Snakes Reads A Terrible Book: Manhunt, by Gretchen Felker-Martin - An utter waste of everyone’s time inspired by the Tranny Sideshows thread and its new favorite author

[DatBepisTho]

Not sure how I'd eat a pdf. And paper is all undigestable cellulose. Or mostly anyway. I could burn it, create warmth.

As one does in the actual apocalypse, funny that.

 

[Trianon]

> 1600 rounds. 1600 ROUNDS. Do we have any gun spergs that wanna freak out about how much this would WEIGH and how unlikely it is that a born woman would be able to haul this up a tree

Can't quote but:

Let's assume this is .223, it doesn't really matter; but that's a pretty standard round for a rifle. 36 grams each. 36gr x 1600 = 57600gr. That's about 127 pounds of ammunition. You ever tried to lift 127 pounds? Probably weighs more than most of you women.

Some manner of gun autist seems to have answered the question "How much does 1000 rounds of 223 weigh?" before.

This wholesaler says a box of 1000 rounds of this particular ammo (not 223) is 42 pounds. So 1600 would be 67 pounds. Still heavy to carry around

In addition to the improbability of Robbie being able to carry this around, she also says she's keeping it "neatly slotted into the cubby holes of a vinyl laundry organizer ... hung from a higher limb."

This is what we're talking about: the organizers that you can just hang directly on a closet rod.

This full-length one from Target has a maximum capacity of 40 pounds. So she'd have to have at least 2-3 of these hanging in a tree, very poorly secured and likely to blow in the wind and dump all the ammo onto the ground like skittles. Just feels like imagery that seemed cool like, oh yeah, they can use ordinary stuff they had lying around for GUNS, but my bros, my guys, you don't have backpacks?

OK, this evening Peaches is bored, so beware!

...I decided to rewrite the paragraph from the first chapter that was posted in the Tranny Sideshows thread.

View attachment 3199782

Reminder that I don't write professionally and English is my third language, and yet in 10 minutes I was able to cobble together a version of these events that might pass for narration... somewhere:

View attachment 3199788

Huge improvement, you made me realize how weird the pacing is in the original. The action/tension ratio just ... isn't good, but you got an entire page out of it while still making it feel fast-paced. Kudos!

Also, since the change from "TERF" to "female supremacist" is a good choice, I'm wondering, does this book ever explain what a TERF is? The whole book is so insider baseball about very specific Twitter discourse, I doubt a lot of readers could make head or tail of it, even if they could wrap their minds around having to find these horny, violent men likable.

"Everything fitting like it was meant to."

Maybe I'm over thinking but i can't help but feel some homophobia and honestly kinda Transphobic by their own logic. This line is while he's having striaght sex, and with how homophobic trannys are it just seems like some Freudian slip, that as much as they talk about having sex with other males trannies they actually can't stand it. It sounds like he's implying sex with the others just feels wrong to him

Beth's storyline seems to be about internalized transphobia or whatever, so I guess it's intentional that he's obsessed with ~*delicate*~ twinks having sex with each other because he's an OGRE.

@Apotheosis of the Liver Wish I could super-Winner sticker your Tranch fic. Laugh of the week. Every time Penny called Kevin a stupid bitch..... lmao.

 

[Accept Only Substitutes]

As one does in the actual apocalypse, funny that.

Apparently something those idiots who have never started a fire in however long this apocalypse has been going on and they've been on the run - up near Boston, where it snows - has ever figured out.

Something I've wondered about, they say people are still living in cities. So is there electricity? Water treatment services? Trash collection? Police? Fire fighters? The stuff that makes it possible to live in urban environments?

Or are we supposed to believe that there hasn't been mass looting and so forth and disease outbreaks because of lack of sanitation and garbage piled up in the streets, but people are still living there. Or whatever I'm trying to say, I think my sentence got away from me there. I r gud wroter 2. Gibs moneis.

Because men make up a lot of the employees of the infrastructure we take for granted.

 

[umami's milk]

Because men make up a lot of the employees of the infrastructure we take for granted.

Perhaps that's why the internet in this universe suddenly collapsed. All the dudes and trannies turned.
Chapter 4 on the way.

 

[DatBepisTho]

Apparently something those idiots who have never started a fire in however long this apocalypse has been going on and they've been on the run - up near Boston, where it snows - has ever figured out.

Something I've wondered about, they say people are still living in cities. So is there electricity? Water treatment services? Trash collection? Police? Fire fighters? The stuff that makes it possible to live in urban environments?

Or are we supposed to believe that there hasn't been mass looting and so forth and disease outbreaks because of lack of sanitation and garbage piled up in the streets, but people are still living there. Or whatever I'm trying to say, I think my sentence got away from me there. I r gud wroter 2. Gibs moneis.

Because men make up a lot of the employees of the infrastructure we take for granted.

With the post apocalyptic settings it's always best to go with small scale things like easily defendable towns with walls and picking a time period+tech to base the quality of life on.

Since this dickwad can't write his own shit and has to reference popculture, let's use Fallout as an example. Think of their settlement designs and how junky their living conditions (even at the top of the wasteland social ladder in places) are despite the world of tomorrow-esque robots running around with nuclear fission battery supplies.
- Dude needs to research how unattended buildings and even attended buildings decay.

 

[jumboseafood]

Apparently something those idiots who have never started a fire in however long this apocalypse has been going on and they've been on the run - up near Boston, where it snows - has ever figured out.

