Episode 2 - The Abandoned Dependent

It was a scene of high tragedy: Cosmo Farfetch, silk robe slipping off one shoulder, staring down an overdue electricity bill as though it were a Shakespearean monologue. The expression on his face suggested he’d just discovered death, betrayal, or worse — a wrinkle.

The bill was not alone. There were others, piled neatly in a porcelain bowl once meant for fruit. Now it was an altar to overdue demands and final warnings. Cosmo called it his “Wall of Inspiration.” His landlord called it “grounds for eviction.”

Naturally, Cosmo turned to his patron saint for guidance. With all the reverence of a monk at vespers, he placed a framed photo of Judy Garland before him and prayed for deliverance — preferably in the form of a rich older man with bad eyesight and generous life insurance.

Of course, there were options. Cosmo was not entirely destitute. He still received money from:

• Residuals for his work on Till We Meet Again, Today, Tomorrow and Always soap opera, which was still being shown in certain Eastern European countries.

• The re-release of his arthouse movie collection. Star Whores: The Last Grope was his personal favourite. He insisted that it wasn’t porn. Just a little bit of gratuitous nudity in an otherwise solid plot.

• And dividends from an investment, thanks to a payout by a gossip rag that outed him savagely. The photos were reprehensible. Bad lighting and terrible angles. Certainly not his good side.

The photos made him look like an anaemic street rat, with only days to live, being ramrodded, in a leather swing, by hyperactive Nordic backpackers hoping to make a quick buck on their working holiday around Australia. Picking fruit was always the best gig. This time, the fruit had a pulse.

Cosmo saw the magazine payout as compensation for his professional losses. His public outing came in the early 2000s before Love, Simon and Matt Bomer. You couldn’t be a raging homosexual and get all the good parts. He was reduced to campy character acting, the ingénue’s outrageous best friend or the slasher’s next victim.

There was one thing about Cosmo: whatever work came his way, the fucker managed to steal every scene. From the cheeky arthouse films to the experimental theatre and that unforgettable guest appearance on a soap opera that turned into a five-year contract. On and off, depending on his off-stage sobriety. You’re fired became a term of endearment with the producers.

He played the bitchy queen, who took over the fashion magazine to get back at his half-sister, who had him committed to an asylum to steal his man away. Those were the days, my friend! He was finally a hit.

Yet two years had passed since the show ended. He had become too synonymous with that part. No one wanted Sebastian Wylder. The phone stopped buzzing for him.

He wasn’t due for another cheque for weeks. His Camembert wouldn’t survive, his gin would be depleted, and Carrie Fisher needed rehab.

Which is why Cosmo was already plotting get-rich schemes:

• Seduce a rich divorcé.

• Sell a kidney (though ideally not his own).

• Convince his landlord that rent was, in fact, a social construct.

Meanwhile, the phone on the side table pulsed with missed calls from a debt collector known only as “Big Merv.” If the rumours were true, Big Merv had a baseball bat, a fondness for karaoke, and a grudge against men who didn’t pay their bar tabs.

Cosmo was distracted from his money woes when a tiny, furious head popped out of the clutch handbag— Carrie Fisher the gerbil, still trembling from the emotional catastrophe of the previous night. She chittered so violently she looked like she might vibrate through the floorboards.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Cosmo sighed, scooping her up as if handling both a fragile soul and a biological weapon. “You’ve had a rough one. Abandoned, stoned, and now you’re facing the dark side.”

Carrie Fisher responded by gnawing a hole through his sleeve.

Cosmo winced, “Oh! No! No! Sweetheart! Argentine silk is not an appetiser.”

Carrie Fisher darted up his arm, launched herself off his shoulder, and began furiously scratching at the wall.

Cosmo spent the next ten frantic minutes googling phrases like:

• “gerbil PTSD?”

• “emotional support animal meltdown”

• “Is it normal for a gerbil to look possessed?”

• “vet but cheap, pls help”

Every result was either unhelpful, expensive, or involved feeding her organic goji berries, which Cosmo refused on principle. He had no money.

Until he spotted Andromeda’s Arcane Animal Wellness Centre.

Andromeda Fusion owed him big time. It involved a Mexican drug cartel, a scorned lover and a suppository of cocaine filled balloons that somehow made it into the country.



