An excerpt from Supervillanz by Alicia Goranson
Co-Winner of the Project: QueerLit Contest

Introduction to Novel Excerpt: Devon, a twenty-something trannyguy, is hiding with his friend Bit at his drinking buddy Galeno's apartment. He returns from a night walk to find that his friend Bit's pursuers have kidnapped her.

evon had passed through in neighborhoods before where the lights stayed on all night behind drawn curtains, so he did not find the lock to Galeno's building busted too surprising. He went up the narrow stairs and paused halfway to watch the crack of light coming from the loft door. The bed inside did not squeak, no footsteps shuffled and the pipes overhead did not break. He scratched his chin. Galeno would return in a few hours, but Devon got antsy waiting five minutes for the Quik-Pic at the convenience store.

"Bit?" his voice rose quietly. He pushed the door wide and leaned inside. Her shoes lay by the Twister game, next to Galeno's backup sandals. The tripod leaned against the bed. His legs appeared on the television. His eyes followed the cable to the camera, which waited for him to pick it up.

His skin shivered and his clothes gripped him tighter, like in college, when he had to change in the women's locker room after a workout.

He pressed the rewind button on the VCR, and the screen turned to static. While he waited for a picture, his attention wandered to the walls and furniture, which had changed color slightly. The entertainment center sat on its haunches. The videotapes and paper cups coiled around the bed, waiting to strike.

He released the button when he saw the two sets of metallic legs on the television, with a pair of jeans and socks in between them, struggling. He hit the stop button and turned away.

He picked up a strand of her hair from the pillowcase, and twirled it in his fingertips. It was strawberry blond, from under her scalp where the dye had not reached. He blew it off his hand and watched it twirl to the ground. He grabbed a pen and scribbled a note for Galeno. "Watch the video. I know I fucked up. I'll be back later tonight or tomorrow. Don't wait up."

He taped it to the camera, and stomped out of the room, quietly locking the door behind him.

He tried to pull his eyebrows and cheeks up to liven his face and not scare anyone on the staircase tromped down the stairs, but he passed no one. Outside, he kicked a glass bottle across the tar, wondering who else was listening to its grating ring. He crossed the street to hit it again.

It was time to get drunk. His brain needed greasing to let any punches it was planning on throwing slide out. Friends would only try to help him. He had to get trashed with strangers.

He shuffled back to the main drag and stuck out his thumb. Cars sped by so he sat on the embankment to rest. Five minutes later, an old blue two-door Toyota pulled up. It had plastic and duct tape over the passenger side window in the back. A razor-burned man in his mid-twenties leaned over and rolled down the glass next to him. His hand had chinks in the joints like a chimpanzee's. His black hair was messy and his Motörhead T-shirt hung off his body as if he was still breaking it in.

"Where're you going?" the driver said.

Devon bent down to meet his gaze, man-to-man. "Doesn't matter," he said.

The driver chuckled and unlocked the door. Devon brushed the soda cans off the passenger's seat and strapped himself in. It smelled of coffee, but not tobacco.

The driver pulled back into the lane. "I'm heading to New Hampshire, getting stocked up for a party," he said, "Sure you want to come all the way?"

"Yeah," Devon said before the driver had finished talking A bleached pine-shaped air freshener dangled off the rear view mirror, as old as the car. Devon kicked aside the concert flyers, McDonald's wrappers, and newspapers under his feet to get comfortable.

The driver flicked on a heavy alternative station on the radio. "I'm Gene," he said, "That's with a G. Ain't a boy named Sue."

"Devon," he pointed to himself, and adjusted his shoulders against the plastic seat, "These are some sweet wheels. Did you fix them yourself?"

Gene nodded and snapped his finger against the dashboard. "Got her at a state auction for five hundred. She'd been hit head-on. Almost lost my pointing finger trying to pull out the frame. Omigod!" he cranked up the radio, "Nobody plays Sepultura anymore."

Devon let the Brazilian bass speed rhythms pound away, though a poor substitute for a beer. Gene tapped his brakes to the beat, but stopped when the cars behind him began to honk. When the song finished, Gene stopped slamming his head, turned down the volume, and pulled onto the northbound highway. He floored the accelerator, rattling the little car.

Gene's eyes were glued forward, but he shouted over to Devon, "So, what's up with you, man?"

Devon scratched his forehead and felt the ghost of Bit's hair wrapped around his finger. "Nothing," he said, "That a case of Heineken won't fix."

Gene chewed with his mouth, even though Devon did not see any gum or chaw. "It's a long drive for a beer," Gene said, "You need to kick somebody's ass? Or you running?"

