Cake Tray

Barracuda transmasc ally

^“At the bottom of the image is the segment of the flag cut for the St. Patrick’s Cathedral protest. Photograph by Mick Hicks”

Well who is it meant for, then? The cross-dressers? The kinksters? The ones who don't pass? The sex workers? The "ugly" ones?

Maybe it's for the rude ones, or the "loud" ones, or the ones who never came "out", past their middle-aged years and slipping on nice stockings under their khaki trousers, putting on a bit of blush in the bathroom mirror and then quickly washing it off again before anyone can see?

Maybe it's for the "traps", the beautiful ones who keep it secret and don't tell you until after the third date, when you can stab them to death for the crime of being human and plead "Gay Panic" at the trial to get off scot-free?

If we're going to call people "tranny", but not the ones like me, then who exactly are you thinking of?

— — —

“—and if you’re going to run from a traffic stop, do it before you give them your license,” Jason finished, crossing his arms. “Questions?”

A man in the front row of mismatched folding chairs raised his hand. “Even if it’s fake?”

“Yes, even if it’s fake.” Jason took a breath before continuing. “It’s still your face, height, and weight, right?

Slowly but surely, the group began to nod.

“Mr. Hood?” A skinny twig of an 18 year-old raised a hand.

“Yeah?”

“My buddy told me that if they arrest you, and they don’t read your, uh,” the kid stumbled looking nervous. “Your, uh, Melinda rights, they have to let you go.”

Jason sighed into his helmet. There were times when he appreciated Bruce’s breathing tech. The sigh had been filtered and dispersed just after it had finished.

In the intervening moment, the group began to lean forward in their folding chairs, attempting to parse the silence.

Jason lifted one finger.

“They’re Miranda rights.”

Second finger.

“And no, they don’t let have to let you go. Best case scenario, they’ll have to throw out anything incriminating you said. That’s it.”

A plumber-for-hire perked up in the last row, opening his mouth.

“Shit you said during questioning,” Jason clarified quickly.

“Wait. You’re not supposed to talk during an arrest?”

Jason closed his eyes. Behind his helmet, they couldn’t see him. He couldn’t see them. It was beautiful, just for a moment.

Someone scoffed.

“What are you, a fucking snitch?”

“Devon,” Jason said, recognizing the voice, “Chill the fuck out. Brady, what the fuck are you saying when you get arrested?”

Brady was trembling in his seat.

“That I’m gonna f-fuck them up. And t-their families.,” he stuttered. “And I might even s-steal their dog so their k-kids hate them f-forever.”

“See?” Jason waved at Devon. “Terroristic threats. Not snitching.”

Nobody laughed. Jason could sense the incoming questions like they were bullets curving toward his head.

“Terroristic threats?”

“Okay,” Jason said. “So remember when we talked about the different definitions of assault?”

The argument between a 70 year old man who hasn’t had a biennial flight review in 40 years who cuts off a cfi who has 250 hours and trained at a 141 school that prioritizes check-ride pass rate over actual Skill building is one of the most heated arguments over radio you will Ever hear.