Episode 10 - Wild Times at No 201.

Morning did not so much arrive as accuse. Cosmo Farfetch woke to the sound of a bell. Not an alarm. Not a phone. A bell. A soft, irregular clank-clink… clank…

He pried one eye open. The world was sideways. Or he was. Hard to tell. There was glitter on the ceiling. Not decorative glitter. Weaponised glitter.

He blinked. His tongue felt upholstered. His head pulsed with the rhythm of regret and cheap spirits. He attempted to roll over and instead encountered a body.

Warm. Male. Impeccably bone structure. Julian Vale lay beside him, naked except for a silk eye mask pushed up into his hair like a fallen halo. Even unconscious, he looked curated.

Cosmo squinted at him, “Oh, sweetheart! What did you do to me? Wait! I’m vers now. I could have been the defiler…I just wish I could remember.”

Julian stirred slightly, murmuring something about contrast ratios.

The bell rang again. Cosmo turned his head. A goat was walking through his bedroom. A real goat! Not someone dressed up as a goat. The animal had a cream coloured coat and small brass bells tied around its neck with what appeared to be blue ribbon. It paused. Chewed something that looked suspiciously like the tassel from Cosmo’s limited-edition velvet throw. It stared at him with horizontal pupils that suggested judgement. Not now, Walter Pidgeon!

Cosmo blinked twice, “I am still dreaming! No! My dreams are never this pedestrian. No class. No style. I usually dream about Morocco by the pool with dark-skinned youth gently fanning my naked body with admiration. Oh gosh! Now I have become my mother during her Renaissance period between divorce and drumming circles.”

Cosmo pushed himself upright. That was a mistake. The room performed a full theatrical spin. Venetian blinds hung crooked. One lamp leaned at a threatening angle. Someone had drawn lipstick on the mirror:

Fuck You! Farfetch! Your ass is mine!

Oh! How sweet! Pissy Galour left a note. Cosmo vaguely remembered shaving her wig when she wasn’t looking.

He swung his legs off the bed. His foot landed in something sticky. He chose not to investigate. It was most likely Julian’s discharge. He could shoot a load further than anyone else.

Cosmo looked down to make sure he had some protection against whatever was waiting for him outside his room. He sighed with relief; the satin pyjama bottoms would suffice. Oh, and when did he paint his toenails! Hot pink, no less!

Cosmo staggered out of the bedroom. He looked toward the balcony doors. They were open, letting in the crisp, cool morning air. Cosmo blanched. The railing was gone. Not broken. Gone.

Below, in the communal pool of the building, Nanna Poppinz’s mobility scooter floated serenely like a capsized yacht. One wheel was still slowly spinning.

Behind him, something groaned. He turned. Nanna Poppinz was sprawled across the sofa wearing men’s trousers, a dinner jacket two sizes too large, and a bow tie hanging loosely around her neck. One leg over the armrest. Mouth open. Snoring like a diesel engine.

Carrie Fisher was snuggled up beside her, twitching in her sleep while she whisper farted. The gerbil had a relapse. So sad! Too many drugs to resist.

On the floor beside them lay an elderly man in nothing but Nanna Poppinz’s pink petticoat and matching brassiere. He was asleep. Or dead. Or meditating aggressively.

Syd Vitriol was Nanna’s Poppinz's current squeeze at The Home. They were courting, casually, with a bit of fiddling under the sheets.

Cosmo leaned closer. Syd snorted. Alive. Thank the stars! The goat wandered through the living room while pebbling the floor behind itself. The bells chimed.

Cosmo stumbled across to the kitchenette. He grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, dousing his whole head in precious liquid, trying to revive his body. His parched and barren insides had been dehydrated from all that vodka.

He stopped momentarily, spotting an invitation to support, Tiffany, his arch-nemesis, and her favourite obscure charity: The Society for the Ethical Rehabilitation of Anxious Ground Parrots, a deeply suspicious organisation whose parrots were, notably, absent.

He grabbed a dart from the counter and plunged it into the centre of the invitation as if piercing her heart. He liked to think that somewhere out there, the old witch was writhing in symbiotic pain to the invitation.

Of course, he wouldn’t miss it for the world, especially when the invitation was clearly addressed to Miles, and not him. He had been left off the guest list. Another reason to host a wild party to drown out her ongoing offences toward him.

