The battle is heating up with queens week! These queens did not come to play, they came to slay!

It's drag fight club time! We are covering all the action LIVE from the Waldorf for the next 10 weeks! The theme for the first week was KINGS ONLY and these kings came to FIGHT!

This city is sooooo full of LOVE and SUPPORT! 💗 IT’S TOO MUCH 🥹💗 Our little hearts can barely handle it 😭💞 Everyone just gets it!! We are SOBBING in the best way 🏳️‍🌈💖✨

The support here is LOUD, it’s REAL, it’s FAMILY 💒🍒 We’re floating in a sea of glitter and acceptance and we never wanna come down 😭🫧💘

💓 You're loved here, and we hope this episode wraps you up like the campiest, softest, gayest blanket ever 🌈🩷🦋

💌🦄🌷✨🫶👑🍭💐💄🎀

In a city where everyone wore sequins on Tuesdays just because, two unlikely best friends reigned supreme: Banana Delvey, a fabulously delusional socialite who insisted she was a "banana heiress" despite no one being sure if bananas had royalty, and Miss October, a vintage pin-up calendar model turned neighborhood fashion icon, who still insisted on posing like she was being photographed… constantly.

They did everything together—afternoon croquet in heels, matching bedazzled scooters, even synchronized entrances at brunch. But one thing was missing in their otherwise perfectly color-coordinated lives: children.

So they adopted.

Banana Delvey adopted Grumplin, a child who spoke exclusively in grumbles and eye-rolls, wore all-black turtlenecks, and had the resting face of a 40-year-old DMV clerk. When Banana asked, “Do you want a unicorn-themed room or a giraffe-themed room?” Grumplin just replied, “I’d like to live in the void.”

Miss October, meanwhile, adopted Surprisa, a child who was always—always—surprised. Wide-eyed, mouth agape, permanently gasping like she'd just seen a goose do a cartwheel. You could hand her toast and she’d scream, “TOAST?? FOR ME??” Every morning.

Despite their differences, the kids became instant best friends. Mostly because Grumplin found Surprisa’s reactions exhausting, and Surprisa thought Grumplin was the funniest human alive.

Their dynamic was… electric.

Grumplin: “Ugh. It's raining again.”

Surprisa: “IT’S RAIN?? FROM THE SKY?? WHAT IS THIS SORCERY?!”

Banana and Miss October were delighted. They started matching family outfits—Banana and Grumplin in banana-yellow gothwear, Miss October and Surprisa in polka-dots and perma-jazz hands.

But one day, disaster struck.

The local daycare, "Snuggle Bunker", announced it was closing due to “too much glitter in the HVAC.” The kids were devastated. Grumplin sighed aggressively. Surprisa fainted into a dramatic couch she kept on hand for such occasions.

But Banana Delvey and Miss October had a plan.

They threw the most outrageous, bedazzled, child-chaos-friendly fundraiser the city had ever seen: a glamorous lemonade ball. There were banana-themed cocktails (for adults), an interpretive dance titled “October Leaves in the Wind of Emotion”, and a silent auction where Grumplin donated “a single sigh of contempt” in a jar. It raised $1,200.

Surprisa ran the mic, announcing everything with amazed awe: “A GIFT BASKET?! WITH… SOAP?!”

It worked. They saved Snuggle Bunker.

That night, as they all lay in a massive cuddle pile of tulle and glitter confetti, Grumplin muttered, “I guess today wasn’t… the worst.”

Surprisa squealed, “YOU SMILED!! GRUMPLIN SMILED!!!” and fainted again.

Banana sipped her champagne juice box. “Honestly, I was born to parent. It’s all about vibes.”

Miss October struck a pose mid-snore.

And somewhere in the universe, the Banana Kingdom probably approved.

Once upon a time, in the town of Toodleburg, where everything was dusty and brown and everyone wore shoes two sizes too big, there lived two twin girls named Banana and October.