Cosmo smirked, tapping the link. The website background was a cosmic swirl of purple, teal, and questionable graphic design. A logo featuring a woman in a flowing robe holding a glowing guinea pig floated serenely at the top.

“ANDROMEDA FUSION — Holistic Healer, Animal Empath, Rodent Whisperer.”

Cosmo exhaled, “Time to collect.”

By now, Carrie Fisher was trying to eat the corner of his coffee table — carving a spiral pattern into the wood like a tiny demonic carpenter. Something had to be done before projectile vomiting destroyed the last vestiges of the argyle rug.

The centre was in a renovated shed behind a yoga studio. Windchimes hung from every corner, tinkling in the slightest breeze like judgmental fairies.

Andromeda swept out from behind a beaded curtain. She was always dramatic, but tonight she appeared in full showgirl-retired-to-the-mystics-kaftan glory: velvet robes, crystal rings, hair that defied several laws of physics, and eyeliner sharp enough to threaten a man.

Andromeda Fusion — proudly transgender, proudly chaotic, and formerly the most notorious Carnivale showgirl this side of the equator — looked Cosmo up and down as if he were the last man she wanted to see, “My dear, Cosmo, you look like a broken chandelier someone left on the curb for hard rubbish collection.”

They shared air kisses before Andromeda gasped softly, totally ignoring Cosmo, when she saw Carrie Fisher, as if beholding a wounded star, “Oh, the trauma in her aura…” she whispered. “She carries the grief of three lifetimes.” Andromeda scooped Carrie Fisher into her palms with reverence, “Oh my darling,” she cooed to the gerbil, “what darkness have you witnessed?”

Carrie Fisher immediately attempted to bite her.

“Yes. Classic displaced rage.” She turned to Cosmo. “She will need a stay.”

“A… what?”

“A stay,” Andromeda repeated, leading him into an adjacent room lined with tiny hammocks, miniature salt lamps, and a meditation playlist softly chanting in Sanskrit. “We run a full rehabilitation program, mindfulness, grounding, supervised socialisation, breathwork, herbal therapies…”

“I’m sorry — breathwork? For a gerbil?”

Andromeda nodded serenely, “Tiny breaths. But very meaningful. A two-week program is recommended. With the trauma I’m sensing? Perhaps three.”

Cosmo began hyperventilating. His blood sugar began to simmer. He swallowed, “How much does that usually cost?”

“We are old friends,” Andromeda smiled, a woman accustomed to saying numbers that ruin people’s weeks. “I propose… $1,000 per week.”

Cosmo staggered. For a gerbil spa?!

His smile returned when he thought of something, “Ahh! Dear! Are you forgetting Mexico?”

“I’m sorry, but I have learnt to live in the now consciousness.”

“What if I said, Mexican Speedballs?” The woman’s whole demeanour sagged, and her face turned ghostly white. “I still have the photos…your customers wouldn’t look at you in the same light.

“I was young and misguided. I don’t do that anymore.”

“They didn’t call you the Snow Queen for nothing.”

The woman’s face became thunderous. She grabbed Cosmo by his shirt front, glared into his eyes, “Whatya after, slut!”

“I just want Carrie Fisher taken care of,” Cosmo smirked.

“We can’t always get what we want…slut!” Andromeda’s gristled face dissolved as an idea struck her. A rather pleasant idea, “But we might be able to come to a settlement… you might even make some money from my indecent proposal.” She relaxed, her new age smile returning, “Didn’t you once do a one-man show inspired by Victor/Victoria? As I remember, you were rather good in that production.”

“Rather! I won awards for that he/she, are they, aren’t they, performance.”

“You were quite butch!”

So, he should! Cosmo spent a couple of months studying under the tutelage of a long-haul trucker called Banjo. They barely made it to The Alice with Cosmo’s undercarriage still fit for occupation. If the cabin is rocking, don’t come a knockin’!

“Dear Cosmo! What would you say to a rival performance of Victor/Victoria? Not even Matt Bomer could do what I have in mind…only you, Cosmo Farfetch.”

Matt Bomer! Cosmo couldn’t resist. This could be the revival he needed. An opportunity to outshine.

