Episode 6 - The Vale Seduction.

Cosmo Farfetch had promised himself he wouldn’t drink on a Tuesday. This was a lie he told often, the way other people told themselves they would start Pilates, or call their mother, or stop replying to exes after midnight.

The bar smelled like citrus and bad decisions—lime wedges sweating into a stainless-steel tray, tequila bottles glowing amber beneath the lights like saints in a very loose cathedral.

There was something about this place that made him feel temporarily absolved. The jukebox hummed something Latin and tragic. The bartender—thin moustache, ironic T-shirt—didn’t ask if Cosmo wanted a margarita, only whether he wanted salt.

What was also a plus, Cosmo hadn’t been banned from this establishment. He was still looked upon with the reverence of visiting royalty. The Queen of Sheba coming to mind. Yet the only gift he was likely to bring was gonorrhea.

This bar had become his new haunt, emerging from the abyss of human waste in an outermost suburb where no one can hear you scream. This was far better than scurrying amongst dives that hosted winos and derelicts, and where a kidney and a blood sample were the cover charges, in the hope of a decent martini that wouldn’t cause your bodily harm the next morning. Of course, unless you ordered the No 8 special service.

“Sweetheart! Of course I want salt,” Cosmo said, taking a seat at the bar. “I’m not an animal.”

The glass arrived cold and smug, rim crusted in white. Cosmo lifted it, admired the pale liquid, and thought: This is how it always starts. Citrus infused optimism with an olive chaser.

All the food groups a camp queen could need unless you were called Miles. He was forever forcing root vegetables into him…and not in the sex toy kind of way. Health, health, darling!

Yet he had escaped Miles for one night. He was over the mental health baby-sitting. He wanted to be just like Greta Garbo. He wanted to be alone….and possibly fist deep in some emo needing a personality adjustment. Yes, that was his desire for this evening. Someone far more pathetic than him.

To Cosmo, therapy was like receiving a golden shower from Pissy Galour without his consent. Defiled, debased, and stinking of asparagus.

He took the first sip, “Oh sweetheart! Some mistakes taste divine.”

A decadent shadow slid onto the stool beside him. A drink was instantly placed before him. Scotch. Neat. Just like Bogart. Old school. A classic. Something with balls.

The man was tall and had razor-clean cheekbones. The kind of mouth that suggested secrets and very good apologies delivered too late. He dressed like a man permanently auditioning for a film noir that would never get made but absolutely deserved funding.

Black silk shirts. Italian boots. Coats cut within an inch of their lives. Everything tailored, everything deliberate. Julian Vale didn’t wear clothes — he composed them.

Julian’s gaze lingered on Cosmo’s glass, the pale martini glinting under the bar lights. He smiled, slow and knowing. “A martini, is it? Let me guess—dry, with a twist of lemon…no lime. That’s not just a drink, it’s a statement.”

Cosmo arched an eyebrow, lips curving; the night had taken a slight deviation. “Oh! Sweetheart! You think you can read me from my drink order? I am a myriad of complexities not often found in the bottom of a gin receptacle.”

“Oh! Come on, love!” Julian leaned in, voice low. “Play the game…it makes hitting the sheets much more…intense.”

Cosmo smirked, “Yet whose sheets will we be hitting…yours, mine…” He gazed around that bar. His eyes settled on a nervous twink that looked as if he might shatter into pieces if someone said hello to him. “Or that rather pathetic virgin.”

“I’m not after virgins. I want someone…” Julian began to caress the rim of Cosmo’s fingers, “With elegance, who can be demanding, but never satisfied with anything less than perfection, not unlike this martini.”

Cosmo laughed, “And what does your drink say about you?”

Julian’s eyes sparkled as he lifted his glass, letting the amber liquid catch the light. He smirked, “Scotch, neat—I like things strong, honest, and with a bit of a burn.” He let his gaze linger on Cosmo, lips curving. “The hotter the better.”

Cosmo raised his glass, meeting Julian’s gaze. “Careful, sweetheart, I bite.”

“I was counting on it.” Julian laughed.

It was an easy laugh, the kind that made you feel briefly clever for having caused it. Cosmo was buoyant by the sound.

