Before it was a drag bar, Club Salvation was a church. A long-abandoned relic of Southern Gothic decay, tucked along a crooked dirt road on the outskirts of town where the streetlights stopped working and the crickets didn’t even bother chirping.

  The building had been rotting quietly into the earth for decades, its white paint peeling like old sins, its steeple bowed under the weight of disuse. The county had plans to demolish it—called it an eyesore, a liability, a waste. But Big Mama, as she often did, saw something different.

  She was walking that dirt road one day—platform boots sinking into the dust, umbrella twirling over one shoulder, rhinestone sunglasses hiding eyes that missed nothing—when she came upon it. The sunlight hit the broken stained glass just right, and the fractured rainbow that spilled across the dirt road stopped her in her tracks. She took it as a sign.

  She fought the county tooth and nail to buy the property—wrote letters, marched into meetings in full drag, and once chained herself to the rusted gate in protest. Legend has it, she did all three in the same day. Eventually, they gave in. Not out of mercy, but exhaustion. No one outlasted Big Mama.

  With her own hands—and eventually the hands of a few locals that were just curious—she rebuilt it. Board by board. Brick by brick. Wig by wig.

  Inside, she kept as much of the church’s soul intact as possible. The stained glass windows, once shattered and dulled by dust, were lovingly restored with whatever scraps could be salvaged and a whole lot of colored resin from the craft store. Now, when the sun dipped low in the sky, those windows cast the club in wild kaleidoscopic light—fiery reds, sacred blues, dangerous purples. The entire room glowed like a queer cathedral.

  The old pews, still bearing the carvings and names of forgotten congregants, had been repurposed into cozy seating along the walls, some painted, others left raw and reverent. Velvet cushions had been sewn by hand, stitched with sequins, fringe, and sass. Mismatched tables sat between them, covered in cocktail rings and drag queen tears.

  The baptismal font, a stone basin once used for washing away sin, now held ice and top-shelf liquor. The altar railings had been reforged into the spine of a long, curving bar, its counter lacquered with glitter and shellac. The altar itself became a sacred workspace of a different kind—lined with liquor bottles, mixers, tip jars, and photos of queens past. Even the confessional booth had been converted into a private photo booth, complete with boas and props and a little sign that read “Forgive Me, Father, For I Have SLAYED.”

  And then there was the stage.

  The former pulpit, raised and once used for fire-and-brimstone sermons, was now home to sequins, smoke machines, and slow-motion splits. The curtain—deep red velvet—had been stitched from old theater drapes and funeral shrouds Big Mama collected “for the drama.” The lighting rig overhead was questionable at best, but it worked, casting everyone who stepped onto that stage in divine glory.

  Tonight, though, the stage wasn’t lit for a show.

  It was lit for her.

  At the back of the platform, beneath a soft lavender spotlight, stood a shrine built from gold-painted milk crates, tulle, and love. At its center, a portrait of Big Mama in her prime—eyes sparkling, smile dangerous, one hand perched on her hip, the other lifting a cigarette with such elegance it should’ve been in the Louvre. Around the frame, candles flickered, casting golden halos over her memory. Her favorite boa—leopard print and feathered within an inch of its life—was draped across the photo like a crown.

  Scattered around the base were offerings: a bottle of her favorite bourbon, a broken heel from her first stage performance, a sequined bra that no longer fit anyone but held too many memories to throw away. And in front of it all, a handwritten sign:

  “For Mama. May her wigs stay high, her lashes stay long, and her rest be finally, fabulously peaceful.”

  The mood in the club tonight was heavy, yet electric. The kind of night where laughter came too loud and tears came too easily. The queens had gathered not just to mourn, but to celebrate. To remember the woman who’d given them all a home. A place to land. A sanctuary in heels.

  They sat in pews with martinis instead of hymnals, bathed in colored light from a window where Jesus once lived, now replaced by a stained-glass version of Big Mama herself—arms outstretched, welcoming all sinners and saints alike.

  And at the heart of it all, standing beneath the disco ball that spun like a celestial omen, was Magnolia Thunderpussy, the queen here that Big Mama had known the longest, her glass raised, her heart trembling, ready to speak.

  "To Big Mama!" Magnolia Thunderpussy boomed, her voice a rich contralto that could curdle milk at fifty paces. She was already wearing one of her newly inherited gowns—something absurdly extravagant for the occasion, dripping in sequins and faux fur, as if she had personally raided a Vegas showgirl’s dressing room. Her updo was high enough to scrape heaven itself, and her false lashes could have doubled as feather dusters. She raised a bejeweled tumbler filled with an offensively pink cocktail, its surface shimmering with edible glitter.

  "May her stilettos forever click on the pearly gates," she declared, her voice cracking slightly at the end, betraying the grief beneath the bravado.

  A chorus of "Hear, hear!" erupted, glasses clinking together in a symphony of sorrow and celebration.