Julian appeared in the doorway, wrapped in Cosmo’s leisure top, hair dishevelled in a way that would sell fragrance campaigns. The robe barely concealing a droopy penis crusting over with dry spillage from last night’s sexcapades.

Not that Cosmo was complaining. The man still had an impressive appendage, but dawn had broken, and so had the spell.

“Sweetheart! I didn’t realise you had an allergy to wearing underpants.” Cosmo found some knickers on the bench and tossed them over to the man. “I’m afraid, in a cruel twist of fate, the harsh light of day does nothing for your penis.” Cosmo bit the side of his lip, looking longingly at his dick. “In fact, I grow even more depressed just looking at it.” Liar, liar, pants on fire. Julian smirked, slipping on the random underwear. “Time to tidy up before you sashay away.” And take that temptation with you.

Julian draped a towel over Cosmo’s head, gently drying him off. Cosmo let him. It would be rude to reject his nibble fingertips.

Julian took in the scene slowly; the scooter, the goat, the lingerie-clad pensioner and Nanna Poppinz snoring in menswear. He blinked once, “Love, this looks like the set from the Hangover…or are we talking Bridesmaids, but the queer version…the very queer version after last night...than again…I always did secretly enjoy Monte Python.” He smirked, “A film connoisseur can dabble in genres.”

Julian removed the towel, tossing it aside before kissing Cosmo. A long, lingering kiss of regret and recriminations for last night.

Cosmo’s magnificent brow furrowed. How did this man get here? After all, they were at odds! Weren’t they? Cosmo had tried to steal his sex tape. Yet, somewhere between hours eleven and twelve of this wild 3-day party, after Pissy Galour skulked off offended, Cosmo began calling people in his contacts.

He wanted everyone to shower him with compliments and offerings. He didn’t expect Julain Vale to turn up…and fuck him into the next century while wearing high heels and a ball gag in his mouth, but parties can get pretty crazy.

Cosmo Farfetch was reaping the benefits of a successful patch in his hit-and-miss life. He successfully finished filming a pivotal part in a crime drama, was the reigning scream queen of com-con and was unusually cashed up. He deserved to celebrate, putting the cum stained welcome mat back at his door once more.

Cosmo stumbled into the bathroom. He needed dry clothes. He guessed they had made up…a lot…as he gazed at his devastated appearance in a mirror. It looked like a swarm of mosquitoes had a dinner party on his upper body. Hickies were everywhere. And so were the occasional teeth marks.

His gaze drifted down toward the bathtub. There lay a man wearing a neon green G-string, a metallic crop top, and a mauve feather boa. He looked pale and gaunt. His long hair was slick and wet against his body. His eyes were concealed behind a pair of Dame Edna glasses. One arm draped dramatically over the edge like a silent-film star who knew her assignment; a line of track marks peppered the skin. He was still, pale and unmoving.

Cosmo inhaled sharply, “Oh my fuck!” he said faintly, “Either he committed fully to the theme or the situation has escalated.” He backed away, “Oh! Julian! Sweetheart! Could you come here for a moment?”

Julian appeared behind him, a smile of intention upon his face, thinking of round four against the bathroom sink, but his face soon dropped when he spotted the junkie in the tub.

Before either of them could speak, the goat appeared in the doorway and bleated. A look of dismay at the degradation of the human male. The bells chimed.

Nanna began to stir. Norman rolled over, exposing far more of himself than necessary as the petty coat slipped down.

“Sweetheart! Is he just slumbering?”

“Love, I think he could be slumbering perpetually,” Julian voiced.

Julian sucked some air through his teeth before leaning toward the tub, giving the body a nudge, “Wakey, wakey, rise and shine, show a leg, the weather’s fine.” Nothing. The man didn’t even twitch. “So, Cos, who is he?”

“I think he sold me some chronic and didn’t leave.” Cosmo screwed up his face trying to remember his dealer, “Reg…Ronald…Oh! No! Wait! Ramjob! Ramjet! Of course. Ram Puffinstuff! Oh! He’s dead! Such a shame! He had the best uppers…which I could use right now.”

“Cos, we don’t know that for sure. I’m not a doctor.”

“I was one for about four episodes of Neighbours…It turns out I was the resident panty dropper…or was the sniffer, but I’m not so sure those episodes saw the light of day.” Cosmo scowled, looking about for someone who should be right there during times like this. “Where is Miles? He would know for sure. He reads a lot.”

