Freebie Mondays: The Event of a Lifetime (Twitch Chat’s Story Part One)

Last year, after two sudden and unexpected hard drive deaths, my husband and I decided it was time to replace my computer even though it wasn’t that old. It was either that or continue to feed the beast, and I really didn’t want to risk having to re-create my production environment every 4 months.

Luckily, we have a small fund set aside for emergency expenses, and this fit the description. BUT I wanted to try to make some of that money back to spare the bank account what felt like folly on my part. (In retrospect, there were a lot of signs at the start that I probably should have packed that computer back to the manufacturer, but the pandemic hit shortly after I bought it and the price of computer parts skyrocketed so… here we are.)

One of the incentives for donating to the cause was that I would write a story with suggestions from my twitch chat. The suggestions were about as wild as I expected, but I didn’t shy away. This is the story my Twitch Chat inspired.

If you’d like to watch the entire insane process of this story coming together, there is a VoD on my Youtube channel.
. . .

Dust drifted along the road, kicked up by every step as Arnaud made his way from one end of the unimpressive main street to the other. He wasn’t sure what he expected from a city on the barest edge of civilization, tucked almost in the center of a massive desert with only one highway leading in and out – but it certainly wasn’t this.

Why drag people to such a middle of nowhere backwater? It screams of a desire to revitalize a failing space.

The vampire’s face twisted with disdain as he paused outside the building mentioned in his brief. It was a good thing he didn’t have to worry about concealing his true nature here. With the last rays of the sun still licking the horizon, the town was still alive and bustling with activity – but a single glance revealed that just about everyone here was as strange as he was.

While he still hovered just outside the half-door that led to the interior of the designated meeting place, a short man with ruddy brown and black mottled fur brushed past him. He wore an expensive and carefully tailored trench coat, and a gold-trimmed fedora sat atop his head. But he was a weasel.

Not the kind that sold false goods with a sleazy smile. An actual weasel. His bushy tail brushed Arnaud’s leg as he slunk past, causing him to leap backward and further twist his face into an expression of displeasure.

Why in the world did I come here?

He would be coated in a thick layer of sand and dust by the time he left, even if he only stayed one night. He couldn’t possibly hope to find company of a high class.

Yet the last sentence of the brief blazed like a golden beacon in his mind.

Highly sought after prize with value beyond measure.

The vampire heaved a heavy sigh and finally pushed open the door to enter the tavern.

Music drifted through the space beyond. It was large, almost cavernous compared to how it looked from the outside. The front portion of the tavern – or salon, he supposed it was supposed to be called – had solid, polished hardwood floors littered with tables and chairs. Many of these tables were occupied by patrons, but the bulk of the activity inside the salon occupied the back portion of the space.

There a large pit had been dug into the sand. And while patrons stood in a rowdy circle screaming and cheering, a pair of heavily muscled and freshly oiled men threw fists at each other’s faces. Arnaud was tempted to join the circle of admirers to see how it worked out. But the music weaving through the space drew his attention to a table near the front corner of the establishment. The weasel had settled there, he noted, as well as some other strange figures.

Arnaud had just taken his first step in the direction of the motley crew when the sonorous music drew to a halt. The last note hung in the air like the ring of a bell, then the musician spun from their bench to cast a wink in Arnaud’s direction.

Like the other colorful members of this establishment, the pianist was strange. When they rose from the bench it was obvious their body was squat and their full height no taller than Arnaud’s thighs. They had a rounded lower body that ended in a pair of wheels, but they had a broad upper body with wide shoulders and powerful arms. Their boxy head held a shockingly expressive face, and their ball-jointed jaw formed a grin as they turned and zoomed toward the kitchen.

Robot, Arnaud realized. Probably because the desert was one of the few places that still accepted them without question.

He sighed and trudged toward the table of strange entities. As he approached, they shuffled sideways and backward, clearing a space. One of them dragged a chair over from another table, and Arnaud settled into it. He spared only a cursory glance for what he assumed was going to be his competition. Aside from the weasel there was a child who couldn’t have been older than eight – or possibly ten. It had been so long since he was a child himself, Arnaud often had a difficult time discerning between specific ages.