Something I've wondered about, they say people are still living in cities. So is there electricity? Water treatment services? Trash collection? Police? Fire fighters? The stuff that makes it possible to live in urban environments?

Or are we supposed to believe that there hasn't been mass looting and so forth and disease outbreaks because of lack of sanitation and garbage piled up in the streets, but people are still living there. Or whatever I'm trying to say, I think my sentence got away from me there. I r gud wroter 2. Gibs moneis.

Because men make up a lot of the employees of the infrastructure we take for granted.

Ealier on in the book labs producing estrogen for post menopausal women were mentioned. So presumably some pockets of industrial society still linger. They also have the logistical capacity export goods to Seabrook in New Hampshire implying some type of complex society is in the area to have a sizeable market for the estrogen. Unless this is a charity act the people have to pay the labs with something so they must have some industrial or agricultural capacity.

 

[AnOminous]

so wait your telling me they never once in there long trip to this bunker, no one stopped to bathe in a river?
some true and honest wahmain they are when I was camping once, I literally couldn't go a day with out bathing, so washed in a cold ass river. was invigorating once you get over the chill..better than coffee in waking you up.

Troons are pathologically incapable of bathing. You'd think that would be such stereotypically male behavior it would give these men dysphoria, but they don't really have that, just an enormous sense of entitlement.

 

[jumboseafood]

so wait your telling me they never once in there long trip to this bunker, no one stopped to bathe in a river?
some true and honest wahmain they are when I was camping once, I literally couldn't go a day with out bathing, so washed in a cold ass river. was invigorating once you get over the chill..better than coffee in waking you up.

To be completely fair to them a person who survived for years in a post apocalyptic wasteland could probably go without bathing for extended periods of time.

 

[Accept Only Substitutes]

Ealier on in the book labs producing estrogen for post menopausal women were mentioned. So presumably some pockets of industrial society still linger. This also have the logistical capacity export goods to Seabrook in New Hampshire implying some type of complex society is in the era to have a sizeable market for the estrogen. Unless this is a charity act the people have to pay the labs with something so they must have some industrial or agricultural capacity.

Interesting. Doesn't strike me as very realistic, but I am aware that I can be a little autistic about things.

 

[that can't be right]

To be completely fair to them a person who survived for years in a post apocalyptic wasteland could probably go without bathing for extended periods of time.

But would they want to? Humans in general like being clean. Heck, not even just humans, even animals like being clean.
After a hard day of plucking zomboy balls most people would want to clean up afterwards. Securing a water source would be a first priority anyway and making soap isn't difficult. Not to mention keeping clean would help keep you healthy in a society were there's probably no antibiotics and no medical care anymore. No excuse for this amount of nastiness besides the fact that they're fucked in the head.

 

[Accept Only Substitutes]

But would they want to? Humans in general like being clean. Heck, not even just humans, even animals like being clean.
After a hard day of plucking zomboy balls most people would want to clean up afterwards. Securing a water source would be a first priority anyway and making soap isn't difficult. No excuse for this amount of nastiness besides the fact that they're fucked in the head

No Troon is going to make soap. Not in a apocalypse. It isn't hard, but it is a decent amount of work and there are steps you have to take to keep yourself safe, like eye protection, adding the lye to the water in a plastic container - preferably outside - not the other way around. Never add water to lye. I'm not sure exactly what happens, but every amateur soap maker is told to never ever do that, and never work with lye without eye protection, or use glass containers.

Then there's the the stirring. I used an immersion blender and it usually took seconds for the chemical reaction to happen, but in the forest there is no electricity.

Stirring soap by hand can take minutes. Upwards of ten and you can't stop until it's done. You also have to know how much lye to use and how much fat, unless you like burning your skin off. Soaps made today don't burn because we can measure the amount of lye we use. Campfire soap would have to use fire ashes, which is a lot harder to measure and get rid. Too little lye and the chemistry won't work. Too much and it burns.

So, while it isn't hard it is definitely a skill set most people don't have. The ones who do typically rely on modern tools and chemicals to make it easier.

 

[that can't be right]

So, while it isn't hard it is definitely a skill set most people don't have.

Well I guess it does makes sense that trannies would search libraries for guides on how to make bootleg estrogen but not one book on how to make soap

 

[Great Monkey King]

Why would Fran take the food with barehands?? I mean the chopsticks... The aforementioned chopsticks... They're right there, Fran. God, you're stupid.

But the excerpt says "a chopstick" so maybe the trannies weren't able to keep their set together and are ultimately left with a stick. Alternatively, Micah seems like the type of weeb that would own chopsticks because they'd make him feel cool and yet be completely incompetent using them, so of course he doesn't think you can take a large, relatively round item out of a pan with them.

 

[Accept Only Substitutes]

Well I guess it does makes sense that trannies would search libraries for guides on how to make bootleg estrogen but not one book on how to make soap

Sounds about right. Besides, typically women make soap. Men don't use the soap the women make.

 

[BoobWhiskers]

To be completely fair to them a person who survived for years in a post apocalyptic wasteland could probably go without bathing for extended periods of time.

But would they want to? Humans in general like being clean. Heck, not even just humans, even animals like being clean.

I feel like regardless of how rough and tough and, dare I say, manly one is, bathing should be a much higher priority if you're running around tonguing buttholes and ventilating your mountain of fat folds like these characters are.