They were perfect.
They were shiny.
And unfortunately, they were sick.

One morning, Banana woke up, brushed her teeth, and somehow invented a whole new kind of beauty.
October tied her shoes and caused three men to faint and one elderly woman to write a poem.

It was not normal. It was the Slay Disease.

Doctors were baffled.
Priests were confused.
The mayor tried to quarantine them but accidentally complimented their cheekbones and asked for an autograph.

No matter what Banana and October did, it was a serve.

Banana sneezed once at the farmer's market, and the entire cabbage section caught on fire out of pure drama.
October tripped on the sidewalk, and it looked so good that Vogue magazine declared it the new way to walk.

It got worse.

The disease was contagious.
Soon Mrs. Crumble, the baker, started serving cupcakes while tossing her hair in slow motion.
The mailman delivered letters with a mysterious, tortured elegance.
Even the town cows began walking with a certain runway swagger.

Toodleburg sparkled.

Sequins exploded out of potholes.
Streetlamps shined like disco balls.
Even the rats wore little velvet jackets.

The whole town was united, slaying so hard that small nearby villages filed noise complaints out of jealousy.

But then, tragedy struck.

Out in the ocean, a great white shark named Clive spotted the sparkle from three hundred miles away.
He squinted, flipped on his sunglasses, and thought, "Lunch."

Clive swam up the river, burst into Toodleburg, and, because everyone was too busy posing dramatically to run, ate the entire town in one massive, glittery gulp.

Clive was now the most glamorous shark in the sea.
Banana and October were never seen again, except for the occasional glint of a rhinestone in the foam of the waves.

Banana Delvey had one goal: regain her status as the toast of the social elite after that unfortunate incident with the underwater opera house and the flamingo fiasco. So when she received a glittery invitation in the mail that said "PROM: A Night to Remember," she mistook it for a charity gala and RSVP’d with 14 exclamation marks and a scented sticker of her own face.

Clad in a bedazzled yellow ballgown made entirely of banana peels (ethically sourced), Banana sashayed into what she thought was a fundraiser. In reality, it was a college prom—and due to a paperwork mix-up and Banana’s overwhelming charisma, she was immediately registered as a “foreign exchange student from Fashionovia.”

No one questioned it.

Banana took the prom by storm. She taught the students how to sabre a bottle of sparkling apple juice with a rhinestone hairpin. She replaced the DJ’s playlist with "Banana's Essential Tracks, Volume 17." She even delivered a 45-minute motivational speech about how to “lie your way into luxury.”

At 9:57 PM, the votes were tallied. To everyone’s shock (except Banana’s), she was crowned Prom Queen.

As she took the mic, tiara askew, she winked and declared, “I dedicate this crown to truth, youth, and mildly criminal reinvention!”

Moments later, Miss October burst through the gym doors, clutching a stack of subpoenas and a suspiciously fluffy llama named Gerald. She shouted, “Banana! This is NOT the Met Gala! Also, you owe me seventeen smoothies and a tiara!”

Banana blew her a kiss and slid out the back door on a cafeteria tray like a golden comet of chaos.

The tiara was later revealed to be made of hot glue and cafeteria sporks. Banana wore it to brunch the next morning anyway.

Once upon a time, in the misty fields of East Vanhoover, where the mushrooms grew taller than toadstools and the moonlight painted silver trails through the damp air, there lived a little fairy named Petal. She was a soft, round thing, with a heart even bigger than her plump, dimpled cheeks, and wings that shimmered with an opalescent glow. But despite all her sweetness, her kindness, her love as vast as the rolling meadows, Petal was terribly, terribly alone.

She was cursed, though she did not know it. Not by a wicked sorceress or an angry fae, but by something crueler—her own nature.

Petal fell in love easily. She could not help it. Every time she met a man—be he fairy, elf, gnome, or traveler from the human world—her heart would swell with the hope of devotion. She saw poetry in the flicker of their lashes, music in the timbre of their voice, divinity in the way they tied their boots or ran fingers through their hair. And, oh, for a moment, they felt it back!