She leaned forward conspiratorially, “Do you remember my Aunt Fortuna?”

“The one who sprayed me with holy water, hoping I’d melt away.”

“The very same. She died last month.”

Cosmo gasped theatrically, “Oh no. Who got her mink stole?”

“They buried her with it,” Andromeda waved that off, “She left me a significant inheritance. I have one chance to turn this sinking ship around…Zoomtherapy…no one else is doing it.” She sighed, with disdain, “But there’s a catch. A stupid, outdated, heteronormative catch.”

Cosmo groaned, “Is it because you’re trans? Because that is—”

“No,” Andromeda snapped, “it’s because I’m single.”

She produced a crumpled legal letter, “My aunt’s will stipulates that I can only collect the inheritance if I show up with my husband. A hetero-presenting husband. A solid, reliable, masculine man who won’t let me waste my inheritance.”

Cosmo blinked, “And you’re asking… me?”

Andromeda squeezed his hands dramatically, “Well, I am treating your gerbil for free.” She smirked, “And from what I hear, you are just desperate enough to say yes for ten thousand dollars.”

Cosmo’s eye twitched. He stood up so fast he nearly pulled a hamstring, “Okay. You’ve got your butch, Sundance.”

He would be able to put off Big Merv for another time. Another debtor place.

Andromeda marched him into a cramped back room filled with incense, old costumes, and the lingering ghosts of past crimes. She shoved a bundle of beige and khaki into his arms, “This is your new wardrobe. You are Gary Stonefield—hardworking tradie, part-time fisherman, emotionally unavailable.”

Cosmo examined the outfit with horror, “Khaki pants? A polo shirt? No glitter anywhere?”

“Darling, straight men dress like they’ve given up on being witnessed by a roving fashion influencer.”

She shoved a baseball cap at him. He put it on. It depressed him immediately.

“Now,” she said, hands on hips, “say something heterosexual.”

Cosmo cleared his throat and tried to channel Banjo, “Uh… reckon the footy was pretty good, yeah?”

Andromeda nodded once, “Passable. You sound like a man who bench-presses the gay out of himself before snowploughing the towel boy…but it will do.” She lowered her voice, “Cosmo, I need this. One last scheme. One final hustle. Then I swear I’m done. No more cons. No more shady partnerships. I’ll retire. Grow succulents, drink peppermint tea and care for the mental well-being of pets.”

Cosmo softened. For all her chaos, Andromeda had always been fun. He never had to pay with money. And once, she did save his life from a gang of upset Mormon Missionaries, after burning down their church, trying to rescue a closeted groom from a disastrous marriage.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Let’s get you your inheritance.”

A week later, after a trip to a document counterfeiter called Big Bird, they arrived at the solicitor’s office. It was a mausoleum of legalese, leather chairs, oak bookshelves, and the faint smell of generational trauma.

Cosmo walked in with the swagger of a man who had two rather large pendulous testicles swinging between his legs. He slung an arm around Andromeda, “G’day,” he growled in a deep, deeply unnatural voice. “Name’s Gary. Gary Stonefield. Beer drinkin’. Fish catchin’. Pussy lovin’. That’s me brand…don’t be too jealous.” An obnoxious grin, “I bring home the bacon. She makes sure it’s cooked right. Just the way I like it.” He pats her arse before offering his hand, “How ya goin’, mate?”

Andromeda hissed softly, “I said heterosexual…not obnoxious.”

“Please take a seat.” The lawyer finally looked up from his desk. Tall. Sharp suit. Dangerously symmetrical face.

Cosmo’s soul left his body. It was him. The hookup from six years ago. The man who had once said, “You’re a lot bendier than you look.”

Cosmo swallowed a scream. The lawyer paused, staring at him with faint recognition, “…Have we met?”

Cosmo lowered his voice a full octave until he sounded like a malfunctioning refrigerator, “Nah, mate. Never seen ya in my life.”

The lawyer’s brow furrowed. Andromeda forced him down into a chair, digging into Cosmo’s thigh, and hissed, “Don’t fuck this up!”

The lawyer opened a folder, “According to the will,” he said, “the inheritance can only be released once your marriage is verified.”