Think of your grodiest, nastiest cow whose thread you follow on this site who seems to find bathing to be a foreign concept, multiply the time between showers by a year or two, and then imagine they were also regularly drenching themselves in very feminine ladylike sweat and leaving bodily fluids all over each other. Then imagine all the nasty-ass shit that happens to cows on here (Lou Gags and his foothole, whatever Kevin Gibes is fermenting in his Amhole, the Womb Wizard waxing rhapsodic about her underboob yeast infection, etc) and imagine what THESE crazy trannies are courting by never washing.
And I don't even follow some of the really nasty cows. I'm just saying.

 

[cherrysour]

Previous chapter

Last chapter ended on a high note for Team Trans with Fran’s affirmation-via-clipboard, but don’t get comfortable. Things are about to turn real dark, real fast.

Part Two, Chapter IV: Safe Space

It’s now late September, and Beth is feeding some pigs at an LSPG-adjacent farm.

Beth and Meg set down one bucket apiece and tipped the others over the rail, showering the trough and the upturned snouts of the pigs in a fragrant medley of compost and abattoir sweepings. A chorus of wild squeals rose up. Huge bodies thumped against one another as the pigs fought for pride of place and Beth went back for her second bucket. Gobbets of flesh pinwheeled through the air in a reduction of half-clotted blood and spoiled milk to splatter on the scrum below.

There are several metaphors in there that I am too lazy to find. Anyway, the hog-slopping has Beth feeling amorous:

Sweat glistened at the nape of Meg’s sunburned neck. The other girl smiled and Beth leaned in and kissed her on a wave of sudden bravery as the scent of pig shit swirled around them in the breeze.

Ugh. Never smile at a sex pest, Meg!

Now it’s nighttime, and POV switches to Ramona, who’s leading Seal Team TERF on a tranny raid. Because this is Manhunt, Ramona is menstruating. (It’s a “light” period. Cool detail, Manhunt!)

The cramps were bearable, especially through the buzz of the expired Adderall she’d snorted on her way to barracks. She raised two fingers. Made a fist.

Jules, who was the tallest, kicked the door down. Piper pulled the pin out of her tear gas canister and lobbed it down the front hall of the ground-floor apartment, clocking the first trans girl square in the nose as she burst out of one of the bedrooms. She reeled and crashed into the wall, clutching at her face. Clouds of gas billowed up around her thrashing silhouette.

Point of order, sir. I don’t think Ramona, a TERF on a mission to murder trans-identified males, would nevertheless, as the kids say, “respect their pronouns." Allow me to rephrase:

Jules, who was the tallest, kicked the door down. Piper pulled the pin out of her tear gas canister and lobbed it down the front hall of the ground-floor apartment, clocking the first [man] square in the nose as [he] burst out of one of the bedrooms. [He] reeled and crashed into the wall, clutching at [his] face. Clouds of gas billowed up around [his] thrashing silhouette.

That’s more like it.

Ramona turned back toward the smoke just as a wispy little elf of a [man] came flying at her out of the darkened pantry. She had an impression of a wrinkled face, wild white hair, and the hard knot of an Adam’s apple.

Ramona caught the [man’s] knife arm by the wrist

What knife? Anyway, they struggle; the man breaks his wrist against the kitchen sink and drops the knife; Ramona wins. Is that realistic? I assume that’s the point of making him elderly.

Ramona inexplicably takes a moment to think about

Feather’s chubby wrists and the blue veins that stood out in them and the milk and salt taste of their skin

before she

flipped the sobbing freak around and cuffed her.

Good example of the pronoun-POV issue right there. Ramona calls him a “freak” and a “her”? In the same sentence? An actual TERF would never. Maybe Ramona’s a secret handmaid.

Anyway, the TERFs round up the “ladies” in the back yard. There were four in the house, but the author forgets to describe one of them. Along with the elf (who, somewhat justifiably on his part, calls them "[f]ucking TERF pigs,") there’s

a tall, blocky transsexual in ripped overalls and a striped T-shirt

and

a dark-haired [guy] who might have been Greek or Iraqi or something, judging by [his] caterpillar eyebrows and the errant chest hairs sprouting from [his] breast.

I snicker at the “or something,” but not for long, because the next two pages are ugly. There’s begging, and crying, and then the TERFs line the “ladies” up against the back of the house and shoot them in the face. Mercifully, no one but the author is sexually aroused by this. I miss the LSPG.

End scene, thank fuck.

New POV: Beth. It’s flashback time! Beth is reminiscing on the year and a half he spent after “dropping out” (of what?) living at:

The Flying Saucer Collective, a shabby two-story place right off Park Avenue where seven queers cooked communal vegan meals and brewed their own trash-can beer and fought over how to properly store sourdough starter. There was an herb garden nobody weeded and somebody’s mother’s old paisley shawls tacked up as wall hangings in the living room. Morning glories withering on the trellis leaned against the east wall. A real Pinterest board of a house, just unkempt enough to be chic without sliding into dereliction.

Sounds stinky, but in a good way. Like cumin, patchouli, and weed. Beth spends his time at the stinky collective having sex with pretty much everyone he comes in contact with:

skinny trans mascs, angry leatherdykes, demisexuals with half-ironic bowl cuts who talked endlessly about Tumblr gender discourse and whether wearing bow ties was class warfare until each half-assed relationship inevitably flamed out into brittle, silent resentment.