For how could they not? She was a marvel, glowing with warmth, offering a love so pure it made the coldest hearts thaw. Many a man would gaze at her with adoration in those first enchanted hours, whispering sweet promises under the silver moon. They would walk with her through the clover fields, drink honeydew nectar beneath the whispering willows, and for a moment—just a moment—Petal would believe she had finally found someone who would stay.

But then, night would fall. And Petal would sleep.

It was a sound that could curdle the blood. A snore like a dragon’s rumbling growl, like a thunderstorm rolling through the mushroom glades. It started with an innocent whistle, a gentle hum, but then—then!—the full cacophony would unleash itself. The walls of her mushroom cottage would tremble. The leaves on the trees would shake. The crickets and the night birds would hush, fearful of the beastly reverberations.

And her suitors, those hopeful lovers with their moonlit vows, would bolt upright in bed, wide-eyed and trembling. The spell of Petal’s beauty and charm would shatter like spun sugar beneath a hammer. One by one, they would slip from the covers, edge toward the door, and disappear into the night—never to return.

Morning would come, and Petal would wake to an empty bed, a cold pillow where warmth had been, and a hollow ache where love had nestled only hours before. She would step outside, wings drooping, searching the horizon for footprints in the dewy grass. But the footprints always led away.

And so, Petal remained alone.

Years passed. Decades. Petal still loved. She still hoped. But the men never stayed. And if you listen closely, on a full moon night, out in those wild mushroom fields of East Vanhoover, you will hear it—the deep, guttural, world-rattling snores of a lonely little fairy in her cottage, dreaming of love.

And if the wind carries the sound just right, and the rain begins to fall, you may even hear her weeping.

Once, long ago—or perhaps just yesterday, for time meant little in the grand hall—a pageant began. No one could quite remember who had first stepped onto the stage or what prize had been promised, but the show went on. And on. And on.

Generations were born under the dim glow of the stage lights, lived in the wings, whispered their dreams between costume changes, and passed away before the final curtain ever fell.

At the heart of it all sat the Pageant King.

He had crowned himself, of course. No one had asked him to rule, but neither had they questioned it. He perched upon a self-fashioned throne of stacked chairs, draped in ribbons and faded sashes. His voice boomed commands—who must sing next, who must dance, who must smile broader, be brighter, be more like what he sees on TV. He clapped, endlessly, his hands raw from applause only he seemed to hear. And when he gave his feedback—oh, the wisdom! The insight!—the contestants nodded, because they had been taught that to nod was wise.

And so, the pageant continued.

It might have gone on forever, if not for two sisters sitting at the very back of the hall, where the velvet curtains hung heavy with dust. They had seen the performances, watched the contestants bow and twirl, and they had seen something else too: the door.

“Wait,” the younger sister whispered, tilting her head as if hearing a different song entirely.

The older sister leaned in, and together, they watched the king. His robe was nothing more than a tattered train of old programs, his crown lopsided and tinny. They had always assumed he was powerful—that his throne was bound by magic, that his applause controlled the rhythm of their lives.

“But…” the younger sister hesitated, frowning.

“He has no power over us,” the older one said, and the words struck the air like the first note of a forgotten melody.

“We can leave.”

The hall fell silent.

They stood, slipping through the curtains, their feet light on the old wooden floorboards. The door creaked open, and a draft of something new filled the space—something that smelled of rain and fresh earth and the unknown.

One by one, the others followed. Some hesitated, glancing back at the Pageant King, but the promise of air beyond the stage was too sweet to resist. Soon, all the seats were empty. The wings, abandoned. The lights flickered.

And the Pageant King?

He did not notice.

He clapped on, alone on his bar stool, nodding along to performances only he could see, singing duets with his own reflection. His voice echoed through the empty hall, met only by the sound of dust settling over forgotten trophies.

If you listen closely, you may hear him still.