Devon peered out the window at the overhead lamps. "Yeah," he said. Gene kept his mouth shut until he could tell Devon was not explaining anything.

Gene reached over to turn up an infectious Beastie Boys riff, but paused and cranked it down when he noticed Devon was not in the mood. "My dad had an oil drum out behind our house," Gene said, "I used to kick the crap out of it. I remember why I made every dent in that sucker. Never did me any good, though. A hundred dents and here I am, same as always."

Devon turned back to him, "I bet half of them were over girls."

Gene laughed. "You know it, brother," he said, "Maybe ten or twenty of them, but not all."

Devon drooped his arms alongside the seat, but touched something squishy and pulled them back. He leaned against the window. "You got a girl?"

Gene shook his head and released one hand off the wheel to twirl in the air. "I'm biding my time with this one chick," he said, "She's always on my case to clean up this car, but I spend enough time keeping her running. She says she wants me to be a better man, but, hell, she keeps taking classes for all these jobs she quits after a month. I don't think she knows what she wants. Not me, for sure. Maybe someone like me who isn't a fucker with a dirty car."

Devon smirked. They stared at the red eyes of the vehicles in front of them, and the broken road that fell into their headlights. Devon rested a finger on the window's crank. With a few turns, he could stick his head out the window like a dog and scream out to the rushing world that it could go to hell.

Half an hour outside the city, Gene worked over to the right-hand lane and shut off the radio. "Can you keep a secret?"

Devon nodded. "Pretty well."

Gene's eyes darted back to make sure they would not hit anything, before returning to Devon's face. "You ain't a fag, are you?" he said.

"No," Devon said. Not in any sense Gene would get.

Gene swung his head back to the highway. "Cool," he said, "Then I can show you the Boneyard."

After a couple of miles, Gene stopped by the guardrail on the highway's edge. Next to it, the road sloped downwards into the black woods. Gene jumped out of the car and motioned for Devon to follow. He gathered up an armful of newspapers from the back seat, and locked the doors after Devon was out. He jerked his index finger to the woods and grinned. "Come on," he said, "It ain't far."

The slippery grass sparkled from the passing headlights, and Devon hoisted himself over the guardrail. His boots dug into the soggy earth. "Will anyone else be there?" he said.

Gene shrugged. "Maybe, I ain't seen anyone there before." He swung his legs over the metal and with slow steps, sidled down the embankment. The woods were too dark; for all he knew, Bit could be in there.

Gene broke into an easy walk into the trees without waiting for Devon, so he rushed to catch up. He kicked through the prickles which grasped at his jeans. "How'd you find this place?" he said as he stumbled to Gene's side.

Gene took out a tiny flashlight that barely showed six feet in front of them. Dead scaly branches dotted the ground and did not indicate a path. "Just meant to, I guess," he said, "This way. Don't let the briars get you too bad."

The scent of musty earth hovered in the air, held by a fine mist. Devon kept a few feet behind Gene, in case he had to turn tail. The soggy leaves muffled his steps, but even with the highway behind him, his presence was too loud. Anything in the forest with a clue would sense him.

After several minutes, the highway sounds were a dull whisper and the moonlight shone down where the trees were spaced apart. Devon wiped off the condensation or sweat on his brow. "You know where we are?" he said.

Gene did not slow. "Uh huh," he said, "Those trees point the way." Devon shook his head at the earth, lost with a madman. The ground leaves rustled and he ran to catch up.

He did not expect Gene to stop when he did, and almost hit him. Gene surveyed the invisible domain and spread out his arms. "This is it," he said slow, "Welcome to the Boneyard."

The space was pitch black, as if the moon did not want to look there. The ground was matted down with a few scraggy tendrils poking through.

Devon spun his head around. "Why do you call it that?"

Gene chuckled and pointed the flashlight at a spot next to Devon. "You almost ran into it, man," he said. The light hit a naked car engine, rusted except for its silver fan blades. "That's the first one I ever saw here. It's from an '85 Honda Civic, first year they were built. Nothing salvageable left. It's just the bones." Gene pointed out an old grill frame nearby, twisted and brown, and then on another engine behind. "Help me clear away these leaves," he said, "I've never been here after a rain before."

 

evon kicked the slimy leaves away as Gene knelt and uncovered a ring of stones with charred wood inside. He crumbled up some of the newspapers and laid them in the center.

"Fire won't last long tonight," he said, "We gotta be quick." He took out his Bic lighter, but stopped. "You got one?"

"Yeah," Devon said, and slid his Zippo from his pocket. He flicked open the top and set the newspapers ablaze. Gene balled up the rest of the papers and set them aside.

