The panel scene returns, the focus initially on the bottom two: Robyn Boyfriends and Princest, then moving to Diana, who stood at the opposing end of the stage with her decision made. The white ambience shifted; the lights casting a crimson hue down onto set, signifying that hell was about to ensue for one of the bottom queens, both shaking nervously, hand in hand.
“Diana Forest, which queen have you chosen to be exterminated?”
Fantasia asks, raising one eyebrow as Diana steps forward to reveal who she has chose. The room was completely silent, almost everyone - barring Smacahoe, casually examining her acrylics - anticipating the first chop of the season
“I have chosen…”
The scene dissipates into darkness, transitioning over to a completely different setting; the exterior of a decrepit, mid-century motel. A dampness lingers in the evening air, the cracked asphalt slick from recent rainfall. A flickering neon sign - Don't Ask, Don't Tell Motel - towers over the empty parking lot, its cyan glow bleeding into the starless night.
There's a stale, lifeless ambience to the locale which was close to silent, barring the occasional flickering light bulb and the distant hum of the highway. The click-clack of heels brings some life to the scene as a buxom figure struts across the parking lot, her black nails tapping away at the cracked screen of her android.
The echo of her heels ceases as she approaches Room No4. A stray cockroach who had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time finds itself crushed beneath a clear lucite platform. The queen double checks the information on her screen - she has Craigslist Personals open in her browser. She takes a moment to adjust herself and hikes her breasts up. Content, she knocks on the door and waits for a response.
The door opens a moment or so later - apparently of its own accord - revealing the dim and musty interior of the suite. There's nobody in the room. A familiar Amazon Echo sits on the dressing table, amid an artillery of BDSM toys: handcuffs, whips, butt plugs. The Echo fills the empty space with the sultry track ‘Sex To The Devil’ by Icky Blossoms, a rather obvious nod to the previous challenge.
“JungleJim4322@yahoo.com?” asks Robyn Boyfriends, lingering in the doorway. She looks around the room, a leather pup mask dangling casually from her free hand, “I'm here about the roleplay? I guess I'll make myself at home…”
Robyn perches on the edge of the bed, the mattress giving a rusty squeal as she sinks into its lumpy mass. She examines her surroundings: a dingy room that was dimly lit by a lone bulb, hung loosely from the ceiling and flickering on and off. A vast canvas of mold spread across the walls, the disheveled floral print wallpaper ripping at the seams and exposing damp stains. Stains also traversed across the carpet, entangled within the fibres were crumbs of food, drenched in a concoction of bodily fluids.
It was like the movie Psycho, but with way more asbestos.
Robyn notices knotted rope dangling suggestively from each of the headboards two posts - this wouldn't be the first time she'd been tied to a bed. At the foot of the bed was some starched white fabric, folded into a neat little pile. Examining the garment, she soon realized it was a full-length nightgown, though she thought that description was too generous.
In her opinion it was a giant, shapeless sack with two billowy sleeves. She'd come to the motel dressed to kill in some skintight latex, completely drenched in sweat and lubricant - but if JungleJim4322 wanted her to dress like some frumpy virgin sacrifice, then she was simply going to have to change. It was all part of the gig.
Five minutes had passed.
The Icky Blossoms song had faded into the next track: ominous latin chanting. Her wrists were restrained, the rope agitating her skin. With her arms suspended, the sleeves collapsed into a heap at each shoulders, exposing her masculine biceps. Everything else, though, was pure woman - the dense fabric forming a blanket over her curves and swerves.
A trinity of hooded figures surrounded the bed, each one looking like a klansman who'd been dipped in red ink. The Craigslist ad didn't mention anything about an orgy, but then again, it was Christmas not too long ago - the more the merrier. Robyn feigned discontent, each moan, groan and squirm performed in an exaggeratedly seductive way.
The prominent figure in the middle - JungleJim4322 - or she assumed, approached her, raising their obviously fake sacrificial knife.
