The prison bus awkwardly rounded a corner and immediately hit roadworks. A man wearing a grimy yellow hard hat was holding up an octagonal red sign with the word 'STOP' spelled out across the centre in white capital letters. Behind the wheel, Narcissa Wright cursed as her speed run attempt, between the overnight cells at Epstein Park Precinct and Central Booking, ground to a sudden halt. Glancing in the rear view mirror she caught sight of her dark roots emerging from the centre parting of the frayed blonde wig that she had stolen from a scarecrow. She cursed again. Between her legs, her stunning and brave female penis was beginning to soften like a defrosting marshmallow dildo. She knew that it would be days before she could get it hard again.
A few rows back, Gionet shifted his manacled feet, permitting himself a longing look, through the grill of the side window, at the free world that he would soon be leaving behind. On the street he had been known to his homies and enemies alike as Baked Alaska. He had been looking for a new nickname ever since being told that, in prison, the term 'baked Alaska' referred to a sex act involving large quantities of semen from multiple donors and a keystered cigarette lighter.
“Just tell everyone you're a cop,” his dead friend, Warski, had advised him. “Criminals are scared of cops. Nobody wants to get themselves arrested in prison.”
Warski had even shown him how to whittle a convincing looking police badge from a bar of soap in case some smart-ass con questioned his authority.
On the sidewalk, beyond the roadworks, Gionet spotted a mannish creature,, crammed into a sundress lumbering, like a walking marquee, towards a storefront that advertised itself as a Gender Queer Ballgown Outlet and MMA gym. The angry ranting of the bus driver at the construction crew began to fade into the background as Gionet allowed his gaze to travel, at a luxurious pace, across the acres of bare flesh, beginning where the cankles emerged from the petalling hems of a pair of white cotton socks. A pirated copy of Who's That Lady by the Isley Brothers began to play on his internal jukebox as his eyes moved slowly upward, drinking in the lumpy, cottage cheese calves. He felt his cisgendered male penis began to harden as he wondered whether this painted ogre could still feel her feet, or whether the crushing tonnage pressing down from above had permanently deadened the nerve endings. Behind him, Bate leaned forward over the metal backrest and whispered:
“Gotta love them type twos. I stay the same weight. They just keep on getting fatter. Mmm mmm.”
He smacked his lips together
Further along the wide, central aisle, Boogie removed the mirror shades from the breast pocket of his prison guard uniform. He pushed his foot down on the accelerator pedal of his rascal and jerkily advanced a few feet.
“Get down Bate,” he said.
He raised his shotgun, pointing it in a warning gesture just past the convict's head, aiming the muzzle instead towards the playground of a convent school where groups of spirited young girls were engaging in games of double-Dutch.
Bate sat back in his seat wearing his customary shit-eating grin
Isolated at the back of the bus, Christine Weston Chandler sprawled with his legs spread wide apart, openly flaunting the city's draconian manspreading laws. What was another seven years added onto a sentence that already stretched beyond the comprehension of all but a few elite mathematicians? Observing the commotion taking place outside, he pondered on whether now might be the appropriate time to act. An escape at this juncture was entirely possible, he surmised, but was it desirable?
The driver had disembarked from the bus and was now attempting to rotate the construction worker's red stop sign by hand. The worker had responded by holding the sign up in the air at arm's length, leaving Wright with no option other than to repeatedly and fruitlessly jump for it, like a small dog jumping for a treat.
'No,' Chandler concluded, as he emerged from his reverie. Now was not the time to escape.
He gazed fixedly through the fourth wall of the bus, as if he was starring through it, towards an imaginary observer.
Now was not the time to act. He would wait until December, 2023, when he had some good ideas about how to proceed. In the meantime there was plenty to do. It had recently become clear to him that he was Jesus and now there were miracles to perform.
At long last the construction worker halting the traffic rotated his sign to reveal its green obverse side, which had the word 'GO' printed across the middle. The electric prison bus rumbled past, belching a cloud of diesel-scented vape. On the driver's dashboard a flashing reminder from the Tesla company warned that the subscription for the electronic locks on the prisoners' manacles was scheduled to end in half an hour. A newspaper shifted over it as Wright stamped her foot down hard on the gas. The headline was something about a man being held down and raped by a pair of alpacas.
Judge Yaniv watched the vehicle roll past with disinterest. Jade Fox, the District Attorney and widow of the murdered detective Jim Metokur, was renowned for bailing out convicts ahead of trial, for the sake of the lols that these releases generated. Sometimes it seemed like the entirety of Lolcow City ran on lols. Most of the dangerous criminals on the bus would be back on the street in time for the 5pm Olive Garden Breakstick special.
Following the shoot-out Ram Ranch, that had claimed the lives of the gangster, Ethan Ralph, and his cronies, Yaniv had been transferred to a unit of plain clothes Canadian judges who were licensed to dispense street justice on American soil, where they operated with impunity. Sure the White House had kicked up a fuss when the Peoples' Committee for Diversity, Equity, Inclusion & Reparations (CDEIR) had passed the Wokeness Without Borders Act, but, as usual, Canada was calling the shots. What the fuck could the US do about it?