Cosmo noticed the man’s hand. Rings. Tasteful. The fingers brushed Cosmo’s wrist once—apologetic, accidental, devastating.

The second round of drinks arrived. Cosmo did not notice the warning signs. He never did.

As for Julian Vale, sex was both pleasure and performance. He was bisexual in the way that unsettled people — not apologetic, not explanatory, not interested in labels beyond what served him in the moment. Men. Women. Beauty first. Power second. Desire always framed through a lens.

“You’re very beautiful,” he told Cosmo, examining him like a casting director. “But this wretched light does not do you justice.”

Cosmo had laughed. Julian had not. He was being serious.

If this were just a simple blow and go, Cosmo would have left his jacket on. But Julian had already taken it, draped it over a chair like a deliberate insult to restraint, and poured another drink with the confidence of a man who knew no one was going anywhere for a very long time.

The apartment was all shadows and suggestion. Lamps turned low. Curtains half-drawn. Venetian blinds slicing the room into dramatic stripes like everyone involved was about to make a very questionable decision in a 1940s crime film.

“You know, you remind me of those femme fatales in old film noir – someone who walks into a room and suddenly the air gets thicker, the shadows get longer, and every man in the place forgets what he was doing,” Cosmo observed, toeing off his shoe. “Like Miss Barbara Stanwyck in Double Indemnity.”

Julian looked on mildly curious, “So, love, does that mean you’d gladly sign that damn insurance policy and light the fuse yourself?”

“Depends on the wick,” Cosmo smirked.

Julian smiled, “Famous last words.”

Julian reached in for a kiss. Their mouths collided, separating, colliding again, to see who was more dominant.

Julian’s hands were everywhere, precise and practiced, while Cosmo’s were enthusiastic. Exploratory. Committed to chaos.

Things were knocked over. A glass shattered somewhere in the background, and no one stopped to mourn it.

Clothes flew in every direction—Cosmo’s shirt landing atop a lampshade, Julian’s belt looping through the air like a lasso in a burlesque show.

They moved through the apartment, every surface an invitation for mischief: the sofa, the wall, the kitchen counter, each spot marked by a trail of laughter, smeared impression of body parts and the occasional excretion left behind.

Cosmo arched across the bed; limbs splayed with the abandon of a starlet in a melodrama. Julian soon swooped him up with the precision of a choreographer, every touch deliberate, every movement exaggerated for the imaginary audience. Sheets tangled, pillows burst, and somewhere in the chaos, a leather whip made a cameo appearance.

They tumbled and spun, bodies colliding with the energy of a musical’s final number—Cosmo’s leg thrown skyward, Julian’s hair mussed to perfection, both reveling in the spectacle of it all. The room filled with the sound of gasps and laughter, the slap of skin, the rustle of silk, and the unmistakable thud of a crown hitting the headboard.

When it was over, they lay sprawled in the aftermath, the room a glorious mess of discarded clothing, overturned lamps, and the faint scent of expensive cologne.

Cosmo, ever the diva, struck a pose worthy of a closing curtain, while Julian, grinning, offered a mock bow to the invisible crowd.

It was a performance neither would soon forget—equal parts passion, chaos, and camp, with just enough glamour to make even the neighbours applaud.

Cosmo laughed at something Julian whispered in his ear. Julian froze for half a second, struck by the sound of it — unguarded, loud, unapologetic.

Across the way, unnoticed, a phone rested against a stack of books. Once propped for perfection, framed for infamy, but was now topsy turvy. The phone suddenly went dark. Recording complete.

Julian stared at the ceiling, heart doing something profoundly inconvenient. This wasn’t how it was meant to go. He wasn’t supposed to enjoy himself. This was a job. And he most certainly did not catch feelings for the targets. Yet somewhere deep inside, something began to flare.

Morning arrived rudely. Sunlight crept through Julian Vale’s beloved Venetian blinds, flattening everything into harsh reality. Noir, as it turned out, did not survive daylight. It never did. Everything looked less dangerous and far more accountable.

Cosmo emerged from the bedroom wearing nothing but Julian’s shirt and confidence. “Sweetheart! I feel like I should apologise to your neighbours.”