“Come on big daddy,” Robyn purred, “What are you waiti--”
All of the air left her lungs. She felt as if she was being flattened. Her eyes rolled back, gazing at the moldy wall looming over the bed - it was then and only then that she noticed the red inverted pentagram painted into the wallpaper, surrounded by a perimeter of menacing runes and symbols.
Panic set in, adrenaline taking over and drowning out the pain. Robyn felt nothing in that moment but an overwhelming sense of numbness.
And then a sharp tug, like someone aggressively pulling a zipper. The fabric of her ugly robe was wet and heavy now, clinging to the latex underneath.
An ugly realisation began to set in as she remembered where she was, and then she felt a tight squeeze - it was like someone was blowing up a balloon inside her ribcage, and there just wasn’t any room left for the organs that already lived there. She looked down, the hooded figure was hunched over her, reaching into her torso, almost elbow deep.
There was an ugly gurgling sound as her killer withdrew their arm from her chest - the sound of trapped air being released. The three figures held their hands in the air now, revelling in their sacred act of brutality - one by one they remove their hoods.
Euthanasia, the winner of season one - not entirely thawed out having been recently been pulled out from the bottom of a frozen pond, but very much back from the dead.
Smacahoe, the winner of season two - similarly resurrected, with a gaping, bloody maw in her forehead.
And holding Robyn's still-beating heart in their tight grip was [REMOVED] the winner of season three and the current reigning supermonster.
“Hey sweets, let me introduce you to my friend - ,” says [REMOVED] examining the heart with a certain level of casual interest, “- she's called Satan, and she's always my plus one.”
“Ugh, I just love an iconic first out,” says Euth, “Don't you?”
“Welcome to the family, bitch.” says Smac.
Equal parts terrified, hysteric and starstruck, Robyn stares blankly at the iconic trio before passing out entirely.
“Robyn Boyfriends, I’ve picked Robyn for two reasons, Princest is more active in the main chat, she’s clearly making a connection with the girls and shows that she wants it more. The other reason is that Robyn didn’t really follow the brief, unlike Princest who knew what she was supposed to do.”
The hosts nod, Princest hugging Robyn before leaving the front of the stage, followed by Diana who nods at her and pats her back.
“Robyn Boyfriends, you were one of the earliest ones to be cast for this season, and every second I have got to know you, you’ve proved to be an amazing person. You scream potential, and first eliminated or not, you had the possibility to go the extra mile. Always and forever a ghoul to our hearts. You may now… leave the stage.”
“Thank you.”
Robyn mutters, winking at the panel before turning around to blow a kiss goodbye to her fellow queens and kings. She pushes onto the doors at the exit, waving one last goodbye.
[ROBYN BOYFRIENDS]: It’s sad to leave this early, but I did my best. So long ghouls!
The doors slam shut, the contestants lined up at the back, either side of the stage and looking at Fantasia and Smacahoe, awaiting dismissal.
“Our Ghouls, this season will continue to test your creativity more and more every week we go. If you want to last and keep showcasing your talents, which you all have, concepts are going to have to be elevated. Make your stamp on the competition, because as this just shown, no one knows how long your time will last.”
Fantasia declares, a bang occurring as she stopped talking, the tense crescendo of music in the background becoming louder as a montage of the contestants facial expressions appear.
“Anywho, see you next week!”
Smacahoe says, the elimination ending and fading to darkness. The text: REDDIT DRAGULA sprawls out across the screen, marking the start of a new episode.
“I WON BITCHES!”
The joyous scream of Diana falls in before the new scene, each contestant scattered throughout the manor, but most of them in the living room. It was the return after results, and some people were much happier than others; Princest staying with her head held high, but clearly not happy, sitting on the sofa besides Satina who prods her cheek, Diana seen in the background excitedly skipping around in circles.
“Turn that frown upside down silly.” She rubs her hair jokingly, happy to see Princest break out into a smile. “You did your best, and like they said, you have so much potential.”
