Chapter One
John reread the advert in the well-thumbed newspaper as he slugged the last of his coffee:
- Tired of struggling to survive?
- Tired of being ignored, downtrodden and humiliated by a system created to exploit you?
- Tired of being less than the man you truly are?
Then travel to The United Districts of Kali!
Our efficient immigration centres will quickly process your application for a new life, based upon your gender identification, needs and aspirations. Our free, deluxe buses are waiting in every town. Satisfaction guaranteed -- or your body back!
"Male submission is a woman's human right, and it nourishes the root of her being."
-- the founding matrons.
His cock twitched illicitly, betraying his better judgement. There was no way he was ever going to the UDK. No way. Not ever. Nope. For the millionth time: not a chance.
The barista swept the courtesy newspaper aside the moment he stood and ventured into the gloom.
It was raining outside -- of course, it always bloody rained -- and he threw his hat on and buttoned up his jacket. A few brave cars hissed by in the swirling bleakness of what was once a bustling high street. Mottled columns of twisted decay shuttered long-abandoned frontage. 'Temporary' installations of electronic signage earned meagre coin from one faceless shop to the next.
Litter congregated under the ledges and doorways. The sky's relentless lashing purified it against the hard alter of the crumbling sidewalk.
John reached the grim facade of 'AAA Hardware' and stood beneath its tattered canopy, pondering his next action. Its grimy, stained windows were secured by a hefty cross of security bars. His hand instinctively clasped his wallet.
He'd enough money to buy a pack of GrindAgain, which would feed him for the week, or enough to pay for the electricity to cook it. But not both, not at the same time. Alternatively, he could subsist at the cafe every other day and starve for the rest.
Right on cue, the sign directly across the road flashed 'GrindAgain!' in bright red letters. A follow-on message was served: 'Making America's GrindAgain, and again and again!
Powering you, one meal at a time.
'
"Fuck off," he said to the sign, angry that he'd allowed his thoughts to become too pointed.
"No fucking privacy," he spat with disgust.
The letters morphed into blue text and read: 'MicroScope, your privacy is our business!
Power to you, one swipe at a time.
'
He closed his eyes and tried not to scream.
At least try not to make it too fucking obvious,
he thought.
The screen blanked and turned blue. Small white text punched out 'Error 418'.
Annoyed, John returned his attention to the problem at hand. He'd long since run out of things to burn in his contrived stove, which for a time had helped him make ends meet. He wasn't alone in that, and it was no longer feasible to 'find' wood and other burnables. It had become so bad that even the abandoned buildings had been plucked of their timber.
His main problem however wasn't eking out the week. It was repeating that suffering for the next, and then the next, and then every week thereafter as the gaps between meals slowly increased until he became too weak and just died. There was only one direction for the cost of surviving, and it always led straight to hell.
Life was utterly shit, and John, like so many others, had been left behind to fail. He'd been betrayed by the stream of lies and propaganda, believing his ethnic privilege would be enough to get him through the tough times. The secessionist revolution had been brutally swift when it rocked up, but was now a distant memory. They later formed the UDK out west, and by all accounts seemed to be doing much better.
There was one final option, but it gripped John's empty stomach with dread. The local mahadists always had work... but at a price. Frankly, if the choice was between losing your dignity to them or the UDK, at least the UDK promised a better life and definitely had much better weather. Becoming a mahadi just put off the inevitable.
A stranger scurried under the canopy and joined with John's observation of the celestial dirge beating the road into submission.
"Rain again," said the stranger.
John looked pained. Rain
again?
What a stupid fucking thing to say!
The sky continued with its judgement.
The stranger made a play of clearing his throat and forced another attempt: "I know where ya can make good dough..."
"So do I," John cut him off with a firm, shutting-down-the-conversation tone.
"Ya don't un'stand. Y'ain't nah choice."
John turned to the stranger for the first time. His face was partially hidden by his hood, but he was obviously young, in his early twenties at best. Four spangled letters had been badly inked across his forehead. They read 'MAHA' and John instantly knew everything he needed to know about him.
"You're just a child," John said, being careful not to include the expletives burning across his mind.
The stranger dragged his eye-daggers against the frustration of his entitlement, and sharpened his focus.
"Fuck wid me, ya fuck wid da chaptah!" he beat out with oddly angled hands, "Come wid me or I'll fuckin' cap ya!"
Clearly, the strange convulsions were something he'd learned whilst touching himself to X-SPAN earlier that morning.
John laboured a sigh of exasperation. Without warning, he swept his right and knuckled the kid's throat in a single movement. His sudden vertical integration terminated with a crack. The rain water lapped against him and was turned to wine.
"Shit."
John looked up. Five red-jacketed bros spilled out of the alley across the street.
Mahadists
, he thought. The kid must've been their prospect.
He knew there was no point in running; at least he had the shop at his back where he might stand a chance. He raised his arms defiantly.
"Come on, motherfuckers!" he roared, goading them to attack before they had time to think it through.
A gloriously quick death,
he thought, and would sure beat the hell out of a slow starvation.
Chapter Two
The sound of ringing woke him.
It wasn't an alarm clock, a fire alarm or even a police siren; it was an unstoppable ringing within his ears.
He was laying on a bed, indoors, all warm and dry. His tennis ball eyes occluded the light.
"Gently does it now," said a soft voice.
Drops of water spread against his lips and prised them apart. His skin burned. He whelped involuntary at the lancing pain that skewered his body.
He croaked the two most important life-saving words he could muster: "No insurance."
His mind was barely functioning, but falling into medical debt was quite simply the worst form of assisted dying anyone could be suckered into.
"Shh," the voice said tenderly, "you're in a safe place. You'll be okay. Don't worry about money. Just rest, and know that you're being cared for."
John exhaled a tension he didn't know he had, and tumbled backwards into oblivion.
Intermittent moments of sharp wakefulness flashed into the soft darkness of an ocean of memory. The leering words 'Make America Holesome Again' cackled at him as they chased him down a blind alley. The Great Depression spread him on a catafalque and beat him with human selfishness and corporate greed. His pockets had been looted because the treasury was bare. A grinning, slick-haired man in an expensive suit told him how great everything was.
He sat bolt upright and stole a lungful of air. His eyes flickered open and then squinted-watered-closed again. His heart raced. His hands pressed into the crispness of the bed and pushed him to sitting. The room smelled of hygiene. Everything was wrong, because everything seemed right.
He heard the click of heels and gingerly shifted his head to the side. He started to feel a little dizzy and his upper body swayed in slow motion. Behind the veil of his eyelids, new stars were born and traced strange patterns.
A hand supported his back and another pressed softly into his chest, gently returning him to the mattress. A wave of musk and honey wafted over him, as if he were in a heavenly garden.
"Thank you ma'am, whoever you are," managed John, at first whispering and then rasping.
"Our pleasure," responded the voice, full of concern.
"Where am I?"
"At the mission. We picked you up after the fight."
John flashed in pain. "Did I embarrass myself? I... I don't remember much."
"No, you certainly didn't. Impressive, actually. Military?"
"Yeah, once-upon-a-lifetime."
"Why did you leave? You've some years yet?"