  Snoopy Taylor stood near the center of the room, not quite on the stage, but close enough that the lavender spotlight caught in the petals of the silk flowers woven carefully into her hair. She wore a soft pink dress, simple but elegant—fitted at the waist, the skirt flowing like a prayer whispered through satin. It wasn’t the flashiest look in the room, but it radiated sincerity. A quiet grace. The kind of dress you wore when you wanted to honor someone with your whole heart and didn’t care if it wasn’t on trend.

  She clutched a glass of whiskey, neat—just the way Big Mama used to drink it. No frills. No ice. Just bold and honest, like the woman who’d taught her everything that mattered. Her hands trembled slightly—not from stage fright, but from the weight of getting it right. This was her moment. Her only moment. The one time she could say out loud, in front of everyone, what Big Mama had meant to her. She’d rehearsed it in her head a hundred times, rewrote it a dozen more, but still… nothing on paper ever quite captured the truth.

  She wasn’t afraid of speaking. Hell, Snoopy could run her mouth just fine on most days. But this wasn’t a joke or a sassy quip or some story about the time Gator Gurl accidentally set fire to the wig closet. This was her eulogy, whether she called it that or not. This was her offering.

  She drew in a slow breath, running a finger along the rim of her glass, steadying herself. Her lips parted. And just like that, the room fell still.

  The laughter and background noise quieted like a fading tide. Even the disco ball above seemed to slow its spin, casting only the faintest shimmer across the stained glass. Her sisters—all of them glittering, mourning, clinging to joy with trembling hands—turned to face her.

  Snoopy looked up, eyes shimmering with unshed tears, and finally let the words go.

  “To the woman who taught us that even broken wings with the right mending, can still fly,” she said softly, her voice carrying like gospel through the space. It wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be. Then, with a tremulous smile, she added, “And that glitter glue fixes everything.”

  A few gentle chuckles rippled through the crowd—soft, knowing. Familiar. She glanced toward the stage, toward the shrine lit in lavender light, toward Big Mama’s portrait smiling down on her like a benevolent ghost in sequins.

  And with that look, that quiet exchange between past and present, she found her footing.

  “I came here straight outta high school,” she began, her voice steady but tinged with emotion. “I was just a kid with a busted heart and no clue what to do with my life. My family didn’t understand me, my friends had moved on, and I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere. I was sleepin’ in my car out back, tryin’ to wash my hair in a gas station sink, when Big Mama found me.”

  She paused, her gaze drifting to the faded mural of Big Mama behind the stage. “She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t judge. She just opened the door and said, ‘Come on in, sugar. You look like you could use a hot meal and a warm bed.’ And just like that, I had a home.”

  Snoopy took a sip of her whiskey, the burn grounding her as she continued. “Big Mama gave me a job cleanin’ up the club, but it was more than that. She gave me a purpose. She taught me how to do my makeup, how to avoid creeps, how to hold my head high even when the world tried to knock me down. She told me that pain makes the best drag queens because we already know how to put on a mask. But she also taught me that the real magic happens when you eventually take that mask off and let people see the real you.”

  Her voice wavered slightly, but she pressed on, her Southern drawl wrapping around the words like a warm blanket. “Over the years, I started checkin’ in on her more and more. At first, it was just little things—makin’ sure she ate healthy, helpin’ her with her wigs, keepin’ her company when the club was quiet. But as time went on, she needed more help. Her health wasn’t what it used to be, and she didn’t like to admit it, but I could see it in the way she moved, the way she talked. So, I started spendin’ more time with her. Cookin’ her meals, drivin’ her to appointments, just bein’ there when she needed someone.”

  Snoopy’s eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them away, her smile never faltering. “The last five years, I was her full-time caretaker. It wasn’t always easy—Big Mama could be stubborn as a mule and twice as ornery—but it was an honor. She’d done so much for me, for all of us, and I wanted to give somethin’ back. Even on the hard days, when she was too tired to get out of bed or too proud to ask for help, I’d sit with her and remind her of all the lives she’d touched, all the people she’d saved.”

  She looked around the room, her gaze lingering on each face. “Big Mama wasn’t just my drag mother. She was my family. She taught me that family isn’t about blood—it’s about love. And she loved us all, fiercely and unconditionally. She believed in us when no one else did, and she made sure we knew we were worth a damn.”

  Snoopy raised her glass again, her voice steady and strong. “So, here’s to Big Mama. To her strength, her kindness, and her unshakable belief in the power of love. She may be gone, but her legacy lives on in every one of us. And as long as we keep her spirit alive, she’ll never truly be gone.”

  The room erupted in cheers, glasses clinking together in a symphony of grief and celebration. Snoopy smiled, her heart full, as she took another sip of her whiskey. Big Mama had saved her life, and in return, she had done everything she could to make sure Big Mama’s final years were filled with love and dignity. It wasn’t always easy, but it was worth it. Every single moment.

  As the cheers died down, Snoopy leaned against the bar, her eyes drifting to the disco ball above. “Mama,” she whispered to herself, “I hope I can make you proud.”