The child’s face was an off-setting shade of grey and they stared at Arnaud from the pits of two hollow, dark-shaded eyes, causing him to look away quickly. But the next contestant his eyes landed on was no better. This one appeared to be a single skeletal figure formed of three other skeletons mashed together. At first, Arnaud thought it was merely three human skeletons somehow fused by magical means. But when the figure shifted, he noticed that its lower half was horse-shaped.

I’m not even going to ask, he thought as he glanced quickly in another direction to lay eyes on the final occupant of the table.

An octopus.

That was when the clearing of a throat reached Arnaud’s ears, causing him to turn back in the direction he’d come. The robot pianist hovered there, the wide grin still occupying their boxy face.

“Fresh Made Coffee,” they declared and set a hand on their chest.

“No thank you,” Arnaud replied with disdain and allowed one of his fangs to flash in the bright light of the salon. “I favor a different sort of diet.”

The robot laughed, completely untroubled by the nature of their new patron. “It’s my name, stranger. And I’m the coordinator for this event. So now that you’re all here, I thought I’d go over the rules.”

Arnaud frowned. He didn’t like making himself look like a fool. But it seemed all of the other contestants were so riveted on their host, they didn’t pay much notice to the faux pas. So he joined them in watching intently as the robot went over the rules – which were pretty standard.

“Give us your best show,” Fresh Made Coffee  declared, ticking off each point on a knobby finger as they spoke. “Magic is allowed, but you can only cast it on yourself. Nothing that might spoil the efforts of the other contestants. We want a nice clean game here. Anyone who can’t abide by that will be disqualified.”

“And the prize?” Arnaud pressed. He was hoping for something that involved diamonds, rubies or sapphires. It had been a long time since he added a new piece to his collection.

“Shall have to remain mysterious, I’m afraid,” Fresh Made Coffee replied with a glimmer in their eyes. “But don’t worry, I can assure you that many people the world over would be beyond delighted to receive it.”

With that, the pianist spun on their wheels and returned to their piano.

A sharp crack sounded in the background as one of the boxing participants laid the others flat, but the cheers of the victor’s supports were quickly drowned by the upbeat rhythm of the pianist’s new song.

Arnaud sighed and headed toward the bar in hopes he could find some sustenance before it was time to buckle down and make his final preparations.

*   *   *

If the town was choked with dust, the area where the competition was to take place practically bathed in it. A field of beige stretched out before Arnaud as he peered through the opening of the tent erected to provide him with a space for preparations. Two sets of tall bleachers had been erected on either side of a relatively flat sandy stretch, and the seats were filled with more occupants than he imagined occupied this small town. Once more, the sun had just descended below the horizon, leaving the sky a hazy shade of deep purple. Bright lights braced against the backs of the bleachers to blare down on what would serve as the contestants’ runway.

It had been several hundred years since Arnaud felt anything approaching nervous jitters. But he had to admit that he was less confident about this competition than he believed he would be when he made the long journey here.

In the distance, out beyond the small patch of light and celebration erected by the competition’s hosts, odd structures loomed like twisted shadows out of the growing gloom. From here, it was hard to tell if they were natural formations or man-made structures. They served as a somewhat ominous backdrop to the proceedings, and a single glance demanded further examination. But Arnaud quickly tore his eyes away and retreated back inside his tent.

He flopped into the chair set across from his mirror and did the usual checks. Hair – perfect, flowing, not a strand out of place. Makeup – perfectly applied, expertly shaped and totally unsmudged. Outfit – fabulous, fantastic and flowing.

There is no possible way I can lose. Not to such a ragtag bunch as occupied last night’s salon.

Music suddenly blared across the surface of the desert and a hush settled over the crowd.

The time had come.

Arnaud sat up straighter in his chair and made certain his hair remained perfectly bound in the configuration he chose. Then he skittered back to the front of his tent to await the calling of his name.

