Puppy Drag - 1. Puppy Drag

Babydoll, my calendar and I are in a toxic relationship—it’s needy, it’s clingy, and it’s uglier than last season’s wigs. Okay, maybe I did use it as a coaster a few times, and now it’s giving me the silent treatment. But hey, every true diva needs a dash of chaos, right? Three weeks ago—or was it the week before?—I tried to decode from my messy scribbled notebook: "7 PM, Drag Convention, Community Center."

I threw on my feather boa, slapped on those extra-long fake lashes (making me look like a butterfly on steroids), and grabbed my glitter suitcase. Actually, it was not that fast, like this small sentence might suggest, but talking about my four hour transformation is rather boring. And besides, no true artist talks about her magic. Bursting with excitement, I headed out, dreaming of the latest wig trends, contour-enhancing magic tricks, and dramatic eye makeup. A place where I’d reign as the undisputed queen, of course.

But something smelled fishy when I carefully opened the door with a dramatic bang, flashed my most charming "you-know-who-I-am" look, only to see… people crawling on all fours? For a fleeting second, I was sure I’d pranced into a fabulously fierce animal kingdom extravaganza. I was ready to sashay away faster than a leopard on roller skates, terrified I’d missed the theme! But sweetie, relax! I’m a wizard at flipping funky fiascos into pure glitter gold. Plus, it was just a few folks crawling around, all dressed in the same uninspired leather attire embellished with oddball dog masks and collars. Totally not a party! I thought, "Aha, kinky new drag trend? Well, that saves on makeup and the occasional more than necessary decapitation." Yeah, my intuition could’ve told me something was off. But hey, I’m Ophelia Overkill! I don’t ask questions, I set trends.

So, I theatrically draped my boa over my shoulders, beamed my brightest smile, and greeted the crowd with, "Hello there, you sizzling snuggle pups!" No response. No applause. Just a few short woofs. I thought, "Great, they’re really in character today." Apparently, this was some sort of performance art where you only bark to keep it real. Must be! And since I’m not a party pooper, I decided to roll with it. But honeybun, barking isn’t my style. I’d rather unleash a catfight with more glitter and glam than a pup has woofs.

"So, which mask is hiding one of my esteemed drag sisters?" I asked loudly, edging closer to the action. Deep down, I suspected there might be a huge misunderstanding. But I’m not one to pull the emergency brake too soon—I’m known for outshining everything. And if the evening isn’t sparkling, I’ll make it so.

I spotted one of the crawling characters giving me a particularly intense stare. Black mask, plain leather hoodie, and no idea why this guy was giving me the side-eye. I admit, his glance was slightly confused, but hello? Who isn’t confused when suddenly faced with me!

"Hey there, you fluffy mutt!" I purred. "I’m Ophelia Overkill! And you are… uh…" – crickets. "Darling, are you a dog or a confused cat? Because I’m here to slay with whiskers and wings, not fetch sticks!" Still just a woof and a tilted head.

"Someone’s being all mysterious," I laughed, adjusting my sequined tiara. "But lucky you. I love men who can keep quiet—means I get to babble twice as fabulously!" He blinked, let out a soft whine, and tilted his head like a pup trying to understand high heels.

In my glitter-obsessed universe, every fabulous creature deserves a name as sparkly as their presence. My mind was shimmering with ideas brighter than my disco-studded stilettos. Suddenly, the perfect name shimmered into existence: "Puppington."

With a dramatic flourish, I spun around, sashayed back, and declared, "From this glittering moment onward, you are Puppington—the most fetching fur baby in our fabulous fur-tastic family!" He gave another whine, possibly deciding whether to strut or sit. But darling, in Ophelia’s world, every pup is a star in the making!

But darling, with a name like Puppington, his 'barking in black' vibe was just paws-itively passé. Time to turn that mutt mess into a glam masterpiece!

"Listen, Puppington," I cooed, "you desperately need a makeover! With a name like that, you deserve a runway-ready appearance, not a backyard bark. We have to give you the sparkle factor! I’m here to set trends, remember!" Less than ten seconds later, I whipped out my XXL makeup kit. "Sit down, darling," I ordered Puppington, patting the ground next to me like a benevolent diva. He recoiled at first, let out a quiet whine, but then looked somewhat fascinated. Maybe he thought I had tasty dog treats in my suitcase. Or he was just too perplexed. Either way, I took it as silent approval.

"Don’t worry, sweetie, Mama Ophelia’s got this," I sang. Before Puppington’s bewildered eyes could adjust to my face, he was sporting several loops, feathers, and at least a ton of glitter—I had bedazzled him beyond his wildest puppy dreams. Or at least my heart’s desires. "Now you’ll have a sparkle on your face that’ll set any runway ablaze!"