Miles was never not here. He was the ballast. The responsible one. The designated adult in Cosmo’s operatic circus.

Cosmo rushed out of the bathroom and scanned the apartment. No dreary linen coat. No sensible shoes. No passive-aggressive Post-it notes about the lack of fresh milk or fecal matter found in the tumble dryer…again.

There was nothing to say he was ever here, but Cosmo remembered something to do with stripping Miles naked and forcing him into a slinky evening gown. Well, Imelda Loveless wasn’t interested in keeping the dress for herself. She was skinny dipping in the pool with an Arab sheik, disappearing off into the night with him, wearing love heart kickers and the new Jimmy Choo sling backs.

“Morning, sonny-boy!” Cosmo almost jumped out of his skin when Nanna Poppinz hobbled back into the room from the direction of the balcony. “Oh, horse shit! I hope my scooter is covered by insurance. I suddenly feel un-fuckin-shackled. No longer restrained to that damn go-kart.” She winced; her knees were playing up. She would be a bit wobbly without the scooter. “Oh, I so could murder a cup of tea right now.”

Cosmo tottered out of the bathroom, “Ram is in the bathtub.”

“Oh! Sonny-boy! Is he one of your…what did you call them…fuck buddies?”

“No! Sweetheart! He is my dealer…drugs.” Cosmo wrapped himself in a Kimono that had been draped over a lamp. “He could be dead…well…he probably should be looking like that.”

“Leave this to Nanna,” His grandmother wandered into the bathroom, humming a tune, really casually. “The signs are quite fuckin clear when you have my years on this planet.”

The boys followed hesitantly behind her. They found her sitting on the edge of the bath, studying the man, “Oh dear! That feather boa does do wonders for his complexion.” Cosmo leaned forward, taking the Dame Edna glasses and placing them back on his grandmother’s face. “Oh, horse shit! How fuckin ghastly! Rancid! Oh, dear boy. He’s a goner. He’s stone cold dead. I know death…it haunts the halls of The Home like an unforgiving poltergeist. We’ve even started a bingo game on those who are next…I won a few bucks on a diagonal match.” She smiled, reminisced. “Winnings that led to a night out at a Chippendales impersonators revue, with a couple of Flaming Lamborghinis and a few dollars in the trunks of a black adonis called Samson. Oh! That’s the night I met Norman. He was the bouncer. He kicked my wrinkled old backside to the curb, and we’ve been sweet on each other ever since.”

Julian raised an eyebrow. So that was where her grandson got his proclivities from. It all made sense now. It was hereditary.

“Nanna! Sweetheart! Can we save the story time! There is a dead man in my bath getting even more rancid by the minute. I should know…I once had to play a dead body.” Cosmo began to pace, “What are we going to do! I can’t go to prison. I’ve seen every episode of Prisoner. My beautiful hands will never recover from the steam press…oh no…what if I am bound and gagged by some psychotic fat screw who makes me perform obscene acts on his sweaty, tainted lump of a body…I couldn’t do it!”

“Oh, horse shit! What if it is Mad Max?”

“Oh! Nanna! Such wistful thinking. They’re always Humpty Dumpty.”

“Cos! Love! What about the body! In this here and now! Not some drama on a different plane of existence. Though I would watch it for artistic merits.”

“Oh! Sonny-boy! What about that nice man who sang Celine Dion? He looks like someone who could handle a fuckin crisis. What was the fuckers name? Oh, my memory is like a sieve! Ahh! That’s right! Mr Big! Mervyn!”

“Big Merv! He was here?”

“Sonny! It was your fuckin party! You must know who you invited.”

Shit! Not only had Cosmo mistakenly invited Julian Vale, but he also called his debt collector. Big Merv.

He had a flash of memory from the party. Big Merv was singing him a song. His own composition. Cosmo was drunk and stoned while Big Merv gave a Eurovision-inspired performance. He prayed to the heavenly hosts that was all they shared. The man could not disguise his star-struck behaviour.

“Love! I hate to say it, but your gran is right. He’s the only one who can help us now,” Julian suggested.

Cosmo hurried out of the bathroom in search of his phone. He tossed aside discarded underwear, not his, empty bottles of prosecco and vodka, finally uncovering his new phone beautifully framed by used condom wrappers. Quite artistic. Almost abstract realism.

