SFH3 Run #1753: Annual Tiara R*n
|:||5214 Diamond Heights Blvd, SF|
|:||Douche of Hazzard et al|
|:||Do Her Well|
Once upon a time, in a land far away (but still a bit too close to home), there lived a young man by the name of Cirque du So Lame. Our young Cirque was a pleasant and charming chap, and would have been the heart’s desire of each lad and lass in the town. However, an unfortunate set of rumors regarding relations with a mule clung to him like droppings on Fluffer’s backside did not. And so it was that Cirque du So Lame found himself excluded from the most prestigious social gatherings of the town.
Not only did poor Cirque du So Lame suffer from chronic social troubles, he also was inflicted with three Evil Stepsisters, Just Melanie, Just Shea, and Just Jackie. Just Jackie was Evil because she had started a fight club and was chronically covered with bruises from beating up small, cute animals as well as beer vans. She blamed these injuries solely on Cirque du So Lame when she wanted to wear short skirts and tank tops. This resulted in quite a few beatings for our poor Cirque from her jealous and competitive suitors in the town.
However, Just Shea was even more Evil than Just Jackie. Instead of a fight club, she had started a flour-kicking league. Just Shea’s aim was terrible, however, and so she forced Cirque du So Lame to help her by kneeling on the floor to better guide and direct her kicks. Invariantly, most of the flour would go in his face, and invariantly, Cirque du So Lame would be thrown into the jail on possession charges, where he would invariantly run into members of Just Jackie’s fight club. And so there were even more beatings for our poor Cirque.
But even more Evil than Just Shea was Just Melanie. Just Melanie loved neither fight clubs nor flour kicking leagues. The only joy Just Melanie took in life was bumming fags from unsuspecting visitors to the township. She would bum fags from lawyers, and from pilots, and from army captains. After a full day of bumming fags, she would disappear from sight, and when those lawyers and pilots and army captains came to bum their fags back, it is Cirque du So Lame whom they would find, and even more beatings would come his way.
After this life of torture, is it any surprise that Cirque du So Lame would look to the moon at night and wish for a better life? And so he did, night after night, with very little changing, and very little giving him hope for a brighter tomorrow.
Meanwhile, though, the world at large carried on a bit more pleasantly for everyone else. Prince Ru Ru Rimmin had just been engaged to be married, and Queen Douche of Hazard had a marvelous fete planned in the happy couple’s honor. There would be contests, and drinking, and court jesters, and drinking, and feats of strength, and yet even more drinking, all organized by court officials The Perfect Woman and Vagina Dentata. Visitors were traveling from near and far to join in the festivities—Dildo Baggins had emerged from Middle-girth, while Taste The Trojan had flown in from overseas with Cunniwingus fast behind her. The guest list was nearly endless.
And so the night of the opening ceremonies, Cirque du So Lame listened to the excited screeches of his stepsisters as they departed to the party, and he turned his eyes upwards into the night sky once again. However, this time in place of the lonely silence that normally greeted him, he heard a loud “Ahem!”
“What do you want, mortal?” a rainbow clad figure surrounded by a cloud of glitter had appeared before him. She sneezed. “Crap, I forgot about that.” Wiping her nose furiously, she waved a hand and most of the glitter disappeared.
“Uh, what are you?” Cirque du So Lame squinted his eyes at the glowing rainbow brightness.
“I’m a fairy godmother,” she explained. “Just Get It Over With.”
“Uh, ok, I guess I’d like…”
“No, silly. I’m Just Get It Over With,” the fairy explained. “This is Just Nuwanee. She’s a virgin. It’s her birthday.”
“Oh, hi!” Cirque du So Lame stood shakily and held out his hand.
“Ew, no.” Just Nuwanee frowned. “I’ve heard about the mules.”
“That’s actually not…”
“Just Nuwanee has a birthday wish,” Just Get It Over With explained.
“I didn’t want…”
“Hocus pocus, let me focus,” Just Get It Over With raised her hands above her head. “Boil, toil, foil, and paper mache. Here’s your wish for you today!” She nodded in satisfaction as Cirque du So Lame’s clothes became magically clean, his teeth whitened, and hair moved exactingly into place. The pumpkin vines on the ground nearby grew larger, forming a carriage which opened invitingly for him to step into, while the nearby rats, having nothing better to do, metamorphosed into gallant horses.
“Tada! You have until midnight!” The pair waved goodbye and blinked back into nonexistence.
Cirque du So Lame thought for a moment and climbed into the carriage, wrinkling his nose at the residual pumpkin smell. To be honest, he had no other plans, and he was a little afraid Just Get It Over With might come back if he stuck around. With that, the door of the carriage slammed shut and the horses galloped full speed towards the castle.
Unfortunately for the group, after arriving at the gates they were directed a solid mile backwards to the end of the line which looped around the moat.
“What’s going on?” wondered Cirque du So Lame aloud.
“We have to be inspected,” giggled the man directly in front of him. “They think we might be bringing in pixie dust or something like that. I hope they don’t probe me too much.”
“Oh,” said Cirque du So Lame. “How long have you been here?”
“Three days! That’s what you get when you hire governmental employees.” The man walked over, extending a hand. “I’m Muff Daddy.”
“I’m… the Good Shit Lollicock,” Cirque pulled a name from the recesses of his memories.
Muff Daddy grew quiet and his eyes widened. “The Good Shit? An honor, sir.”
“Er, yes. Quite. Well, maybe I should go home, then. Not really worth the wait.”