Julian stood at the counter, shirtless, making coffee with unnecessary precision. He looked infuriatingly composed for a man who had made deeply questionable life choices twelve hours earlier.

Last night was business. A transaction designed to protect a lifestyle too expensive for sentiment. Feelings had no place in a bed dressed in four-ply, 1,200-thread-count Egyptian cotton, hand-loomed in Cairo; no place near a limited-edition Diptyque candle that cost more than a week’s rent; certainly, no place beside a remote-controlled Japanese toilet with a heated seat and a built-in playlist of jazz standards.

Now it was time for additional reciprocation for his prowess. A chance to make a little money on the side that was not a part of the original agreement. He was going off script like an improvisation doyen on a film set. Let chaos reign!

“They’ll survive,” Julian said coolly. “They always do.”

Cosmo smiled. “So, I’m not the first deranged banshee you’ve taken home and drilled into next Tuesday.”

“Your baritone range is…impressive.”

“Well, you don’t become Jean Valjean with the voice of Mickey Mouse.”

“Loves, I had better send them a muffin basket,” Julian smirked.

Breakfast appeared without discussion. Eggs. Toast. Sausage. Berries arranged with intent. Julian did not cook so much as compose.

This, Cosmo thought, was not a one-night stand breakfast. This was a conversation breakfast.

Julian poured coffee. Sat. Folded his hands, “There’s something we should discuss.”

Cosmo buttered toast, unbothered. “If this is about the broken glass, I blame passion.”

Julian reached into his pocket and placed his phone on the table. Face down.

Cosmo paused. “Oh,” he said. “That feels ominous.”

“I’ve not exactly been upfront with you.” He indicated the world around him. “All this…takes people like you to maintain it.” Julian flipped the phone over. “You were filmed last night,” Julian said calmly. “Without your knowledge.” Julian’s gaze sharpened. “This footage will be released…unless you part with all that soap opera money…well, just a wee bit…say 50,000 dollars.” Cosmo chewed thoughtfully, unperturbed, keenly listening to him. “And I’ll delete everything that happened here.”

Julian was a practicing liar. He had no intention of erasing this encounter. The footage was for another purpose. Another client. Yet Cosmo wasn’t to know that until it was far too late.

“Breakfast extortion!” Cosmo’s smile blossomed. “I have never been extorted before! Oh! I’ve finally made it!” He turned his gaze to the blackmailer. “You couldn’t wait until I consumed my sausage? How Joan Collins of you.”

Julian unlocked the phone and slid it across the table, “I suggest you watch the footage and judge whether it’d end everything you have achieved.”

Cosmo raised an eyebrow. Someone clearly hadn’t done their homework. This was tickling all Cosmo’s pleasure points. For the second time in twelve hours, “You’re letting me see my own sex tape?”

Julian hesitated. “I find it helps to unlock those bank accounts. I have found that unabashed orgasms are not always digestible in the harsh light of day.”

The footage flickered across the screen — intimate, suggestive, all shadow and movement, the camera struggling to keep up with bodies that refused to stay where they’d been framed.

Cosmo leaned forward immediately, delighted. There he was — laughing, head thrown back in theatrical abandon, limbs catching the light at just the right moment. A flash of shoulder. The curve of his mouth mid-laugh. A moment that looked, to Cosmo’s eye, like triumph.

“Oh wow,” he breathed. “That angle is fantastic.”

Julian said nothing. He watched with the stillness of a man attending a funeral. Something had gone wrong. His brow furrowed, his face grew contemptible.

The lamps — his lamps — had been casualties. Knocked sideways in the frenzy, dragged from their carefully plotted positions, their glow no longer sculpting but flattening. What should have been silhouette and suggestion was now exposed, ordinary light spilling across skin without mercy.

The camera jolted.

Once.

Twice.

A stray elbow. A kicked pillow. The phone skewed, frame tilting just enough to ruin the geometry. The composition lurched into chaos — bodies half-cut from frame, faces briefly lost, momentum replacing intention.

Julian paused the video. His jaw tightened, “No silhouette! No atmosphere!” he said, sharp. “You deserve better! Oh loves! This footage has the intensity of a limp tea bag left out in the rain.” He thumped the table in frustration, “I lost control of the environment…I was too…preoccupied. I am never preoccupied.”

