I'M GONNA GET that bitch. This waify drag queen in a purple weave and a lime green tube skirt is trying to outrun me down the mothball- and vomit-scented aisles at Salvation Armani on Sutter and Polk. She's already plucked the Chanel coat, the Pucci dress, and the "I'm with Stupid" sweatshirt. All I've got is this beige faux-fur coat that has a lump of something brown inside the pocket – but if I can just skip a few steps ahead of the greedy, speed-smoking whore, I'm as good as Prada, fall 2003.

Judging by today's array of perfect, shit-stained gems, it's evident that some classy old Tenderloin lady recently croaked and that her heartless landlord dumped off the last satin-lined threads of her soul so pimply rent boys and broke trannies and trendies like me can swoop upon the remains. Accordingly, me, Miss Purple, and a Haight Street "vintage"-store clothes buyer in thick horn-rimmed glasses, a Ben Davis jumpsuit, and a Howard Jones shag are desperate, bloodthirsty, and mad as hell that we're all in the store at the same exact time. You could cut through the tension with Miss Purple's crack pipe. Mr. Keep Trying Honey sifts through a pile of T-shirts near the register while me and Miss Purple go at it in the tube top aisle.

The seven-foot bitch hands me a black nylon dress that is way too Sound Factory – and she knows it. "You will like this, one can only assume, " she says with a snort, tossing her weave back with a fistful of thick, green press-on nails. She refuses to make eye contact, places her long fingers on her slender hip, and sashays up past the tank tops and into the promised land – the skirt aisle – where she pulls out a perfect '70s plaid wool maxi that's just my size and clearly way too small for her. She holds on to it like it's a living, breathing baby. I want to yank those fake gold hoops off her ears.

To spite her, I head straight over to the sweater aisle and hold up an extremely wrong '80s sweater that any fashion victim would kill for. Although I am doing my share to protest the '80s revival and thus have no interest in the puffy-sleeved sweater, I hold it up to the blinking fluorescent lights and admire it as if it were the holy grail. "This would look perfect on you," I say to Miss Purple, who has just chipped a nail while in the used panties aisle. She snaps her gum even faster and shoots me the look of death. "So you gonna take it, then?" she asks. I hold the sweater up higher, emit a weary sigh, and say, "I'm thinking about it."

Fully satisfied, I head over to the bag bucket and yank out a Gucci clutch. I can feel Miss Purple's cinnamon Dentine breath on the back of my neck, but I completely ignore it. I have two fake Gucci clutches exactly like this at home, but I have no choice – I must fuck her up. I gleefully hop over to the register and wait in line. The cashier, who has a long string of snot connecting her nose to her chin, looks at the clutches, the sweater, and the fur coat and for some reason says, "What the hell?" and charges me only five bucks for the whole package. Miss Purple is still right behind me, and I can feel the sweaty vibration of her rage. I walk out, strutting like a hooker who just got paid.

I hear Miss Purple behind me. "Miss Thing!" I ignore the she-dog. "I said, excuuuuse me, Miss Thing!" I turn around and channel Joan Crawford, raising one eyebrow: "Yes?" She pulls out a silver, sequined wallet. "I'll give you 10 for the clutch and the sweater." I take out the clothes and hand them to her, shaking my hand toward the cash. "It's all right," I say. "You can have it." She hands me a Merit Ultra-Light, and we cruise up Polk Street together, laughing all the way.