XIII: Su Propia Liga

Suddenly, the view through the scope was completely obscured. Dixie raised her head, lowered the gun, and looked at the end of it. There, perched on the stock just in front of the scope, was a very large, very scary looking bee. Dixie studied the bee for a moment before giving the rifle a little shake, sending the bee buzzing off into the heat of the Nevada summer evening.
“Johnny,” she said, turning to him, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Undocumented drag queen day laborers!” they cried in unison, before gunning the motors of their mopeds and speeding off down the strip.

The shifty and eccentric Johnny Go and his beautiful and psychotic sidekick Dixie Doublestacks hopped off their mopeds in the parking lot of a hardware store called the Handyman’s Tool Buffet and raced around the side of the building. They skidded to a stop and looked appraisingly up and down the row of laborers leaning casually against the wall, waiting for work to come to them.
There were a lot of workers, strong and able, but Dixie and Johnny were looking for a very specific type of laborer, and this was the fourth hardware store in the desert borderlands that they’d stopped at on their quest. Dixie lifted her hand and shielded her eyes in the bright glare of the Texas sun. Johnny squinted. Dixie gasped.
“Johnny, I think I see them!” She pointed to a small group standing at the end of the line, dressed differently than the rest of the laborers.
“Oh yeah,” Johnny said. “It’s about damn time.”
“Let’s move!” The two raced past the other laborers, who mostly ignored them, given that they didn’t look like they were leading a construction project and hadn’t arrived in a truck.
They skidded to a stop in front of a group of ten drag queens, made up to the nines in fabulous women’s clothing, and resembling the most prolific entertainers the world has seen. Johnny took off his cowboy hat, which sported an ace of spades tucked into a sequined band and nodded to the queens.
“You ladies lookin’ for work?”
“You have a club?” asked one. She had a thick accent and was dressed as a kind of day off, casual Jennifer Lopez, in a velour sweatsuit, mirrored sunglasses, and with enormous gold hoops in her ears.
“Depends,” Dixie said. She stepped closer to the Jennifer Lopez and looked her up and down critically.
“On what?” another asked. It was a Shakira this time.
“On if you’re any good.”
“Ladies,” Johnny said, beginning his pitch, “My partner and I have a vision, and we’re looking to assemble a team that will help us realize that vision. We have the brains, we just need the talent. We’re here to make you famous!”
“How you gonna do that if you don’t have a club?” asked another queen, who was impersonating someone Dixie and Johnny didn’t recognize.
“How you gonna get famous without us if you don’t have any papers?” Dixie shot back. The queen looked down at the ground.
“We’ll give you ten minutes to think it over while we go get our van,” Johnny said. “Anyone who wants me and Dix to manage them into stardom, meet us around front. Anyone else…” he turned and started to walk away. “Good luck with La Migra.”
There was a gasp from the queens as Dixie and Johnny walked away, and they immediately huddled up, whispering and pointing anxiously.
“Nice work with the La Migra comment,” Dixie said as they walked.
“Yeah, figured it couldn’t hurt,” replied Johnny. “So what do you think?”
“Eh, they’re clearly the junior varsity of drag performers, but it’s not like we’re in New York. For Texas, they’ll do.”
It took Dixie and Johnny only a few minutes to locate the vans that the hardware store rented out to customers. Naturally, they hotwired one, and were waiting near the corner of the building when the drag queens made their way over. All ten of them.
Dixie smiled.
“So glad you girls could make it,” she said as the queens clambered into the back of the van. There were no seats, so they arranged themselves on the floor.
“Who’s ready for fame and fortune?” Johnny Go asked. He gunned the engine and they tore out of the parking lot.

***

“All right, bitches!” Dixie shouted. “Show us what you’ve got!” They were parked on a remote stretch of highway and the desert sun beat mercilessly down on the queens, who were standing in a row in front of the van. Dixie and Johnny were on ratty lawn chairs in the small amount of shade provided by the van, drinking a case of Lone Star that they’d picked up at a gas station on the way.
“It’s too hot here,” the Selena complained. “My outfit gonna get ruined by sweat.”
“It’s a shitty outfit anyway,” Dixie said, tossing her empty beer can toward the group. “Selena would never wear such a cheap bustier.”
“It’s true,” Johnny added. “You’re gonna need a new one before we can perform anywhere. We’ll front you the money and take it out of your earnings.”
“But-”
“Dance!”
And so the queens started their routine, encompassing all the hits of the stars they were portraying. With some, the likeness was uncanny. With others, a little pathetic. Some were quite innovative; Dixie and Johnny were particularly fond of the Tina Turner, who performed a delightful version of Proud Mary en español. And then there was the queen who was portraying someone they still didn’t know, so they couldn't tell if she was any good.
When the performances were finished, Johnny stood and addressed the troupe.
“I didn’t hate it,” he told them. “But it needs a lot of work if anyone, anywhere, is going to pay you anything at all for this performance.”
“You’re in luck, though,” Dixie said, getting to her feet. “Because Johnny and I are pros, and we’re willing to take on this project.”
“You’re pros?” asked the Cher. She raised an eyebrow skeptically.
“I’ll have you know that I was once the best burlesque dancer in all of Europe,” Dixie shouted angrily. Johnny handed her another beer before she could fly into one of her characteristic full blown rages.
“That’s right. And I, of course, am the son of Elvis, so I think I know a thing or two about show business.” Johnny wasn’t the son of Elvis, and had, in fact, been told this directly by the King himself, but still chose to believe that he was. “Now, let’s run it through one more time and then we’ll go get some dinner.”
“Gloria, I’m gonna need you to work on your facial expressions,” Dixie said, returning to her chair. “Constipation isn’t an emotion.”
“And the two Shakiras,” Johnny said, pointing, “You better come up with a novel reason that we need two of you.” The two Shakiras glared at one another, but nevertheless began a duet of Hips Don’t Lie where they attempted to seduce one another, but succeeded only in looking like they wanted to fight.
They were about halfway through the set when there was a commotion among the chorus line, followed by a loud shriek. One of the girls collapsed into a heap on the ground, and the rest crowded around frantically. Dixie and Johnny finished their beers in the hopes that whatever drama was unfolding would be over before they had to get up.
When the crowd of queens hadn’t dispersed after another couple of minutes, they got reluctantly to their feet and made their way over. The group parted to let them through, and there on the ground, covered in desert dirt, was the Selena.
“What the fuck?” Johnny asked.
“Serpiente de cascabel,” the Cher whispered, before crossing herself and bowing her head.
“A rattlesnake?” Dixie asked, Several others nodded. She turned to Johnny. “Well, this won’t do. We can’t be holding rehearsals out in the open like this if these chicks can’t survive a snakebite. We need a rehearsal space.”
At the mention of a rehearsal space, their eyes lit up and the queens temporarily forgot their fallen cast member.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Johnny asked Dixie. She nodded, then turned to the troupe.
“Ok, get sugar tits into the van,” Dixie ordered. The queens stood for a moment.
“We give her proper burial, right?” one asked.
“Oh yeah, of course,” Johnny replied. He cracked a beer and headed to the van. “Proper novena and everything.”