He found Big Merv’s number and dialled. Somewhere just beyond his front door, a ringtone erupted. My Heart Will Go On…

“NEAR… FAR… WHEREVER YOU AREEEE…”

The sound was coming from outside the apartment. In the hallway. Cosmo slowly approached the door. He opened it.

Big Merv lay on the ground, in nothing but black Calvin Klein jocks and a fitted white T-shirt that read KYLIE in glitter lettering. The shirt was too tight. He was caressing the torso of a bald female mannequin under one arm. The mannequin wore a feather boa and a fake tattoo on her arm.

Big Merv’s phone was tucked into the waistband of his underwear, blasting Céline. This seemed to wake him up.

Cosmo stared, “Get your fucking filthy paws off my Sharon.”

Big Merv looked down at the mannequin, his voice heavy and deep with unbridled emotions. “She gets me…really knows how to listen…a real dinky die mate.”

Julian appeared behind Cosmo. Paused. Took in:

• The jocks.

• The Kylie shirt.

• The mannequin.

• The Céline Dion crescendo.

Julian said nothing. Another competing asshole for Cosmo’s affections. He clenched up his fists, ready to defend himself. And his actions from last night. Cosmo had gone to bed with him, not anyone else.

Big Merv saw him. The music suddenly stopped. His eyes crinkled into loathing. Murderous intent bubbling under the surface. One quick twist of his neck and the fucker would be no longer an issue. “The prancing fucktard is still with us.” The hulk rose to his feet, passing Sharon back to Cosmo. “Time to toss out the shit.”

Cosmo stepped between them, “Sweetheart! Put your grimace away! We have far more challenging matters than testicle slapping.” He leaned in closer, almost a whisper. “There’s a dead body inside.”

This seemed to shake not only the tumultuous hangover in Big Merv’s head but also the need to strangle Julian with his bare hands. A dead body was a problem for everyone. This would draw the cops in, and that wasn’t good business for the debt collector.

Big Merv blinked once. He was busy gathering his thoughts to deal with this inconvenient matter. He stepped inside.

The goat chimed its bells approvingly. Thank God! Someone is finally doing something.

Nanna waved, making herself a pot of tea, “Morning, Mervyn. You should see the fuckin state of his bathroom. The poor dear is going to need more than bleach to get those stains out. It’ll be like laundry day after a Boy Scout’s jamboree…skid mark offensives to washer women everywhere, all at once.”

“Right you are, Mrs. P. If ya don’t mind, I’ll take a look.”

Big Merv ventured into the bathroom, taking in the sight before him. He assessed calmly. He slapped the man, hoping to wake him up, but his head just lolled to one side. He checked for a pulse to be sure. Not a tick nor flick! He seemed dead but not by much, as the body was still warm. Easy to carry. To dump.

Nanna Poppinz hobbled in behind him, holding out a teacup, “Here you go, my dear. Something to put some consciousness into that body of yours.”

The hulk accepted, “Cheers! You’re bloody calm!”

“No use getting all upset, sonny. What is done is fuckin done. I mourn that someone so young has died, but I can’t change what happened. It's just best to get on with fucking things and leave it all alone.”

Big Merv sipped the tea before following the old woman out of the bathroom. Not even a good karaoke number could help right now. “Nah! Fuck it! He’s too much of a liability. We’ll have to dump him somewhere…I know some spots where no one will find you.” His eyes cast over Julian, a veiled threat just underneath his words, “Easy to go missing…when no one is looking for ya.” Julian stood his ground. A steely gaze directed right back at the debt collector. “If we don’t, there will be too many questions. Too much to risk…to all of us.”

“Now, sweetheart, is it necessary to dump him somewhere like some soiled nappy? Can’t we prop him back up at home…tastefully, of course?”

“Rookie mistake.” Big Merv shook his head with disdain. Civilians of the dark underbelly of existence could never fully understand the risks. “Some fucktard is sure to see us. This way, we’ve less to clean up afterwards.” He came to stand on the argyle rug. “Is this sentimental?”

