The Wig Heist - 1. The Wig Heist

Act 1. The Ominous Overture

Backstage at The Velvet Peacock, the dressing room buzzed with the usual hectic energy before a big show. Bright stage lights flickered from beneath the door, and the bass from the music out front thumped through the walls. The heady scent of hairspray mingled with perfume. Piles of costumes sprawled across tables, tubes of lipstick rolled under chairs, and false eyelashes lay scattered like evidence in a crime scene—though no one guessed just how criminal the evening would become.

Delilah D’Luxe, draped in a robe that sparkled so intensely it could guide ships in the night, moved around the dressing room. Normally, she would be focused on checking her contour, reapplying lipstick, and drenching herself in setting spray, but tonight a vague sense of unease had begun to gnaw at her. She paused at her vanity, tapping a glittering nail against the worn tabletop, scanning the jumbled mess of brushes, palettes, and hairpins.

Suddenly, her voice trembled with mounting drama. “Has anyone seen my chartreuse wig? It’s the one that makes me look like a radioactive mermaid? I literally cannot function without it.”

No one responded at first; each queen was too engrossed in her own preparations. Delilah’s voice grew more urgent. “Hello? My chartreuse fantasy wig?”

Bambi Banshee, the young and often very cheeky brat, interrupted her humming of a presumably popular hit and blinked. “Is it the green fuzzy thing that looks like Kermit's grandma?” She gave a maniacal cackle. “Haven’t seen it, Grandma Dee!”

Delilah gave her a lethal side-eye. “Don’t call me Grandma. We both know I’m timeless like a cockroach. Now somebody help me find my wig.”

Coco Cliché, far more occupied with swirling champagne in a plastic flute, flicked a hand at Delilah. “Darling, I have zero memory of that monstrous color. I try my very best to overlook this abomination. It’s enough to see it in my nightmares.”

Misty Mirage, tinkering with a spread of tarot cards, muttered something about cosmic energies. “Green resonates with the heart chakra,” she explained, her voice dripping with mystical intensity. “If you lost it, maybe your heart’s been compromised by negative vibrations. Possibly the day’s special was cosmic sabotage?”

Scarlet Serpent leaned against the mirror in a red bustier that defied both logic and gravity. Her lips curled upward in a deliberate motion, her eyes narrowing with a glint of cold amusement, as though savoring a cruel joke only she understood. “Sabotage, you say? Perhaps so.” She eyed Delilah with a very suspicious look. “Or maybe the wig has become sentient and torn itself loose, desperate for a new scalp. No one could blame her for that either. Any mannequin would be an improvement.”

Delilah inhaled, chest heaving with melodramatic flair. “Alright, you shady poodles, enough wisecracks. As always I draped it on my station. Now it’s… gone.”

Bambi giggled. “Somebody’s out for blood. Maybe you got too big for your pantyhose, honey.”

Delilah’s jaw clenched. She spun, scanning the dressing room like a detective on the brink of hysteria. “This is my signature wig! The entire number depends on me looking like a glammed-up swamp monster. If you’ve stolen it—any of you—I will end you in the most fabulous way possible. Believe moi!”

The tension increased faster than a broken disco ball whirling out of control.

“You’re all JEALOUS,” Delilah hissed, voice cracking. “You can’t stand that I’m about to slay my performance, so you decided to cripple me by stealing my wig!”

Bambi let out a cackle. “Come on, honey, if we wanted to cripple you, we’d do something more interesting than swiping a piece of synthetic hair.”

“It’s not synthetic—it's custom!” Delilah screamed, flinging a discarded corset away from her. She grabbed a can of hairspray and brandished it as though she were about to attack. “It’s the crowning glory of my next look!”

Misty drew in a sharp breath, her expression darkening. “Take a breath, Delilah. If you freak out, your negative energy will just cause more chaos.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Delilah’s cheeks were red, eyes brimming with tears from the humiliation. “We go on soon, and if I don’t have my wig, I am finished!”

