Rus couldn’t move, couldn’t counter them. They hit him everywhere, again and again.
“Biiiiiiiitch,” a queen screamed.
Rus knew her voice above anyone else. She’d spent half her show telling off the audience, introducing lesser queens, and making the night all about her.
Amber Ale’s long blonde wig cut through the thicket of limbs, beating Rus. She swung a bat, screeching profanities.
“Get ‘em,” she shouted, a gloved finger pointing to some dickless prick as a group of queens followed her lead.
Soon, a flurry of drag queens leapt into the fray, beating these bigots back. Fists swung. Heels dug into skin. Queens roared. No one relented.
The men fought back, true menaces to society, refusing to be beaten by creeps in dresses. They shouted slurs and made vicious threats.
The queens fought harder, shouted louder, and swung with more fury.
Soon, preserving dignity meant nothing. They had to preserve their lives. Amber Ale had the girls at her beck and call. None of them relented.
“Get ‘em!” she shouted, demanded, ordered with a swing of her bat as the queens raged ahead, beating down bigots with style.
Rus pushed himself up, taking a deep, dreadful breath. His lungs screamed at him, demanded he stop, but he pushed on. Despite the pain, Rus forced himself to his feet, checking his surroundings.
Dylan had arrived—likely the beacon who’d called the army of drag queens to war—and now tended to Kaiden.
Oh, poor Kaiden. Blood soaked his beautiful green hair. Dirt sullied his lovely corset and suit. It pained Rus to see his friend crying in fear. It enraged him.
“You better run, you fucking pussies!” Amber Ale roared loud enough to wake the entire city.
That wasn’t good enough for Rus. He hated these men. Not for what they’d done to him. He’d die a thousand deaths at their hands, proud of his valor for fighting back. No. He couldn’t let them escape after having beaten Kaiden, having harmed a hair on his head.
“Get back here,” Rus shouted, his raspy voice cracking.
He bolted ahead, tearing through the alleyway and giving chase to these bastards, these bigots.
They wouldn’t escape.
Rus wouldn’t allow it.
He had to stop them.
Had to beat them.
It wasn’t fair.
His body ached as he chased after them. His skin screamed as he bolted down the corner. His muscles begged for release as he pushed through the crowd of bystanders.
They weren’t getting away. Not tonight. Not ever. It wasn’t fair.
Before he could grab them, stop them, they reached a truck and drove away.
“Fuuuuck youuuuu!” Rus roared.
He did his best to study the make and model, the color in the darkness with a few streetlamps to illuminate them.
Dark blue, oldish, and big truck was all he managed.
Rus hated cars. His mom never stopped talking about them, sharing her work life regularly from years of sales. So, Rus did his best to tune it out, not wanting to learn about her job, about his dad’s job. Their paths felt inevitable, and he wanted his own. Now, he regretted that choice, wishing he’d paid more attention.
He repeated the few details he had again and again as he walked back to the club, spending the few blocks trying to recall any details he could to uncover these monsters.