Fresh Made Coffee, the pianist from the salon, wheeled down the center of the runway holding a small cylindrical object in one hand. It quickly became clear when they lifted the object to their jaw it was a microphone.

An odd metallic clearing of a throat sounded, then the robot waved their free hand in a sweeping gesture. “We begin tonight, ladies, gentleman and non-binary friends, with the infamous and fabulous Thursday!”

The crowd went absolutely wild. Arnaud imagined they didn’t get many events like this one in the edge of nowhere. Or if they did, the populous practically lived for them. What else was there to do on the edge of a decaying civilization on the verge of a wild that was slowly and steadily reclaiming the land people once used to farm crops and build industry?

The lights blinked and flashed before focusing on the near end of the runway. And there, strutting into the bright illumination was the child Arnaud noted the night before. Thursday’s skin was still pale and ashen, and her eyes were still hollow and sunken. But around them had now been drawn a stark black geometric pattern that somehow managed to highlight and obscure the bony structure beneath at the same time. The black glimmered glossy in the light, as did the black-painted lips.

Thursday’s entire costume was black and white. And under other circumstances, Arnaud would have considered it either tacky or boring. But in this case, it worked. The pallor of the skin only added to the overall image, making Thursday seem like a porcelain doll.

Her outfit could almost be described as typical goth; it had the traditional leather corset, the short, bunched skirt and the long, thigh-high leather boots. But there was an elegance to the way it had been decorated that made stripes blend into swirls. Gemstones shimmered on belts and buckles, catching the light whenever Thursday shifted.

The look was complete with a long, black wig that hung almost to Thursday’s knees. It was wild and unkempt, like something out of a horror movie. Yet it was also clear that each strand of hair had been carefully styled to create this wild, and carefree image.

A long, lace veil hung over the front of the face, sheer enough that it concealed nothing, but dense enough to add a hazy shimmer as a final effect.

A strong start, Arnaud fretted, and it was hard not to bite his own lipsticked lips as he waited for the next name to be called.

Fresh Made Coffee wheeled back into the center of the runway and the lights shifted again as they announced, “Next, we have Helena Bottom Harder!”

Another roar rose from the crowd as the weasel emerged from her tent. Gone was the fancy trench coat and intricately embroidered fedora. Helena’s costume had been designed in the style of bawdy old western show-girls. The ne neckline was low-cut and the front portion of the skirt had been bunched upward so that it sat above the knee. The back portion of the skirt swept downward in a series of graceful swoops, however, making it look almost like a theater curtain waiting to rise as it brushed the gentle sand that powdered the surface of the runway.

The dress’s fabric was a bright, emerald green heavily patterned to look like old pineapple wallpaper. It was accented with bright white ruffles and a pair of black gloves that rose to just above Helena’s elbows. She had opted for strappy heels that ascended no higher than her ankle, though a pair of fishnets covered the rest of her furry legs.

A red wig perched above her head, styled with perfect ringlet curls that bounced about her chin as she strutted and swirled across the runway.

Arnaud had never seen a weasel dance before, let alone strut. But she was good.

Too good.

The odd bone centaur came next. Arnaud missed the name as Fresh Made Coffee spoke it. It sounded like some kind of guttural grunt-roar that Arnaud could only assume was a trick of the wind blowing at just the right moment.

He had never seen a centaur where drag before either – though he had seen a skeleton pull it off at least thrice in the past. But he had to admit, this contestant had style.

The upper half of the bone golem still looked like three skeletons smooshed together. Arnaud imagined there was no real way to hide that. But now the three skeletons were wearing an elegant ball gown with a low neckline and frilly sleeves that flared at the elbow. A fur-tipped cape hung from their shoulders and swept over their back. The fabric of both gown and cape were made from a shimmering sky-blue fabric.

The lower half of the dress completely concealed the horse portion of the bone golem’s body. The hoop skirt was so wide, it looked almost like a balloon. It swished the way any normal ball gown might as the centaur-figure sashayed down the runway, and Arnaud could almost imagine the empty eye sockets winking while the high cheekbones blushed.