LOLOL. You know the author has had that bow-tie/class-warfare conversation.

Anyway, T-Day happens (as does something called the “Liverpool Massacre,” which is not explained further, but we can surmise). Post-T-day, the women of the collective vote to kick out the “women” (except one "woman" with an amhole, who gets to stay) and Beth is out on his ass:

She and Venus and V’s girlfriend, Tara, who’d been staying with them since the news hit. The house’s three potential testosterone time bombs.

I’m not seeing a good alternative here, Beth.

Beth remembers a “look” from one of the women:

a look that said You know, and I know, that somewhere under those blunt bangs and that mismatched foundation you’re still every bit the man you’ve always been, and you’ll never be anything else.

Again, I’m not seeing an alternative here. Unless you can identify out of the virus with bangs and mismatched foundation?

Now, waiting to be told that she was off farm shift, that she’d made Meg feel unsafe or that someone felt her attitude was inappropriate, it was that look she remembered

Wait, what? Oh, I get it. This isn’t part of the flashback. Beth got sent to the principal’s office for sexually harassing the pig-slop girl and is reminiscing while she waits.

The flashback continues and I get the feeling Beth is a massive asshole. He remembers one woman commenting on his “abusive” tones of voice and another that “was starting to feel unsafe.” Is the reader supposed to be on his side with this? What’s the common denominator here, Beth?

V had shouted until her voice cracked like fired glaze, but Beth only drew back down into herself, looking from one closed face to the next with the mounting satisfaction of knowing everyone had finally decided not to pretend anymore. They hated her. She disgusted them. She was a roach scuttling across peeled linoleum. Shit smeared on the sole of a sandal. Finally, finally, they were telling her that every kiss and scene and forced and halting word of their affection had been a performance to convince themselves and each other they could love a big, dumb, ugly brick.

One, gross, and two, settle down. “Beth is male” is a neutral statement. The female sex isn’t some lunch table we won’t let you sit at.

Beth has a flashback-within-a-flashback and remembers:

Suddenly she wanted very much to stay in this place where she’d never felt love, where she’d never put her art up on the walls or let herself unpack her last few boxes, where she’d played Magic: The Gathering and Netrunner with Jon (bad loser, good kisser) and gotten blackout drunk at their Christmas party and yelled at Emily for defending her cop dad (a terse, excruciatingly boring lecture from Aster about trauma triggers and verbal abuse had followed).

Yup. Definitely a massive asshole. Dweeb, too. Anyway, Beth and the other “women” leave, but one returns to the house to pound his head and fists against the front door while he screams. At which point one of the women inside pushes a second-floor air conditioner onto his head. Which is an objectively funny way to die. And then Beth’s friend kills himself with Klonopin two days later. This is a serious bummer of a chapter.

The flashback ends and Beth is ushered into a trailer office by a “graying middle-aged cis woman.”

Back to Ramona’s POV. The TERFs are celebrating at the bar from Cheers (really). There’s drinking, pool, making out. An “attagirl” is waiting upstairs for Ramona in 1B. We do not learn what an “attagirl” is. I do not want to know what it is.

Molly raised her glass.

The rest of the room followed suit. “To a world without cocks, and the cunts who’ll get us there.”

The author seems to be under the misimpression that TERFs spend all their time thinking about him. We really, really don’t. We just want him to stay out of our single-sex spaces and refrain from acting out his sexual fetishes in public.

At the Cheers bar, a lady with an undercut gives Ramona a double-X tattoo. There is absolutely nothing feminine about this scene except the music (Indigo Girls and Courtney Love).

Back to Beth’s POV. He’s sniveling to Robbie.

The woman in the trailer—Joyce—had explained, in a voice that made Beth think of the special ed teachers at West High who’d concealed their burnout behind suffocating niceness, that Meg was uncomfortable with the idea of their continuing to work together, so wouldn’t it be easier if Beth rotated off farm duty?

Aww. Being mildly chastised for sexual harassment hurts his feewings. Also, LOL, Beth was in special ed.

I’m a girl until a real one decides I’m not.

What does that have to do with anything?

Hang on, the way Beth tells it, it wasn’t sexual harassment at all:

She told him how Meg had smiled at her, how they’d kissed by the pigpens and fucked in the showers, how they’d stolen dirty little interludes all through their shift. And then the next day, nothing. Meg wouldn’t look at her. Wouldn’t talk to her.

That would be perplexing, if true, but something tells me Meg remembers it differently. Beth continues to boohoo, snottily.

“I liked the farm,” she said, knowing she was sulking and unable to make herself stop.

“It’s not personal,” said Robbie.

Beth wiped her nose on her sleeve and laughed. It was half a sob. “Then what the fuck is?”

So Beth is basically an anthropomorphic personality disorder, right? Ordinarily I can tell when an author wants me to be on a character's side, but here? No idea.

POV back to Ramona. Her new tattoo itches. It’s nighttime, she’s outside Feather’s place, and she’s a bit PTSD-y from the murdering.

She raised a hand and made a finger gun at the pale blur standing in the half-open door. “Bang,” she muttered, and dissolved into gales of laughter.

Feather comes outside. We can see his stretch marks. He’s frowny about the murdering.

“I didn’t pull the trigger,” Ramona snarled.

