There was no humanism, little compassion, only the worship of money as a god and the ruthless drive to accumulate as much as possible. Dodgerson was now doing “Talk Tours” around the country, promoting his memoirs and thrilling the gronks with tales of what a cute villain he had been, the fools rushing him like a pop-star for his autograph. And his partner, the top cop promoting the “Say No to Drugs” campaign in schools and Community Halls, was eventually busted with him for murder and dealing in ICE. These were the guys who really made the streets of the Cross dangerous. And They’d tried to frame Artie as a bad-arse, he was Shirley Temple in comparison.
On several New Year’s nights he dropped acid and sat in the gutter, letting the entire shebang trundle over him, the hookers disrobing out the front of the bordellos, the yobs roaring in horny appreciation, the fire brigade clanging away as if to hose down the rampant, flaming, collective lust. Arthur couldn’t resist having a peek at what went on up in the sex-clubs on such nights of “gay abandon”, where mugs who usually kept their distance formed daisy chains in the video lounge, piling on top of each other, grappling and slurping as if it were the end of the world and all inhibitions could be thrown to the winds with the celebratory New Years streamers.
|Famous Polynesian Queen Carmen.|
Then this big, fat, black Polynesian queen in a red satin, New Orleans get-up flounced onto the stage and belted out a classic, jazzy “Red Hot Mama”, sashaying about, rolling her ample hips, pouting her gorgeous red lips, she literally squashed the skinny, white trash competition, who looked like malnourished waifs from the rag-heap in comparison. Arthur boogied ecstatically down the front, hopping and bopping, and the red, hot mama played up to him, wiggled her dusky flesh to his head-banging, the crowd jumped and cheered, and she won Drag Queen of the Year with a landslide of applause, it was the last, great pagan event on the Cross and Arthur was forever stoked he’d stumbled in there that night and participated.
He tried to wrench his bother-boots off but they remained glued to his hoofs and he hopped about the stage like a one-legged kangaroo, heaving and jerking, trying to move with the music and give some semblance of a professional dancer but for endless moments he teetered about, the boot would not come off. Finally he just wrenched hard and fell back on his arse, thankfully on a bit of a musical crash, so he rocked his legs back as if if to give them a sneaky peek at his butt in tight jeans.