Episode 12 — Hey, He-Man, Where’s My Money?

There are certain mornings that whisper regret. Cosmo Farfetch’s morning screamed it — brightly, rudely, and directly into the face of anyone foolish enough to open their eyes.

The night returned in disjointed flashes — not memories so much as scattered, chaotic sparkles of questionable behaviour. Cosmo Farfetch saw bright neon lights… a throne prop… someone pouring Jell-O shots directly into Miles’ mouth… He-Man flexing for no reason whatsoever… and himself laughing, clapping, and possibly encouraging the entire debacle.

Cosmo had woken to a tableau of shame. And Miles pert, alabaster arse jutting into the air.

But something far worse shattered his already tainted resolve.— the empty space where his Com-Con money bag should have been. That heavy, glorious bag of cash had vanished.

Panic surged through Cosmo with the same force as a mosh pit at Cher’s “final” farewell tour — the second final one, when emotions had been running high and the queuing system had failed.

Miles stirred. His blush came first, blooming like a guilty sunrise. Bits of the night glittered across his memory too: He-Man’s arms lifting him effortlessly… the sound of plastic armour hitting the floor… someone shouting “BY THE POWER OF GREYSKULL!” and Miles responding with enthusiasm he did not recognise in himself.

Cosmo pieced things together with the forensic skill of someone who had watched CSI once while hungover. The culprit was obvious: He-Man the twink.

Their search led them back through the ruins of Com-Con and into a bar known only as The Fortress of Solitude, named, it seemed, after the absence of dignity inside it.

And there he stood.
He-Man.
Smug.
Smiling.
Holding Cosmo’s stolen 8×10 glossy like a fan-made trophy.

Cosmo stopped. A moment was brewing. Because Cosmo Farfetch may be dramatic, infuriating, occasionally delusional — but he is not weak. Oh no. Years of surviving drag brunch warfare, childhood bullying, and the endless gladiatorial struggle of being “fashionably late” had prepared him for this.

With the righteous fury of a woman scorned and the posture of a queen denied drink tickets, Cosmo marched up, grabbed He-Man by his synthetic wig, and channelled Bernadette-from-Priscilla with terrifying precision.

He delivered a swift, devastating knee to the guts so powerful the Australian Ballet could have sponsored it. Now he's fucked!

He-Man folded instantly.
The crowd gasped.
Miles glowed with pride.
A fog machine misfired from sheer shock.

Cosmo snatched the money bag back with a dramatic flourish and announced to absolutely everyone. No one ever steals from a Farfetch.

Applause erupted.
Sailor Moon cried at his dramatic pose.
Someone whispered, “She’s iconic.”

Because Cosmo had done it again — survived, triumphed, and created yet another story he’d absolutely learn nothing from. Never be fooled by a twink with a six-pack, a blonde bob wig and a suspicious Scooby snack! He would do it again. And the universe could worry about that tomorrow.

#CosmoFarfetch #queercomedy #chaoticnightlife #campvengeance #He-Manchaos #comedicdrama #cultfandom