  Trixie Biscuit, ever the pragmatist, drained her drink in one dramatic gulp, the ice clinking like punctuation to a sentence she wasn’t ready to finish.

  “And to the endless supply of hairspray she mysteriously acquired,” she declared, holding her empty glass aloft like a relic.

  Laughter bubbled up instantly—relieved, cathartic, and just shy of tipsy. The queens needed the release, and Trixie was the perfect queen to break the mood with something absurd. And she delivered, as always.

  Trixie smirked, her ruby-red lips catching the light. She leaned back in her chair, crossing one fishnet-clad leg over the other like a pin-up girl who knew exactly how powerful she was. Her black-and-white polka dot dress strained slightly at the bust, and her vintage denim vest, covered in rhinestone patches and enamel pins, gave her the air of a rockabilly outlaw who’d wandered into a drag pageant and never left.

  “Lord,” she said, rolling her eyes for effect, “I still don’t know where she got all that Aqua Net. We’d run out, and the next day—poof!—a whole new case would just appear like drag queen mana from heaven.”

  She wagged a finger toward the ceiling as if Big Mama were listening.

  “Honestly? I like to think she had a black-market connection. Some underground cartel of retired pageant moms, running their empire from the back of a Mary Kay van somewhere outside Mobile.”

  Another wave of laughter.

  But then Trixie’s smirk faded.

  Her lashes dipped low. Her fingers—perfectly manicured in cherry red—twitched once, then gently stroked a loose curl from her jet black wig.

  Snoopy’s speech had cracked something open in her. Something she usually kept tucked beneath jokes and contour.

  Her voice, when it came next, was softer. Realer.

  “Big Mama found me when I was at rock bottom,” she said, her accent slipping deeper into the Southern molasses it usually tried to outrun. “I was workin’ the graveyard shift at that Waffle House off the highway—you know the one. The sad one. The one where the jukebox only plays ‘Stand By Your Man’ on repeat and the roaches got names.”

  A few low chuckles rippled through the crowd, but no one interrupted. This was a different kind of moment now.

  “I was just tryin’ to keep it together. My family had already washed their hands of me. I was living in a pay-by-the-week motel, eating leftover hash browns and pretending I was still a person worth something. Then one night, around 3 a.m., in walks Big Mama, wearin’ this enormous purple caftan covered in gold sequins, like the ghost of Christmas fabulous.”

  Trixie laughed to herself—soft, fond.

  “She looked at me—looked at me—and said, ‘Baby, you got too much sparkle for this dump. Come see me when your shift is over.’ Just like that. Like she already knew who I was supposed to be.”

  She took a slow breath, her hand clutching the edge of the table.

  “And I did. I clocked out, put on some lipstick in my car mirror, and showed up at this weird little club that used to be a church. Thought maybe she’d forgotten me. Thought maybe it was a joke. But she was there. She was always there.”

  A hush fell over the table. Trixie looked out at her sisters—at Snoopy, Gator Gurl, Peaches, Jolene, Magnolia—and her lips trembled into a smile.

  “She gave me a job. Gave me a home. Gave me my damn name—‘cause I was still going by Baby D at the time and she said it sounded like a probiotic. She made me feel seen. Wanted. Like I wasn’t broken beyond repair.”

  She blinked quickly, willing her mascara to stay put.

  “So yeah. I make jokes. I keep things light. That’s what I do. But don’t get it twisted—Big Mama saved my life. And I’m gonna spend the rest of mine makin’ sure her sparkle never fades.”

  There was no applause. No grand reaction. Just the soft clinking of ice in half-empty glasses and the quiet, collective ache of a room full of people remembering what it felt like to be chosen when no one else wanted them.

  Trixie raised her glass again—empty, but held high.

  “To Mama,” she said simply. “The only woman I ever let call me ‘baby’ and get away with it.”

  Gator Gurl, ever the mystic and theatrical soul of the group, stood with a flourish, her bejeweled arms raised like a backwoods high priestess invoking spirits from beyond the grave—or at least from behind the bar.

  Her wrists clinked with dozens of bracelets, each one a story, a spell, or possibly just an impulsive thrift store purchase. They caught the club’s fractured light and scattered it in every direction like fairy dust made of Mardi Gras regrets. Her long nails—painted swamp green and tipped in gold—clicked together as she swirled her cocktail, a dangerous-looking elixir that smelled like gin and glitter glue.

  “To Big Mama,” she said in a voice thick with swamp heat and memory, “who showed us that even the darkest swamp can bloom… with enough glitter and determination.”

  The crowd murmured, a soft ripple of agreement moving through the room like wind through cattails. She brought the drink to her lips, sipped it slowly, and exhaled like she’d just released a spirit.

  Her dark eyes glinted with nostalgia, pupils flickering with the light of old fires and bad decisions made under better moons.