“Of course! I’ve grovelled on that rug over failed relationships and runaway peanuts. I’ve shed tears of frustration and…even ejected the odd jizz over my many self-imposed exiles when I was going cold turkey for the cock….well, other cocks than mine.” Cosmo began to caress the rug with affection, “This is my victory prize over that harridan…Tiffany. It means the world to me….every stain…every obscure remnant…is part of my story.”

“It’s the rug…or possible jail time.”

The dread of a fat screw defiling his beautiful body won him over. Cosmo offered the rug to their mission.

Five minutes later. Ram lay on the lounge room floor. Cosmo adjusted the feather boa for dignity. They placed Norman’s jockeys on him. The G- string was struggling to hold in a stiffy. The dead guy was cracking a fat one. Perhaps rigor mortis had started to settle in?

Big Merv was dressed in Thugz apparel, Julian had borrowed an outfit from Cosmo, looking like a glam rock stallion, while Cosmo draped his Kimono around pink army fatigues. This situation did call for Cosmo to dress the part. Just what part wasn’t quite clear? Manual labour or Pride House makeover.

Merv grabbed one corner. Julian took the opposite end with reluctant elegance.

Cosmo sighed dramatically, “This rug has certainly earned itself an autobiographical special…Oh, the times it has had…wait! Hold the phone!” Ideas began to bubble away in his mind, forgetting everything else. “Sweetheart! I see a Netflix documentary. I could do the voice-over! I always thought I’d be amazing at voice-over work.”

“Love, I suspect there are even more vile chapters in this rug’s dossier, and the credits haven’t even rolled yet,” Julian muttered. “Unlike this poor bastard.”

They rolled up the drug dealer, carefully. Or attempted to. He flopped. An arm smacked Merv in the face. Cosmo tried to lift the legs into place, but one ended up kicking Julian in the arse. Reflexes! They finally secured him. The rug now resembled a very chic burrito.

They carried him toward the lift. The goat followed.

“No,” Cosmo snapped. “Walter Pidgeon…no walkies today. Go back.” He hunted the goat back into his apartment. The goat wanted to help. Humans were always screwing things up.

The lift proved to be too small for all of them and a dead body. They decided on the stairs. They descended awkwardly.

Halfway down. The rug slipped. The body rolled. Thudded down three steps. They all froze. Silence descended before a fart came from the dead man. And the stench of something rotten emanated in the stairwell.

Big Merv thought nothing of it, “Gases just venting…nothing more…happens all the time.”

Cosmo and Julian just looked at each other apprehensively. This man knew a lot about dead bodies. Perhaps the rumours were true? He didn’t just break kneecaps. He buried them as well.

They wrapped the man back up again, resuming their journey. Suddenly, Cosmo tripped on the hem of his kimono, and he and the body fell down the rest of the steps, landing flat on his back with a dead man on top of him.

Cosmo began to shriek until Big Merv clamped a hand over his mouth, “Look, you beautiful yet fucktard of a man. You’ll get us all done for if ya don’t shut your yapper!”

Big Merv and Julian lifted the body off. Cosmo gasped with relief. He was certain he had been inappropriately touched by a dead man’s dick. Oh! The very thought of necrophilia upset his aura. He would need to book a cleansing after this.

They bundled Ram back into the rug, and they finally dumped him in the back of Big Merv’s SUV behind the back seat.

They drove further out of town, passed the industrial estate, out by empty lots and finally bushland edging the highway. The car hit a pothole. The rug shifted in the back. A sound came from inside it. Not a groan but a cough. A very alive cough.

All three froze. Another cough. Then—

“Did anyone else chase the dragon?”

The rug moved. Big Merv slammed the brakes. The car screeched to a halt.

Cosmo screamed. Julian swore, quietly but sincerely. The rug jerked upright in the back seat like a resurrected burrito, “Oh…fuckin oath…Kublai Khan spoke to me…called me an infidel. So I slapped that old bastard and ended up skewered like a satay stick. Damn. I’m hungry.” Feather boa askew. Hair wild. Eyes unfocused but very alive.

Cosmo tapped Big Merv on the shoulder. The man instantly flamed red as his touch, “Sweetheart! I thought you said he was dead.”

The blushing soon faded, “What am I? A doc! I couldn’t feel a pulse. I was so sure.”

“Oh…my bad…not the first time this has happened to me. When I chase the dragon…things can get freaky.”

Silence.

The three men stared at him.

Ram blinked slowly, “Cosmo Farfetch!” he grinned suddenly. “Best party ever!”