***

The queens all filed into the rundown roadside diner and took seats at the stools along the counter. The few other patrons eyed them with a mix of surprise and confusion, and the surly waitress working a double was outright irritated by the cloud of perfume that was seated at her counter. These ladies smelled like they’d spent the past week in the desert and were trying to cover it up with cosmetics. Foreigners, she thought, shaking her head.
While the ladies ordered and ate their food ravenously, Dixie and Johnny calmly dragged the body of the Selena out behind the diner and shoved her unceremoniously into the dumpster. They then hopped back into the van and took off down the highway.

***

The queens had finished their dinner and were standing outside of the diner in the gathering dusk, growing increasingly concerned that they’d been ghosted by their supposed managers. Panic was just starting to set in when they heard a faint putt-putt sound, like some kind of farm equipment. The sound grew louder until finally, down the rural highway, they could see that it was, indeed, farm equipment. An old tractor pulling a large wagon appeared, getting louder and larger as it got closer.
The tractor and wagon ground to a stop in front of the diner, drawing stares from the patrons both inside and out. Dixie and Johnny climbed down from the cab. They had both changed into what they considered their “management clothes”, consisting of black pants (cutoff dress slacks in Johnny’s case) and white guayabera shirts. Dixie had donned a cowboy hat similar to Johnny’s, but with a snakeskin band and an ostentation pheasant feather. They were both visibly drunk. Johnny gave the queens a theatrical bow.
“Ladies, our rehearsal space has arrived!”
“Que?”
“This is a…”
“Broma?”
“It’s a stage and a car,” Dixie said. “You gals aren’t going to be earning any money any time soon, so we had to economize. You can rehearse while we drive.”
“And we can put on a performance anywhere we want,” Johnny added. He lowered the wooden railings of the wagon and motioned for the girls to climb in. The wagon was full of old hay and had Dixie and Johnny’s chairs stacked in one corner.
The queens shared a look among themselves, then finally one of the Shakiras stepped forward and climbed awkwardly into the wagon. The rest soon followed, and when they were all in, Johnny flipped up the railing of the wagon, and he and Dixie headed to the tractor.
Johnny started the tractor and pulled out of the diner lot. Dixie turned around to pull another beer out of the cooler strapped to the back and looked up at the queens as she did. “So, any of you ladies know another Selena?”

***

They found their new Selena outside a strip club not far from El Paso. She had gone to the club to look for her boyfriend, and then had been removed by the bouncer when she attacked the woman who was giving him a lap dance. They found her sobbing near the door as the bouncer waved other guests inside.
Johnny Go approached her, tapping her on the shoulder. “Hey baby, how’s your I Could Fall in Love?” The woman turned to face him. Her makeup was streaming down her face and her eyes looked like a raccoon. He gasped. “Yikes! Girls? Clean up on aisle this chick!”
The queens gently coaxed the girl into the wagon and cleaned her up, explaining as they did what the arrangement was with Dixie and Johnny, who had headed into the strip club in the meantime.
They emerged a short while later to find their troupe assembled around the new girl, who looked a little more like Selena now that they’d done her makeup. The Gloria Estefan stepped forward.
“She only know Bidi Bidi Bom Bom,” she informed them.
“Ok, well we only have a ten minute set, so we probably don’t have time for her song anyway,” Johnny said.
“We have a show?” asked the Charo. “Where?”
“Right here,” Dixie gestured to the strip club, while twisting the top off of a bottle of tequila. She took a long swig.
“But this is a strip club,” the Tina Turner said. “We won’t have to take our clothes off, will we?”
“I mean, it’s a strip club, so yeah,” Johnny said with a shrug.
“Most people don’t like when I do that.”
“I no do desnuda,” the Whitney Houston said. She crossed her arms protectively across her chest.
“My tits aren’t real,” said the Jennifer Lopez.
“I assumed none of yours were,” Dixie replied with the type of superiority that only comes from having your own huge tits which are totally real.
“No, I mean mine are just sewn into the bra.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Johnny said. He turned to Dixie. “This isn’t gonna work. You wanna go to Plan B?” Dixie shrugged.
“Probably not enough foot traffic to make it worth it. But I guess if nothing else, it can just be another rehearsal.”
“What’s Plan B?”
“You get to work setting up the stage.”
“Right here?”
“Right here. Now, me and Dix are gonna go into the club while you do that. Come get us when you’re ready.”