“I know, It just sucks a bit. Oh well, I’m still here, and ready to slay.”
“You got it girl.” Tish winks at her from the opposing chair, but looking over to Catheterina who was in a world of her own; staring off into the distance and itching her head. “You ok?”
“I mean…”
She snaps back into reality, sitting back comfortably on the sofa and looking around the room.
“I’m happy to have been safe! I still think you should’ve been low-”
Catheterina gestures to Tish, who frowns slightly at the statement, but hears her out anyway.
“And I’m really happy you won, the first winner always makes finale but you’re ready to break that tradition.”
She turns to Diana, who laughs, only that no one else was. Flashback Mary briefly comes into focus, overhearing the shade from the kitchen in the distance and spazzing out, finger waving and repressing her want to scream. Ava chuckles, standing besides her and calming her down.
[CATHETERINA DICK]: I’m not bitter at all, but girl. Tish’s scene was cringey. I’m happy to be safe, and hopefully I’ll be the first winner to have placed safe in the first episode.
“I mean as you saw, they struggled to justify why anyone should win over the other.” Satina reminds them, looking over her shoulder and watching Hettie walk over, who hesitated to continue doing so after seeing the awkward tension. “How you doing girl?”
“I’m doing good thanks. I listened to my critiques, I’m happy I was safe and I’m going to improve next week.” She takes a seat on the arm of the chair that they were sat on, looking around at her fellow cast.
“And I’m doing absolutely great!”
Diana runs over, slipping on the polished floor as she does so and slamming against it, the unimpressed faces of many coming into view as she falls from view of the lens. Princest holds a hand out to help her up, a flustered and embarrassed Diana still maintaining her excitement about having just won the episode, clapping for herself before she sat down.
“I’m so fucking happy that I won, I don’t know what’s with me and winning the first challenge but I’m fine with it.”
Steve purses her lips to resist breaking out into laughter, looking directly into the camera and raising her eyebrows, breaking the fourth wall.
[STEVE]: I am so excited for her and damn she deserved it, but I can just tell by the people around me that everyone here wants to do so well, and people are going to start getting aggy if she keeps saying it.
A montage of Diana plays, showing her gesture placing a crown on her head, winking at the others, breaking out into Britney tunes and frantically laughing at any talk of results.
[STEVE]: And I fucking love it.
The television screen mounted above the fireplace switches on, the scoreboard from the prior episode being shown. Lucy Goosey walks past the lot, looking over at the TV as she walks by and not looking happy to see her name at low, whilst the others watch Diana point to her own name and congratulate Steve and Tish for being in the top with her.
“How you doing girl?” Ava asks, making space for her by moving to the next stool over. “I’m ok thanks, kind of miffed about my placement but I still did good and know I can do better this week.”
“That’s it queen, you’ve got this as much as anyone else does.” Flashback raises her glass up, making a toast with the other two in celebration of surviving the first week.
“I’m hoping to do a bit better this week, It’s kind of sucks to be told that I came from last season so more is expected. I know I can bring it though.”
The doors to the lounge burst open, almost flying from their hinges as someone new makes their abrupt entrance. The sudden noise and movement startles the ghouls, putting a premature end to their toast. There's a small explosion of broken glass as a single champagne flute hits the floor.
“Flops!” A bougie british voice calls out, the click-clack of her fake louboutins against the floor announcing her proximity, “Gather around your queen.”
The ghouls form a semicircle around the newcomer, each of their faces displaying a range of confused and irritated expressions.
The newcomer is decked out in a largely unchanged copy of their totally iconique and totally not irrelevant entrance look from (trigger warning) Reddit's Rising Stars.
The only difference is that Smacahoe lazily applied a Hello Kitty bandaid over her very real bulletwound. Smac takes a drag from her cigarette, taking a silent headcount of the ghouls in the group.