Cosmo squinted at the frozen frame, unimpressed by the criticism, “I look incredible,” he said calmly, admiring the way the light caught his shoulders. “That’s range.”

Julian dragged a hand down his face, “It’s not meant to be visible like this,” he snapped. “There should be contrast…mood…not stark reality. Any hack with a Polaroid can do that!”

Cosmo turned to him, genuinely appalled, “You secretly filmed me,” he said, incredulous, “and you complain that the footage is not doing me any favours?”

Julian stared at the screen. He saw what Cosmo couldn’t. Not glamour — exposure. Not charisma — chaos. This wasn’t cinematic. This was cheap pornography.

Cosmo wasn’t used to classy filmmaking. After all, Star Wars - The Last Grope was no Spielberg creation. John Waters maybe. But nothing worthy of Julian Vale’s artistic eye.

Julian stared at the screen again. Watched Cosmo move. Laugh. Exist unapologetically. His jaw tightened, “I won’t release it.”

“Sweetheart! You are so adorable, deeply unethical, but let me say this as clearly as I can,” Cosmo blinked. “You fucking will!”

“It’s not… good enough,” Julian said, almost angry. “Not for you! It lacks quality!”

Cosmo leaned back, stunned, “You’re rejecting my sex tape?”

Julian met his eyes. “On artistic principal.” They sat in silence for a moment until the blackmailer finally spoke. “Maybe…you could stay another night. I could get it right this time.”

Cosmo tilted his head. Considered him, “No,” Cosmo said gently. “But thank you for the opportunity.” He leaned in, kissed Julian once — soft, uncurated, unforgettable. “And sweetheart?” Cosmo added. “If you ever decide to release that footage—do let me approve the thumbnail.”

He walked out, humming. Julian sat alone at the table, staring at the phone. The tape unreleased. The con undone. Terms unsettled. His client would not be impressed.

And for the first time in years, Julian felt something he couldn’t edit. His feelings. He had wanted the best for Cosmo after their night together. He deserved nothing short of a film noir premiere.

Days earlier, Tiffany entered the same bar where Julian and Cosmo first met. She was on an errand. A new scheme in her endless campaign.

The woman had always known how to survive people leaving. Her father had done it first. One afternoon he simply didn’t come home — replaced by a story, a rumour, a woman whose name Tiffany never bothered to learn because it didn’t matter. What mattered was the sound of the door closing and the way the house went hollow afterwards.

Her mother followed not long after. Different exit. Same result.

Tiffany was packed off to her grandmother’s house like excess baggage. A tyrant of a woman with iron hair and iron rules, who believed affection spoiled children and punishment built character.

Cosmo Farfetch arrived like colour in the Wizard of Oz movie. Brilliant and alluring in Cinemascope.

They were children when they met — awkward, sharp, hungry for attention. Cosmo with his wild imagination and his glittering defiance. Tiffany with her precision, her ambition, her refusal to cry where anyone could see.

He made her laugh when laughing felt dangerous. He understood the theatre of survival instinctively. He never asked questions Tiffany didn’t want to answer. She trusted him. Implicitly.

They shared secrets. Fear. Dreams that sounded stupid out loud, yet they didn’t care. Those dreams were going to happen. They were determined to succeed just to escape this bleak existence. The mischief and mayhem just distracted them while they waited their time to get away.

Until Tommy Wood. He mattered. He was handsome, poetic and exotic — a teenage crush wrapped in validation.

That’s the part everyone got wrong. They thought Tiffany hated Cosmo because he thumb-fucked her boyfriend. Oh! No! No! She hated him because his betrayal took away the one constant source of happiness. Her best friend, Cosmo Farfetch. She couldn’t forgive him for that.

Yet all these games, over the years, were not just revenge, but to still have relevance within his life. To be as close to him as she could with friendship no longer keeping them together.

Tiffany clocked Julian’s bone structure immediately. The way that suit seemed to suction to every delectable part of his physique. He was perfect. Cosmo could not resist him. She admired the way he watched people as if deciding whether they were worth the shake down.