So far, this competition wasn’t going the way he expected. He expected disasters to flail their way free of the tents and flop down the runway to the sound of jeers. But each and every one of the queens that presented themselves had, thus far, nailed their performance.

“Next, we have Bob Le Octopus!” Fresh Made Coffee announced with a sweeping gesture, and Arnaud realized he would have to make his presentation dead last.

One more elegant figure emerged from the shadows as the lights overhead swirled blue and yellow to create the effect of sinking into the water.

Arnaud had never before considered how an octopus might wear drag, so he was utterly stunned by what he witnessed.

Strips of blue-green fabric flowed freely from Bob’s central body portion as she flowed – almost floated! – from the edge of the runway toward its center. The way she moved caused the fabric to dance so that she almost looked like kelp gliding across the sea floor.

Bob spun and raised her tentacles revealing delicate spikes that had been affixed to the ends of each – almost like press-on nails. They were thick enough to be set with tiny gemstones that once again caught the light and flashed with each movement of the expressive limbs.

Bob must also have shifted the color of her skin in order to enhance her makeup, because her face looked shockingly human as she waved her tentacles in a mime of blowing kisses to the crowd.

Arnaud heaved a final sigh and stepped from the shelter of his tent in anticipation of hearing his name. Yet it still seemed to take a small eternity before Fresh Made Coffee’s voice once again radiated through the crowd.

“And last, but certainly not least,” they announced with animation, “please welcome Auntie Depressant!”

That was his cue. Arnaud swept forward, the very picture of grace and elegance. The top half of his outfit was a finely crafted short jacket that hugged his hips and ended in delicate points just above his thighs. The back was high collard and specially reinforced so that the collar formed a crest behind his neck. It was of a deep, crimson red color but embroidered in gold and silver.

Beneath it, he wore a dress of purest white. The neckline was low, but the base of the skirt brushed the ground. A high slit adorned one side, providing glimpses of his long legs as he strode forward. And from that tiny window could be glimpsed the high, red boots that he wore to match his jacket.

His hair was, perhaps, the most spectacular portion of all, however. Long tresses had been gathered into two separate ponytails then braided and pulled into tight swirls that formed sharp crescents on either side of his head. From a distance, they would look like devil horns. The hair was midnight black, but it was bound with crimson ribbons, making it look like streaks of blood ran through his hair. And on his forehead had been painted one perfect crescent curl of midnight black.

All of Arnaud’s nerves fell away as he strode forward. The second he entered the spotlight, he was in character – and could never be anything other than Auntie, the persona he had forged for himself over several centuries of careful effort.

The crowd was as awed by his appearance as all the others – he was sure of it. He could tell by the soft coos and loud cheers that accompanied his every movement.

He had this. All he had to do was keep the dial on max, and he was sure he would succeed.

He came to a halt in the line formed by the other queens and struck a pose.

For a moment, the spotlight focused on them all and each of them flexed or shifted to draw the attention of the crowd in their specific direction.

Arnaud imagined that all of those eyes were focused on him, all admiring him and the form he had expertly crafted.

He lived for this. Beneath the spotlight and the adoration of the faces that lay beyond it, he felt alive again – alive like he hadn’t felt since he before he turned. Centuries of dark brooding contemplation fell away as he basked in the cheers of the crowd – and the memory of this was sure to propel him through another century or more when all was said and done.

But it wasn’t done yet.

Once more, Fresh Made Coffee wheeled into the center of the runway, parking just in front of the queens. They flashed the crowd another of their eager grins before raising their microphone.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen and non-binary friends, the moment you’ve all been waiting for! Contestants – to your cars!”

Arnaud inhaled deeply though, technically, he didn’t need to breathe. Speed wasn’t the reason he participated in these events, yet he would embrace and enjoy it the way he embraced and enjoyed the rest.

It would all be over soon, at any rate. The course was designed to be completed before sunrise – and for him, it would have to be. Otherwise, this would be the last event of his life.