Andromeda smiled stiffly, “We have our certificate right here.”

“Seems legitimate,” he looked over at them with a Cheshire Cat smile, “Now for the personal interview.”

Cosmo’s heart thudded violently.

“A what?” Andromeda snapped.

“The two of you,” he continued, “must undergo a brief—but thorough—marital interview.” He looked at Cosmo. Directly. Long. Slow. “Especially what you do after dark…with the lights out…who gets to be the bottom.” His lips curved slightly. That same look he had given six years ago when he was removing Cosmo’s underwear with his teeth. “Shall we begin,” he said smoothly, “Mr… Stonefield?”

Cosmo whispered to himself, “Oh! Sweetheart! We’re so screwed.”

You might think this was the end of the scheme, but oh no, it gets even more daring. Yes, the lawyer knew exactly who he was, but still, Andromeda got her inheritance. You might be shaking your head in wonderment right now. How so? Of course, you know where this is going! This is Cosmo. His life wouldn’t be so ordinary.

Cosmo and the lawyer shagged for old times’ sake. Right on that desk, amongst all the legal jargon that would condone such behaviour, but the aunt was dead and would know nothing about this.

Big Merv was in a strangely tender mood that evening, swaying gently in the dim light of someone else’s living room as a karaoke machine hummed in front of him. The space looked like a grandmother’s house taken hostage by a biker gang: lace curtains, a floral couch, crocheted doilies, and a faint scent of eucalyptus masking whatever else went on there.

Merv held the microphone with the delicacy of a man clutching his final hope and launched with full emotional force into “I Will Always Love You.” The Dolly Parton version.

His body was a walking museum of tattoos: flaming skulls, barbed wire, a surprisingly delicate butterfly on his inner wrist, and the words PAY ON TIME, DARLIN’ curling across one bicep in elegant cursive. His hair was buzzed close, his jaw perpetually shadowed, and his eyebrows furrowed in a way that suggests deep, unspoken feelings…most of which are aimed at Cosmo Farfetch.

He dressed like a man who owned exactly three outfits, and all of them are tank tops and denim jeans. His fashion sense lands somewhere between “I can fix your car” and “I know twelve ways to break your kneecaps.”

His voice was surprisingly steady, almost soulful, though occasionally interrupted by the muffled grunts of a debtor currently being disciplined on the carpet. Two of Merv’s goons — Gazza and Tito — worked in rhythm with the music, each kick and punch landing more or less in time with the song’s crescendos. Merv didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he appreciated the percussive accompaniment.

Just as he reached the emotional peak of the chorus, the third goon, Reggie, burst into the room, “Boss! It’s urgent!”

Merv lifted a single finger to halt him. He closed his eyes, chest swelling dramatically, and belted out the final line of the chorus with such passion that the plastic flowers on the side table trembled.

Only then did he lower the microphone and turn, “What?” he asked, already irritated at being interrupted on what he considered a sacred occasion.

Reggie swallowed, “It’s Farfetch. He paid…all three bar tabs.”

The room fell silent. Even Gazza paused mid-kick, his boot hovering above the debtor’s ribs. Merv blinked slowly, as if the statement required translation, “He fuckin paid?”

Reggie nodded, “In full. Nothing owing. No follow-up needed.”

Merv stared for a long moment. The hope faded from his eyes like a light dimming, and his shoulders dropped under the weight of profound disappointment.

“This was my moment,” he said softly, the heartbreak bleeding into every syllable. “My chance to finally serenade him properly.” His voice cracked. “I shaved. I warmed up. I wore deodorant. I rehearsed for hours.”

Big Merv set the microphone back into its cradle with the sadness of a man placing flowers on a grave. He stared out the window, “Cosmo Farfetch won’t escape my heart forever.”

The goons resumed their work. The karaoke machine looped back to the opening instrumental. And Big Merv began planning.

By the end of it all:

• The lights were back on, and the gin was restocked.

• Carrie Fisher was safely ensconced in a rehabilitation program.

• Cosmo had a fake marriage to a former showgirl for money.

• And Big Merv was planning his next serenade to win over Cosmo’s heart. Perhaps some Bonnie Tyler?

The mayhem is only just beginning…stay tuned for more.

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

Daz James

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