"The Shock" by Amber Kennedy

“Shut up, Bob! You’re a dirty old drag queen, and your pantyhose are too damn stretched to fit over your fat butt. That’s the god honest truth, and you know it.” Bob is wearing pink highway shorts with a plain black top. His boots are to his knees, covering up his hairy legs. His beard is longer than his hair, and his make-up is extra dry. “Like a Virgin” by Madonna is playing loud, drags are prancing around, and alcohol is being served. Bob shakes his head and orders the strongest drink, a Red Tail. He drinks as if there is no tomorrow.

Bob points his finger in my face and screams “Do not talk to me like that, I have feelings!”

The disco lights drop, and the club is crunker than ever. Bob is wistful. Money is his issue. No one wants an old, gray bearded drag queen who’s always complaining. His stomach is massive from drinking beer, wrinkles on top of wrinkles, and his breath stinks of alcohol. Besides he’s broke. He’s jealous of me; I have everything he wants and more. Everyone adores me.

“Maybe you should consider retiring as a drag.” His facial expression drops as he drinks several more shots. He stands, scratches his beard, and pulls at his skirt.

“I will not sit here and let you talk to me any kind of way.”

Bob exits the club, as I call out to him “Bob! Bob!” But, he keeps walking. A good looking man with bright yellow shorts, and a lacy pink top walks in. He passes by me and leaves a sweet smelling scent. I turn to look at the door and then turn back to follow the customer.The next morning, stopping at Bob’s apartment the door is wide open. The couch is flipped, the television is missing, and clothes and beer cans fill the floor. Kicking through them, I find a blood trail leading into the bathroom. I call out to Bob, but the house sits in silence.

My heart pounds. I had told Bob to retire, not kill himself.

I stop in the middle of the hall wall and sink into the dirty white carpet. Questioning myself. Is this my fault? Am I responsible? What have I done? My cries get louder and louder, then softer and softer. I hear something at the front door, and I rapidly grab the candle holder off the wall. I walked slowly to the door, and to my surprise, Bob is standing there washing his hands on his favorite white glitter shirt.

“Oh snap” he screams, but then he realizes it’s only me. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Distracted by the blood on his shirt, I say “What have you done Bob,” slowly backing up, tightly gripping the candlestick handle.