If not, she definitely helped Karin pull hers. Plus she beat up an old man. Not a great look for Ramona. Feather lets her in anyway.

Ramona barfs, which makes her think of the sex she had with a pink-haired boy in eighth grade. Not seeing the connection there, but this is Manhunt. Anyway, Feather says she can’t come here like this. Ramona, head in the toilet, remembering the elf with a bullet hole in his face, tells Feather:

“Just shut—shut the fuck up.”

That’s it for Chapter IV!

 

[naaaaiiiiillllll!!!]

Never add water to lye. I'm not sure exactly what happens, but every amateur soap maker is told to never ever do that, and never work with lye without eye protection, or use glass containers.

(Chemistry sperging ahead) It’s actually just a safety technique to prevent splashing solid lye and/or water with saturated lye out of the container in a dramatic fashion (kind of like how rapidly pouring water into a hot pan will make a loud and dramatic mess). Lye dissolving into water is exothermic and releases quite a bit of heat, causing localized boiling/splashing as water is being added. By adding lye to water, there’s enough water around to absorb the generated heat w/o splashing/boiling (preventing a mess which can be dangerous but, more importantly for chemists/soap makers, lose valuable chemicals).

“Do what you ‘otta, add acid to ‘watta” is an old chemistry rule of thumb that applies to mixing concentrated base (such as solid lye) with water as well.

Eye protection/good ventilation is a given, as lye dissolved in water (or aqueous NaOH for chemistry snobs like me, lol) will feel like tear gas in seconds (but the burn will actually be worse for you).

As for mixing lye solutions in glass containers, it’s a bit more tricky. The fear is that a rapid change in temperature might shatter glass, but it’s not the worst thing in the world if you’re slow and careful (hell, chemists work with base solutions in Pyrex glassware all the time). Maybe it’s a large-scale/bulk soap making concern? Doesn’t matter, because stainless steel and heavy-duty plastic is cheaper and easier to find anyway.

In any case, making homemade soap is something you’d do at a permanent camp/settlement with dedicated staff/soap makers and not out camping alone or with a couple other people. Besides, soap is non-perishable and easy enough to scavenge for years after an apocalypse event.

 

[that can't be right]

Oh yeah, this whole thing hasn't been happening for very long has it? There's probably plenty of resources like cleaning products left.


And yeah I feel like Ramona is gonna ruin it for everyone and betray the TERFS. She seems just as nasty as the trannies.

 

[Accept Only Substitutes]

(Chemistry sperging ahead) It’s actually just a safety technique to prevent splashing solid lye and/or water with saturated lye out of the container in a dramatic fashion (kind of like how rapidly pouring water into a hot pan will make a loud and dramatic mess). Lye dissolving into water is exothermic and releases quite a bit of heat, causing localized boiling/splashing as water is being added. By adding lye to water, there’s enough water around to absorb the generated heat w/o splashing/boiling (preventing a mess which can be dangerous but, more importantly for chemists/soap makers, lose valuable chemicals).

“Do what you ‘otta, add acid to ‘watta” is an old chemistry rule of thumb that applies to mixing concentrated base (such as solid lye) with water as well.

Eye protection/good ventilation is a given, as lye dissolved in water (or aqueous NaOH for chemistry snobs like me, lol) will feel like tear gas in seconds (but the burn will actually be worse for you).

As for mixing lye solutions in glass containers, it’s a bit more tricky. The fear is that a rapid change in temperature might shatter glass, but it’s not the worst thing in the world if you’re slow and careful (hell, chemists work with base solutions in Pyrex glassware all the time). Maybe it’s a large-scale/bulk soap making concern? Doesn’t matter, because stainless steel and heavy-duty plastic is cheaper and easier to find anyway.

In any case, making homemade soap is something you’d do at a permanent camp/settlement with dedicated staff/soap makers and not out camping alone or with a couple other people. Besides, soap is non-perishable and easy enough to scavenge for years after an apocalypse event.

Ah, thanks! I think the issue with glassware is that the lye can/will etch glass over time and eventually break/explode. Maybe it's safe enough if lab geeks do it, but we're told not to even risk using Pyrex. When I made soap I mixed my lye water in a plastic container I got at the dollar store. AFAIK it just has to be recycle number 5 (in the US anyway, I don't know if that's an international standard or not) which is frankenplastic.

 

[umami's milk]

ninja'd

Spoiler: Alternative Part 2 Ch 4 review. Read it if you want. I'm too stubborn to delete it.

[Previous Chapter]
So where we last left off, the trangang is heading to the bunker, where they are going to be rael and honest wahmen.

PART 2, CHAPTER 4: SAFE SPACE (Yes, that's the real title.)
Trannies bash themselves for one whole chapter.

Beth liked farm shift, even in the late September heat. Since her leg had healed up enough that it no longer woke her in the night, she’d had no problem lugging pails of slops, cracked corn, and the chipped offal and bones of the animals that passed through the slaughterhouse at the north end of the compound.

I'm happy that we got spared the introduction of the troons to the rest of the commune and that the protagonists are actually making themselves useful for once. Beth continues to do the manual labor, Fran nowhere to be seen. It's September in Boston, which shouldn't be that warm, Micah. Low 70s at most.

For now, all she had to worry about were the pigs. As she stumped along the elevated walkway, a Sheetrock bucket brimming with feed in each hand, they paced her progress in the yard below like a school of grossly overgrown piranhas.