***

A week later, while traveling through a series of small towns down on the Arizona-Mexico border, the troupe got their next break.
They came across a parade assembled on the outskirts of the town. There were brightly decorated floats, marching bands, a mariachi band, and dancers. The rear float, a massive flatbed covered in flowers and streamers, contained a taxidermied donkey, and a teenage girl in a ball gown seated, side saddle, on its back. A large banner on the front of the float declared that it was “Mayor Francis Day.”
“Ok, ladies, this is it,” Dixie said. The queens were in costume and assembled on the back of their wagon. Johnny was in the process of hooking up a speaker that he’d stolen from the strip club to an ancient tape deck. A wad of duct tape held the batteries in. The cables from the speaker emitted a thin spiral of smoke, but there were no sparks, so Johnny figured it was fine.
He popped a mixtape in and rewound it to the start. “As soon as this parade starts moving, you girls get into positions. I’ll ride back here with you so I can control the music. Dix is gonna drive.”
Dixie walked to the tractor and climbed into the seat. She cranked the engine and it wheezed to life. After some carefully timed stomping on the gas, she got it to a steady idle and turned back to Johnny.
“What are you thinking? Middle of the pack?”
“Yeah, as soon as you see an opening, gun it. I’m thinking we should stay away from the marching band, though, cause they’re gonna drown us out.”
“Aren’t we assigned a place in the parade?” Asked one of the Shakiras.
“Sure, if you’re signed up.”
“We’re not…” But before she could finish, the first marchers moved out.
“It’s go time.”

***

The first mile or so of the parade route was sparsely attended. Johnny instructed the queens to use it as a warm up. As they got closer to the small center of town, the crowds got thicker.
“Let’s reset,” Johnny told them, rewinding their tape. “The crowds are picking up and I think these rubes are ready for some real entertainment.”
When the tape was rewound, Johnny held his finger over the play button. He waited, and when they came beside the densest crowd of spectators they’d yet seen, he pressed the button.
The first strains of “Believe” crackled out and the Cher took her place in the front of the group. They didn’t have microphones, so they were going to lip sync this one. It was probably for the best, because not all the queens had good voices.
“Remember, girls,” Johnny called from his place in the hay at the front of the wagon. “We’ve got crowds on both sides, so you’re going to need to use the immersive choreo we worked on.”
The Cher got to work. She was tall anyway, but was wearing platform boots and a high, feathered headpiece, which left her towering above the crowd, who looked up in confusion. About halfway through the song, the music faded into “Jenny from the Block” and the Jennifer Lopez stepped forward. This got a bit more of a reaction from the crowd, but Jennifer was one of their poorer performers.
Her song was mercifully short, though, and the Shakiras were up next. Their act was still not coordinated, and what should have been an easy use of one on each side of the wagon resulted in a shoving match. Frustrated, Johnny fast forwarded the tape, which emitted a high pitched squeal. The crowd shouted angrily and covered their ears.
The tape began playing again in the middle of Charo’s song, and the queens quickly shoved her to the front, where she covered up her missteps by a performance that was over the top in its sexuality, including crude hand gestures and crotch thrusts. Dixie turned around in her seat to watch, which caused the tractor to drift slowly toward the crowd on one side. Johnny was on his feet, cheering, as this was the most enthusiasm they’d yet seen out of Charo.
Just before the tractor collided with the crowd on the side of the street, the police arrived and ejected them from the parade, escorting them to the edge of town at gunpoint. It was a Mayor Francis Day parade that the town would never forget.

***

“I’m worried, Dix. Morale is low. If we don’t get something big lined up for these queens, they might mutiny.”
“I know,” Dixie said, looking at the pile of drag queens asleep in the hay wagon. “And they might try to get revenge on us. Have you slept with any of them? Because I haven’t, so I can’t kill any of them proactively.”
“Yeah, me neither. I was trying to keep it professional.” They were sitting on the front of the tractor sharing a bottle of tequila. They’d been driving around for the past week, looking for a place where their troupe could perform, but had not managed to find a receptive audience.
“Maybe,” Dixie said, laying back on the tractor, “We should try to find an actual drag club?”
“I mean, it’s an idea.”
It was. Thus far, they’d attempted to perform in a variety of venues, but had not yet approached a drag club, or a venue with a drag review, or even a drag night.
Johnny polished off the bottle and tossed it across the little clearing next to the highway rest stop where they’d pulled in for the night. He slid down off the tractor and went to the box strapped on the back, where he pulled out another bottle.
“Where was that place we had to go that one time when Rex got hooked on the ‘Tussin and sold himself as a sex slave to that countess in order to keep himself in the green?” Dixie reached out her hand, waiting for Johnny to pass her the bottle.
“Oh, somewhere in Arizona, right?” Johnny asked. He took a long sip, then handed the bottle to Dixie. She, too, took a drink before handing it back.
“It wasn’t Flagstaff,” she said.
“No, Flagstaff was where we drove the car into the Holiday Inn.”
“I thought I saw a talking chipmunk,” Dixie laughed. “It’s a border town. Noggin, eggnog, something like that.”
“Nogales?” Johnny exclaimed.
“Yeah!”
“What about it?”
“Oh, um…” Dixie was quiet for a minute, trying to regain her train of thought.
“We went into that little theater and stole a costume so we could disguise Rex and sneak him out of that countess’s house.”
“That’s right!” Dixie said. “That theater was a drag club, wasn’t it?”
“I think it was. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
With that, while the troupe slept, they started up the tractor and careened, slowly and drunkenly, into the night.

***

They arrived in Nogales, Arizona just after sun up. The queens were stirring in the wagon, and Johnny had nodded off on the tractor, slumped against Dixie’s shoulder. Dixie was wide awake, staring straight ahead, and taking small but continuous sips from a bottle of tequila as she drove. When they finally reached the small theater, she guided the tractor into the empty parking lot and had just managed to cut the engine before passing out, hard, and tumbling from the seat to the gravel below.
Oblivious, Johnny Go awoke, reached for his own bottle of tequila, and turned to the queens, who were just beginning to stir.
“Ok ladies, this is it!” They sat up groggily and looked up at him. “First thing on the agenda today is breakfast, followed by a trip to that thrift shop over there. If you queens are gonna be taken seriously, we have to up your wardrobe game.”
“We no get new clothes?” asked the Gloria Estefan.
“This is a theater town, girls, and the quality of the merch in the thrift shops reflects that. Also, none of you bitches has earned a dime in close to a month, and since you’re all too good to give blowjobs, my guess is you can’t afford any new clothes.” A few of the queens hung their heads as Johnny continued. “Now, once we’re all dressed, we’ll head back here for a quick rehearsal before the main event.”
“Are we on the schedule tonight?” asked one of the Shakiras.
“Dix is gonna take care of that while we’re shopping. Now let’s get a move on. I want you all digested and cleared out before the show. Can’t have stage fright causing any accidents, if you know what I mean.” With that, Johnny marched off toward a small food cart that had been set up down the street. The troupe sleepily followed.