Julian had stopped his gaze on his new potential prey.

Tiffany glanced over at the fumbling desperado sipping a buck’s fizz while playing with jade knucklebones to pass the time before a dalliance. He wore Armani, was doused in Hugo Boss, and his breath smelt like a citrus orchard in summertime. The wedding band on his left hand spoke of commitment while his ogling eye on the emo in the corner begged to differ.

“You have excellent taste for extortion,” Tiffany said, smiling.

Julian returned it, “So do you. Soap stars are always dirty boys and wanton harlots.” The man smiled, wickedly. “So, what did he ever do to you?”

“I am conducting this interview.” Tiffany’s gaze turned glacial. “I need to be convinced that your reputation stands up and doesn’t cower at a momentary titillation.” Her fake smile returned, easing the tension. “He is a wily target. He has managed to get under quite a few fore skins with a smile and batted lash. Cosmo Farfetch somehow gets what he wants…when it doesn’t involve me.”

Julian lent forward, caressing her arm, drawing circles right next to the diamond bracelet at her wrist. “I’m sure a woman as beautiful and alluring as yourself won’t mind my professional curiosity.” This was more than a simple blackmail plot. It was personal. Visceral. “Receipts can be important for any shakedown…they give subtext to a situation.”

Tiffany sighed, “Why anyone would cast him in anything other than a smut film surprises me, but times are difficult, and the bitch does know how to sparkle.” Tiffany blanched at the very thought, “So…perhaps we can kill one very annoying peacock with two very massive testicles…I assume.” Julian smirked knowingly. “He always becomes inept at the sight of those…losing his head in the process.” The woman passed over a gold embossed, rose scented envelope that probably cost more than their combined drinks order, containing his payment. “I want him humiliated…destitute and without a comeback.”

Julian accepted, pocketing the envelope, before turning his gaze back to his target, who was now propositioning the sullen emo. He needed to pick something up on his way home. Milk. Cumquats. Condoms. Lube. And a married man with urges and yearnings. Julian was partial to a bit of fruit. It kept you regular.

When next they met, Tiffany stood in Julian’s apartment, furious but composed — the most dangerous version of her, “You will release the footage,” she said. “He must face humiliation.”

Julian didn’t move, “No!”

Tiffany blinked. “No?”

“Love, the composition is all wrong,” Julian continued. “The lighting is unimaginative. It’s not… worthy of him.”

Tiffany stared, “You secretly filmed him without consent,” she said slowly, “and you’re refusing to ruin him because the vibes are off?”

Julian bristled. “I won’t compromise my work.”

Tiffany smiled. It was not a nice smile. “I see,” she said. “You’re one of those men who confuse taste with morality.”

Julian stiffened.

Tiffany stepped closer, lowering her voice, “This was never about you,” she said. “You were a tool.” She paused, eyes flicking over him — measured, appreciative. “A very attractive one,” she added lightly. “But a tool nonetheless.”

Julian flushed. He was probably the first person in some time to stand up to her. He stepped into her safe space, causing the air to simmer with resentment. “I will not bend to your creative differences. My story. My art. I will not compromise.”

Tiffany backed away, a little intimidated, and highly aroused, “If you don’t do as I say…I’ll return with a bat.” She stroked the side of his face, “Even though you remind me of the statue of David, the human body, in reality, is quite fragile…it doesn’t take a lot to render it ugly…devoid of any shag ability ever again.” She smiled disarmingly, tapping the side of his face, not quite a pat, yet not a full-on slap. “Where would you be without that face? Groveling in the muck like any other pathetic animal.”

Tiffany turned and left. She already had a plan. If he refused to release the footage, Tiffany would take over. One way or another, Cosmo Farfetch would face humiliation, this time to destroy whatever remnant of a career he could ever possibly have again.

After all, he was no Kim Kardashian. He was not even a Pamela and Tommy Lee. He was just a faded queen with a fetish for 15 minutes of fame that had long ago surpassed him.

Cosmo Farfetch had learned something very important at forty-two, even though he insisted he was thirty-nine. Over the hill could wait, especially when Dr Bombay was on speed dial. Scandal wasn’t the end.

