The Anthology

Fabulousity, by Matthew Bryan Pruitt

The crowd’s screaming and applauding is worth more to me than the very air I breathe. I walk on stage, hear them yell and whistle at me. Me in my stilettos, knee-length dress, boa made of fluffy feathers, and my hair done up under a bright red wig, and I can’t help to think of how lucky of a man I am.

During the day, I’m Mark Witchell, a server at Rain Diner, making tips and serving hot food. But, at night, I’m Latasha Buckingshield, the sassiest single woman in all the land, making large tips and lip-synching oldies and some pop diva singles.

“Put your hands together and your drinks down, for once, and welcome the bitch y’all love, Latasha Buckingshield!” The master of ceremonies, Lawrence, yells at the audience.

The lights dim.

“Single Ladies” by Beyonce begins to play.

The curtain opens, revealing me in a stunning, black singlet and a glove made of shiny metal.

I rock out, and tear the roof off of the house.

I am the essence of fabulous.

“How are you all doing tonight?” I say, staring out at my beloved audience, “I see Rodney’s here, and I see his regular dates- vodka and beer.”

They laugh, my crowd.

I tease the audience, I make fun of them, and they laugh.

I loved my life.

I loved being the epitome, the sheer definition of Fabulousity.

At least until October 31^st, Halloween, of 2010.

I was dressed up in a full-length, black dress topped with a black and green corset. I even tinted my skin green and donned a black pointed hat on top of my long black wig (that I used to do Cher impressions with). That night, I was Elphaba, the wicked witch of the west, and I performed “No Good Deed” and my finale, “Defying Gravity” (both from the Broadway show “Wicked”). I was outstanding. After the performance, I stayed in the costume as to prolong my Elphaba in the glory of Halloween.

However, it wouldn’t be a very glorious night.

The stars watched me from above, and the lit jack-o-lanterns watched from the sides as Robert Bishop, a 17 year old drop-out, stopped me on 2^nd Avenue, just a few blocks from my apartment building.

He had the anger in his eye that you’d only see in dogs during a territorial battle. It was as if he were staring at the single thing he hated the most in the entire world- it didn’t feel too fabulous that it happened to me.

No warning was given, he lurched forward and knocked me onto the ground. My wig flew off, revealing my pulled-back hair.

When the wig flew off, he grabbed me by my hair and smacked my head against the pavement. I heard my flesh colliding with the hard stone. I knew there was blood because the collision sounded wet and I could taste copper in my mouth.

I didn’t feel fabulous anymore, or look it.

With every punch, kick, and thud against the cement, I could feel my descend from fabulousity speed up more and more. How could I perform? How could I go on, knowing that someone hates me so much and would gladly do this to me again?

As he left me behind, I made sure to remember every detail of him that I could. How he walked, talked, looked, and even spat was permanently etched into my memory.

I’d have to have my vendetta against him. One worthy of the utmost fabulousity.

One month and countless therapy sessions later, I dressed up in my red hair, stilettos, knee-length dress, and my feathery boa. As I sat down in my vanity chair, I stared at my face, at the scar left above my eye, and smiled.

“I’m still Latasha.”

I lightly dabbed foundation around my eye and slowly began to massage it across my skin.

“I…”

I applied lipstick to cover the cut over my lower lip.

“…am still…”

I lightly brushed on some light green eyeshadow and eyeliner.

“…fabulous.”

However, I wasn’t going to be performing, I would be marching down to Steven Phillips’ Gun and Ammo Store to purchase a handgun for protection purposes of course.

I walked down the street, sashaying along my catwalk of cement and dirt. The lights from the streetlamps barely began to flicker on. I gently placed the gun into my purse, removed my lip stick and did some light touch-ups. Shopping for guns can be a hassle, especially when you have to blow your way to get a free one.

I decided to name my new defender, this gallant warrior that would cause my assailants to bleed when they would charge at me. I named her Raquel. A single bullet would be all that matters, all that it would took, and almost all I could afford. One blow job got me Raquel and the remainder of a box of bullets on display (a whole four of them).

Sitting on a stoop, in the exact same clothes as the week or so before, was Robert Bishop, smoking a cigarette. He looked just as angry as before, once he saw me.

“Hello,” I said, smiling at him with one hand on my hip and the other on Raquel, fingering the trigger anxiously.

“Sup, fag,”

I smirked. I could feel Raquel trembling underneath my hand, or was it just my hand? At that moment, I simply couldn’t tell the two apart anymore.

“Sup”

Then, without warning, I lifted Raquel and just fired one shot off. It missed, but I had his attention.

“MY NAME,” I screamed as I fired off the second shot, blasting his kneecap.

“ISN’T”, I shot the shin on his other leg.

“FAG”, I shot him right in the groin.

He collapsed onto the ground, unable to move or speak due to the searing pain that must’ve been coursing through his body.

“My name is Latasha Buckingshield,” I said, closing the distance between he and I to a mere one foot, “and you just got your nuts blown off by a gay man in a dress.”

He mustered enough strength to flip me off, but I simple leaned in, kissed his cheek and sashayed away, just as fabulous as ever.