Suddenly, Coco let out a languid sigh and set aside her champagne with a dramatic gesture which almost sent the flute flying through the room. “Alright, enough,” she said, glancing at Delilah’s trembling form. “No need to combust over a missing accessory.”

Delilah spun toward her, tears threatening to streak her thick eyeliner. “Then do something about it, Coco! Or do you care more about sipping champagne than contributing to real art?”

Coco’s eyes narrowed, but instead of an angry retort, a slow, confident smile curled across her lips. “If there’s one thing I hate more than bad contouring,” she said, voice low and even, “it’s an unsolved mystery.”

The room fell silent. All eyes turned to Coco. With measured precision, she stepped forward, claiming the center of the dressing room as if it were her personal stage. “Ladies,” she announced, sweeping her gaze over each face, lingering on Scarlet’s for a beat as though suspecting something there, “this dressing room is now a crime scene. And I, Inspector Coco Noir, am about to crack the case.”

The other queens exchanged startled, wary glances, unsure whether Coco was delivering yet another performance or genuinely stepping into the role of detective. They watched as she fetched a sequined trench coat from a random hook and flung it around her shoulders. Out of nowhere she brandished a sparkly pink notepad and a pen topped with a miniature flamingo. The flamingo bobbled with every flourish of her wrist.

Coco raised her chin, her voice dipping into theatrical gravity. “Nobody leaves,” she commanded. “That wig—and the truth—will be found before this act is over. Mark my words: I’ll return your precious hairpiece, Delilah, and when I do, whoever had the audacity to steal it will face the ultimate shade.”

Delilah’s fingers trembled, as she raked them through her teased hair. “Fine. If you want to play detective, do it. But hurry. Time is ticking, and I will not go onstage half-bald while the rest of you look like mandrills in couture.”

Scarlet flicked a curl of red hair off her shoulder. “This should be delicious. Let us watch the great Inspector Coco Noir crack a case more questionable than her taste in men.”

Coco offered a thin, self-satisfied smirk. “Oh, I assure you, my tastes are impeccable. Now, gather ‘round, suspects. The wig is missing… and the shade has only begun.”

Act 2. Suspicions Take Shape

With a flourish, Inspector Coco Noir whipped open her notepad and the crisp snap of the pages cut through the tense silence. Every eye in the room turned toward her as she strutted in front of the other queens, adopting her most serious expression—an expression that was somewhat undercut by the pen’s fluffy pink plumes bobbing in her face.

“What we have,” she intoned, “is a brazen act of wignapping. One of you—unless a wig-crazy claustrophobic gremlin has manifested—has swiped Delilah’s beloved chartreuse hairpiece.”

She scribbled something on the notepad, then angled it away so none of the others could see. A stray sparkle glinted off the page as she scribbled: Everyone’s a suspect. DD meltdown = 9.5 on the drama scale.

A faint flush spread over Delilah’s cheeks. “I did not have a meltdown,” she insisted, though the tremor in her voice and her twitching fingers suggested otherwise.

Bambi lifted a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Sweetie, you threatened to—”

“Shh,” Coco cut in, holding up her pen like a gavel. “We’ll come back to that. First, I want to revisit some statements.” She swiveled on her heels toward Bambi. “You said you’d never wear a chartreuse wig because it would clash with your complexion. Tell me—have you always been so color-conscious, or since when did you develop taste?”

Bambi tried to stifle a grin. “Look, Inspector Flamingo, I can’t stand green. It makes me look like a cupcake on life support. Why would I want her wig?”

Coco jotted a note, rolling her eyes at the page: BB claims allergic to green. Also allergic to subtlety.

She snapped her pen upright again. “And Misty? You’re a spiritual type. Could you have foreseen this tragedy in your deck of Very Convenient Cards?”

Misty scoffed, flicking open her tarot deck in one showy flourish. “The universe told me to cleanse negative energies before tonight’s show, but you know how these cosmic messages can be—more cryptic than your text messages to your ex.”

