"Sorry, I don't think I'm quite the 'cowboy bar' type," sniffed Monet St. Croix at the pageant queen and the bikini-clad Asian girl staring vacantly next to her. "But call me if Neiman Marcus get into the Daisy Dukes game. Until then, could you kindly buzz off? What's 'right for me' is a gourmet meal without a pair of bimbos in my personal space."
"Whoa," the girl with the Miss California sash on replied, "What a buzzkill! You're totally no fun, lady."
"Relax, darlin', she'll be more fun than the Texas two-step real soon," the Beauty Queen queen assured Miss California.
M took another look at the California girl. The voice and the boobs had distracted her so much that she didn't realize who it was, until just now. "Betsy? Is that you? What the hell's happened to you?"
"Ohmigod, it totally is me! Hiiii! Though, wait, is my name Betsy? Or is it Lizzy? Oh, or maybe it's Betty, 'cause I'm a total Betty."
The Beauty Queen patted her charge on the head. "We'll decide later, how about that? But first? Ka-pow!"
That verbalized sound effect had accompanied fireworks popping out of the Beauty Queen's fingers, and right in front of Monet's face, putting the Bosnian-born, French Muslum mutant into a daze.
"Can't say I know why you're wastin' your time in this hoity-toity Yankee establishment, hon," said the Beauty Queen, really playing up a fake Texas accent just like she went Valley Girl for her last victim. "Wouldn't you feel more at home line dancing back home?"
Monet felt odd. Not herself. But was that because she was being told she didn't love the finer things in life, like she always had, or was it because she couldn't stand those finer things to begin with? She needed answers, but it was so hard to focus and ask the questions. "What's... where's home?"
"The Lone Star State, silly! You tellin' me you forgot you're a Texas girl?"
"I... uh, I ain't from Texas, I'm from..." Monet was stumped, and completely unaware that she was developing a twang. "France?" Something about that sounded wrong.
Beauty Queen just laughed. "That's a funny one! You? French? You don't seem like the surrenderin' type to me, hon."
Of course, Monet was surrendering to the fireworks still crackling and popping in front of her eyes, but that was another story, and had nothing to do with her growing disgust at even thinking she could be from somewhere as awful as France. "... yeah, I... I'm not the quittin' type, I'm gonna --"
She couldn't finish that thought because as she was rejecting her own heritage for good, the Beauty Queen had closed the gap and kissed her full-on the lips, and Monet St -- Monet Crawford felt a whole new set of memories flood in. Drinking underneath the stars, line dancing at honky tonks, playing the latest country hits on the jukebox riding mechanical bulls, riding hot cowboys... she was a Texan, alright, and proud of it. It even said so on the "Miss Texas" sash that was on top of her bikini, which was patterned to evoke the image of a tied-off flannel shirt and a pair of Daisy Dukes.
"... I'm gonna win this here pageant for all'a Texas, from Houston to El Paso! Y'all ain't seen nothing yet, I swear!"
Beauty Queen grinned, dropping the accent. "I'm real glad to hear it. Welcome to the pageant, Miss Texas! But we've got more states to go before we're done."