Every experience. Every emotion. Every triumph and tragedy. Every shower,” Dog says wistfully, laying a hand on Cyrus’ sanguine chest.
“Wait, what was that last one?” Silvio sputters.
“Every experience?” Dog says.
“No, the one after that.”
Jones laughs. “Oh, every emotion!”
“No, the…you know what? Never mind. Please go on.”
“I know just how he likes his coffee!” Dog continues.
“WITH BLOOD IN IT!” Cyrus snarls.
“And how he likes his bath after a hard day’s work.”
“WITH BLOOD IN IT!”
“Growing up together made us so close. We practically read each other’s minds!”
“MY BEARD IS ITCHY.”
Laughing, Dog rests her head against his shoulder.
“Oh, brother!” she sighs, tracing curling patterns with her fingertip through the blood clinging to his skin.
“Oh, brother,” Silvio snorts. “We’ve seen enough. Go ahead and have a seat.”
As the pair move off to join Eve, Silvio clears his throat.
“And now our final contestant of the evening! Alexa Winter, please make your way to the stage!”
The lights go up at the entrance of the ramp, musical fanfare blaring, but no one appears.
Annoyed, Slay-on taps his mic and speaks into it again.
“I said, Alexa Winter, please make your way to the stage!”
While nothing happens at the entrance of the ramp, a production assistant hurries to Silvio’s side, whispering something into his ear. Silvio nods along, irritation melting into understanding. Clearing his throat, he dismisses the assistant and speaks into the mic again.
“Ladies and gentlethems, I have just been informed that Adrienne Levi so brutally snatched Winter’s wig with her flawless performance on Chaos 102, that Alexa has suffered a debilitating scalp injury. The wound is so serious it has rendered Alexa incapable of using Twitter.”
Horrified gasps are drawn from the contestants and judges, which Silvio calms with a raised hand.
“Yes, I know that tweeting makes up 90% of her personality. But fear not! I hereby vow to begin a fundraiser to purchase her a new one. Please send any and all pledges via PayPal, check, money order, BitCoin, cash delivered in a novelty bag with a dollar sign on it left down by the docks, or Sephora gift cards. She desperately needs this transplant, people! Until then, your thoughts and well-wishes are much appreciated.”
There is a moment of quiet as all say a silent prayer, heads bowed, for Alexa’s complete lack of redeeming personal qualities before Silvio claps his hands and continues.
“Now! Normally I’d have two of you lip-sync battle to decide who to boot. However, Dog and Cyrus are attached at the hip, and Alexa is out with her tragic scalp injury. Also, I hate all your faces, so everyone is up for elimination.”
Dog Jones, Cyrus Question, and Eve Matthews all step forward, anxious to find out what their musical challenge will be.
“Tonight we have something special. A little ditty all about you folks called, ‘Not the Ace,’ and–”
“Wait,” Belle says, scrunching her nose. “Don’t you mean, ‘Pokerface,’ by Lady Gaga–”
“Shhh! Do you want a lawsuit? Because that’s how you get a lawsuit. Anyway, darlings,” Slay-on laughs, turning back to the competitors, “are you prepared? Because now is the time to Sing for Survival! Hit it, Zach!”
As the synth-pop beats start, smoke billows out upon the stage, beams of colored light flickering across the three competitors as they get into the groove. Dog Jones displays some unexpectedly slick dance moves. Sadly, her brother seems only to know The Monkey, and Eve continually switches between The Sprinkler and The Shopping Cart. When the lyrics kick in, Matthews takes the opportunity to move to the front, basking in the spotlight for her solo.
I want some relevance; new opportunity
The crowd ain’t diggin’ my bland personality
Couldn’t hold the Chaos belt, my defense was a mess
But maybe I can ride somebody’s tailcoats to success
Oh, whoa, oh, oh
Oh, oh, oh
I want a win
And ain’t pride a sin?
Oh, whoa, oh, oh
Oh, oh, oh
Winter needs troops
Time to lick some boots
Never called! Never called! I never once called myself, ‘The Ace!’
I’m a salty little pretzel
Never called! Never called! I never once called myself, ‘The Ace!’
Don’t need gimmicks! I can wrestle!
