Episode 9: The Rent Is Too Damn Real

There are few sounds more sobering than the thud of a bill sliding under a door. For Cosmo Farfetch, it was a reminder that fame may fade, but debt collection is eternal. The envelope, beige and cheerless, lay on the rug like an accusation. Inside, a neatly folded notice informed him that the universe had once again grown tired of waiting for payment.

It wasn’t that Cosmo was broke — it was that money had a mysterious way of evaporating around him, the way martinis did or men with commitment issues. He just had to wait for that damn royalty cheque to arrive than everything would be two am at Mardi Gra again.

He was man who could balance on a high wire, in a cat suit and six-inch stilettos, then he could balance his cheque book. Michelle Pheiffer, eat your heart out! What little he received went toward candles that smelled of ambition and vodka that smelled of surrender. The bills, on the other hand, were filed under “later,” a word that Cosmo treated more as a prayer than a plan.

The letter came from a man known simply as Big Merv — a debt collector with a reputation for persistence and a suspicious affection for karaoke. He’d begun leaving messages, each signed off with an xo, as if threatening bodily harm but also flirting at the same time.

Somewhere between menace and courtship, Big Merv had developed an unnerving fascination with Cosmo’s unpaid lifestyle. And his one man show, Cuming Sooner or Later! Sadly, he was the only one to be captivated by his stage presence. Big Merv's imposing form sat six rows up and to the centre, two nights in a row, until the show closed prematurely, like a virgin at his first gay jamboree. Gutted and garroted.

The only other person there, was poor misguided Miles, who sat two rows behind Big Merv wondering if he would need to perform a choke hold on the debt collector. Purely for security reasons, not because he was jealous. Oh! No! No Sirs! Certainly not! Yeah right!

As the power flickered and the fridge made a death rattle, Cosmo decided it was the perfect time for introspection about his choices in life— preferably with gin. Unfortunately, the gin had also been cut off, replaced by a single can of sparkling water and the faint scent of defeat.

Outside, a car idled. Inside it sat a man who hummed Islands in the Stream with the devotion of a priest reciting scripture. He had patience, muscle, and a ledger. Cosmo had charm, delusion, and a velvet robe.

And so, once again, the universe balanced its scales — one unpaid bill, one determined collector, and one man who still believed he could talk his way out of anything.

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