It was the beginning. The first time, he got a five-year contract on a soap. This time, he could finally get that blockbuster movie. Damn that, Hugh Jackman! Cosmo could have been Wolverine; just look at his body…that chest hair…those hips.

At the time, people said they were disgusted by those photos, but they still watched. Producers pretended to be appalled while quietly rehashing that story repeatedly in the press. Negative publicity had become ratings gold.

Shame, Cosmo discovered, was simply publicity without a publicist.

Cosmo swirled an olive about his martini. Not frantic pacing — considered pacing. The kind that suggested a man thinking big thoughts while wearing excellent trousers.

Carrie Fisher watched him from her enclosure. She was back from rehab. Quieter now. Mellow. Her fur glossy in that way that suggested inner peace and possibly chamomile.

Andromeda had performed a pet exorcism. This version of Carrie Fisher was so much calmer and with fewer tics.

Cosmo stopped mid-stride, placing down his glass, “Sweetheart! Don’t look at me like that! You know I can’t let this opportunity get away.” Carrie Fisher continued chewing, unbothered. “He doesn’t get it,” Cosmo went on, gesturing vaguely at the world while topping up his glass, “Julian is obsessed with cinematic quality. Has he not seen the Blair Witch Project?” Carrie Fisher blinked slowly. “I know,” Cosmo said, nodding. “You’d think someone who secretly filmed me would be less precious about silhouettes and sundries.” He resumed pacing, fresh drink in hand. “That footage could put me back on everyone’s radar,” he said. “Properly. Not ironic fame. Not ‘remember him?’ fame. Real fame.”

He stopped in front of the enclosure, crouching. “Did I ever tell you about my first scandal? Of course, not…you were raging like a demon.” The man sighed, taking a sip. “I put so much time and effort…I should have won an Oscar for my work. But it got me a soap role. A career.” He smiled. “This time feels like blockbuster energy. I could be Northstar!” Carrie Fisher rearranged her bedding. “This is advocacy without having to give someone else twenty percent.”

He swirled his glass once more, “I’m not stealing,” Carrie Fisher tilted her head as if finally listening. “I’m reclaiming narrative control.” He gestured toward his own body, broad and theatrical. “It’s about me. My body. My face. My future IMDb trivia section. ‘Known for: Controversial Comeback.’”

He exhaled, satisfied, “If Julian is too precious to release it, I will,” Cosmo said, downing the last of the drink before tossing the glass to one side, “With a strategy.”

Cosmo stopped. Carrie Fisher began rattling. Not frantic rattling. Agitated rattling. Andromeda had warned him about these moments of conflict for Carrie Fisher.

“Oh no, sweetheart!” Cosmo sighed, kneeling beside the enclosure. “We are not spiraling tonight! I have too much to do!”

Carrie Fisher twitched, whiskers vibrating, eyes bright with unresolved emotion.

Cosmo reached for the small tin on the shelf. The powder inside was pale and finely ground, the sort of thing Cosmo liked to pretend was herbal because that felt ethical. He tapped a little into the enclosure, careful, reverent.

Carrie Fisher sniffed and then began to devour the substance. Party time once more! The gerbil couldn’t yet distinguish between other white powder substances. These sprinkles brought the rush back…alas only hypothetical.

Her breathing slowed. Her tiny body softened. She curled into herself, serene, as if the world had finally stopped demanding things of her.

Cosmo watched, struck by the elegance of it. “Huh,” he said. The thought arrived fully formed. Not a plan. A realisation. He straightened slowly, “If something can calm you,” he said thoughtfully, “it can calm him.” He frowned, considering this. “That sounded worse out loud,” he added quickly. “But you understand the intent.”

Carrie Fisher slept. Cosmo took that as consent.

Julian Vale opened the door already smiling, “You came back,” he said, pleased in a way he tried not to show.

Cosmo looked on sheepishly, the twinkle of remorse in his eyes. The same expression that nailed him a soap award, convincing the audience of his innocence when quite clearly his character had pushed his psychotic twin into a woodchipper. It was self-defence! But from behind?

Cosmo was such a convincing performer that Genghis Khan would have folded before him. He stepped inside — expensive cologne, confidence, unresolved tension, “I had time to think. I never leave the work unfinished,” Cosmo said lightly. “I hate loose ends.”