The man beamed as he peeled himself from the rug and climbed over to the seat in front of him, “Are we on a Maccas run?”

“No…definitely not.”

“Could we? I need ten hash browns and a Big Mac…oh, and a fuckin sundae would go down a treat…oh! Wait! A head spin…I think the dragon is catching up to me.”

The man opened the car door and stumbled out into the bushland. His body began to convulse and shudder. He leaned over to hurl up everything he had ever eaten and tumbled over the side of a small ravine.

There was a rude crack, followed by the long, judgmental scrrrraaaape of skin and questionable decisions being dragged down rocks.

His body pinballed off the ravine wall in a flurry of thud‑whack‑oofs, each impact squeezed out by an indignant grunt, as if the landscape itself were repeatedly slapping him and muttering honestly.

Somewhere in the chaos came a very sincere “Oh for fuck’s sake…”, abruptly cut short by another unforgiving THUD.

Julian peered down, “Damn! He’s moving!”

The man groaned happily, “I’m fine! Fellas! Just a little scratch. No biggie.”

Big Merv slid down efficiently. Julian followed. Cosmo followed poorly.

They reached him. His leg bent at an unnatural angle. Bleeding from the forehead. His body was starting to bruise. Yet the fool was still grinning. Mostly affected by the baggie of drugs he had consumed the last couple of days, “We like to party…We like, we like to party. We like to party…” Oh fuck! Not Venga Boys! “I’ve got something to tell ya…I've got news for you..”

Big Merv lifted him with ease, ignoring his singing. The man just couldn’t do amateurs. They needed to stop the bleeding and get him to a hospital, then just walk away, Renee.

The emergency drop-off couldn’t come soon enough. They half-carried, half-dragged him toward the entrance.

Ram waved at nurses, “Best mates a dirtbag like me could ever hope to have.”

They reached the automatic doors just as Ram wriggled free, “I’m just stepping out for a fag!” he declared triumphantly.

“No!” Cosmo shrieked.

Ram stumbled onto the road, “We like to party…” That was until he tried to dance on a broken leg. He fell to the ground like a deflated balloon with a piercing scream of pain. Then came the honk of a horn followed by brakes. There was nothing they could do as the truck ran over him.

This time, no movement. No sound. No commentary. No more Venga Boys.

Cosmo stared. Julian went very still. Big Merv shook his head in amazement.

Cosmo whispered, “Perhaps he shouldn’t have assaulted Kublai Khan.” He swallowed hard, “I feel… offended by this whole situation.”

Julian glanced at him, “The Venga Bus certainly came for him.”

“Come on. Nothing to see here. We need to leave before we are asked any dumb questions.”

Cosmo looked back once. The man who had declared it the best party ever yet somehow turned out to be his last. Sometimes, life can be a real bitch.

The SUV hummed along the road back toward Cosmo’s apartment. Big Merv gripped the steering wheel and sang with full diaphragm commitment. He did own the druggie, a reply to his singing, “To dream…the impossible…dream. To fight the unbeatable foe…To bear with unbearable sorrow…”

Julian sat in the passenger seat, eyes forward, “You know, love, I admire an auto tune.”

Merv ignored him.

In the back seat, the argyle rug, now permanently disgraced, lay folded like a guilty secret.

Cosmo pressed fingers to his temple. Big Merv was all fumbles and foibles with his rendition. This alone made his sphincter tighten up. Any thought of romantic feelings was quashed for good.

Suddenly, Julian leaned forward, “Is that him, loves? Your possessive little friend with his penance in cleanliness.” Up ahead, under a flickering streetlight, walking along the pavement like a fallen cabaret act. It was Miles. “I swear he was more interested in making sure people were using coasters than tearing it up…than he seemed to vanish.”

Miles was wearing a slinky midnight-blue dress, had torn stockings, one broken heel shoe, and hair mussed up. Expression slightly bewildered.

Cosmo went rigid, “Miles!”

Merv braked, reluctantly, hissing like a defective steam train.

Cosmo was out before the car came to a stop, “MILES!”

Miles turned slowly, as if moving underwater, “Cosmo,” he said softly. “Why are people so unkind? No one would give me a lift.”

Cosmo reached him, “Oh no! Sweetheart! The harsh light of day does nothing for you…or that dress. What was I thinking? I swear you're cursed. You somehow make chic look so damn bargain basement.”