But then, halfway through my masterpiece on Puppington…

DRAMATIC PAUSE

..someone emerged from the background exuding an inexplicable air of authority. You know how in horror movies a vampire suddenly steps out of the shadows? Something like that. It was a giant sporting a flashy leather vest. On a rough note, it was actually quite stylish if you’re into muscles, leather, and studs, which, between us nun sisters, I have a weakness for. At least until I learned more. That was definitely the outfit of a dominant puppy-sitter, or whatever they call it? Handler, right, with a massive metal plate hanging around his neck pointing to this “position”. He had several puppies on leashes. Standing tall, his gaze screamed “I run this show” louder than any sparkling crown – like he was the ringmaster of a particularly wild circus.

With squinted eyes, he sized me up, his voice dripping with sarcasm: "Hey! What do you think you’re doing here? This isn’t a makeup studio! Stop glittering my puppy right now!"

I stared back, thinking, "Wait a minute, I know that voice…" He adjusted his cap slightly, and BAM – I recognized Francine Fabulosa! My sworn nemesis. Without her usual discount high heels and tacky glitter dress, she was hard to spot. And seeing her half-naked in the dark was a one-time deal. And no, I won’t answer any questions about that!

"FRANCINE?! What the… what… why did you disguise yourself as a leather dominatrix?!" He snorted disdainfully. "I’m not Francine, I’m Frankie, the Handler! And this is NOT a drag meetup, this is a puppy play gathering, Ophelia. You’re completely out of place! And stop ruining my puppy with this… girly stuff!"

I laughed dramatically, like I was nominated for an Oscar: "Oh please, Francine… Frankie… Whatever you want to be! As if you ever had a problem with glitter? If I recall correctly, in your last show, you had more rhinestones on your bra than the Empire State Building has windows!"

The other puppies looked at us with droopy dog ears, none panting anymore, all waiting for the drama – and believe me, the drama was about to unfold. Francine… uh Frankie… snapped back: "Back then, I WAS DRAG! Now I’m the Handler, my word is law. And the law says: Get lost, you fag, and let us enjoy our evening in peace!"

At "fag," I flinched – that was definitely a low blow. Even for her. But darling, Ophelia Overkill doesn’t back down from a challenge, especially not from someone as drab as Frankie. With a flick of my glitter-coated lashes and a dramatic swish of my feathered boa, I unleashed my sassiest retort.

Switching to Overdrive Diva Mode, with a flick of my glitter-coated lashes and a dramatic swish of my feathered boa, I unleashed my sassiest retort: "I’m OPHELIA OVERKILL, you unglamorous leather sack! No one throws me out that easily!"

My voice dripped with confidence and flair, echoing through the room like the climax of a high-energy lip-sync battle. Frankie’s jaw dropped, and the puppies collectively held their breath – or was it a collective woof? Either way, the stage was set for the ultimate showdown of glitter versus grit. Puppington cowered with wide eyes, probably wondering if he’d stumbled into a drag queen’s worst nightmare. He’d never received so much attention, let alone so much rainbow sparkle.

"So, your word is law? Please, darling, my word has been ruling the runway since rhinestones first shimmered on my boa! But I have to admit, you’ve outdone yourself. I was always wondering if something could be more awful than your drag style, but you’ve mastered it with this… 'dominant' handler outfit. Your eyeliner is such a mess, it doesn’t dramatize your eyes—it makes you look like you lost a Backstreet battle for a bone!" I screamed, giving him a death glare that could melt a glitter bomb. He bared his teeth (okay, more like a grumpy smile, but it counts) and hissed, "Want to go at it, Glitter Monster? Then bring it on! But don’t mess with the Handler – you don’t know me in this role!”

I wasn’t quite sure what Frankie was trying to convey—was he protecting his precious puppies or his utterly shattered pride? But then I saw he was losing ground, acting like a tiny terrier facing down a Bermuda Diner (or was it a poodle in a hurricane?), believing that gnashing his teeth and barking furiously would scare me away. Honey, I’ve won more cat fights than he has hairs on his chest, and in my glitter-filled universe, I’m the reigning queen!

"Listen up," I growled, giving my glitter-coated lashes a dramatic flutter and a swish of my feathered boa, "if anyone here is a monster, it’s you in that drab leather vest! You look like you begged Freddy Krueger for styling tips!" Frankie huffed, tearing open his leather vest with exaggerated flair, and underneath shimmered – no surprise! – a tight, glittery Francine-Fabulosa corset! Aha, he still clung to his drag remnants like last season’s sequins!