***

When they returned to the wagon, they found Dixie sitting atop the hood of the tractor, polishing off a foot long hot dog and washing it down with a beer. A new, already half empty, case sat beside her. She let out a ferocious wolf whistle as the troupe approached.
“You ladies almost look legit. Except you,” she said, pointing to the queen who was playing an unknown celebrity. “Who the fuck are you even supposed to be?”
The woman looked indignant. “Xuxa!” she said with a roll of her eyes, as if it should have been obvious.
“Whatever, whatever your name is,” Dixie said, pounding the rest of the beer she was holding. When she was done, she pitched the empty bottle at the queen, who just barely dodged it. “Just stay in the back and look hot.”
“You talk to anyone inside?” Johnny asked, walking up to the tractor and taking a beer out of the case.
“Nah, no one was in there until a minute ago. You wanna go in?” Johnny nodded and Dixie slid off the top of the tractor.
As they walked past the troupe, Johnny called over his shoulder, “You girls start rehearsing while me and Dix talk business.” A moment later they had disappeared inside the club.

***

“What do you mean you don’t have any slots?” Dixie demanded. She stared down at the plump man with the pleasant face who ran the theater and held a beer bottle threateningly. “I’ll give you a slot,” she muttered under her breath. The man didn’t seem phased.
“This is the only theater of its kind in southern Arizona, so demand is high. We have more performers than we know what to do with. We could perform round the clock for a year straight and we’d still only get through half the girls who want to play this venue.”
“Yeah, but our girls are tops,” Johnny said.
“They all are.” Dixie raised the bottle above her head, but the man simply shook his head and gestured toward the door. “Sorry I can’t help you. You wanna put your name down in the book, I’ll give you a call once we finally have an opening. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get set up. We have The Unspeakable Bakersfield Incident! tonight.”
Getting the hint, Dixie and Johnny left the office. They looked at the waiting list for performers, which was about thirty pages long. The troupes at the top of the list had signed up several years earlier. Dixie took a Sharpie out of her purse and scrawled a picture of an elephant’s asshole on the first page, then the two stormed out, stealing a pair of sparkly disco boots on the way.
“What are we gonna do now?” Johnny asked as they sat down on the curb in front of the club. Neither was ready to break it to the queens yet.
“We could kill this troupe that’s performing tonight,” Dixie suggested.
“Yeah, but can we really claim it’s self defense?”
“I mean, yeah, because if we don’t get these girls a gig, they’re going to kill us.”
“True.” They sat in silence for a while before Johnny continued, “I don’t want to go back over there, Dix. They’re just gonna look at us with those sad immigrant expressions. They’ve already spent half the afternoon complaining about being hungry.”
“You buy ‘em lunch?”
“Hell no. I spent enough money on these broads.”
They continued sitting. A few more cars pulled into the parking lot of the theater and various employees got out and headed inside to report for their shifts. Then a car full of people who were obviously early to see the show pulled in and sat, waiting patiently. Next, a van, much like an airport shuttle, pulled in and a troupe of drag queens piled out, dressed casually and each carrying several garment bags each.
Finally, a small lady pushing a tamale cart arrived in the parking lot and began to set up her operation in direct view of the theater doors, ready to cash in on all the hungry drunks later that evening. Dixie and Johnny got up and waited patiently while she went about her prep work.
From around the rear of the theater came their own troupe of queens. They spotted Dixie and Johnny and rushed over.
“Papi, we’re hungry,” complained the Jennifer Lopez.
“Well then you’re in luck,” Johnny replied. “Tamale lady’s here.”
“But we no have money,” said the Gloria. “You pay?”
“Hell no,” Dixie said. “What do we look like, millionaires?”

[Let the record show that at this point, Dixie and Johnny are actual millionaires.]

“But you said…” Shakira started, but trailed off.
Johnny turned to the tamale lady. “You wanna trade?” he asked her. She looked up, confused.
“These ladies don’t have any money,” Dixie clarified. “But they’re starving. So we’re willing to trade you.”
“One of them for a couple-a tamales.”
"You can have anyone you want, but if I were you," Dixie leaned in conspiratorially, "I'd take that one." She pointed to Xuxa. The tamale lady didn't react.
"Or how about one of the Shakiras? We don't need 'em both. What do you say? A shiny new Shakira for, like, all those tamales?"
“Comerciar,” Dixie said, pointing from the queens to the tray of steaming tamales. Finally understanding, the tamale lady’s eyes went wide with shock and she shook her head vigorously back and forth, then looked apologetically toward the queens.
“No, no,” she muttered. She then turned her attention to someone behind the group, nodding and beckoning him forward.
A slick looking guy pushed through and stopped in front of the cart. He was dressed like a cross between a sleazy country music manager and a desert preacher, all shiny suit, bolo tie, and many gallons worth of hat. He ordered in rapid fire Spanish, then took out a huge billfold and peeled off several large bills, handing them over to the tamale lady. She began doling out tamales, not just to him, but to Dixie and Johnny, and their queens, as well.
He took his own tamale last, then turned to Dixie and Johnny. “Name’s Zeke Longhorn. Most folks call me the Colonel. I manage the Unspeakable Bakersfield Incident! troupe.” He held out his hand and shook each of theirs in turn. “Havin’ trouble makin’ ends meet?”
“Well, not us,” Johnny said. “They are, though. Haven’t been able to get a gig in weeks.”
“Where you been trying?”
“Feels like every town on the border,” Dixie said. “Nothing but strikeouts. We tried theaters, clubs, titty bars-”
“They won’t take their clothes off, so titty bars are out,” Johnny added.
“Tried truck stops, roadside performances, community college parking lot, a parade.”
“Well, lemme stop ya right there,” The Colonel said. “You’re going about this all wrong. No one gets work like that anymore. If y’all are serious about this, and it looks like you are, then what you need to do is join a league.”
Dixie and Johnny stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, then, “A what?”
“A league. It’s a competitive drag circuit, acts as sort of a farm league for the bigger clubs in New York and San Francisco. Some of the girls have even gone on to Europe and Asia.”
“Is that right,” Johnny mused.
“That’s right. The real money’s in the dust leagues. Now this here’s the Transborder League, or Liga Transfronteriza, as the gals like to call it. There’s leagues all over these here United States, but honestly our league is probably the best in terms of talent, on accounta our proximity to the border. Only other league on par with us is the Monongahela League up in the Northeast. Yessir, lotta talent comes outta that league.”
“How do we join?”
“Well, you gotta register with the league office. That’s over in El Paso. You’re gonna need to choose a name, pay the fees, list the management, that kinda thing. Most troupes are named after where they’re based. Where y’all from, anyway?”
“Texas. But we’ve been in outer space for a while,” Dixie said. At this, the Colonel cackled.
“Anyway,” he continued, “Once you’re in, the league’ll add you to the schedule, and you’ll travel to wherever your next review is. Now, the league’ll supply mosta the things you’ll need, stage, lighting, sound systems. You’ll need to do your own costumes, ‘course. They also supply the judges. And you’ll get a book of the regulations. That’ll outline how each match up is structured and the criteria for judging.”
“Thanks, Colonel,” Johnny said. “How do you know so much about this, anyway?” Before the Colonel could answer, a big commotion around the door of the club caught their attention. They turned to see that, in the time they’d been speaking, the parking lot had filled up and a line of eager theater goers was crowded around the door, waiting to be let in. They’d begun a chant, in the hopes of being let in early.
The Colonel turned to Dixie and smiled. “The Unspeakable Bakersfield Incident! has been league champions every year since I took over management. Anyway, ten minutes to curtain.” He tipped his hat and started to walk toward the theater. “Be seein’ ya on the circuit, then!” he called over his shoulder.