Coco scribbled pointedly, ignoring the jab: MM’s cosmic cryptic nonsense. Possibly an alien from planet Glittertron.

Misty lifted one razor-sharp drawn eyebrow. “Just so you know, Inspector, I can read those notes if I squint. Calling me an alien is definitely unwise. I might levitate your wig off next.”

Coco cleared her throat in theatrical indignation and whipped around to face Scarlet, with the flamingo targeting the next suspect. “Let’s chat about your suspiciously smug attitude. Did you see anything unusual around Delilah’s station?”

Scarlet’s lips curled into a lazy grin. “I make it a point not to stare at plastic wig boxes. Unlike you, Inspector, I have bigger fish to fry—like my upcoming solo that’s going to blow the audience’s fishnets off.”

Coco tilted her head, pen dancing over the notepad: SS: Crisp sarcasm, questionable moral compass, possible snake charmer.

Scarlet leaned in closer, narrowing her eyes as though trying to see what Coco wrote. “You think I’m done talking? Let me guess—you plan on searching everyone’s trunks next. Should we search yours while we’re at it?”

A tense hush fell. Bambi slipped off her stool as if expecting a catfight; Misty’s tarot deck trembled in her grip; Delilah’s mouth quivered with equal parts fear and fury.

But Coco merely curved her lips in a cordial smile. “Feel free,” she said smoothly. “But you’ll only find my very expensive cosmetic stash and a healthy supply of shade.”

She then scribbled: Me: Obviously innocent, but must exude calm or risk stabbing Scarlet with pen.

Delilah hovered beside the vanity with her arms folded across her chest and her shoulders drawn inward. “Stop picking on them and find my wig, Coco. You’re burning precious minutes of my life here.”

Coco faced Delilah, flipping a new page. “Delilah, dear drama queen, reaffirm your timeline. You draped the wig on your station. Then you stepped out—where, exactly?”

Delilah hissed a breath. “To speak with the stage manager about lighting cues. I was gone for maybe three minutes. I came back, and poof, the wig was gone. It’s not like it grew wings.”

Coco scribbled extra vigorously: Delilah approaching nuclear meltdown. Keep earplugs handy.

Bambi piped up, adjusting her own bubblegum-pink wig. “Wait, maybe it did sprout wings? I mean, we all saw that green monstrosity. It’s basically a radioactive flying squirrel.”

Delilah glared, brandishing a tube of lipstick like a weapon. “Bambi, if you make one more crack about my wig’s color, I will line your lips in permanent marker.”

Misty snorted a laugh. Scarlet pretended to examine her nails, looking half-bored, half-amused. Coco snapped her notepad closed with a flourish that nearly decapitated the pink flamingo.

“All right, I shall now search the premises. One of you is lying through your cheap veneers, and I will unmask you if it’s the last thing I do—provided I can keep my detective pen from losing all its feathers.”

Act 3. Curious Discovery

Coco kicked off the search in Bambi’s domain, rummaging through a battered trunk plastered with stickers that declared “Queen of Chaos” and “Banshee for Hire.” Bambi sat cross-legged on the floor, tossing aside neon fishnets, feathers, and a suspicious array of possibly stale gummy worms. Delilah hovered behind, eyes peeled for a glimmer of that impossible green. Nothing surfaced.

Coco paused to scribble something in her notepad: BB trunk: Glitter avalanche, questionable candy, no chartreuse wig. Possibly sock puppets.

When Bambi tried to peek at the notes, Coco shielded them and coughed. “Classified data. Move along.”

Next, they traipsed over to Misty Mirage’s mystical corner. Crystals, incense sticks, and half-burned sage sprigs littered her vanity. A small cauldron sat by an unopened can of energy drink. Coco navigated the clutter, her steps deliberate between the piles as she tested each spot before shifting her weight forward.

