Age and Genre: Adult
Word Count: 79K
Andi knows being born a queer intersex “s/he” has lethal consequences. But s/he ain’t going to spend h/er life hiding, hooked on Jet, and wanking tourists just to make a few bucks. S/he’s joined up with the Trans Liberty Riot Brigade, an underground faction of s/hes resisting the government’s war on their illegal genitalia. But it’s not enough to tag shithouse walls and sniff down the next high anymore. The government has begun a series of sweeps to crush the resistance and though Andi might be nothing but a junktard, s/he does know the only way they’re going to stay alive is to send a call for help before they’re all killed—or worse, surgically assigned. Andi, together with Brigade leader Elenbar, must get beyond the communications block preventing all radio transmission, which means crossing the seaboard Wall barricading the United Free States borders. It’s designed to keep enemies out and the citizens in, but amid increasing earthquakes and deadly pursuit, Andi will discover there’s a far more dangerous secret hidden deep within the Wall itself.
First 250 Words:
“Oh yah? Well, fuck off then, you faggin’ wanker!”
He’s a penny pickle dick anyhow.
I walk into the men’s public shithouse, slammin’ the door behind me. The splintered starburst of mirror glitters under the yellow lights. The reflection’s sportin’ a shaggy haircut like someone’s gone faggin’ buggers with a pair of kitchen shears. Pupils blown black and wide with the upshot of Jet coursin’ through my veins.
That pickle fucker ripped my skirt.
I pop the edge of the pink frill up, inspectin’ the ripped seam. Take a beat to check my bulgin’ panties in the grimy mirror. Lookin’ not quite a she or a he these days. More—Lord-in-heaven—like one of them dangerous s/he Transgressors the news is always shriekin’ about. The burnin’ brown eyes glare back, darin’ me to speak, to say somethin’—except ain’t no one but myself lookin’ at myself. Just a faggin’ s/he junkie.
I approach the urinals squattin’ against the far wall. Smell of piss cakes and wankin’ stains waft through the air, a strong reminder of this location’s dual purpose. I peek under stall doors, but there ain’t no tourist trout loafers tappin’ a signal for a blowie or a pop-off. Don’t matter though.
There’s other work to be done. I slip down my pants and jut my pubic bone and mini-man toward one of the white bowl interiors. Urine spurts and I huff with relief. There ain’t no company to gawk at me and unlike squattin’ in lady piss stalls, it’s good.