“Ladies, work it like you own it!” Esmerelda deQueervane called out from behind the curtain. The music thumped like a freight train on acid, and she was loving every second of sonic assault. The very night sang to her beneath the DJ’s trance-inducing rhythms, songs of fame, love, and lust.

The crowd was drunk. The mood was high. The night was hers.

For the briefest of moments, the music lulled, her cue, and Esmerelda sprang forth onto the stage in all her sequined glory, six feet and five inches of glam-tabulous sex appeal in six-inch platform heels and a bustier ensemble that would make a two-dollar whore blush. The crowd roared, all hoots and cat calls, as the unmistakeable opening chords to ‘Money, Money, Money’ began.

The whole glorious moment came crashing to a halt with a cough from the narrator and, “Um, sorry, erm, ladies. The challenge actually called for drag-ons. I’m terribly sorry. There must have been some confusion in the enunciation. So, well, you lot don’t fit the bill at all.”