Julian gestured him inside, “Will this be a fitting sequel or a flop”

“Oh, sweetheart! Nothing you do could ever cause a flop.” Cosmo put on the charm that had melted the stockings of many a female fan over forty. “I couldn’t let your vision go…it was so breathtaking. Your creativity is just so…magnetic. I can’t resist the pull to complete your vision.”

The apartment glowed — low lamps, shadows doing most of the work. Film Noir bled from every surface.

Julian poured drinks. Cosmo watched carefully. They sat too close. Julian talked about cinema — about bodies as shapes, about how desire needed framing, about how what they’d done meant something. The man was so caught up in his diatribe against rudimentary filmmaking that he missed Cosmo’s real intention.

Cosmo nodded, smiling, reaching his hand over Julian’s glass, sprinkling the top with what was concealed within his hand. He gave it a slosh around before offering the glass to him, “Drink up…Come, seeling Night, Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful Day… and let us abandon all modicum of decency.”

Julian shivered at his performance. He was invested. Dangerously so. All alarm bells had been muted as his internal fire raced, and his penis did twitch in anticipation.

“You’re different tonight,” Julian said eventually. “Less yourself…more…someone else.”

“Ahh! Sweetheart! Not so! It is but another version of me. As an actor, I have many facets.” Cosmo tilted his head, “How else will I give my best performance for your genius of a vision?”

Julian took another sip. Then another. His thirst needed quenching. The heat running through his body needed tempering. His words softened. Slowed. Drifted.

Cosmo watched the change with clinical interest.

“Love,” Julian murmured, blinking. “The room’s moving…can you feel it too?”

Cosmo reached out, steadying him. Julian tried to laugh. Missed the timing. Slumped back against the couch, heavy-limbed, eyes glassy but unfocused.

“This isn’t—” he started.

Cosmo stood, “Shh,” he said gently. “You’re safe. Just rest.”

Cosmo moved quickly now. Drawers. Desk. Jackets draped like discarded scenes. He found lenses, notebooks, pretentious quotes underlined twice.

Then — the phone.

Cosmo exhaled, reverent, “There you are. My precious!”

He peeled open Julian’s eyes for a scan to open the phone, leaving the man’s head to drop back down when finished.

Thumbnails bloomed across the screen — frozen moments of shadow, skin, scandal. He was mesmerized by his own nudity. It was so captivating.

Cosmo smirked coyly. He must have the footage. He shared the footage to his own phone.

Behind him, Julian shifted weakly, murmuring something about composition and trust. Cosmo ignored it. Then a sound came from the balcony. A thud. Glass rattling.

Cosmo spun.

“Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me!” Tiffany stormed in like an unanswered prayer, fury vibrating off her in waves, “You drugged him,” she said flatly, eyes flicking to Julian’s slack form.

“I was invited inside. That makes it polite.” His brow furrowed. “Is this your doing?” He noticed the smirk form on her face. “Oh! How could I be such an idiot! This is your charade…not his.” His brow furrowed, “How did you know I would be at that bar?”

“I had a little mouse tailing you,” Tiffany said sweetly. “Eclectic hair—practically fugal, really. Skin waxy enough to pass for a candle. A face so over-pierced you wouldn’t clock her if she danced naked on the bar with a midget fan dancing around her.” She smiled, all teeth. “Very thorough reports. She knew you’d found yourself a new stomping ground. And now—” Tiffany lunged. “Hand it over, queer puff!”

“No! Sweetheart! This is my narrative. I get to have control over it.” He sneered, “You can keep your perfectly Shellac nails to yourself.” He paused, “Did Madam Curie do your nails? They looked…expensive.”

“Worth every penny and then some! You’re jealous! Right!”

“Just enough to do this!” Cosmo hip-and-shouldered her out of his way.

Tiffany stumbled into a table, shattering it. She grabbed his ankles and brought him down before the man could get away. The woman clawed her way up his body, grabbing the man by the scruff of his neck, “You always do this!” Tiffany shouted. “You always get in my way!”

Cosmo reached into his other pocket, “I call it character building.”