[TISH]: “Talented, brilliant, incredible, amazing, show stopping, spectacular, never the same, totally unique, completely not ever been done before, unafraid to reference or not reference, put it in a blender, shit on it, vomit on it, eat it, give birth to it.”
“Smaca!” Satina cries.
Kill Bill sirens blare, no doubt added in during post-production.
Smac glares at her for a moment before snatching her champagne flute. She takes a sip from it, before stubbing out her cigarette in the bottom of the glass.
“I'm back from the dead, I'm skinnier than ever, I still hate being called Smaca, and I'm here to deliver a message-,” Smac announces, nonchalantly passing the glass over to Tish, “We're going on a field trip.”
There's a chorus of oohs and ahhs, and the obligatory cutaway to a filler monster announcing that they're going to win this challenge goddammit.
Tish notices that Smac's lipstick is imprinted on the rim of the glass, and discretely places the item into a ziploc bag.
“But first, I'd like to congratulate Diana on her first ever win!”
“Actually,” Diana interrupts, “If you check the spreadsheet on Rising Sta--”
“But more importantly,” Smac says dismissively, “Everybody pack your shit, we're leaving.”
PORT OF WEHO | LATER THAT EVENING
The pacific fog floats across the dark waters, rolling in with the tide. The setting sun appears to evaporate entirely, the murky grapefruit-coloured sky gradually shifting into a shade of purple. It's almost as if this gloomy place is entirely immune from the arid southern California climate.
We watch from a distance as the monsters spill out of a minivan and onto the curb. They mill about awkwardly with their luggage, gawking up at the row of cruise ships - several tall, white leviathans, seemingly floating over the blanket of fog - with all the class and decorum of a herd of tourists from the Midwest.
“Oh wow,” says Princest, “I didn't even know that West Hollywood has a port!”
Smac claps her hands, drawing the groups attention. She inexplicably has a new cigarette, lit and hanging from her teeth.
“For this weeks challenge, you'll all be creating ghostly floor shows aboard one of these luxurious ocean liners--”
“Is it that one!?” Lucy squeals, pointing a manicured finger up at the MS Oprah - easily the largest and most expensive looking cruise ship in the port, “It HAS to be that one! It has an onboard Tesla dealership!”
“No,” Smac says, flicking her cigarette away, “Do people still care about those? It's that one over there.”
Smac gestures towards a smaller and much older vessel. Dozens of portholes are scattered across the sleek, black hull, a warm amber glow radiating from within. A string of lanterns runs the length of the ship, from bow to stern, wrapping around the various masts and the single, black chimney during their travels.
A stained glass dome adorns the uppermost level of the ship, no doubt a window overlooking an opulent ballroom or grand foyer of some sort. Even though the ship is well past its prime and vastly overshadowed by its neighbors, it possesses an intoxicating aura of charm and menace found in so many other places of historical significance.
This sad vessel has stayed far too long at the party, and has clearly witnessed more than its own share of things. The faintest sound of melancholy jazz floats down to the port from the empty decks.
“This-” Smac announces, “Is the MS Cortez-- ”
“Correction!” A new voice calls out, accompanied by the sound of heels on concrete, “This ship has been renamed the MS PortiaBella.”
“Says who!?” Smac asks, peering through the fog.
“By its brand new owner-” a thick and juicy silhouette struts through the haze, slowly coming into focus, “-Me!”
“Portia!?” Smac is bemused, “I thought I could smell gluten.”
“And I thought you were dead-” Portia says, examining her custom Jenny Bui toadstool acrylics, almost buried beneath a mass of gold and diamond rings, “-so you can imagine my disappointment when I heard your fake British accent just now.”
The RD4 ghouls are stunned, of all the queens they'd expected to come in and throwdown with Smac, Portia - voted miss congeniality back in season 2 - was probably at the bottom of the list.
“Also, that's a brave fashion choice by the way,” Portia says, observing Smac’s Lil Kim in Lady Marmalade inspired look, “You're just so BRAVE to rewear an entrance look, who cares if certain people think that's reductive!”
