dragged... (Part 17)

              Not I Said the Fly

He said his name was Stanley Simon, but he never told me that he was channeling Muhammad Ali, so when I pointed him in the direction of Sunny’s dressing room, I had no idea that I was sending a first class boxer to her door.  When he asked for her, I cannot lie, I did notice a little dissention in his tone, but I never thought that he was going to knock her face into the middle of next Spring; however, I did feel that there was more than a little bit of animosity between them, because I swear I heard him snarling as he waited, patiently, outside of her dressing room door. 

Now, I might be getting ahead of myself, but I do believe that she never knew what hit her. I’m not sure she ever got the door all the way open before she received her, long time coming, F.T.P. (Flagrant Toxic Punch) delivery.  On impact, all you heard down the hall was the smack from that punch he laid dead center, and I screamed when I saw all the blood immediately start gushing out like a Texas oil geyser. 

The screams of horror from the Queens standing nearby sounded just like the ones inside of a theater when Jason Voorhees appeared out of nowhere, and stood behind his next unsuspecting victim. I’m pretty sure she yelped just as she was falling to the grown, but old girl was certainly out cold after that sweet sucker punch.  I know that I’m probably going to go to hell for doing so, but I couldn’t help it, I laughed my ass off.  

The delightful scene kept playing over and over in slow motion in my mind; the image of that white flower scattering everywhere, along with her head snapping back from the force of the blow, and her buckling knees looked choreographed.  If I hadn’t seen it with my own two eyes I would swear that the whole incident had been scripted. 

Linder Bender, that ugly, acne faced Queen, who threw those lemon peels at me the night that Sunny sabotaged my performance, ran over and kelt beside her crying hysterically, phony as those red-bottomed stilettos she was wearing on her flat, webbed, feet.  I never budged from where I was standing because I didn’t want to be a hypocrite.  I did, however, have a little bit of compassion for her and hoped that she wasn’t hurt too bad, but that is what you get when you played games with people’s lives. 

“Did anybody know who that guy was?  Where is he? Is he still in this club?  Oh my god, Ms. Sunny, please girl, say something, please…somebody, call an ama-lams…baby girl, please, wake up!” Linda Bender cried, shrieking like a seagull fighting for food on a school playground. 

“Linda! Get out of the way and let me look at her…you’re not doing her any good, wailing over her like a distraught relative over the body in a casket, shit!” Kimora said, pushing Linda’s obnoxious behind out of the way. 

“Damn, girl, I don’t know who he was, but he took a whole lot of anger out on your mug…damn, look at how your nose is swelling up,” Kimora said, clearly disturbed by the sight of Sunny’s bloody face. 

“Everyone, please stand back and give her some air, good lord, acting like a damn crazy ass fool ain’t helping this child one bit,” Nick said, lifting her eyelids up to see if there was any life in her eyes.  After he checked her pulse, he announced that she was still alive, but was just knocked out. 

I already knew I was going to hell, but I couldn’t help but remember how Chris Tucker’s character stood over that young brotha in the movie “Friday” and yelled, “You got knocked the fuck out!”  The thought of it made me snicker, quietly, to myself.  I hoped that no one caught me making a joke out of home girl’s situation, but she made you hate her because she was so fucking fowl.

Once the paramedics came and moved her onto the stretcher, all the chaos had simmered down some.  Nick walked over to me and asked if I had ever seen the guy before.  I told him that I didn’t know him from Adam.  I let him know that he had asked where her dressing room was and all I did was point him in the direction of it.  When he looked at me with his eyebrow raised, I stepped back stared him down, wondering what it was he was trying to insinuate. 

“Missouri, I know that you didn’t have anything to do with this?” he asked.  Just by his tone, I could tell that he was trying me without a judge or jury (or good cause). 

“How dare you, Nicholas, how dare you think that I could have anything to do with such a heinous act.  I ain’t gonna lie though, I cannot stand that crazy bitch, but I would never get involved with something like this,” I told him, appalled that he had the gall to even suggest it.

He shook his head like he didn’t believe what I was telling him, and I didn’t appreciate the way he was looking at me with contempt.  I put my hands on my hips, and started moving my neck around in that ghetto, sistah girl fashion and I said, “I don’t give a fuck what you think, Nick, and if you think that I could do something so crass, then you really don’t know me at all.”

“After what she did to you the other night, I…”

I cut him off midsentence. 

“Listen, Nicholas Harper, I would have every right to fuck her ass up, but I’m going to tell you once again, and it’s going to be my last time telling you, I don’t get down like that, and I don’t give a damn if you don’t believe me either, because I don’t have anything to hide, okay!!!” I said, as I spun around and left him standing where he stood. 

Fuck him.  He had really torn his motherfucking drawers with me now, I hoped he enjoyed the “bussy” (boy pussy) he got from me because that was the last time he was going to get to hit it.  The part that pissed me off the most is that he actually had sympathy for that tramp bitch, but you know something, if he wanted to, he could go to the hospital, fix her ass up, and fuck the bitch. 

I was steaming like a hot pot of grits. 

“Missouri, sweetie, there’s a man here to see you, he says that he’s your father,” Alexa Ray, this cute little petite, Filipino queen said.

What the fuck…what the hell was the bruiser doing here at a Drag club, and how in the hell did he find out which one I frequented?  This was going to be a trip.  My father couldn’t stand gay people, and for him to enter a club cluttered with them, was totally out of character for him.  At first I wanted to sneak out the back door, but I knew that I would eventually have to face him and I would rather it be in the safety of the public. 

I walked down the hallway that led out of the dressing room area and into the heart of Lilly’s. I was filled with nervous apprehension because it was not beneath him to lay his hands on me; he had done it countless times before and I hoped that karma had not come back so soon for me. 

When I pushed the beads aside and entered the club area, I saw my 6’ 8” father standing in the midst of all those fairies and the angry look on his face almost caused me to bolt off in the opposite direction.  The closer I got to where he was standing, the more cross his face got.  I knew that he couldn’t stand the fact that I dressed in drag. 

The next move he made shocked the hell out of me and I was totally outdone.  Was I dreaming or what? I knew that this  man standing before me couldn't be my father….