Down by the old train station in that abandoned part of town, there's a warehouse where the secrets of the night can be found. Round about 9pm the cars and trucks start rolling in. Bases thumping, motors revving, echoes of pre-party haven. They fill up the dark dirt lot, parking wherever the vehicles fit. The incoming fumble about with their cliques, joking and dancing their way to the delivery entrance.
They line up single file, party ducks all in a row, waiting to pay for admission and a hand-stamp at the door. Once inside, the cloud stings their eyes. Some light up contributing to the haze, others dab their tear ducts and head to the bar content to let alcohol numb the pain. Strategically placed speakers reverberate Godsmack's Voodoo through all the patrons. A handful of the Cowboy-ed Up use the dance floor for the electric slide, the Punk'd Out bounce their Mohawks up and down, ganstas, bikers, and bears nod playing pool, they all sing it proud, loud. Emos and ravers twirl their glow sticks, really getting into it.
"See you topside," the DJ concludes, "the real show starts in 10 minutes." The house goes crazy with Prodigy's World's On Fire. The DJ plays no more. The cliques trickle upstairs one pre-recorded song at a time. They take seats, lean against walls, stand near tall tables. All face the stage waiting, chatting amongst themselves.
"Well, good evening, my beautifuls," the voice comes from nearby the speakers as a long perfect leg clad in black fishnet stretched out from behind red satin curtains. The murmur rose. The leg ended in a black stiletto that jabbed the air then cut down to the stage leaving the leg in a perfect right angle. A wolf-whistle.
"I can't hear you," she says.
The house goes nuts: throaty catcalls, whistles let loose, a couple ululations cut through.
"That's it. Yes, my dears," the drag queen appeared. "It's time to start the show. Bring out the kings, bring out the queens. Work your magic, my lovelys. You've got to cheer if you want them to sing."