Miles looked down at himself, “I was slipped something…I thought it was a tic tac. I don’t know who this little number belongs to.” Miles smiled beatifically. “The wind is very articulate today…it was leading me back to your place.” Big Merv stepped out looking apprehensive for the first time. “Oh! It was your tic tacs.”

Cosmo turned slowly to Merv, “Sweetheart! What did you do?”

Merv stepped forward, “I relocated the fucktard. He was in the way.”

“Of what?”

“Fun to start with, but when I found out about you two...a threesome. I just couldn’t fuckin take it. I wanted you singularly.”

Silence. Cosmo’s expression changed. Not theatrical. Not loud. Cold. He stepped closer to Big Merv. Bitching it up. He hadn’t played a soap opera villain for five years and not learnt something about intimidation. “Sweetheart! You do not get to fucking touch him.” He placed one hand on his hip, pointing a painted, chipped fingernail right at the debt collector. Same hot pink as his toes. How cute! “I can argue with Miles. I can denounce. I can even forsake him. I can throw him out of my house if he alphabetizes my skincare again.”

Miles whispered, “I was being efficient.”

“But you, Big Merv,” Cosmo continued, and started to poke him in the chest. “Do not get to touch one fucking pubic hair on his body. Not even one saggy scrotum. Only me. Got it.”

Big Merv seemed to deflate. His dangerous reputation diminishing, “The fucktard was bringing down your mood. You even said as much.”

Cosmo didn’t hesitate, “The fucktard can bring it down, bring it up, and turn it sideways, but I am the only one who disciplines him for that…not fucking you. Am I making myself clear?”

Big Merv held his gaze, feeling defeated for the first time, “You love the fucktard…don’t ya?”

“That’s none of your business.” Cosmo’s voice sharpened, “And as for this romantic martyr routine? We are not in a country music video. There will be no CMA awards.” He dared to poke the man, “Miles may mean something to me, but you do not. You’re misguided, have no fashion sense, and that song deserves the shredder.”

Miles tugged Cosmo’s sleeve, “Can we go home? The pavement is humming.”

Cosmo sighed, “Yes, sweetheart.”

Cosmo decided to walk Miles the rest of the way home. Big Merv was left destitute, and Julian began to feel sorry for him. They both watched the man they adored get swallowed up by the dark.

There are many choices Cosmo Farfetch had made in his life, good and bad, but attending Tiffany Montefiore’s annual charity gala uninvited and dressed for the MET might be his most dazzling one yet. Everyone in his social orbit received an invitation. Cosmo did not, which meant, naturally, that he was absolutely going.

He dragged Nanna Farfetch with him, because if one is gate-crashing, one may as well bring a woman who believes “trespassing” is simply entering a room with confidence. And they needed a lavish affair to test out her new scooter.

Cosmo arrived as a cosmic chandelier, shimmering shards, glimmering prisms, and a cape that threatened the structural integrity of the doorway. Nanna sparkled beside him in a gold catsuit, LED halo glowing like divine mischief.

Guests gasped. Children hid. Someone muttered, “Dear God.” They had expected cocktail attire. Cosmo and Nanna instead delivered celestial insanity.

They were all there to support her charity: The Society for the Ethical Rehabilitation of Anxious Ground Parrots

But Tiffany didn’t care about parrots. She cared about drama. And she had saved her greatest performance for the moment Cosmo arrived. She knew he would turn up eventually. The man couldn’t resist gate-crashing.

You see, Tiffany had planned a moment. A devastating, elegant, carefully arranged moment. While he was off doing the com-con circuit, she was planning her most fiendish ploy. Getting even!

Tiffany took to the stage, tapped her champagne flute, and with the tragic dignity of a widow moving forward (which she was absolutely performing), she introduced Julian Vale to the audience. The very same Julian that had shared Cosmo’s bed, bath and beyond during his wild three-day party, who had gone silent ever since.

Julian was keen on Cosmo more so than ever before, yet the unanswered question about Miles drove him into seclusion and toward the temptress. He couldn’t hedge his bets on Cosmo if he were going to end up losing to a nit.

You may be wondering where Miles was. After all, it had been his invitation. The man had gone on a silent retreat after coming down from the tic tac. He needed to centre himself once more. Bull shit, really! He was worried Cosmo had turned him toward the dark side. Drugs! Drink! He needed some space.