  “I was born and raised in the bayou,” she began, “in a town so small the map skipped it and the church doubled as a bait shop.”

  A few chuckles scattered like fireflies.

  “Ain’t had a stoplight. Barely had plumbing. But we had frogs the size of hamsters, mosquitoes that could carry a toddler, and secrets so deep you needed a backhoe to get to ‘em. I grew up runnin’ barefoot through the reeds, catchin’ snakes and dreamin’ of somethin’ bigger than crawfish boils and shotgun weddings.”

  She paused, letting that line land.

  “Didn’t know what I was lookin’ for… just knew I was meant for more. I left home with nothin’ but a duffle bag, a busted CD player, and a prayer to Saint Dolly. Thought I was headin’ to New Orleans. Thought that was where the magic would be.”

  She swirled her glass again, eyes distant now, seeing a younger version of herself with muddy ankles and a broken heart.

  “But the magic wasn’t in New Orleans, y’all. It was right here. I was passin’ through this town, just tryin’ to hitch a ride, and I was lookin’ like a feral cat that lost a fight with a leaf blower. And then she saw me. Big Mama.”

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  Gator Gurl smiled, soft and unguarded in a way she rarely allowed.

  “She didn’t flinch. Didn’t ask no questions. Just looked at me like she’d been expectin’ me. She said, ‘You look like you need a meal… and a stage.’”

  Her voice caught for a second, just a flicker of emotion sneaking through the mystic mask.

  “And just like that, I had both. She gave me gumbo and a mic. She gave me a shower and a spotlight. And I’ve been hauntin’ this stage ever since.”

  The group chuckled warmly, some wiping at their eyes, others just nodding with that shared understanding that every queen at Club Salvation carried: they’d all been saved by her, in one way or another.

  Gator Gurl pressed a hand to her chest, over the lace of her black dress, over her heart.

  “She called me her swamp witch. Said I had the eyes of someone who’d lived a hundred lifetimes and the wardrobe of someone who didn’t give a damn. And she was right on both counts.”

  She lifted her glass again, this time holding it high, like she was blessing the room.

  “To Big Mama,” she said, her voice trembling like candlelight in a storm. “May her spirit haunt this club forever—and may her ghost be petty, fabulous, and just drunk enough to keep us in line.”

  That drew a burst of laughter, wet with tears, thick with love.

  She took her seat again, the bangles on her wrists jangling like wind chimes in the dark.

  And for a moment, just a heartbeat, it felt like Big Mama was still there, lounging in her favorite booth, smirking over her glass of bourbon, ready to heckle the next queen who dared to step out of line without a wig properly secured.

  Miss Peaches LaRue, as always, didn’t rush.

  She sat with her back impossibly straight, her gown flowing around her like liquid amethyst. The soft lavender satin shimmered with every subtle breath she took, catching the fractured light from the stained-glass windows behind her and casting it like moonlight across her décolletage. Her opera gloves—pearl white, elbow-length, pristine—clutched a delicate champagne flute that had long gone warm.

  Peaches didn’t speak right away. She didn’t need to.

  In fact, her silence was the moment.

  She simply raised her glass with the kind of deliberate, dignified grace that could silence a room full of queens louder than a freight train in stilettos. The gesture itself was a performance—timed, measured, and absolutely flawless.

  When she finally did speak, her voice unfurled like a jazz ballad drifting through smoke.

  “Some debts,” she said, “can never be repaid. So, we live. We thrive. We carry on.”

  Her words wrapped around the room like velvet ribbon, soft and lush but tied in a knot of steel. There was power there—quiet power—the kind you don’t notice until it’s already moved you.

  “Big Mama gave me something I thought I’d lost forever,” she continued. “A second act.”

  Her eyes glimmered—not with tears, but with history.

  “The world had already decided I was done. Washed up. Too old. Too soft. Too… much. I’d been dropped by a club that said I no longer ‘fit their image.’ Lost my apartment. My savings. My self-respect, truth be told. I thought I was headed back to Savannah with my tail between my legs and a wig box full of regrets.”

  She took a dainty sip of her champagne, her lips barely grazing the glass.

  “Then she called me. I don’t know how she knew. I never asked. Big Mama just… knew. She said, ‘You’re not done, darling. You’re just in the wrong venue. Come home.’”

  Peaches smiled, a small, serene thing that threatened to split her perfectly drawn lip liner.

  “And when I walked into this club—this church—I saw that she had built a new stage with her bare hands. And I knew it was for me. She didn’t rebuild my confidence with compliments or pep talks. No, no. She handed me a key and said, ‘You open the door tonight. Show ‘em who you are.’”

  She paused again, eyes flicking toward the shrine at the stage, where Big Mama’s portrait smiled down with infinite, sequined wisdom.

  “She reminded me that reinvention is the true art of survival. And survival is not a shameful thing—it’s fabulous. It’s defiant. It’s drag.”

  The silence that followed was heavy.

  Not awkward. Not sad.

  Just… full. Like the pause before a standing ovation.