"Is that… are you ready to switch to drag at the drop of a hat in case the puppy play lacks enough glam?!" I exclaimed indignantly, my voice dripping with sass and sparkle. "THAT’S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS!" he bellowed, blushing furiously, looking like he’d just realized he’d walked into the wrong runway show.

Now the tension was boiling. I did a majestic spin, my feather adornment brushing the nose of a puppy that let out a startled "Woof!" and stumbled backward. Puppington sat there, half-glittered, half-shy, half-delighted. I declared: "Come on, Frankie, your people need a little color! Look at Puppington, he could BE the new star in your… what do you call it? Puppy community! He already stands out with his pink bows!"

Frankie glared at me, his hands balled into fists – obviously trying to use his Handler power to kick me out of the community center. But just then, two other puppies pushed in, waving silky scarves and sparkling gems wildly. Apparently, they wanted glitter too! They whined like a karaoke machine on LSD. "Oh, please, Frankie, let us glitter too!" one barked. "Yeah, we want pink! And blue! And gold! We want to be as chic as Puppington!" another croaked.

Frankie looked horrified: "Have you all gone crazy?! This is a serious… " – he was interrupted by excited whining and pop, pop bubbles, like one was blowing from a rubber bone. Me, of course, delightfully plotting: "There you see it, Frankie: You might want to run the show, but I RUN THE TRENDS! Just imagine how fantastic a 'Glam-Puppy Parade' would look! We do a catwalk – or should I say 'dogwalk'? – and people will cheer for us! Oh, lucky me I’m here today!"

Frankie was now totally raging while I sprayed a layer of fairy dust (yes, I have that too!) over two drooling puppies. "Gloria, stop messing with my people’s heads! They’re here because they want to be free from all this glittery nonsense!" I snapped back sassily: "Wrong! They want to have fun, and no one can do that better than OPHELIA OVERKILL! We’re starting a revolution here, darling – with bows and shimmer!"

Finally, Frankie roared: "That’s enough! I’m in charge here. You know what that means? I’m the Alpha, and you have absolutely nothing to do here!"

I wasn’t having any of that. I flung my boa like a lasso, wrapped it around his shoulder, and spun gracefully (yes, I can do that) right in front of his nose. "Who’s really in charge here isn’t you, it’s the community! And if I’m reading the room right, the people – pardon me, the puppies – want MORE GLITTER and less of your grumpy face."

At that moment, I saw Puppington watching me with sparkling eyes. He was no longer intimidated but seemed to be soaking up my energy. And while Frankie was still blabbering, the unbelievable happened: Puppington stood on his hind legs, trembling but determined, holding a puppy mask in his hand. The rest of the puppies respectfully stepped aside as Puppington knelt before me, ceremoniously handing me the leather accessory.

It felt like the walls were suddenly shimmering in rainbow colors. A murmur went through the crowd (or was it barking? With that noise level, I couldn’t tell).

"What’s this supposed to be?" Frankie snarled, slowly realizing his pack was rejecting his leadership. I grinned triumphantly: "Well, if I’m going to be part of this crazy, colorful puppy family…" – I grabbed the mask and held it up like a crown – "…then I’m going to dazzle you all with my glitter!"

The puppies howled with excitement, some doing ecstatic roll-overs. Puppington whimpered sweetly, as if his heart was laid bare. I placed the mask on my wig, which surprisingly stayed put – I always had a feeling that thing led a secret double life.

"Well, Frankie, darling," I purred, "looks like your alpha status is passé. The pups have chosen a new queen! And it seems I’ve taken the throne."

Frankie glared at me furiously, his face turning cherry red. "This can’t be real! I–…" But he didn’t finish because the puppies crowded around me, gently but firmly nudging him aside. I only heard his muffled curses before he stomped away disgustedly with his fluttering leather rag.

Afterwards? Oh, darling, what can I say: I was celebrated! The puppies barked in rhythm, someone blasted insane techno beats, and with Puppington by my side, we put on a wild show that was a mix of catwalk, dogwalk, and drag extravaganza. My feather cloak shimmered, bows flew, and neon sticks magically appeared from nowhere – no idea why, but it was epic.

I was officially the new Alpha of this crazy community, which I honestly thought was fabulous. Especially since I’d just stumbled in by chance. But that’s just how I am: Wherever I show up, drama ensues, and in the end, there’s a glitter miracle.

And so, I left the community center later with a puppy mask under my arm, a new pack trailing behind me, and an inner glimmer shining brighter than any disco ball. Sure, I’ll always be Ophelia Overkill, the most vocal drag queen this side of the rainbow – but now I’m also the most dazzling Alpha the puppy world has ever seen.

The end? Oh, honey, no. This is just the beginning of the glittering era of Ophelia Overkill, Alpha Queen. And if you ask me, darling, it was one fabulous mix-up in my calendar!