Why do you have to worry about the pigs? I know family get-togethers can be awkward —especially for troons— but you should be happy to have some relatives here, Beth. People in your corner. Sheetrock makes a return. I support the romance brewing between Micah and the term 'Sheetrock bucket'.

Meg came to lean against the rail on Beth’s left, resting on her elbows. They looked down at the seething backs and thrusting snouts below.
“Finally,” the other girl deadpanned in a pitch-perfect Gordon Ramsay. “Some good fucking food.”

Uggh. This screams "HOW DO YOU DO FELLOW MEMERS." It also doesn't work. Pigs and other livestock are actual food, so using this phrase here negates all humor of the original meme, in which usually gross and inedible things were- Y'know what I'm not even going to explain this. It's just stupid.

Beth laughed. It was just the two of them on pen three today. Sweat glistened at the nape of Meg’s sunburned neck. The other girl smiled and Beth leaned in and kissed her on a wave of sudden bravery as the scent of pig shit swirled around them in the breeze.

So romantic! We're introduced to this 'Megan' chick with absolutely no disposition, and she just seems to be there for the pr0ns, like most characters on the troon side.

---

Ramona stood on the weathered front porch of the house at 33 Balsam in Arlington. The front lights were dead but the moon was nearly full and silver light washed her and her squad as they listened in the darkness, waiting for her to give the all clear. Their first night out. The inauguration of their work in Boston. Her heart fluttered. Her period had come that morning, but light. The cramps were bearable, especially through the buzz of the expired Adderall she’d snorted on her way to barracks. She raised two fingers. Made a fist.

Okay. Now we're thrown back to Ramona. No reason . Since when is a woman's period a story-worthy part of the narrative? Especially when it's not even that worthwhile? That entire sentence is unnecessary.
The next pages show that the TERFs are doing a full sweep of a tranny hideout in full SWAT team fashion. Inconsistent use of the term trans girl and trans woman. Here's some tranny bashing for everyone.

Piper pulled the pin out of her tear gas canister and lobbed it down the front hall of the ground-floor apartment, clocking the first trans girl square in the nose as she burst out of one of the bedrooms. The trans girl, face bloody and eyes squeezed shut, blundered into Piper, who seized her by the arm and shoulder and propelled her face-first into the wall again. Plaster cracked. So did bone.

Ramona turned back toward the smoke just as a wispy little elf of a trans woman came flying at her out of the darkened pantry. She had an impression of a wrinkled face, wild white hair, and the hard knot of an Adam’s apple.

Pause. So this granny tranny is the one character reffered to as a 'trans woman'. Are tranny life stages extended compared to ours? What age does a tranny stop being a 'girl' and start being a 'woman'?

Ramona drove the woman back into the counter, knocking a stack of dishes to the floor to shatter at their feet. The old transsexual’s wrist broke with a sharp, dry crunch when she
slammed it against the rusted tap. The knife clattered into the sink and Ramona thought of her mother’s thin, brittle arms lying flat against the yellowing sheets of the hospital bed, of her brother Ben’s fat little fists at the age of seven tender months, of Feather’s chubby wrists and the blue veins that stood out in them and the milk and salt taste of their skin.

R.I.P Tommy Tooter. Also, don't bring your enbie boyfriend into this PTSD attack.
The rest of the Legion are here to oversee baby's first spec-ops operation. The trannies are all caught and rounded up in the backyard. The granny tranny, one huge brick of a 'trans girl', and some other AGPs. Who knows that sinister shit they were getting up to.

Ramona dragged the old trans woman along by her good arm. “Fucking TERF pig,” the woman hissed at her through yellowed teeth. “What’d we do to you, huh? What’d we ever fucking do to you? You’ve got no fucking right,” the old woman snapped, twisting in Ramona’s grip. Her dark eyes flashed venom. She had a deep, scratchy voice that sounded, to Ramona’s untrained ear, like botched vocal cord surgery. A frog’s croak. Fine silver stubble dusted her long jaw, which clicked as she swallowed and continued in an urgent whisper. “They’re just kids. They’re kids. If you need to make some kind of point, keep me, do what you’re gonna do to me, but let them go.”

You made 'her' sound like a witch. Good going, Micah. Granted, this is from the evil TERF perspective, but still, you take the liberty of weasel wording the horrific appearance of every other tranny in the book, including Ramona's boyfriend.

“We won’t do it anymore,” sobbed a dark-haired girl who might have been Greek or Iraqi or something, judging by her caterpillar eyebrows and the errant chest hairs sprouting from her breast.

How the hell do you confuse Greek for Iraqi? Also, this is a psy-op. You can't convince this isn't a psy-op. No genuine tranny would describe their own kind this way.

“Line ’em up,” Ramona snapped to Sadie, turning her back on Molly and the others. She was going to do this for herself. The pistol at her side felt like a bar of lead. She imagined that she heard her mother’s voice. Nothing worth doing is easy.

The troons they caught are all face-the-wall'd. Good job girls. I've omitted the rest of the passage because it's just desperate sympathy baiting and soldiers learning how to kill for the first time.

---

Now we're back at the bunker again. Beth is reminiscing of a time before the troonpocalypse.