“Are you conjuring spirits or coordinating a rummage sale?” Coco muttered, rifling through drawers.

Misty arched an offended brow. “Sometimes I brew my own essential oils, Inspector. They help ward off negativity—until you barge in, rummaging in my stuff.”

Coco stuck her nose into a velvet pouch, recoiled when a burst of glitter assaulted her face, then shook her head and scribbled: MM station: Freshly glitzed my nostrils. No wig. Possibly hexing me.

Delilah, tapping an impatient stiletto, hissed, “Check faster. I can hear the next act wrapping up. We’re on soon.”

Coco snapped to attention. She spun to Delilah’s station, rummaging through palettes, pins, and brushes. At the back of the drawer, she found a half-eaten Granola bar. Delilah pouted in frustration. “I already tore it apart. No wig.”

A defeated note: DD station: Absolutely no green fuzz, except questionable moldy snack?

Delilah winced. “That’s not mine. Focus!”

Finally, Coco turned on Scarlet. Scarlet stood with a wicked smile, arms folded. “Enjoy the rummage, Inspector. But do hurry. I have a date with the spotlight.”

Coco inhaled deeply and flung open Scarlet’s black trunk. Red upon red upon red smoldered within—lacy bustiers, spiked stilettos, a mysterious red cloak that smelled vaguely of exotic incense. Coco pulled out each garment, scanning for Delilah’s missing wig. Nothing.

SS station: All red everything. Chartreuse most unwelcome. Maybe a communist?

Scarlet examined the detective’s efforts, then flicked her gaze to the corner of Coco’s own station. “Are you done? Perhaps you’d like to search your own trunk next. Unless your flamboyant pen’s already concluded your innocence.”

Coco narrowed her eyes. “I don’t hide stolen wigs. That would be cliché. But fine.”

The queens crowded around as Coco rummaged through her own vanity drawers. A hush fell when Scarlet suddenly plucked out a small plastic bag from beneath a can of hairspray. Inside it? A tuft of green fibers.

Scarlet’s lips curved into a triumphant smile. “Oh, Inspector, care to explain?”

Delilah screeched, nearly bowling Bambi over in her rush forward. “Is that— my wig?!”

Coco’s eyes went wide. She seized the bag. “No! This is a cheap imitation, something I bought for comedic parody. Look at it closely: it’s a knockoff. The color’s more used-lime than chartreuse.”

Misty dropped a tarot card that clattered onto the vanity—The Tower, ironically enough. She gasped, whispering, “Chaos and destruction. This is so on-brand for tonight.”

Delilah’s voice hit a pitch only dogs could hear. “A knockoff? You sneaky, champagne-guzzling backstabber!”

Coco’s face flamed. “I’m not a thief. I was planning to do a cameo, mocking your wig in a comedic bit—tasteful, I swear.”

Bambi lost it, cackling like a hyena. “Tasteful? A cheap green wig you planned to pop out on stage for a laugh? Inspector, you’re shady.”

Scarlet, tossing her luscious red curls, let out a triumphant hum. “Ah, the detective is the prime suspect. How delightfully perfect.”

Coco fumed, slamming the bag onto the table. “Don’t frame me, you drama vultures! If I were truly guilty, why would I keep evidence in my own drawer?”

But Delilah looked unconvinced. Bambi swiveled her gaze between Coco and Delilah, torn between delight at the drama and sympathy for the wounded queen. Misty placed her tarot deck on the vanity, as if declaring that no cosmic reading could solve this mess. Scarlet just smirked, her eyes dancing with malicious glee.

From out in the hallway, a stagehand’s voice blared, “One minute, queens! One minute ‘till showtime!”

Scarlet let out a scornful laugh. “Well, that’s it, Delilah. Enjoy being the queen of bald realness.” Delilah shot her an unprintable glare. Bambi squeaked, “There’s no way you can go onstage like that!” Misty mumbled something about “dark energy,” flipping through her tarot cards for answers that weren’t coming.