“No, look, the court wizards have projected the scene for us to watch in the sky! And Mr. Asstastic has been bringing cupcakes down the line for us to eat.” Muff Daddy held his hand up to draw attention to them.
Astride a giant dog, Mr. Asstastic drew up to them. Holding a platter of cupcakes out, he blithely stated, “Six dollars.”
Cirque du So Lame fumbled for his wallet, finding it miraculously full of coin. As he put forth the money, the dog leaned over and licked all of the cupcakes soundly.
“Sorry, then, chaps.” Mr. Asstastic frowned. “That’ll be seven.” He took the cash and gave them both the dampest in his selection.
“Just in time for the tiara contest,” Muff Daddy pointed out, nodding to the sky. “The men’s group is always a bit boring,” he narrated. “See how there are so few finalists. Looks like King Fistful of Cum is barely holding his eyes open.”
“What’s the prize?” asked Cirque du So Lame.
“Fuck Trophy,” replied Muff Daddy.
“Who wouldn’t want that?” asked Cirque du So Lame incredulously.
“No, that’s their kid. The position you win is as Royal Babysitter.” As they were watching, Circle Jerk had been pulled out of the ranks kicking and screaming and was firmly deposited in a pen containing a small child. He quivered in terror and rolled into a ball.
“Good self defense strategy.” Muff Daddy licked his fingers, and his eyes lit up. “The women’s division! Much more entertaining.”
The tiaras were much more compelling amongst the young lasses, Cirque du So Lame would agree. Gleaming diamonds and fascinating dongles swayed from each crown, as all held themselves erect for judging. Queen Douche paraded before them, eye fiercely discerning each and every flaw. She held up an éclair, perfectly iced, and pointed silently at Sleazy Like Sunday Whoring, Wee Wee Wee All the Way Home, and Ska Skank Redemption. She flung the éclair high into the air, as the ladies leapt after it, landing in a furiously moving pile of nails and teeth.
“It’s all a farce,” a voice emerged gloomily from behind them. “Ridiculous posturing.”
“Of course it is!” cackled Muff Daddy. “And we just eat it up!”
“Why do you say that?” wondered Cirque du So Lame.
“This is the very last of our budget, putting on this spectacle. The King and Queen are hoping highway robbers can waylay enough of the departing guests to make up for the expenses, but I guarantee you we’ll be about five million short. And you know what? People would have paid to attend, we could have recouped the costs perfectly easy. But they were so desperate to get the show here, they just caved.”
“Sounds like you have a better way of doing business,” Cirque du So Lame peered into the darkness. He could barely make out a thin figure standing with his arms crossed tightly against his chest. “Aren’t you cold?”
“I do, and I’m fine,” the voice huffed out a lungful of air. “Thanks for asking,” he added begrudgingly. “Who are you?”
“I’m—someone else dissatisfied with the status quo. It seems like these days, everyone stays in the same place. There’s no opportunity. Where you are, that’s where you’re stuck.”
“Tell me about it.” The three were silent for a moment as they watched the projection in the sky. Court Jester Bum Sucking Electric Fag had brought Just Melanie to the front of the crowd and was entertaining everyone by pulling vapes out of her ears. In the background, a shooting star flew through the sky.
“Maybe there’s somewhere better out there,” Cirque du So Lame said mournfully.
“I know there is,” the voice stated. “I’m going there tomorrow—the Good Shit Lollicock has offered me a place at his court in Peppermint Bay, and I’m taking him up on it.”
“Wait a minute!” screeched Muff Daddy. “The Good—”
“Shit!” yelled Cirque du So Lame. And at that moment, the clock struck midnight, and the carriage he was inside shrunk down while the horses transformed back into rats. He stumbled away, pants now dragging at his feet. Catching on some branches, he pulled himself free of them to run off half-naked into the darkness.
The next day, Cirque du So Lame had to pretend to be sick while he bribed Cuming Mutha to bring him some new clothes, a task made easier by Cuming Mutha’s poor memory making him think Cirque du So Lame had just given him five dozen bottles of wine. Luckily his stepsisters were still cooing and gossiping over the ball, and they paid him no mind. Once safely covered and out of bed, he half-heartedly began his endless chores while his mind poured over the events of the night before and the voice that he had felt so connected to.
These thoughts as well as his sweeping were interrupted by a fierce rapping on the door. Just Shea ran over at once, skidding straight through several flour piles she had just flung onto the floor. “Prince Ru Ru Rimmin!” she gasped, kneeling before the thin figure at the door. “Sisters, we have a visitor!”
Cirque du So Lame drew backwards, not wanting to interrupt the proceedings—undoubtedly, some action, good or bad, of his stepsisters had drawn the royal gaze to their abode. He wanted nothing to do with it.
“Ladies, forgive me,” Ru Ru Rimmin’s clear voice rang above the din, and Cirque du So Lame gasped at its tone. “It is your brother for whom I am calling.” He raised a fist holding a garment aloft. “I believe this is yours. Does it fit?”
Cirque du So Lame blushed at the sight of his jock strap. Taking the item with trembling hands, he pulled it up his legs and firmly against his crotch. “It was you last night?”
“Yes it was, and I meant what I said.” Ru Ru Rimmin swallowed nervously. “And there is an extra seat on the carriage to Peppermint Bay. If you’re interested.”
Cirque du So Lame looked around the room at the stunned faces of his stepsisters. “See ya, suckers!” He linked arms with Ru Ru Rimmin and strode out the door and towards his new life.
And they lived happily ever after.