  Peaches looked around the room slowly—her sisters, her fellow performers, her family—and her expression softened.

  “Now it’s our turn,” she said. “To carry the torch. To make sure her legacy isn’t just remembered… but lived. Loudly. Boldly. Beautifully. Every day.”

  She lowered her glass and placed it gently on the table, not a single drop spilled. She folded her hands in her lap, posture immaculate, expression composed.

  The silence that followed pressed against their ribs like a corset laced too tight—but no one dared exhale.

  And then, almost imperceptibly, Peaches nodded once toward the stage. A silent gesture of gratitude. Of farewell.

  Of love.

  And then, from her usual post behind the bar—leaning on what used to be the altar, now worn smooth by spilled drinks and the elbows of drag queens past—Jolene Buckshot cleared her throat.

  It wasn’t loud.

  But it was enough.

  She didn’t need a spotlight. She was one.

  The room instinctively turned toward her, like the tide shifting to the pull of the moon. Jolene, always composed, always in control, stood with the kind of weary grace you only earn after years of holding other people up while hiding your own cracks.

  Her brown curls were piled high under a silver-studded cowboy hat, and the sparkle in her eyeliner matched the sharp glint of warning in her eyes—the kind of look that said, I may cry, but you won’t see it happen.

  She set her glass down with a decisive clink, the sound ringing out like a gavel.

  “Well,” she began, voice low and dry as good whiskey, “I was gonna say somethin’ sentimental, but y’all already got me tearing up, and I am NOT ruining my eyeliner for a second time tonight.”

  Laughter broke the tension like a champagne cork—quick, bright, and necessary.

  Jolene rolled her shoulders, exhaling slow, her hands still planted wide on the bar like she needed to physically steady herself.

  “Big Mama gave me a home when I didn’t even know I needed one,” she said, her voice quieter now, but no less firm. “I walked in here angry at the world, two weeks out of a halfway house and three bad decisions away from burnin’ every damn bridge I ever crossed.”

  She paused, staring into the eye of her sisters, her eyes sweeping over the faces she knew better than her own.

  “I had a chip on my shoulder the size of Texas and a mouth that made her bartenders flinch. But Mama saw right through it. She looked at me like I was somethin’ precious. Like I was worth savin’. Even when I didn’t believe it.”

  Jolene swallowed hard, her jaw twitching once, but she held it together.

  “She didn’t ask where I’d been or what I’d done. She didn’t care. She just handed me a mop and said, ‘Clean this place up, baby. You got work to do and a life to live.’”

  A hush had fallen again.

  Not out of grief—but reverence.

  “And I did. I swept this floor. I painted these walls. I learned how to fix a leaky faucet, patch a torn booth, break up a bar fight in heels. I found myself here, in this weird, sacred little church full of rhinestones and cigarette burns.”

  She looked up then, toward the mural of Big Mama hanging above the stage. Her voice tightened, but she didn’t waver.

  “She saw somethin’ in me I couldn’t see in myself. And she taught me how to lead—not with fear, not with force, but with love. With grit. With a damn clipboard and a glitter pen.”

  There was a pause.

  Fueled by grief, gin, glitter, and deeply frayed emotions, the drag sisters launched into a spontaneous barter-fest that could only be described as a cross between Antiques Roadshow, RuPaul’s Untucked, and the final moments of a yard sale during a tornado warning.

  “Okay, fine,” Gator Gurl said, holding up a fluffy white Persian cat like Rafiki presenting Simba. “This one is named Mr. Bigglesworth, but I am open to trades.”

  “Do cats like rhinestones?” Magnolia asked, clutching one of her more aggressive sequin gowns—fuchsia, floor-length, and responsible for at least two minor stage injuries.

  “Only if they’re ethically sourced,” Gator replied, dead serious.

  A deal was struck. Mr. Bigglesworth meowed once in protest as Magnolia tucked him into a faux fur purse she had renamed The Meowmobile.

  “God help me,” she muttered, “I’ve become a cat mom in a Judy Garland wig.”

  Across the room, Miss Peaches LaRue was eyeing a tattered boa draped over a vintage lamp like it was a sacred drag relic.

  “That belonged to Big Mama during her Miami Vice and Mink phase,” Trixie said knowingly. “It’s got tequila stains and trauma embedded in the feathers.”

  “I’ll give you my green feathered turban, two pairs of heels, and this untouched lace fan from my Les Misérables Fantasy Funeral Revue.”

  Trixie narrowed her eyes. “Throw in the wig you wore during the Disco Duck incident and we have a deal.”

  They shook on it, immediately forgetting whose drink was whose, and accidentally knocked over a bowl of decorative sequins that spilled like drag queen confetti across the floor.

  At one point, Snoopy Taylor found herself cornered by Gator Gurl, who was now attempting to trade another cat—one she had temporarily renamed Princess Scratchalot—for a suitcase full of wigs.

