One Night Only

Wednesday Again

"As I was saying, you can't just cruise down Main Avenue in your Cadillac like you're not famous. You're Byron fucking Powell."

"I know, I know... I can take care of myself, you know. I've been working for the CIA since 2004 and—"

"Stop! No, you haven't. You got arrested in 2017, remember? They stripped you of your job. You were fired from everything except America Rocks. Haven't you noticed?"

"I—"

"It doesn't matter. Conservatorship. We're going to have to tighten the reins."

"I'm not a child, for crying out loud!"

"Then stop acting like one! What happened to the agreeable host I met back in 1996? You used to be so upbeat. Now look at you."

"I am upbeat! I just want to work. This has nothing to do with—"

A sudden jolt cut him off. Byron hit the ground, unconscious. It was a taser.

Byron's eyes fluttered open, heavy with fatigue. He was in his house—or what looked like it. A stunning villa, pristine and soulless, complete with a massive pool in the backyard and all the amenities a TV host might need to distract from reality. The truth gnawed at him: this wasn't a home. This was a cage.

He sat motionless on the cool marble floor, his breath shallow as he surveyed his surroundings. Everything was sterile, carefully curated, like a set from one of his shows. Slowly, he raised a trembling hand to his face, feeling the uneven ridges where skin had been patched together. His eyelids—what remained of them—strained to blink away the bitter clarity of his situation.

The memory came back in fragments.
2017. July 28th. 4:35 a.m.

SWAT officers storming his home. "Family" and "friends" standing by, watching like spectators at a show. Curious, drama-hungry neighbors swarmed outside his beige villa, its walls choked with overgrown bushes and wild weeds.

He remembered the roof—the wrought-iron fence he'd gripped as he stared at the void below. Freedom or death. Those were the only choices. He'd been ready to jump, but the fall came as a blur. He couldn't remember hitting the ground, only the aftermath: pain, stitches, broken bones. A life spared, but for what?

"See? I knew you'd come to your senses." The voice was sharp, casual, cutting through the fog in Byron's mind. "It's not like you to not listen."

Byron turned his head slightly, his blank expression reflecting off the wide window. Sunlight danced on the surface of the pool, a cruel reminder of the life he'd lost.

The voice pressed on, calm yet commanding. "I've brought in people to help manage your meds. You'll take them. No questions. No thinking. You don't have to do anything anymore. Just... smile for the camera."

Byron didn't respond. He didn't even blink. The voice washed over him, meaningless noise against the backdrop of his unraveling reality.

Then he noticed it—a document lying on the coffee table. His short fingers snatched it, trembling as he read:

Medical Resume
Name: Brandon F. Powell (Byron Powell)
Date of Birth: September 1, 1975
Sex: M
Medication:

Donepezil - 23 mg once daily

Zoloft - 30 mg once daily

Lorazepam - daily (to be confirmed with Steel)

Restrictions:

Gluten

Peanuts

Diagnosis:

Moderate to Severe Amnesia

Major Depressive Disorder

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD)

Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD)

Bulimia Nervosa

Possible Borderline or Bipolar Disorder

Gender Dysphoria

Dr. Rachel Cruz

Byron crumpled the paper and hurled it across the room, his chest tightening. He sank to the floor, his thoughts racing. How had it come to this?

The house, with its cold floors and mismatched furniture, felt like a mausoleum. Conversations, if they happened at all, were stilted and brief. The walls echoed with silence louder than any sound.

He thought of his childhood—a void of warmth or safety. His parents had been distant, his school life lonelier still. He wasn't shy, but he was always on the edges, existing but never connecting. Birthdays were low-key, a cake and a card but nothing that made him feel seen. He learned early to keep his feelings locked away. Asking for help was foreign.

The mid-90s had been his turning point. Byron drove to an open mic, determined to speak. Three attempts—all met with silence. Then came the unexpected: a proposition to host a drag show.

It wasn't a favor from a friend. It was a deal—a lifeline. No rent, no bills, just a chance to prove himself. But it had backfired spectacularly.

A festival near Manchester turned into chaos—a mix of queens, federal agents, and enraged police. Byron stood on the stage, frozen. The crowd churned like a storm, the tension electric.

At the center of it all was Mark Steel. TV producer. Star manipulator. Byron's idol.

Mark approached him after the show, his handshake firm yet calculating. Byron felt it then—a chilling realization. He had just shaken hands with the devil.