For a year and a half after dropping out she’d lived on the second floor in a filthy closet of a room, slowly dating her way through a rotating cast of roommates and friends of friends: skinny transmascs, angry leatherdykes, demisexuals with half-ironic bowl cuts who talked endlessly about Tumblr gender discourse and whether wearing bow ties was class warfare until each half-assed relationship inevitably flamed out into brittle, silent resentment

The alphabet dating pool sounds like a fun place to be. Trannies will date everything in a 10 mile radius. Everyone who comes into their lives is a possible target. Escape immediately. We get some backstory on Beth that may hit close to home for Micah, getting kicked out of the shared halfway house.

And then, three days into the nonstop onslaught of broadcast carnage in the wake of the Liverpool Massacre, Aster called a house meeting. They called it via email, which was typical passive-aggressive bullshit, and as soon as Beth saw the notification on her phone and read the subject line—IMPORTANT: HOUSING SITUATION—she knew what it meant. She was the situation. She and Venus and V’s girlfriend, Tara, who’d been staying with them since the news hit. The house’s three potential testosterone time bombs.

C'mon. There is national nonstop news about every man turning into a rape monster and you still want to be catered to?

Beth watched Emily pick at her cuticles while stealing looks at V and Tara from the corners of her wet green eyes. It had started days ago, those looks, even among the hugs and tears and clouds of weed smoke. It was the look Beth would see five years later on the faces of some of Seabrook’s women during Teach’s broadcast, cold and hard and cis—although white Emily said she thought maybe she was two-spirit—a look that said You know, and I know, that somewhere under those blunt bangs and that mismatched foundation you’re still every bit the man you’ve always been, and you’ll never be anything else.

Emily blm ACAB might be based for once, although I really don't hope it'll take a troonpocalypse for people to stop tiptoeing around tranny feels.

-it was that look she remembered, not Aster’s circular monologue about accountability and “abusive” tones of voice and how their partner Chase—who Beth remembered mostly as a skinny smear of purple hair and projected neuroses—was starting to feel unsafe, that Tara’s night terrors were scaring them and wouldn’t it just be better for everyone if they admitted they were taking a huge risk housing “potential vectors,” so maybe it was best if those vectors went to the half-finished quarantine camp in Needham until things settled down and there was a vaccine?

Again, the alphabet cannibalism and self-hatred are shining through. Remember that the line 'smear of purple hair and projected neuroses' is coming from a man who looks like t

his. ↓
Not the mention that Micah is painting 'Aster' as irrational or melodramatic. It's the apocalypse, Beth. Affecting testosterone. Put two and two together and stop pretending that suddenly calling yourself a woman nullifies the plague's chances of infection.

They hated her. She disgusted them. She was a roach scuttling across peeled linoleum. Shit smeared on the sole of a sandal. Finally, finally, they were telling her that every kiss and scene and forced and halting word of their affection had been a performance to convince themselves and each other they could love a big, dumb, ugly brick.

So close and yet so far. But maybe Micah knows that this is the reality and that he —and every other tranny — might as well go full throttle into the deep ends of degeneracy. The other side is never going to see us as real people, so what's the point? Might as well disgust them to no end.

So Beth and the other trannies are all sent packing, but not without all of them throwing a fit and seething about everyone else's 'despicable femininity.'

Beth turned back, trying to think of something cutting she could yell in parting, and they slammed the door. She was left face-to-face with the stop sign Emily had repainted pink and blue and nailed to it the year before.

THIS IS A SAFE SPACE FOR PEOPLE OF ALL GENDERS, RACES, FAITHS, AND SEXUALITIES!​

lol. I yearn for the day every emily blm (acab!) finally turns traitor against this lunacy.

Anyway, because V can't learn to take a hint and starts banging on the front door, he gets the full force of an AC unit hurtling down from the second story, instantly killing him. (?)

Beth looked up. The air conditioner spun as it fell. Beth hadn’t seen who pushed it. A hand. Curtains swirling. Bone. Blood. A sound like an egg cracking against the rim of a metal bowl. The slow, sluglike glide of the yolk over stainless steel. It looked too real. TV with the motion smoothing on, the actors’ faces home-video raw and sharp. Tara screaming. Her nails digging hard into Beth’s arm.
They were scared, she told herself, trying to reach back across those five long years and turn her younger self away from the sight of V’s tottering body and the oozing, open gash from her ruined skull down to her chin. The fissure where her forehead used to be. They were afraid of us, and they hated us. Lily hated us, too, and herself, and they hated Lily but they had no
path to let it out. So we got it. We got all of it

No, Beth. It was because testosterone-havers were turning into zombies, and they didn't want any of that. Is an AC unit even heavy enough to kill a man on impact? To split someone's skull open? The question is up for all the researchers in this thread. Tara and Beth leave, but Tara only lasts two more days before she does the ole' 41% special.

SNAP BACK TO REALITY​

The trailer door swung open. Beth scrambled to her feet, turning to face the graying middle-aged cis woman who stood on the threshold in a blue skirt and white cardigan, the frigid blast of the air conditioner swirling into the morning heat around her.
“Bethany,” she said, not unkindly, but in a voice that was cis and had always been cis and had never imagined anything but cisness, flat and opaque and interminable. “Why don’t you come in and have a seat?”

These people are taking you into their sacred commune, even though it defies everyone's best interests. The least you could do is extend some courtesy in that hate-filled little brain of yours.