Delilah’s lip trembled, her voice thick with tears she refused to shed. “I’m not going on stage with a bare head… Being the ugly queen cannot be my fate—not tonight, not ever!”

Coco raised her hands. “Delilah, I—”

Delilah spun on her heel and stormed from the dressing room, ignoring Coco’s plea. Bambi gave Coco a disappointed look, then trailed after Delilah. Misty scooped up her tarot cards and silently followed, leaving Scarlet the last to leave. She paused, letting her gaze nail Coco on the cross.

“Oh, Inspector,” Scarlet purred, a vicious satisfaction in her voice, “I hope you’re ready for the backlash. Because after this little revelation, everyone suspects you.”

A voice from the corridor shouted, “Thirty seconds, queens! THIRTY!”

Act 4. The Show Must Go On (in the Wrong Wig)

“Look,” Coco said, voice tight with nerves, “you can’t go out there bald. People will talk. Just—take this.” She held the green wig out. Delilah glanced at the sad excuse for chartreuse hair and nearly erupted like a volcano. “That—THAT—is the cheap knockoff you were gonna use to parody me. Are you out of your mind?!”

Coco swallowed hard, fiddling with a loose sequin on her collar. “I know you hate me right now, but it’s better than being a poor parody of Kojak. We’ve got no time.” Bambi nodded fervently, “Like, NO TIME,” while Misty murmured a quick “Om” to calm her own racing heart. Scarlet, arms folded, shrugged in delicious schadenfreude. Delilah glared at Coco as if she could topple her with sheer rage alone, but the stagehand’s “FIFTEEN SECONDS!” made the decision for her. She snatched the wig from Coco, turning it over as though it were some rancid fish. “I hate this,” she snarled, “but I guess it’s a step above nothing.”

Bambi gasped in relief. Misty offered a tiny, grateful smile. Even Scarlet arched an amused brow. Coco summoned up what remained of her dignity and jammed a couple of bobby pins into Delilah’s hairline, trying to secure the faux hair piece as gracefully as possible under the circumstances. The result: Delilah looked like a radioactive tumbleweed. “Oh, for—this is humiliating,” she hissed, fighting back tears. Scarlet let out a snort-laugh that nearly turned into a coughing fit.

Bambi grabbed Delilah’s hand, tugging her toward the stage as their number started to blared. “We have to GO!” The group stampeded back into the blinding footlights, joined by the roar of the club’s audience and a swirl of disco lasers that skimmed across their sequins. Delilah forced herself forward in that questionable green wig, chin held high even though she felt like dying inside. The MC’s booming voice swept over them: “Welcome back, ladies and gents—are we ready to see our fabulous DRAG?!”

Delilah mustered a performance-ready smile that threatened to crack her makeup. She launched into a lip-sync number she’d rehearsed a hundred times, but never under conditions so mortifying. All around her, the other queens tried to keep pace: Bambi strutting and flipping her huge wig, Misty gliding around with otherworldly grace, Scarlet flashing her crowd-pleasing smirk, and Coco—looking for all the world like she wanted to vanish behind her swirling trench coat. The audience clapped and cheered, a mix of fascination and confusion lighting their faces as they took in Delilah’s… unorthodox new look.

Scarlet sashayed by, whispering, “Nice hair, darling,” with a grin like a cat toying with a mouse. Delilah nearly hissed back, “Shove it!” but caught herself in time for the next eight-count of choreography. Meanwhile, Coco tried to skirt around them unnoticed, but she and Delilah accidentally locked eyes, sharing a moment that was part grudging gratitude and part unspoken fury. Coco almost tripped over a mic cord in the process, prompting a cackle from Bambi that might have reached the upper balconies.