Julian stepped forward. Standing taller than usual. His sculpted body poured into a limited Hugo Boss suit. He was looking smug. Why wouldn’t he, when the woman caressing his arm was worth more than his vintage swap card collection? In mint condition. Very, very old. Worth quite a bit, says the chap from Antiques Roadshow.

Cosmo gasped. Nanna Flo belched. Tiffany glowed like a vengeful chandelier. When Julian dropped to one knee and proposed. Everyone seemed to cheer. There were even tears from some of the guests.

Nanna Flo was having none of this horse shit. She reached into her bra, a place feared by many, respected by all, and triumphantly pulled out Julian’s lacy knickers with his name embroidered on the back, the ones he’d left at Cosmo’s place the other night.

The 93-year-old was only returning them to their rightful owner when she hurled the knickers at Tiffany and Julian with Olympic precision. It slapped Julian in the face before sliding down his suit like shame in fabric form.

The guests gasped. Vol-au-vents were dropped. Tiffany shrieked. Julian turned grey. He had failed to tell Tiffany about his encounter with Cosmo. The wild party!

Cosmo stumbled backward with that unfortunate blend of panic and theatricality only he could achieve. Betrayal! Again! Now Julian was dead to him. The man had crossed the line far beyond forgiveness when he hooked up with Tiffany. And it hurt! Cosmo had never faked his enjoyment in the sack with Julian. It was crazy fun! Now it would never happen again.

His chandelier cape swung out like a rogue satellite, clipping a passing waiter whose tray of champagne flutes sailed upward in a sparkling burst of liquid regret.

The waiter spun, flailed, and crashed directly into Tiffany’s Silent Auction Showcase, a display she claimed featured “heritage artifacts, artisan curios, and limited-edition artwork.”

Under Tiffany’s warm, golden lighting, velvet-draped backdrop and a good dose of Mr. Sheen, the items looked luxurious. Exotic. Exclusive. But the moment the curtain tore loose, and the overhead lights flickered back to their natural hospital-grade fluorescence, the truth became painfully clear. They were cheap knick-knacks. All of them.

A fake jade paperweight.
A ceramic cat missing one ear.
A “crystal decanter” made of tinted plastic.
A gaudy gold lamp shaped like a mermaid that had definitely been purchased from a clearance bin. And in pride of place: a “genuine antique” mask still bearing a $12.99 sticker from Bargain Bazaar.

The room gasped in horror. Then the domino effect began. A plastic “porcelain” figurine rolled under Nanna’s mobility scooter just as she reversed with gusto. The scooter jerked violently, sending her spinning backward into the auction table with the force of a decorative missile.

The entire collection of faux treasures went airborne. The plastic decanter bounced off a waiter’s head.

The mermaid lamp crashed into the dessert table. Three fake jade trinkets skittered across the floor like panicked beetles. One “antique” snow globe shattered, releasing water and glitter that instantly transformed the floor into a dangerous, shimmering slip-and-slide.

The DJ stepped onto it and, down he went. Straight into the chocolate fountain, tipping it like a wounded beast. Chocolate cascaded across the dance floor, sweeping several guests into a heap that resembled a human fondue.

Nanna shrieked, not out of fear but triumph, as the scooter fishtailed dramatically before colliding with the spotlight stand. The light toppled over, striking the velvet backdrop, which collapsed entirely, smouldering before catching alight.

Then the sprinklers activated, raining down upon the glitter, chocolate, and shame in equal measure. And at the glittering centre of the meltdown stood Cosmo Farfetch, drenched, shining, bewildered, utterly magnificent in the way only a chaos-born star could be.

Nanna Flo guzzled from a champagne bottle, tossing it aside, hocked her horn, before picking up Cosmo, who was hanging valiantly to the back of her scooter, giving everyone the two-finger piss-off sign, followed by fart noises from his mouth, as they disappeared into the night.

Stay tuned for further adventures from Cosmo Farfetch’s fabulous life. Coming soon!

#CosmoFarfetch #ALifeLessFabulous #QueerComedy #SatiricalSoapOpera #GayCampFiction #QueerStories #FunReads #FictionOnTheNet #LGBT #Fiction #QuickReads

Daz James

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