Yaniv's penis had also been promoted and was now working undercover as a vagina for the drugs squad. His clitoris had been drafted onto an anti-cartel taskforce and was rumoured to be embedded in the vulva of the wife of the notorious cocaine kingpin, El Blokey. There were days when Yaniv missed his clitoris. Occasionally, his mind would involuntarily drift back to the moment when he had walked in on it snorting cocaine through the barrel of a 38 revolver. He had quietly exited the room and had never mentioned what he had seen to anyone. A few weeks later, his clitoris had departed for Columbia without saying goodbye, leaving behind only soiled bedsheets.
Yaniv was rudely awakened from his musings by the sound of nearby clanking, followed almost immediately by a dull and heavy blow to the shoulder. A man, dressed in a full suit of plate mail armour, had just barged past him in a manner that struck the judge as very Canadian.
“Hey, watch where you're going,” he called out.
The armoured knight halted in his tracks and turned around.
“Pardon me, sir, eh,” he said, his Ontario accent muffled by the slotted screen of his visor.
“I think that you just misgendered me,” replied Yaniv, coldly.
The knight appeared to peruse him up and down.
“No sir, I believe that I did not, eh,” he said, finally.
“God damn it, I'm a woman,” yelled Yaniv. “I'm all woman. And you, sir, are in a violation of city codes...”
“Wait, you're Judge Yaniv, aren't you, eh?” said the knight.
“Yes, but I hardly...” sputtered Yaniv.
“Sargon of Applebee's sends his regards,” replied the armoured crusader.
“Who the hell is Sarg...”
Yaniv was cut off mid-sentence by a metal gauntlet that thudded like a lead Zeppelin into his face. The force of the impact inverted his right cheek like a cis-gendered male penis being inverted for a sex change operation, only more temporary. Dazed, he staggered in reverse, toppling one of the red and white roadwork barriers as he fell. A pleasant warmth enveloped his back. He rose from the ground wearing a grainy carapace of cooling asphalt, like a charred turtle shell.
“You punch like my aunt,” he said, spitting out some blood. He moved his jaw from side to side, testing its integrity.
“Your aunt must be a very strong cis-gendered woman, eh,” replied the knight as they began to circle each other.
Yaniv scrutinised his opponent's armour, searching for a weak point. The man was right. His aunt was strong; very strong, in fact. More than a match for him.
“I am extremely doubtful that you will win this fight, eh,” uttered the armoured sceptic. He took a decisive step forward smashing his iron-clad fist into Yaniv's chin in a devastating uppercut.
The judge staggered backwards, crashing through a different section of the roadworks barrier, landing on his back in the path of a steamroller. The workmen stared in horror as the solid metal drum of the vehicle fought unsuccessfully to gain traction on Yaniv's gigantic gunt. The engine began to whine and emit clouds of steam.
“Shut it down! Shut it down!” yelled the site foreman, flapping his arms.
Again, Yaniv staggered to his feet, knocking the ailing vehicle onto its side in the process. His fingers fumbled with the zipper of his purse.
The knight dropped to his knees in front of him.
“Deus Vult in Atheism, eh!” he cried, aiming another uppercut squarely between Yaniv's legs.
There was a horrifying squelching sound as the gauntlet dilated the judge's coin-slot mangina.
Lying on his back with his legs spread, like the head of a School Yearbook Committee on Prom Night, Yaniv looked on as the armoured figure attempted to extract his arm without success.
The tables had turned. Marshalling the muscular strength in his groin, he applied the Kegel press that he had been taught in judge school.
The knight began to scream likea horse-faced woman giving birth to a piglet, pulling with his arm more desperately than before. When the judge finally relinquished his vice-like sex grip the Canadian Templar staggered backwards. His arm had been pressed completely flat, like a thin sheet of tin, and was stamped with the Canadian judiciary seal.
Yaniv walked slowly over to him. Crouching down he lifted the visor of the helmet. The face that stared back at him was that of a 1930s silent movie star who has been sentenced to die in the electric chair for the murder of his spouse. Maple syrup bubbled around his lips.
“Who is Sargon?” enquired the judge, without emotion.
“You'll find out soon enough.”
“Who is Sargon?”
The man's laughter graduated to a coughing fit as more maple syrup flooded his mouth.
“Tell my ex-fiance that she's a prematurely-balding, trend-hopping femcel with some serious daddy issues, and that I was never going to marry her, eh,” he croaked.
“Tell her yourself when you're a ghost,” quipped Yaniv.
Reaching into his purse, he pulled out his signature pink revolver. Holding the gun in a tight double-handed grip, he unloaded all six shots through the opening in the helmet at point-blank range.
In the wake of the execution, the only discernable movement was that of gun smoke, drifting east on a light breeze as it unwound upwards from the muzzle that Yaniv had kept trained on the prone form of his attacker. A stunned silence filled the air.
Then everybody clapped.
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