Blood & Glitter

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I never would have believed that anyone in a size fourteen stiletto shoe could have moved so gracefully. Size fourteen American that is. If I recall correctly, and I believe I do, that would be a size forty eight and a half European, or eleven and a half inches from toe to heel, give or take to account for stretching or manufacturer idiosyncrasy.

The truly impressive part was not just that the glamorous Ms. Betty Hip could stride around in those boat sized heels with such finesse, but that she could kick my ass in such a spectacular fashion in them as well.

Not that kicking my ass was a particularly difficult feat. My glasses, lying shattered by Madam Hip’s finely shod foot and my tweed coat, ripped by her less then gentle ministrations, would have indicated to you my presence outside of the realm of ‘fighting men’. Of course, if you’d have asked, I would have thought that a drag queen would be well outside of that realm as well. You learn something new every day.

“Now then you little shit,” said Ms. Hip, her baritone voice no longer masked by her usual husky falsetto. I attempted to sit up, but she gently suggested otherwise by kicking me in the side. I took the hint and remain on the ground, staring up at her back lit-face.

“You’ve been asked once to fuck off and leave Mr. Mercury alone.”

I coughed up some blood politely and attempted to point out that no such request had been made to my face, but she put another kick into my side.

“Shut up,” she said. I rolled over and attempt to remember how to breath. “Now, you are being asked a second time.”

Shakily, I get to my feet, using the alley wall for assistance. Betty sneered at me. Her wig was slightly askew but her make up was pristine, though it could do little to cover up her strong jaw, heavy brow, and prominent adams apple. I wondered if I should be fighting back, then wondered what it would look like, attacking (not matter how unsuccessfully) a transvestite. I suspected ‘she started it’ wouldn’t get very far.

“You understand?” she asked.

“I just want him to do what he’s supposed to do,” I wheezed. Betty was six foot four in her heels, which put her six inches above me, and probably had a good hundred pounds on me and my slender frame. She used the size to her advantage when she threw a right hook that knocked me back to the ground.

“Please,” I cried out from the ground. “Stop it!”

She sneered and gave me another kick.

“Mr. Mercury promised. He said he’d take care of the problem if I did what he asked,” I said weakly, panting.

In the following beating, my primary memory was the rain of glitter that fell with every blow, emphasizing them like a shower of fairy dust. I’ve always hated glitter. It’s like herpes, impossible to get rid of and just as awkward to explain.

The seriousness of the situation didn’t quite strike me until I noticed how much of the damn stuff was floating in a puddle of my own blood.

Perhaps that’s what made fight back. I’d never been in a fight before, let alone received such a vicious beating. My quiet academic life hadn’t prepared me for this sort of encounter. I’d never taken a class on ‘surviving ass kickings’ or ‘how to deal with violently irate transvestites’. But something about that sight, perhaps seeing my own blood infested with fucking glitter, or maybe just the realization that I could seriously die in that moment, motivated me.

On the next kick, I grabbed her leg and held on. She began to curse and tried to stomp me with the other one. I squealed, and bit her on the calf as hard as I could. It was shaved. She screamed, and toppled like a tree. We scuffled on the ground for a bit, and with desperate speed I staggered away and to my feet, bounced off the wall and back into her, giving her a kick in the stomach as she tried to stand. I’d never kicked anyone before and the blow was weak. It didn’t seem to have the effect that hers had upon me.

She fell onto the floor with grunt, but was quickly getting back on her feet. I began to panic. I launched myself at her, pulling hair (the wig came away in my hands), scratching, kicking slapping, and more or less doing anything I could to cause harm. I was in primal mode. I was getting in touch with my inner animal. We hadn’t talked in a long time.

What then happened was, I must admit, not exactly a cinematic fight. Betty had size and strength, but was hampered by four inch stilettos and a immodest, if flattering, tight dress. I was a small mousy academic, but had a certain madness and fear for my life on my side.

After what was either twenty seconds or twenty years of tussling, Betty gave me a powerful shove that created distance and slammed me against the wall. I pushed off again managing to claw at her face, ruining her makeup. She winced but placed a fist in my gut, doubling me over. I went to knee her in the groin but she turned it aside with her thigh and got her hands around my throat. It didn’t feel like she was choking me. It felt like she was trying to squeeze my head off. I threw a punch, the first, I think, since I decided to join the fight. To my shock, her hands withdrew. I regained my breath and saw Betty holding her face. Blood dripped from between her fingers.

“You fucking punk,” she growled.

I smiled.

“Made you break a nail as well,” I panted. She glanced at her hands. It was true. She let out rather unladylike roar and rushed in with another right hook. I swayed to the right and it connected with the brick wall. I took advantage of her distraction to kick her neatly between the legs, and connected this time. She fell to the ground with a heavy thud. I took the time to recover myself, panting for air, blood dripping down my face. My side was on fire.

“Please know that this violence has nothing to do with your alternative lifestyle choice,” I said, then planted a kick in her side, a solid one this time. “Now if you would so kindly inform Mr. Mercury,” I paused as my head swam for a moment. Ms. Hip tried to take advantage of the hesitation and get to her feet. I kicked her again and she fell back to the floor. “Inform him that I expect him to uphold his promises.”

I kicked her one last time. To make the message clear. Then I brushed some glitter off my ripped coat and staggered out of the alley, away from Ms. Betty Hip and away from the point I hadn’t expected to make. It was my first fight ever. But it wouldn’t be my last.

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Sigmund Amedeus Werndorf is a student and writer in San Francisco. Occasionally, he cooks. You can find him at www.swerndorf.com.