“Alright, you tranny fuckers, shut the fuck up.” The place quieted down except for the din of bartenders serving the nonplussed at the bar. “Hello motherfuckers, I’m Maxxine Pad and welcome to Thieving Thursdays, where my cholo friend Hammy has put together another revue of cabaret cunts, loose lipped faggots, and maybe someone with talent this time.” She affected intimacy with the crowd by muttering under her breath, “We can only hope, right?” The crowd laughed. Back to full voice, “Alright. Oh, wait, before I forget,” she eyed Johnny again (oh shit, oh shit), “We’ve got fresh meat in the house!” The crowd squealed and howled (is this what rabbits feel like before the wolf’s teeth sink in?). “Can ya smell it? Try and take a big ol’ whiff of it! Can’t smell it? Of course you can’t, you stupid motherfuckers! You spend too much time snorting coke in the shitter!” Maxxine wrapped her arm around Johnny and brusquely brought him to the spotlight. He thought to fight her, but the thought of being the center of attention, of being in the spotlight again somehow, like back home, dismantled his defenses. “OK, honey. Tell us your name.”
“Johnny, ma’am, sir, uh-”
The crowd was raucous with laughter.
“Well, golly, Johnny, that’s OK. Can any of you stupid ass tranny cunts tell farmer John here what I am?”
“A-plus, faggots. Johnny boy, just call me whatever you want.”
“So, Johnny, you’re not from around these here parts is ya?”
“Well, no sir, I’m from Indiana.”
More laughter. Johnny turned red with embarrassment. He didn’t see what was so funny.
“Easy, farmer John. These faggots don’t know any better. Are you single?”
“Keep calling me sir and I might call you daddy if you’re lucky.”
“Well, I’m not-”
“Nobody cares! Now get another drink on me and get off my fucking stage. Farmer Johnny everyone! Give him a round of applause for being a good sport.”
Maxxine pushed him back to his friends. Despite the humiliation of it all, Johnny enjoyed the attention. At least he was meeting people.