Despite the swirling chaos, the audience seemed dazzled. Applause thundered at each big move, strobe lights glinted off rhinestones, and a chorus of “YAS QUEEN!” erupted from several tables. Delilah closed her eyes at one point, inhaling the club’s smoky air and forcing herself to remember: drag was chaos, and she was going to own it, hideous wig or no hideous wig. By the time the final cymbal crashed, she nailed a spin that sent the cheap green locks flying outward in a tornado of questionable fibers, ironically prompting the biggest cheer of the night.

Act 5. Revelation and Ruin

A tense silence permeated the air like cheap perfume, backstage at The Velvet Peacock. Delilah D’Luxe slammed the horrible knockoff wig onto the table as though it were a venomous snake. Her face shone with perspiration and unspent fury. Bambi Banshee flitted around, half-laughing, half-gasping, while Scarlet Serpent stretched sinuously at the mirror, tapping her crimson nails. Misty Mirage crouched by the vanity, shuffling her tarot cards in frantic cycles.

Inspector Coco Noir marched into the middle of the dressing room, pink notepad in one hand, flamboyant flamingo pen in the other. She pressed her lips together, summoning every last ounce of detective grandeur.

Delilah raked her nails across the tabletop, eyes blazing. “This is the final straw. We have gone from fierce to farcical. I am not walking on that stage again until I have my real wig.” She flicked a lethal look at Coco. “Unless, of course, you magically discover it among your other comedic props.”

Coco bristled, brandishing her pen like a dagger. “I told you, I’m innocent. Now pipe down so we can commence… The Ultimate Interrogation!” Her voice cracked on the last syllable, but she soldiered on, scanning her trembling notes. “One by one, you will answer my questions, and we will determine who stole Delilah’s chartreuse… crown jewel.”

Scarlet rolled her eyes. “Oh yes, let’s all waste more time while you pretend you’re Miss Marple. Newsflash, Inspector: we’ve done nothing but question each other all night, and we’re no closer to the truth.”

Misty ran a sweaty palm across her forehead and cut in, “Before we devolve into a riot, maybe I can do a quick reading.” She drew a single tarot card, biting her lip when she saw what it was. “The Tower—again,” she whispered, shaking her head. “Upheaval, sudden catastrophe, illusions falling away—this is the universe giving us the rudest wake-up call.”

Bambi peered at the card with fascination. “Why do you keep picking that? Is this the only card you have or are your cards rigged to torment us?”

“NO MORE CARDS,” Delilah snapped. “We are done with crystals, done with cheap wigs, done with monologues about who’s the shadiest of them all. The only thing that matters is my wig.” She let out a deep breath, nostrils flaring. “Now, somebody talk.”

It was exactly that moment, when Delilah’s phone started to ring, the shrill tone slicing through the tension. Everyone froze, hearts thumping. Delilah stared at the screen. “It’s my boyfriend,” she muttered, knitting her brow in confusion. “He knows I’m working tonight—why would he be calling?”

“Answer it,” Coco ordered. “This may be important.”

Delilah tapped the screen. “Yeah, babe? I’m kind of busy—” Her eyes bulged, while her voice cracked an octave higher. “You… want to throw WHAT in the trash?”

A hush fell so complete that Misty’s tarot cards nearly slipped from her fingers. Scarlet rose from the mirror, her signature wicked smile already curling her lips. Bambi covered her mouth with both hands to stifle a gleeful shriek.

Delilah ended the call with trembling fingers, cheeks burning like neon lights. “He found… my wig at home,” she confessed, her mortified voice cracking with the weight of humiliation. “He says it was lying there in plain sight, and he asked if he could toss it because it was, and I quote, ‘the ugliest thing he’s ever seen.’”

A collective gasp seized the dressing room. For a moment, no one breathed—then Bambi toppled into wild giggles, practically knocking over a row of stilettos. Misty let out a half-laugh, half-sob, fanning herself with The Tower card. “All this insanity, and you never brought it?”

Coco, pink notepad clutched like a prized scepter, puffed out her chest. “Indeed! Inspector Coco Noir has cracked the—”

“Cracked what?” Scarlet cackled. “A phone call did all the work, darling.”