***

The next day, the queens waited nervously on the sidewalk outside of a modest, vaguely governmental looking office building in downtown El Paso. After what felt like an eternity, Dixie and Johnny exited the building, which housed the Transborder League’s headquarters, and made their way down the steps and over to the group. On the way, Dixie fished an open bottle of Old English and her pearl handled switchblade out of the bushes, where she’d stashed them before going inside, in an attempt to look professional. Johnny held a stack of papers in his hand.
The queens gathered around them eagerly.
“Did we get it?”
“Cual es nuestro nombre?”
“Everyone in the wagon,” Johnny said. “We gotta get to Abilene by nightfall. We’ll explain on the way.” As the queens started climbing into the wagon, Dixie reached out and stopped one of the Shakiras.
“You. Either find a new schtick or we’re leaving you behind. We’re a legit club now, and legit clubs don’t need two Shakiras.”
The Shakira looked crestfallen, and several of the other queens moved closer to her in a gesture of support. They whispered among themselves for a few moments while Dixie and Johnny busied themselves getting their driving drinks set up. Finally, the Cher turned.
“She say she be Madonna.”
“Madonna, eh?” Johnny mused. “Ok, we’ll try it.”
Dixie turned back to the troupe. “You and you,” she pointed at no one in particular, “Take Madonna over to that thrift shop and get her a decent Evita costume. We’ll rehearse on the road and work the Madonna bit into the routine.”
That night they pulled up in front of a theater that was situated in a warehouse district, but that nevertheless had a large crowd waiting to be let in. Beside the door was a lighted marquee, which listed the match for the night. The queens looked at it.
“Are we the Casa Adobes Candy Apples or the Dallas Tejano You Didn’t?” asked the Jennifer Lopez.
“Tejano You Didn’t. Now get your stuff and get inside,” Dixie ordered.
Compared to what they had seen of the troupe from Bakersfield, their troupe didn’t have much in the way of costumes to bring inside, but they gathered what they had and hurried to the rear entrance of the theater. Dixie and Johnny tucked a case of beer each under their arms and followed.
This was it.

***

The performance in Abilene was a mess. The queens looked sloppy and kept forgetting their choreography. Those who were supposed to lip sync kept forgetting, singing over the audio track. Those who were supposed to sing also seemed to forget, leaving the audience with nothing more than awkward dancing over instrumental music.
The Casa Adobes Candy Apples weren’t ranked very high in the league, but were still head and shoulders above the girls from Tejano You Didn’t. Even when their performances were poor, they at least had decent costumes. Possibly the only thing their group had going for it was makeup, at which they were actually masters.
After the show, Dixie and Johnny herded the queens into the wagon and took off without so much as a word, but pulled over once they’d passed the outskirts of town. Dixie cut the engine She and Johnny climbed down off the tractor and stood, looking up at the wagon, and began to berate the troupe.
“That was amateurish and disgraceful,” Johnny said.
“No wonder none of you are documented,” Dixie added.
“I sure as shit wouldn’t document you.”
“Not with those tits.” She pointed at the group generally. There was a long silence while Dixie stomped to the tractor and pulled out two bottles of tequila and handed one to Johnny. Once they had each taken several long, angry sips, Dixie turned to the troup again.
“When we get Las Cruces, no one sleeps until we nail the Guantanamera number!” She turned to Johnny. “If they can’t muster up any emotion for that song on their own, I’ll get it from them another way.”