  “I’ll throw in a mystic moonstone I found in a gas station parking lot,” Gator added with a wink.

  Snoopy stared at the fluffy calico glaring up at her like a reincarnated tax auditor and said flatly, “No ma’am. I barely got room in my suitcase for my own trauma.”

  Trixie Biscuit, meanwhile, was gleefully flipping through a stack of vintage gay porn magazines like they were Tarot cards.

  “Ooh, 1976… Handlebar Heaven. Yes please,” she purred. “Peaches, I will trade you this entire stack if you hand over that beaded clutch you stole from me in 2012.”

  Peaches arched a brow. “I told you—it leapt into my bag. It wanted a better home.”

  “Mm-hmm. I’ll also take your black velvet heels. The ones that make you look like you’re floating.”

  “That’s because I am.” Peaches smirked, then relented. “Fine. But I get the copy of Hairy Hikers Monthly. I know a collector.”

  "You surprise me, Miss Peaches," Trixie teased, examining the vintage Hairy Hikers publication.

  Peaches smirked, unbothered. "Honey, being a lady doesn’t mean you don’t appreciate a little history."

  Over in the corner, Jolene was watching it all unfold with an expression that hovered somewhere between awe, exasperation, and mild nausea.

  She slammed her palm against the bar.

  Everyone froze.

  A cat yowled somewhere under the pews.

  A tiara rolled dramatically across the floor.

  Jolene’s voice cut through the chaos like a glamazon drill sergeant.

  “Y’all are actin’ like we’re in some kind of drag queen apocalypse thrift store!”

  A hush fell over the room. The only sound was the faint hum of the neon SALVATION sign, its fractured rainbow glow flickering over the madness—the wigs, the shoes, the cats, the feathers, and the fierce legacy that had brought them all together.

  They looked around at each other. Their arms full of oddities, their hearts full of Big Mama.

  And then someone—no one could remember who—whispered, “She would’ve loved this.”

  That was all it took.

  Laughter broke through the stillness like a glitter bomb at a funeral. The tension cracked, and in its place was something warmer. Something brighter. Something that felt like joy.

  Messy, complicated, mascara-streaked joy.

  Big Mama may have been gone, but her spirit?

  Oh honey…

  It was everywhere.

  Jolene Buckshot stood behind the bar—once an altar, now a sanctuary of a different kind—her hands splayed wide on the worn wood like she was bracing for a storm only she could feel coming. The disco ball above spun in slow, lazy circles, casting fractured rainbows over her angular frame, painting her like a stained-glass saint and a midnight sinner all at once.

  Her sharp cheekbones caught the shimmer, but it was the look in her dark eyes that held the room hostage—glassy but not weak, flickering with something deeper than the bourbon in her glass. She reached out and twisted the volume knob, killing the scratchy speaker mid-ballad. Silence followed, deep and expectant.

  The air shifted.

  Even the cats went still.

  Jolene took a long breath, the kind that seemed to travel all the way from her boots to her backbone.

  “This ain’t some pawn shop liquidation,” she began, her voice low, rough around the edges. “This is a family. A team. A battalion of misfits held together by duct tape, rhinestones, and pure unholy stubbornness.”

  She glanced around at her sisters—her chosen kin—sitting in repurposed pews with half-empty cocktails and mascara-streaked cheeks.

  “And I’m scared,” she said, almost a whisper now. “Without Big Mama… it’s all gonna go away.”

  The room tightened, the air snapping taut like an over-cinched corset.

  Trixie froze mid-sip.

  Peaches tilted her chin, too still, too poised.

  Magnolia’s eyes narrowed like she was already planning a defense.

  Gator Gurl muttered something about “a bad feeling in the swamp air.”

  And Snoopy Taylor, heart already raw, felt her stomach twist into a knot of dread.

  Oh God, she thought, here it comes.

  The axe.

  The announcement.

  The break up wrapped in a love song.

  She’s selling the club.

  She’s giving up.

  She’s walking away and we’ll all be back to square one—alone, broke, and covered in glitter.

  Jolene’s silence wasn’t helping. She stood there for a beat too long, eyes flicking toward the mural of Big Mama like she was asking for permission—or forgiveness.

  “We’ve lost so much already,” she continued slowly. “And this place—this club, this sanctuary—it’s more than just four walls and a disco ball. It’s Big Mama’s legacy. Her heart.”

  Then she paused again. “It is too much. Too much for me to manage.”

  A sharp inhale broke the silence from Peaches, her gloved hands tightening around her drink.

  “Please don’t,” Trixie whispered before she could stop herself.

  Jolene blinked, surprised.

  “Don’t what?” she asked, brows furrowed.

  “Don’t say it,” Peaches said flatly. “Don’t tell us you’re shutting the place down.”

  “Or selling it to some straight bar franchise named The Man Cave,” Trixie added, her voice sharp with panic.

  “Oh hell no,” Gator Gurl said, already reaching for her purse like she might need to cast a protection spell. “I will haunt this damn building before I let it become a karaoke night for tech bros.”