Never a duo to be outdone, Dog and Cyrus grab hold of Eve’s shoulders, shoving her back as they take their moment in the sun.
We’re into sadism and love to shed some blood
But our contenderships ended with such a thud
Ultra-violent Wonder Twins! Why haven’t we caught on?
We’re looking for a pop and all we’re getting is a yawn
Oh, whoa, oh, oh
Oh, oh, oh
Can’t say much more
Our schtick is a bore
Oh, whoa, oh, oh
Oh, oh, oh
Gimmick’s a bust
Someone think for us
Always in! Always in! Seems like we’re always in second place!
Cheer us or we swear it’s your doom
Always in! Always in! Seems like we’re always in second place!
We’ll break into your hotel room
“Stop!” Slay-on calls, motioning to cut the music. Rubbing his temples, he shakes his head, glowering at his contestants as they freeze in place. “You’re all just terrible.” Getting to his feet, he points back up the ramp. “We’re done here. Sashay the Hell off my stage!”
“That’s not fair!” Dog cries, crossing her arms. “You have to choose a winner! We deserve it!”
“You deserve it?” Silvio scoffs. “We just went over why none of you deserve a damn thing!”
“Just because we didn’t do anything well doesn’t mean we don’t mean well! Maybe our behavior doesn’t always look great,” Dog explains, “but deep down, we’re good people! We just don’t show it to those who aren’t worthy. If someone sticks around long enough and accepts us at our worst, then we know they deserve the real us!”
“So,” Belle says slowly, “you treat the people who stay like garbage and once they’ve shown they’ll tolerate any behavior from you, you reward them with basic human decency?”
“Yes!” Eve cries, beaming. “It’s a situation where everybody wins. They have the satisfaction of knowing they’re special enough to see the real us, and we know that they’re loyal!”
“And you don’t think that crappy behavior you exhibit right off the bat is the real you?” Silvio asks.
“No!” Eve laughs. “That’s just the test. They just need to show us they’re not like other girls, if you catch my drift.”
Silvio takes the opportunity to hydrate, sipping from a glass of water, before speaking. “This explains a lot. Alright, babies, let daddy lay some wisdom on you.” Spreading his arms, he shakes his head. “Your feelings – those deep down qualities you claim to have – are only as important as what they compel you to do. No one can know your feelings. No one can know your intentions. All any of us can know are your actions. And so far your actions have been…awful. Intent and outcome are not always coincident, and when things don’t go as you expected, you can either deal with the consequences of your decisions like a mature human being, or double down, concede nothing, and look like an absolute jackass. Your call.”
“So you’re saying our hearts don’t matter?” Dog scoffs.
“I’m saying I can’t possibly see them. You have to show me what’s in them, or how could I know?”
Cyrus seems to contemplate this, then looks at his own chest and slowly starts to draw back his hand, fingers curled into claws.
“Stop! For fuck’s sake, that’s not what I meant!” Silvio cries in exasperation. “We’re done! Now get out of here – I’m not paying extra for going over our rental time.”
“Fine!” says Eve. “We’ll make our own drag show! We’ll call it, ‘Omnivorous,’ and it’ll be so great you wish you would have thought of it! In fact, stop ripping us off or you’ll hear from our lawyers!”
With that, Eve turns sharply on her heel and leads her fellow losers, still dripping with gore, back up the runway.
“Well, darlings,” Silvio says to the audience, smiling, “that’s it for our show tonight! As always, thank you for tuning in. Join us next time for more drag, filth, and glamour on Carnivorous!”
Slay-on raises a hand in the air and snaps. The viewer’s gaze is obscured briefly by a flash of light, and when it fades, they find themselves once more in the ring of the Carnage arena with Silvio Leon, dressed in casual clothing, cards scattered on the canvas about his feet. He gives the audience a wink.
“See you at Chaos, Legion.”
Drag Glossary
Read – To wittily point out someone’s flaws; read them like a book.
Beat For The Gods – Perfect make-up application. Fit for the gods.
Dusted – Flawless.
Slay – To do something spectacular; killing it.
Busted – The opposite of Dusted; badly applied make-up, messy wig, poor sewing, boring presentation, etc.
Hunty – a cross between Honey and C*nt. A term of endearment for a queen and her friends.
oracularmysteries 