---

TERF time.​

Ramona and the rest of the TERFs are in the bar, celebrating a job well done. Some uninteresting drivel happens, but we learn that Ramona's father died of a heart attack in a bar 'just like this'.

“Good work out there.” A lopsided smile from the battle-axe. Behind her, two women swaying on the water-stained tiles. Undercut pulled Ramona close and whispered in her ear. “You want an attagirl, chief said to tell you there’s one waiting upstairs in 1B.”

So there are lady prostitutes escorts called 'attagirls' in this TERF kingdom? Isn't the sexualization of women and prostitution something TERFs are strongly against? They don't seem to act much different than the dirty objectifying men they seem to despise.

Ramona runs to the bathroom and beats herself up in stereotypical war movie fashion.

She slapped herself across the face hard enough to make her right ear ring. Again. The stinging flush as blood rose to the surface. Again, the sound in her ear rising to a mosquito’s brainless whine. Focus up, Pierce. Three more times, quick and artless, her pinky nail leaving a minute cut near her brow. You are not going to the bench, you’re not getting benched, you’re not you’re not you’re not. Closed fist. Knuckles crushing cartilage against her skull. She dug her nails into the back of her neck and dragged them slowly to the hollow of her shoulder, letting out as she did a long, shuddering breath.
Enough.

CRAWWWWWLING IN MY SKIIIIIIIN!!!!
What would be so bad about getting benched? You'd get to dry hump your enby boyfriend forever and ever.
Afterward, Ramona pulls herself up out of her sad sack and gets knighted into the Order of TERFs after a shitty speech from Lang.

Molly raised her glass. The rest of the room followed suit. “To a world without cocks, and the cunts who’ll get us there.” They drank. Ramona stood blushing. There was applause, and then Molly shouted, “Come and get your wings, kid.”
Ramona grinned through the dull, febrile pain of the spike flicking in and out of her forearm. A hummingbird’s tongue. In bold black strokes, Undercut inked two letters—each no bigger than a poker chip—into her skin, like a stain. The chromosomal seal on her quality-control report, a little sign to tell anyone who saw her that she was a woman, a real woman, not some chemically altered monstrosity who had to pay doctors to saw and sand and bend her into a woman’s shape.

Based. But wouldn't every tranny now be able to just get 'XX' tatted on a call it a day? You ladies are going to have to do better than that.

---

Oh my fucking god stop switching between perspectives after one or two pages it's so annoying​

So Beth get's BTFO'd after Meg comes crying rrraaaaaaaaaaapee! to the bunker lords. Robbies comes to comfort her.

Beth was crying in bed when Robbie found her. She heard footsteps and looked up from the sweaty, mucus-slicked circle of her folded arms, blinking through a haze of tears. She’d only been back an hour or so. The woman in the trailer—Joyce—had explained, in a voice that made Beth think of the special ed teachers at West High who’d concealed their burnout behind suffocating niceness, that Meg was uncomfortable with the idea of their continuing to work together-

Probably because you assaulted her, you freak. Kissing someone without their permission and playing the victim when it comes back to bite you in the ass is just part of the Troon playbook.

The whole ride home she’d replayed her kiss with Meg and their hookup in the shower that same night. Did I put my fingers in her without asking? Did she pull away when I leaned in? The more she thought about it, imagining those soft lips opening around her tongue, those long lashes fluttering in dreamy anticipation, the more she realized that no specific moment, no single touch, was to blame. What mattered was that she’d broken the silent rule. She’d touched a girl before the girl touched her, had laid her violent hands on tender skin.

lol retard. Maybe that'll teach you to stop being such a coom-brained sex beast. Robbie asks him if he wants company (read: to fuck until the pain stops) but Beth is too busy wallowing in self-pity to realize pussy is just getting handed to him.

She wanted to tell him it was okay, that he could go, but the thought of being alone in her room with the painting of the man above, the man who had been loved and remembered, stilled her tongue. She shook her head, and as he came over and sat down beside her on the bed she thought, with a mixture of jealousy and tenderness: He’s so small. He could blow away in a breeze, but not me. Not big ol’ Beth in her bib overalls and work boots. Chewin’ on wheatgrass an’ spittin’ in the wind. Another sob bubbled out ofher, thick and choked. She can’t even cry like a girl.

Beth tells him all about it anyway, and Robbie has this to say:

“Sometimes you just have to live with that,” said Robbie. “Someone’s hurt, you don’t know what you did, and that’s ... it. That’s all there is. It doesn’t make you a bad person.”

Yeah, how about you try that excuse in a fucking court of law you pathetic manlet. Beth spergs out about cancel culture and social justice warriors, completely unaware that those were aspects of society built by troons and their asskissers.

“I liked the farm,” she said, knowing she was sulking and unable to make herself stop.
“It’s not personal,” said Robbie.
Beth wiped her nose on her sleeve and laughed. It was half a sob. “Then what the fuck is?”

BETH GETZ KICKED OUT OF DA GAMePLACe, HIS LAST BASTION OF REFUGE.

---

holy shit pick a storyline for the chapter and fucking stick with it this is getting so fucking annoying. the cliffhangers aren't as suspenseful as you think they are
​

Ramona somehow ends up back at Feather's place for some gud sex no strings attached but Feather isn't having it and then they fight and the segment is so stupid and unnecessary that i'm not even going to talk about it's so stupid and unecessary it's so stupid and that's how the chapter ends it's dumb and it's stupid.