***

The next match, against the Laredo Up All Night, went better. The queens were less nervous and at least remembered whether they were supposed to sing or lip sync. Their dancing still sucked, though, and as they drove off, Dixie accused them all of having wooden legs. And they still looked like they were wearing thrift store costumes. Because they were.
So, on the way to Yuma, they detoured through Las Vegas so that Dixie and Johnny could steal a bunch of costumes from the stage show at the Stardust. When the team stepped onto the stage that night, they finally looked like the pros Dixie and Johnny wanted them to be, and they pulled off their first win.
That the win was against the Brownsville Skidmarks, who were known to be the worst team in the league, didn’t matter to them in the slightest. A win was a win.
They had a few nights off after that, which Dixie and Johnny used to abandon the troupe entirely in favor of a quick jaunt across the border to Tijuana. They returned, filthy and hungover, with just enough time to drive the troupe to their next match in Tucson.
Backstage that night, Dixie and Johnny were slumped over onto a couch in the locker room, each nursing an Out to Pasture, which was their preferred hangover remedy, and eating burritos the size of their forearms. They watched in something almost like interest as the queens set about on their hair and makeup.
“Ten minutes to curtain,” a stage manager announced a short while later. At that, the pair finally mustered the energy to stand and perform their final inspection.
“Ok ladies,” Johnny told them. “Line up. We gotta make this quick cause me and Dix… really can’t be standing up right now.” The queens obediently lined up before them and stood while Dixie and Johnny walked the length of the troup, first behind them, then in front. The queens held their breath, both because they didn’t want to get berated for not meeting the management’s standards, and because the two reeked of stale tequila and beef.
They were almost in the clear when Dixie and Johnny reached the end of the row, they stopped, staring hard at the Madonna.
“Where the fuck is the Evita costume we got you?” Dixie demanded of the woman, who was standing meekly, dressed in a pink baseball dress and a red hat.
“No. Is no for me. I do League. Azul verdad.”
“Of all the Madonnas, you picked A League of Their Own?” Johnny asked, incredulously. “She doesn’t even sing in that movie!”
“Two minutes!” the stage manager called again.
“Well, it’s too late now,” Dixie said. “We were probably gonna lose this one anyway, since this Artesia team is top three.” She addressed the group as a whole. “Cut Madonna down to one number. Tina, congrats, you get a third number. Do either ¿Que Tiene Que Ver El Amor Con Eso? Or No Necesitamos Otro Héroe.” The Tina Turner smiled and nodded smugly and the troupe trotted out to wait in the wings. Johnny headed to the theater to watch from the back row. Dixie went off to snoop in a prop closet.
The performance went really well, and it was clear that Tejano You Didn’t had surprised everyone. After the first round, when Dixie finally made it into the theater to sit next to Johnny, the score was tied.
“Where were you?” Johnny whispered as the Artesia Candy Apples took the stage. He had switched to vodka, which he generally considered to be a palate cleanser.
“Looking for this,” Dixie said, holding up a worn baseball. “How’d they do? Sounded like the crowd was into it.”
“They weren’t bad. Although Selena’s gotta stop picking those songs with the high notes. She just doesn’t have the pipes for it.” They sat in silence for a while.
“Marilyn Monroe?” Dixie scoffed as the Artesia troupe transitioned from one song to the next. “Comme c'est médiocre.”
“Do they give points for how old fashioned you are?”
“Well, I guess we’re gonna find out,” Dixie said as the Artesia set ended with a thunderous applause from the audience. “We’re up, and Madonna is, what, second in the lineup?”
“Yeah, after Shakira.”
“Ok, I’m gonna go throw a few warmup pitches.” Dixie slipped out the side door of the theater, baseball in hand.
The Madonna took the stage and pulled off a surprisingly good version of La Isla Bonita. Just before the ending, Dixie returned to the theater and walked up the aisle until she was almost at the stage. When the Madonna reached the last line of the song, Dixie wound up and unleashed a furious pitch. It landed right in the queen’s stomach as she uttered the final word, and she dropped to her knees on the stage in agony.
For a moment, the crowd was stunned into silence.
“There’s no crying in baseball!” Dixie screamed. The crowd exploded in a roar of delight, and the Tejano You Didn’ts won their second match.

***

They arrived at the venue for their next match early and hung around in the parking lot. By this time, the fans of the league had heard about the new troupe from Dallas, and a few showed up early. The queens chatted with the fans, flirted and signed autographs.
Dixie and Johnny were sitting in their lounge chairs beside the wagon, drinking beer and eating churros when the Jennifer Lopez approached.
“Patrón, Patrona,” she said nervously. “I have idea for the show.”
“Oh yeah?” Dixie asked.
“Sí. Mi novia, uh, girlfriend? She does the Ricky Ricardo. Very good. Would be great in our show.”
Johnny raised an eyebrow. “I love some Ricky. Girlfriend, huh? Is that allowed?” He asked, turning to Dixie.
“Drag kings? I guess we gotta check that… stuff the office gave us?”
“Oh yeah.” Johnny rooted around in the wagon until he came up with the league handbook. He was having trouble reading, but eventually found the section, which allowed for drag kings but noted that kings could make up no more than fifty percent of a troupe.
“Seems arbitrary, but ok,” Dixie said.
“Ok,” Johnny said to Jennifer. “We’ll take Ricky. But we can only have ten, so you gotta go tell Xuxa she’s fired.” He reached into his wallet and pulled out a crumpled ten dollar bill. “Here, give her this and tell her to get on the next bus to who gives a shit.”
The crowds were wild about Ricky Ricardo, and his presence in the troupe made the Jennifer’s performance better, too. Tejano You Didn’t started winning matches by more significant scores, but only to the lesser teams. Much to Dixie and Johnny’s disappointment, they still weren’t winning against the better teams.
“You know what I think?” Johnny asked Dixie one night as they were leaving the theater after a loss to the Calexico Candy Apples.
“That it’s time for some fine tuning?”
“Exactly.”
The next day, behind a rural gas station, they traded their Gloria Estefan for a Carmen Miranda. That night, they debuted a bit with Ricky Ricardo and Carmen Miranda singing Dream Police.
“Officer Ricky Ricardo is here to read you your Carmen Miranda rights.” The crowd went wild. It was the closest they had come yet to beating a top ranked team.

***

“Patrón, Patrona,” said the Whitney Houston excitedly. “This is my friend Celine Dion. She wants to join.”
Dixie and Johnny had been letting the air out of the tires of an ambulance that was parked near their wagon in a superstore parking lot. They looked up, intrigued.
“French, Spanish, or English?” Dixie asked.
“Whatever you prefer,” the Celine Dion responded.
“Gimme the ending of My Heart Will Go On en Español,” Dixie ordered, and a moment later the queen was belting out Mi Corazón Seguirá with no warmup.
“Ok, she’s in,” Johnny said, turning back to his work on the ambulance tires. “But we need more dancers. We can’t be a troupe full of crooners. Don’t any of you know any Christina Aguileras?”
“I’d even settle for a Britney Spears,” Dixie said, joining Johnny.
“Oh, and tell Charo she’s out.”