Delilah sank onto her stool, burying her face in her hands. “I tore this dressing room apart, wore that hideous knockoff, and nearly had a nervous breakdown—over nothing.” She glared at Coco, anger flaring. “I’m so sorry, it was an honest mistake everyone could have made. But, speaking of which— YOU, Inspector! YOU owe us an apology! YOU fueled this fiasco!”

Coco’s eyes widened. “Me? You forgot your wig at home! How am I—”

“Oh, don’t you dare!” Delilah shot up, toppling a can of hairspray. “You and that blasted notepad pointed fingers at everyone, including me. You turned this club into a third-rate detective show!”

Scarlet leaned against the mirror, lip curled in amusement. “Spill that tea, Delilah.”

Bambi hopped around like a restless bunny. “Guys, c’mon, can we not—”

But Misty sensed the oncoming storm and quietly set aside her tarot deck, anticipating the meltdown. Delilah marched up to Coco, jabbing a finger into her sequined lapel. “I’m waiting, Inspector. Apologize. Now.”

Coco, bristling, lifted her chin in defiance. “Fine, I— I’m sorry your memory failed you. Sorry I let you use my comedic wig. Sorry you—”

Delilah’s rage exploded. “That is not a real apology!” She lunged, grabbing Coco’s collar, and the dressing room erupted into manic shrieks.

Bambi squealed, sprinting behind the costume rack. Misty jumped onto a chair, tarot cards flying like confetti. Scarlet rushed forward with a delighted grin, clearly enjoying the mayhem as she tried—and failed—to pry them apart.

Coco’s notepad went flying across the room. “Unhand me, you wigless lunatic!” she snarled, grappling at Delilah’s wrists.

“Call me wigless one more time!” Delilah shrieked, yanking Coco’s collar so violently that rhinestones popped off.

Scarlet’s laughter mixed with Bambi’s yelps. Misty stood on the chair, hollering, “Someone do something!” just as Delilah knocked a wig stand into the vanity, sending makeup tumbling.

In a final surge of chaos, Delilah shoved Coco against the table, while Coco clutched at Delilah’s arm. They whirled in a blur of sequins and shrieks, toppling to the floor in a tangle of cheap green fibers and battle-ready nails.

Scarlet raised an eyebrow, hands on her hips. “And you thought I was the villain?”

Bambi squeaked from behind a feather boa, “This is way more intense than any performance we’ve done all night!”

Misty, wide-eyed, tried waving a sage stick for a futile cleansing. “Hush, I’m focusing my energy on not calling the cops!”

The catfight rolled on for a few more breathless seconds—Delilah shrieking about sabotage, Coco shrieking about disrespect—until Bambi and Scarlet finally managed to pry them apart. Both queens panted, hair askew, makeup smudged in comedic smears.

Delilah, chest heaving, glared daggers at Coco. Coco, cheeks flaming, clenched her fists around a broken pen. The entire room fell silent except for their frantic gasps.

“Apology… accepted,” Delilah hissed, though her eyes still blazed.

Coco wiped a smear of lipstick off her cheek. “I—glad we settled that.”

Scarlet fanned herself, smirking. “Shall we grace the stage with an encore? I think the audience deserves a glimpse of this lunacy.”

Bambi peeked out, all nerves and giggles. “We can pretend this was a... rehearsal for a new number?”

Misty let the snapped sage stick fall to the floor. “The Tower manifested, ladies. The meltdown is complete.”

Delilah, trembling with leftover fury, scooped up the cheap green wig, stuffing it on her head with a disgusted grimace. Coco straightened her sequined coat, lips pursed, notepad lost under a pile of dropped makeup.

Then, with trembling dignity, they marched out to face the crowd—makeup smeared, dignity shredded, but united by the ridiculous triumph of drag. And if the catfight left them battered and humiliated, at least it made for the most unforgettable finale The Velvet Peacock had ever seen.

–La Fin–