Julian groaned dramatically, rolling his head like a man auditioning for tragedy.

“Not now, Auteur,” Cosmo hissed, as he threw a handful of glittering right into Tiffany’s face. Tiffany screamed. Cosmo threw her off his back.

“My EYE!”

She staggered back, clutching her face, glitter embedded everywhere it shouldn’t be — lashes, liner, vengeance.

“This isn’t over!” Tiffany screamed, half-blind, incandescent. “I’ll get you yet, my pretty, and your little fuckin gerbil too.”

Cosmo paused, breathless, triumphant, “I know,” he said. “That’s what sequels are for.”

He vanished into the night, phone buzzing with stolen promise. Behind him, Julian drifted, confused and violated. Tiffany sank onto the couch, glittered, injured, already rewriting the future.

Cosmo Farfetch had won. At least this battle. The occasions were rare, but sometimes, when the moon was in the right conjunction, and the world was tilted slightly, Cosmo did have a win over Tiffany.

And Tiffany hated it. The indignity! It was the fuel that kept the war raging.

The water was glassy, theatrical, reflecting the moon like it had been placed there deliberately. Cosmo leaned against the railing, breathless, damp with adrenaline, phone clenched tight in his hand like a winning lottery ticket. He was waiting for the number 9 bus back home.

He checked the screen again. Still there. Till scandal. Still destiny.

Cosmo smiled, “Northstar, here I come!”

Behind him, something made a sound. Not a splash. Not footsteps but a flap of a dislocated wing. Cosmo turned slowly. The ibis stood there. A recall. A judgement. A reckoning over a battle for a twinkie.

Looking filthy and ancient, its feathers were mottled and sparse in places. Its curved beak pointed directly at Cosmo, memories of being wronged. A slight scar across the side of its head, an eye closed over and a wing hanging oddly beside it. The bin chicken hadn’t forgotten their encounter. *See episode one for a brush-up on their earlier encounter. 

“Oh! Sweetheart! Absolutely not,” Cosmo said. “I am not emotionally available for this.”

The bin chicken hissed. Cosmo backed away. The bird advanced. It moved with purpose. With grievance. With the unmistakable confidence of a creature that had outlived consequences.

The bin chicken lunged. Cosmo screamed. It was not dignified. Janet Leigh could never project something so murderous.

He flailed, arms windmilling, foot slipping on the damp timber of the jetty. The ibis snapped at his sleeve, feathers shedding, chaos incarnate.

“No— NO—”

Cosmo staggered backwards, balance gone, phone still in his hand as if loyalty might save it. It didn’t. The ibis struck again. Cosmo went over the railing.

There was a brief, perfect moment — his body suspended, eyes wide, mouth open, phone held aloft like a cursed offering—and then he hit the water.

Cold. Dark. Final.

The phone slipped from his grip immediately, vanishing into the lake with a soft, indifferent glug, sinking fast, light blinking once before surrendering.

Cosmo surfaced spluttering, hair plastered to his face, silk heavy against his sculptured body, dignity drowned.

He clung to the jetty, gasping. Above him, the bin chicken stood calmly, feathers settling. They locked eyes.

“Get away from me, you bitch!” Cosmo bellowed, giving perfect Sigourney Weaver impersonation.

The ibis blinked. Then it turned and hobbled away, unhurried, victorious, leaving behind only ripples of triumph and the faint sense that this had been personal.

Cosmo hauled himself onto the jetty, soaked, shaking, staring at the water where everything had disappeared.

The footage. The scandal. The future franchise. All of it lying silently at the bottom of the lake, unshared, unreleased, unimpressed.

Cosmo laughed. Once. Loud. A little unhinged, “Of course,” he said to no one. “Of course it was a bin chicken.”

He stood there dripping, ruined, moonlit. For the first time in his life, Cosmo Farfetch had lost a narrative battle not to a person, not to law, not even to love —but to nature.

And nature, apparently, did not care how good he looked on camera.

Until next time, when we return for another exciting adventure with Cosmo Farfetch. Big Merv hasn’t forgotten him. He's patiently waiting in the wings, ready to sing his heart. Maybe some Kiki Dee and Elton John.

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

Daz James

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