***

They were climbing in the rankings and had made it to the championships. They were worried, though, because they had yet to beat The Unspeakable Bakersfield Incident!, the Calexico Candy Apples, or the El Paso Pussycats.
“Johnny, I think the problem is our Selena is weak,” Dixie said one day after a close loss to El Paso. “We need to trade her for someone who can get to the end of Como la Flor without falling apart.”
“Well, our Jennifer Lopez is no star, either. I mean, she’s gotten better, but she’s no match for the Candy Apples’s Jenny From the Block bit.”
“This is what we get for picking our team up at Home Depot.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Let’s trade her.”
They dumped their JLo the next night and picked up a near-perfect Janet Jackson. Unfortunately, doing so split up the couple. Losing his girlfriend broke the heart of their Ricky Ricardo, who promptly bombed his next set.
“Hey, the season’s almost over and then you two can be together again,” Johnny told him.
“Look, it’s not personal. We’re just trying to win here.”
“Listen,” Johnny said, leaning in. “You help us win the pennant and next season, we’ll dump that Selena and bring back your girl.”
That night, they finally defeated Calexico. They were in the finals.

***

“You know, Papi, when you first say that you’re pros, but you drive a tractor and steal stuff, I think you’re scammers. But make us go to the finals!”
They were celebrating outside the theater by drinking warm champagne that Dixie had stolen from a liquor store. The Cher was standing on the wagon, towering above them, giving a toast.
“I just want you all to know that whatever happens at the finals next week, we’re only proud of you if you win.” The queens started to cheer, but then seemed to realize what Johnny had said, and their excitement fizzled out.
“Ok, let’s get moving. It’s a long way to Lubbock.”

***

“Don’t we have a restaurant here?” Dixie asked as they chugged into Lubbock, Texas.
“We… do we?”
“I mean, not us like you and me, but those people, you know, who we work with?”
“Oh! Swichay and Cheaty! Let’s go there, the ladies’ll love it!”
“You’re in for a treat, girls,” Dixie called back to the wagon. “A deep fried treat.”
After taking several wrong turns and clipping a fire hydrant with the tractor, they pulled into the parking lot at Certain Doom. The Lubbock restaurant was the third in a chain of successful deep fry restaurants that Dixie and Johnny were technically part owners of, but which was managed entirely by their business partners, Chichay Milano and Sweaty Mulligan.
They burst through the door of the crowded establishment, demanding a table for twelve and an owner’s discount. The staff, most of whom were hired locally and had never met the other owners of the restaurant, were confused.
“Where are Chichay and Sweaty?” Dixie demanded.
“Oh, the owners?” asked the manager.
“Yeah, the co-owners. We’re the other owners.”
“They’re actually back in Dallas this weekend. For a wedding.”
“A wedding? Whose wedding?”
“I don’t know, sir,” the manager said. “Anyway, we should have a table available for you in a few minutes.”
“I need to use your phone,” Dixie said. Before the manager or the hostess could react, she had reached over the hostess station, picked up the phone, and dialed the ranch house.
“Rex Ponticello here, and Rex rhymes with sex,” Rex said when he picked up.
“Rex,” Dixie shouted. “We’re at the restaurant in Lubbock and Chichay and Sweaty aren’t here. What the fuck is this about a wedding?”
“Oh yeah, Clover and Doris are getting married tomorrow.”
“They are?” Dixie asked. Johnny looked at her.
“What is it? Who’s getting married?”
Dixie placed her hand over the receiver. “Clover and that frizzy hair twat Doris.”
“Clover? Our driver?”
“Why didn’t anyone tell us?” Dixie asked Johnny, then immediately turned back to the phone. “Rex, why didn’t anyone tell us?”
“Oh, uh…” Rex stammered, realizing his mistake. “I don’t… I mean…”
“You cagey bastard!” Dixie screamed, then slammed the phone down.
“Come on, girls,” she said to the queens, who were standing around awkwardly, not sure what was going on. “We’re going to Dallas. We have a wedding to crash!”
With that, Dixie turned on her heel and stormed out of the restaurant, followed closely by Johnny. The queens hurried after them.
“But the match!” the Cher shouted.
“We won’t be back in time for the match,” said the Selena.
“Who cares?” Johnny shouted as he cranked the engine of the tractor. “Some things are more important.”
“So we forfeit?”