  Jolene held up both hands like she was trying to calm a pack of elegant, emotionally unstable wolves.

  “Y’all, would you calm down? I’m not shutting the damn place down!” she snapped, but there was a laugh tucked inside the frustration. “God almighty, give me a second to get a sentence out!”

  They all froze.

  Embarrassed.

  Relieved.

  Suspicious.

  Trixie blinked. “…Oh.”

  Gator Gurl sat down, muttering, “My bad, my swamp senses were just tinglin’ real aggressive for a minute.”

  Magnolia fanned herself with a sequined clutch. “You did pause dramatically, darling. That’s how people give up babies, secrets, or real estate. You should know that.”

  Jolene sighed and shook her head. But now, she was smiling.

  A little softer.

  A little surer.

  And that’s when she said it—the thing that changed everything.

  Jolene exhaled, tilting her head back, eyes flicking toward the ceiling like she could see right through it—right to wherever Big Mama was currently perched in the afterlife, probably wearing a feathered robe, drinking whiskey neat, and judging everyone’s outfit.

  “This place is mine now,” she said firmly, steadying her voice like a captain at the wheel. “And I’ll be damned if I let Big Mama’s legacy fade.”

  A low murmur of approval swelled from the queens, mixing with clinks of glass and the occasional sniffle that no one dared admit to.

  But Jolene wasn’t done.

  “I’ve been doing a lot of thinkin’,” she said, dragging a hand through her wild mane of curls like she was trying to untangle more than just hair. “I’ve spent more sleepless nights than I care to admit trying to figure out how to keep this place alive with Big Mama here. But now she’s gone, and I’m askin’ myself: How the hell do I honor her? How do I make sure none of y’all ever have to wonder if you still belong here?”

  She took a deep breath and threw up her hands.

  “And the answer hit me like a damn Moby Dick to the face.”

  That got a chuckle or two—mainly from Trixie, who muttered, “Honey, I had a Moby Dick once, and lemme tell you, that whale had issues.”

  Jolene smirked, waited for the noise to settle, and then stepped around the bar.

  “I can’t run this place alone. And I ain’t gonna pretend I know how to fill Big Mama’s shoes—hell, we’d need a forklift and divine permission for that. But I do know one thing: she didn’t build this club for just one of us. She built it for all of us. Every sequin-stitchin’, wig-gluin’, joke-tellin’, cryin’-on-the-stage queen in here.”

  She stepped up onto the stage, right in front of Big Mama’s shrine. The light caught in her eyes like a flicker of gospel.

  “So I’m makin’ it official.”

  A pause.

  A slow inhale.

  “I’m makin’ y’all equal partners with me here at Club Salvation.”

  The room went still.

  You could’ve heard a nail pop off a press-on.

  Then the gasps started.

  Peaches LaRue blinked, eyes wide behind her lashes. “Wait—like… partners partners? With keys and… responsibilities?”

  Gator Gurl spit out her drink. “You mean I gotta pay taxes now?!”

  Magnolia Thunderpussy clutched her chest, fanning herself with the sleeve of her fur-trimmed cape. “Does this mean I finally have voting rights in the glitter budget?”

  Snoopy Taylor, bless her, just mouthed “what the hell” and looked down at her shoes like they might have answers.

  The air snapped taut like a drumhead.

  Eyes widened. Breaths hitched. One of the cats hissed for dramatic effect. And a few queens, already three cocktails deep, started coughing violently as the words sank in.

  Jolene didn’t flinch.

  She let it simmer, sweeping her hand out across the room—the peeling paint on the stage, the sticky floor tiles worn soft from dancing, the mismatched pews, and the flickering SALVATION sign that had never had all of the letter lit at the same time.

  “This…” she said, voice thick with pride, “is our home now. And Big Mama wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.”

  There was no applause. Not yet.

  Just silence.

  Thick and holy.

  Like the kind you get in the seconds before a thunderstorm breaks or a queen finishes her ballad on one last breath of soul.

  And then, as always, it was Trixie Biscuit who broke the spell.

  She gasped—loudly—and clutched the literal string of pearls wrapped around her neck.

  “You mean to tell me…” she exclaimed, eyes wide, lips trembling, “that I’m an actual businesswoman now? Like… with paperwork and shit?!”

  Laughter exploded.

  Gator Gurl shouted, “Do we get nameplates?! I want mine to say ‘Regional Hexecutive.’”

  Magnolia chimed in, “Oh Lord, I’m gonna have to learn spreadsheets. I didn’t survive three husbands and a rhinestone fire for this.”

  Peaches, ever the smooth one, sipped her champagne and murmured, “I’ll handle the bank account, but someone else better deal with payroll. I don’t do math on Sundays.”

  Snoopy, still shell-shocked, looked up at Jolene with misty eyes. “You serious?” she whispered.

  Jolene nodded. “As a preacher in a drag brunch.”

