Saturday, February 9, 2013

The Barfight in High Heels (a made-up story)

     It was a Friday night, a few months ago, and I was working on building a model of the castle from Monty Python and the Holy Grail (made from cafeteria glop and toenail clippings), when a friend of mine (whom I will refer to as "Syd") called and asked me if I wanted to go out with him and his friends to go clubbing in West Hollywood, as one of their friends was ill. And I said "sure, why not", I had to go to West Hollywood anyway to return  what I had been told was a Gremlin, but turned out to be a sex toy of a certain organ covered in hair (curiously, it still moved on its own and ate everything in the mini-fridge).
     So we arrange for me to be picked up outside my San Vicente apartment, barring any traffic accidents form cars taking a wide angle onto Wilshire, and I get picked up in his Mercedes, and he has 3 lady friends in the back seat, until I get in and realize they're all guys in drag, and pulling it off really well I might add. So then I realized I was going clubbing with drag queens, and me and Syd are the only ones not dressed up, heading for some club in West Hollywood, completely out of my league here, although all five of us somehow got into the club or bar, or something, I wasn't paying attention to the place's name.
     Syd left for the bathroom, and I stuck to the group, who I'll call "John", "Sean", and "Tom", for a few minutes in awkward conversation. After I tried to relate by asking about their favorite women to dress up as (only Sean replied, saying "Tootsie"), I rushed for the bathroom to avoid their glares and take a leak of Mountain Dew and root beer. See, there was to be a urinating contest over at where I go to college, and us competitors all had a lot to drink at lunch to increase our chances of winning. Then campus security spotted us at the arena grounds (a quad outside the women's dorms), and we ran for it. Some of us like me managed to get away and forget about it, but a few brave souls didn't make it, arrested because they couldn't hold it in. They will be missed.
     So that's how I ended up in the restroom at the bar/club. As I was washing my hands, this guy comes up to me and starts asking me if I was new here, and I replied yes, and then he asked about who I'm here with, i said a bunch of drag queens out of a misunderstanding. So then he asks if i want to leave with him, I see he's hitting on me, and use the old tactic of "Who would win in a fight, the Hulk or Godzilla?" It worked yet again, scared him off the rest of the night (still not sure why it works, it's a legitimate question).
     I leave the restroom, go back out to the main room, and head for the bar for a white wine spritzer, where I see this foxy lady, a real feminine figure in high heels, black revealing dress, and long natural hair, who is facing away from me. But I still thank Cthulu that someone brought what's known in the common vernacular as a "fag hag", and I go up to her. I give a line about how glad I am there's someone in a dress besides the drag queens I'm with, but the voice that responds is masculine. She turn around, and to my horror I was hitting on Syd. Turns out he left for the bathroom to get changed, his street clothes were in the Louis Vutton purse he was carrying.
     Just then, when I thought the night couldn't get any worse, it did. A bunch of guys in drag started harassing Syd's friends, and Syd explained to me they were a rival gang of drag queens trying to make this area of West Hollywood part of their turf. The Garter Snakes they're called, apparently, I found out afterwards, they're like this one chapter of this international league of cross dressers that's been around for centuries, with chapters all around, from internationally today to Han Dynasty China to Bolshevik Russia to possibly prehistory. But these guys went rogue from the league after World War 1, creating a rival organization looking to control the arts of cross dressing. It was they who back in the 20s at their lair in the Himalayas taught their secrets to the mysterious 1930s vigilante the Black Dress. But then these Garter Snakes themselves broke off in the 1960s, with the expressed aim of taking over the world over time, and now they are the enemy of both their progenitor league, and the league Syd and company belonged to.
     Syd rushed over to the groups, explaining that this was not their turf, but the Garters looked ready to fight rather than leave. So I rushed in between the two groups, and tried to be diplomatic about it; unfortunately, it turns out that saying "You all have a right to dress in women's clothes and hook up with each other" was not the right thing to say, nor even accurate, and pretty soon those Garters were ready to pummel me. Which was fine, since I came from a long line of pugilists anyway. My
ancestors from Scotland and Ireland fought for the entertainment of Victorian English noblemen in their gentleman's clubs for cheese, until they were thrown out of Great Britain for impregnating the upper class men's wives and daughters and mothers. One of my grandfathers was a street fighter on the mean streets on Indianapolis, being hired to lose fights in order to make the other fighters feel better. And my parent's wedding reception climaxed with relatives from both sides getting loaded on Old Crow and brawling with each other until one last guy knocked himself out. So I was ready, put up my fists in the old time boxing tradition, took a swing at the beefy guy with the goatee and Chanel pink suit, missed and hit John instead, then the fight began.
     It's not every day you get into a barfight with their rival gang, especially one in a gay bar over a centuries' long rivalry between two secret societies of drag queens, but it happened, and I was there. The place became chaos, I probably knocked three people out with vodka bottles, two with a chair, and took I'd say 30 punches and kicks all around. But it somewhat ended as I saw the remaining Garters had cornered Syd and them, and I ran toward them, slammed into the leader and punched him into the ground, allowing the guys to knock out the rest, before we fled as the cops raided the place for rioting or something.
The car ride home was great, we were all sore and bleeding, but my move to save them earned me respect, and Syd said I was now one of the greats, saved their lives and helped take down the Garter Snakes of West Hollywood, notwithstanding the fact I helped start the fight, but whatever. I get dropped off, head up into the apartment, and find that the hairy sex toy had broken loose and cleaned out the fridge.

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