***

They drove through the night, with Dixie and Johnny taking turns at the wheel, and stopping frequently to buy more booze. They got progressively angrier at having been slighted, and were supremely agitated by the time they reached their ranch on the outskirts of Dallas.
When they turned the tractor and wagon down the long driveway at Brooklyn Heights Ranch, however, a feeling of calm resolve washed over them. They drove past the ranch house and saw that a huge tent had been set up on the lawn near one of the old barns on the property. Another, smaller tent had been erected next to the large tent, and was clearly being used by a team of tuxedo-clad caterers.
The driveway, which ended in a large gravel area in front of another barn, was full of neatly parked cars. Dixie skipped trying to park there, and instead turned the tractor onto the grass, aiming it directly at the tent. They had arrived just at the end of the ceremony, so no one was outside, but as the tractor clanked to a stop, emitting a loud, backfiring bang when Dixie cut the engine, the sleazy and familiar face of their friend Rex Ponticello appeared at the door. His look was a mix of amusement and horror as he took in the scene, but before he could react, the pair were off the tractor and heading toward him. The troupe looked confused, but started to stand and climb down from the wagon.
“What are you guys doing here?” Rex asked in a stage whisper. He was wearing a black tuxedo with a black shirt, and looked a bit more like a skeletal undertaker than a guest at a black tie affair. “Who are all these people with you?”
“The Tejano You Didn’t Drag Review,” Dixie said. She cracked a new bottle of tequila she’d brought from the tractor and took a long pull.
“What?”
“It’s a troupe of undocumented drag queen day laborers that we manage. God, Rex. How do you crash a wedding?” Johnny reached for Dixie’s bottle and took a drink himself before attempting to push past Rex into the tent. Dixie was right behind him.
Inside, they could see that the space had been divided in half, with men sitting on one side and women on the other. Rex put out a hand and stopped them both.
“Shh!” he said. “The ceremony’s almost over, just wait.” They turned and glared at him. “And you can’t be drinking alcohol in there!”
“Why the hell not?” Dixie demanded. “And what’s up with this boys and girls shit? What is this, Catholic school”
“Clover is Muslim, you know that. The genders aren’t supposed to mingle. And that’s also why you can’t have this tequila.” He took the bottle from Dixie and tossed it across the lawn. It landed with a thud past the catering tent. Before he had even turned back to them, Dixie had pulled a flask sized bottle of whiskey out of the pocket of her guayabera shirt and taken a sip. Rex sighed. “Look, just wait until the ceremony is over, you can sit down and have dinner with all the guests. Just don’t cause a scene, ok? These are somber, devout people and monkeys, and they won’t appreciate your usual wedding shenanigans.”
“What about the queens?” Johnny asked.
“We don’t have enough tables,” Rex said, doing a quick count of the troupe. “But they can go up and sit on the porch of the ranch house and I’ll send the caterers up with some food.”
“This is bullshit,” Dixie muttered.
“When’s the band start?” Johnny asked. “We’re gonna need to make sure they know at least some of our music.”
“What?” Rex asked, confused. “No, there’s no band.”
Johnny looked at Dixie. “We’ll have to use our sound system, then. It’ll be low tech compared to what the queens are used to, but they’ll manage.”
Rex was about to warn them off of whatever ill-conceived plan they were formulating when a sedate cheer arose from the tent. The ceremony had concluded.
“Just wait here while I talk to the planner and get seats for you two.” He darted off, and when he did, Dixie and Johnny turned and addressed the troupe.
“Ok, here’s the plan: we’re going to start off with the routine we used against El Paso, but we’ll move the baseball bit up in front of I Wanna Dance With Somebody because I think by then, people will be feeling the music and want to get up and dance.”
“If they want an encore, we’ll go with Hips Don’t Lie and close it out with Guantanamera,” Dixie told them. The queens nodded, obedient but skeptical.
“Now, we’re gonna need to move this wagon to the door so we can pull it inside when they’re ready. I had a look in there and I don’t see a stage. You ladies get to work on that while I rig up our sound system.”
They got to work, and while they did, the wedding guests formed lines at the front of the tent to congratulate the bride and groom. Three quarters of the guests on Clover’s side were orangutans. Only a handful of women were on Doris’s side, most of them also orangutans. It seemed as if her own family had not been supportive of this union.
While that was happening, the catering crew was quickly and efficiently setting up tables and chairs for the meal. When the hay wagon got stuck coming through the doorway, they shifted seamlessly to using a different door. They were true professionals.
The receiving line kept most of the guests distracted from the goings on at the rear of the tent, and so Dixie and Johnny had gotten the wagon inside, and the sound system set up, before anyone noticed. And the people who noticed were Chichay and Sweaty, who stormed across the tent, hoping to avoid making a scene.
Sweaty wore a similar black tuxedo to Rex. Chichay wore a long red gown that covered her neck, chest, and shoulders, and that draped in such a way as to suggest that she sported a killer figure without actually revealing it. She wore a sheer scarf over her hair which was trimmed with delicate gold beading.
Chichay and Sweaty arrived from their respective gendered sides of the tent and stopped at the common area in the back, looking at Dixie and Johnny’s spectacle in horror, but to one another in relief that neither would have to deal with this debacle on their own.
“What the hell do you two think you’re doing?” Chichay hissed.
“Chich!” Dixie exclaimed. She had polished off another bottle of tequila during setup. “You look fuckin’ hot!”
“You guys can’t do this,” Sweaty said. He walked toward Johnny, who was fiddling with his makeshift sound system.
“Don’t worry about the entertainment! We brought some!” Johnny shouted happily. He snapped the speaker on. An electrical buzzing sound filled the tent. A few guests who were just sitting down to dinner turned and looked.
“There’s no music at a Muslim wedding,” Sweaty said, watching in horror as the ten drag queens filed into the tent, climbed up on the hay wagon, and took their places.
“There is now! Hit it, girls!” Johnny pressed play on the old boombox and the tape began to spin. As the first strains of music filled the tent and more heads turned, so too did sparks from the shoddy wiring on the speaker begin to fly. Dixie stood to one side, keeping a critical eye on the queens as they started their routine. Johnny stood on the other side, every so slightly acting out the dance moves.
Neither one noticed when the sparks from the speaker ignited the old hay that still filled the wagon. Chichay and Sweaty were initially concerned only with turning the music off and getting the scantily clad drag queens out of the tent, and so only noticed the fire after it had spread, consuming half the hay and part of the Carmen Miranda’s gown. While Chichay ran off to get a fire extinguisher, Sweaty took off his tuxedo jacket and attempted to put out the fire on the burning queen.
While his back was turned, Johnny plugged the speaker in again, and this time the sparks shot upward, catching the ceiling of the tent. The fire from the hay had spread to several other queens, sending the cheap fabric of their costumes up instantly. At first they attempted to dance through it, but then quickly resorted to trying to put one another out.
Attempting to put the flames out, though, seemed to only make them spread faster, and soon the walls of the tent were burning, too. By the time Chichay returned with the fire extinguisher, it was clear that the only option was to evacuate. Wedding guests began to scramble through the front entrance of the tent, and Rex, who had just returned from the catering tent, used a small switchblade to cut a hole in one side, which allowed more guests to escape.
Soon, the sound of emergency sirens could be heard in the distance, getting closer and louder, and the first of several large fire trucks rumbled down the driveway just as Chichay and Sweaty managed to pull an unconscious Dixie and Johnny from the inferno. They were treated for smoke inhalation, but it was very likely that they’d just passed out from being drunk.

***

When the last of the fire trucks finally pulled away, and the ambulances were all on their way to area hospitals, all that remained of the wedding of Cover and Doris was a smoldering pile of charred plastic and canvas, and the burned corpses of ten undocumented drag queens.