  And that was it.

  The tears came. The hugs happened. Someone spilled a cocktail and the disco ball began spinning again, as if even it had caught the spirit.

  It wasn’t just a bar.

  It wasn’t just a stage.

  It was a sanctuary, a war camp, a queer cathedral built from second chances and waterproof eyeliner.

  And now, it belonged to all of them.

  Forever.

  The laughter was still echoing from Trixie’s businesswoman meltdown when Snoopy Taylor felt it.

  That quiet tug.

  That cold splash of oh right, the letter.

  While the others were once again trading wigs for cats and shouting over whether Gator Gurl’s third feline was named Princess Scratchalot or Sir Hissington, Snoopy slowly slid her hand into her jacket pocket and pulled out the envelope she’d been ignoring all evening.

  It was heavier than it had any right to be.

  Not in weight—just in meaning.

  The paper felt like it had soaked up her sweat, her nerves, her second-guessing.

  The name SNOOPY written in Big Mama’s unmistakable loopy scrawl stared back at her like a dare.

  She opened it.

  Inside was a single slip of paper.

  Three clues written in black ink.

  Bangkok. Madame Noi. Lotus Bar.

  She read the words out loud, almost against her will. They tumbled from her lips and hit the room like a dropped wine glass.

  Suddenly, the laughter died down.

  A slow ripple of attention moved toward her like heat in the summer air.

  Trixie, always the nosy one, leaned in, curiosity twinkling in her lashes.

  “What in tarnation is that about?”

  Snoopy stared at the note like it was written in Elvish. She blinked. Once. Twice. It didn’t help.

  “All I know,” she said, her voice tight with confusion and adrenaline, “is that I’m supposed to go to Bangkok, find some ancient ladyboy named Madame Noi, at a place called the Lotus Bar, near a red-light district…”

  Her voice trailed off.

  She could feel it now—every single pair of drag queen eyeballs locked onto her.

  The silence was loaded. Judgy. Sparkly

  Magnolia broke it first, folding her arms and cocking her hip.

  “Honey, I’ve always said you needed a little adventure. Bless your anxious little heart.”

  Gator Gurl’s pupils practically dilated with glee.

  “Sounds like a quest!” she cried, reaching for a cat and a candle at the same time. “A drag queen’s spiritual journey through neon and danger! Oh I am tingling in my chakra.”

  Trixie, predictably, couldn’t help herself.

  “Oh my God… it’s a scavenger hunt for Big Mama’s hidden stash of vintage Viagra and velvet robes. This is like National Treasure: The Tuck Edition.”

  But Jolene wasn’t laughing.

  She stepped forward, her brow furrowed just slightly, a gravity in her stare that shut down the giggles.

  “Or maybe…” she said softly, “it’s something bigger. Something important. Something Big Mama didn’t trust anyone but you to find.”

  Snoopy swallowed.

  Hard.

  And that was it.

  The joke was over. The note was real. The mission was on.

  And suddenly her chest felt too tight, her heels too high, her brain too damn loud.

  Snoopy Taylor, who lived for a good routine—who made grocery lists in glitter pen and cried when her eyeliner dried out—was being told to pack up her life and fly across the world like some bedazzled secret agent.

  Her stomach twisted like a pretzel in a corset.

  Bangkok?!

  She had never even been on a plane for more than two hours.

  She got anxiety using Google Maps in the same town she was born in.

  And now she was supposed to go find a mysterious drag oracle in a Thai bar that probably doubled as a brothel and a noodle stand?

  She wanted to run.

  Back to her little room.

  Back to her comfort.

  Back to the chaos she knew.

  She imagined crawling under a pile of thrift-store afghans, surrounded by half-finished crochet projects and comfort YouTube playlists. She could hide. She could forget. She could stay exactly who she was.

  But then she looked down at that envelope again.

  That handwriting. That name.

  Big Mama’s final request.

  She exhaled.

  Shaky.

  Uncertain.

  But also—resolute.

  “Okay,” she said quietly, slipping the note back into its envelope like it was a holy relic. “Okay.”

  Her sisters saw it.

  Something shift in her spine.

  Each one came forward, one by one—offering hugs, cheek kisses, whispered encouragements laced with perfume and power.

  “You got this, girl.”

  “If anyone can do it, it’s you.”

  “Bring back a souvenir, or at least an STD worth bragging about.”

  And finally, Jolene grabbed both of her hands and gave her the kind of squeeze that didn’t just say I believe in you, it said I will burn down half of Thailand to bring you back if I have to.

  Snoopy didn’t feel ready.

  But she felt… called.

  And as she turned to leave—heart pounding, suitcase still unpacked, courage held together with bobby pins and bourbon—the neon SALVATION sign flickered above the doorway.

  It cast its fractured rainbow glow across her face like a spotlight, or a benediction, or a challenge.

  A promise.

  A warning.

  Or maybe, just maybe…

  One last, knowing wink from Big Mama herself.