“I'm being self referential.” Smac says defensively.
Portia pops out a hip, although you wouldn't be able to tell. Her body is completely buried beneath a floor length ostrich feather coat - hand dyed a vivid shade of peach. She casually shrugs it off, allowing it to fall into a heap on the damp concrete. She's wearing an equally audacious ostrich feather coat beneath the first, this one hand-dyed lavender.
“One last thing-” Portia adds, gesturing towards Smac's bullet wound, “-you're leaking.”
“When did you get so rich? I don't remember you winning any seasons-” Smac suddenly remembers Comedy Queens, “-any relevant ones at least.”
“I sued Rob Kardashian, and I won-” Portia says matter-of-factly, “And Jessica Simpson, Kelly Clarkson… Adele... Meghan Trainor too, actually.”
Everybody remains silent, unsure of how to process this ridiculous information.
“As you all know I'm great friends with Shia Lebeouf, and he introduced me to Sia, who introduced me to--” Portia realises she's losing them, “-basically I'm now very good friends with certain members of the US Supreme Court, so when I went forward with my allegations-”
“Wig! What allegations?” Fanta asks, strutting through the mist and joining the group, “Did I miss something?”
“Allegations that the celebrities I just mentioned who had purposely became obese with the sole intent of plagiarising my identity to illegally profit off of my likeness-” Portia explains, “And I won. I've literally earned millions in damages.”
“Scream.” Fanta says, followed by literally nothing else.
“So I've bought this vintage ocean liner so I can turn it into the world's first plus sized exclusive body positive gay luxury cruise for bears - but when I had it inspected I was told it wouldn't be able to handle all of that extra weight, so there goes that idea.”
Portia stares off into the distance wistfully for a moment.
“I was even gonna work onboard as a ghost ship tour guide…”
“Why would you work on your own cruise ship?” Smac asks, “You're literally a millionaire.”
“I was only going to work part-time!” Portia cries, “Anyway, I thought it would be super CONGENIAL if I let you all use my ship for your little challenge. Try not to break anything.”
SUMMARY:
For this weeks challenge you'll be creating ghostly floorshows aboard the MS PortiaBella, a neglected, art deco ocean liner with a macabre past.
When designing your individual concepts, consider the various factors and how you can communicate them in your writing:
How/when/where/why did you become a ghost?
Which part of the ship are you haunting? Did you die there? Maybe it was your favourite spot, or held some other kind of significance?
Was your death a murder? Suicide? An accident?
As a mortal, were you a passenger or part of the crew? What social class would you have belonged to?
How do you behave as a ghost? Are you tragic? Crazy? Evil? Seductive? Do you have any motives for why you act the way you do?
What time period do you originally belong in? Would we be able to tell just by looking at you? For reference, the ocean liner has existed - active, retired, or otherwise - from the 1920’s up until the present day.
Remember, wherever possible, try to show us these things rather than just telling us. This is a descriptive piece of writing, not a list of attributes.
You will have free reign of the ship, but please restrict your floorshow to one room or area.
You also have the luxury of creating your own sets and locations, but they must be believable and relevant to the established setting.
Remember the ocean liner is in a state of moderate neglect. Nothing is likely to be in mint condition unless you are presenting your floorshow as a direct glimpse into the past.
DEADLINE: Monday 14th January, 9pm CST. As this challenge doesn’t require as much time considering it’s only a floorshow, please try and get it in the week time frame. Not saying anyone won’t, but there’s no reason not to unless something major happens.
SPREADSHEET: https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1wysBvt45oyuoBP1apJ89H7r2sG3Asow_Fl5S3KJyojc
Remember that you’ve all received some form of critique from last episode also! Please take them into account as if you don’t, there’s a chance you might not progress and get a placement you’re not happy with.
Submitted January 08, 2019 at 02:41AM by bbukrpdr http://bit.ly/2Qwj86W
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