Lawn mowers, air conditioners, and piles of car parts surrounded them, gutted. No roads or paths led to this circle, as if the piles of ancient mechanical junk had fallen from the sky.

Devon swallowed but did not approach any of the pieces. "You know where this stuff comes from?"

Gene shrugged, "Lots of Boneyards. This is the one that called me. Come here." He knelt beside a truck engine half as tall as he was. Devon cautiously left the fire, in case the blaze spread.

"This is how it starts," Gene said and waited for Devon to approach. He ran his finger over the rust and smeared a grungy line across his forehead. "Now you." Devon shirked back. It was tetanus in powder form, eager to find a break in his skin. With care, he anointed himself with the oxide.

Gene returned to the stone circle and threw more papers in it. "Now," he said, "We stand on opposite sides of the fire, face away, and jack off."

Devon's fingers almost grabbed his packing for dear life.

Gene shook his head and turned his back to Devon. "Don't worry, I ain't looking."

Devon stood across from him to make sure and faced the Civic engine. A belt buckle jingled behind him and the splat of saliva hit the ground. When he heard Gene going at it, he reached down and unzipped his fly. His fingers snaked their way through the decompression hatch of his briefs and gripped the shaft of his cock. A little shudder rippled under his skin as his fingertips pressed into the phantom bloodstream and pulled it out. He resigned himself to another Oscar winning performance. Devon cradled his shaft and balls, running his middle finger up and down the thick vein that ran about the underside. He spread his legs to help him balance, and stroked around the edge of the crown while his other hand fingered the scrotum. As he dipped a finger over his urethra, his crotch filled with blood.

The hair on his neck bristled. He was being watched, but not by Gene or any newcomers. The engine was observing him. It was just a little curious.

Devon closed his eyes and imagined a dingy sex club with leatherboy voyeurs scattered around the sides. A gorgeous nude boi, buzzed blond hair and full breasts, was rocking on the head of his cock, and guiding his hands up and down the rest. He recognized the hair from his last partner, the lips and neck from the partner before her, the breasts of the fling before her, and the legs of his first conquest. She made soft liquid sounds as her tongue tasted the rim, and kissed it passionately. He lay his head back and thrust his hips out. In her mouth, his packing became his manhood. He called it that and did not feel like a dork. Firm and tender, it held itself up as his hips plunged it into her mouth. The voyeurs smiled in reverence. The tender strokes became a rush of electricity and liquid gold filled in his crotch. He came for longer than he could remember and almost fell over. The boi faded away but the voyeurs hovered, translucent, and nodded slowly, startling Devon. He snapped his eyes open.

The engine was dead again. His afterglow seemed to beat with the pulse of the forest. He tucked in his cock, zipped up, and turned around.

Gene was wide-eyed and kneeling, tossing more newspapers into the dying fire. His pants were buckled around his waist. "Did you feel it?" he said, muttering with excitement.

Devon crouched down to watch the flames ripple. "I think so," he said, "It's like, the engine?"

Gene pointed at the shapes around him. "All of them," he said, "It's like out of that movie with the trucks that take over the world, only they're cool with us."

Devon tilted his head up. The moon was back, peering through the canopy. "When I was doing it, I saw people, not trucks," he said.

Gene laughed loudly and got to his feet, "I always see them, like back when they were new. Headlights and big smiles on their fronts."

Devon could not keep from chuckling. "This is so messed up," he said and joined Gene on his feet, "Really, how did you find this place?"

The glow dropped off Gene's face. He stuck his hands in his pockets, and spat in the fire. "After another fight with my dad," he said, "Back when I lived with him. I wasn't raking the leaves good enough or some shit, so I went out driving to cool down. The man is so anal about his lawn. I was out on the highway there and then I had this urge to get off. I pulled over and the Boneyard led me to it. It was like, I couldn't stop walking until I got here. So, I did it here. Bam! I thought maybe I was smoking something but, hey, you've felt it," Gene shuffled away for a few seconds, and turned back to the fire, "So I went home and found out my uncle's got an opening in one of his condos and I got it cheap. Moved right out the same day. Thanks to the Boneyard." He knocked on a nearby radiator.

The fire dimmed and died. Devon and Gene watched the paper's edges fade from orange to nothing. "Thanks man," Devon said.

"No problem, brother," Gene said. He did not shake Devon's hand. "Come on, we gotta put the fire out. Just stomp it. There ain't much left to it."

Their wet footwear broke the ashes apart and sucked away any heat left. The circle of rusted bones vanished. Without another word, Gene turned on his flashlight and headed off. Devon was on his tail.

Gene was not striding as confident as before. Devon stayed close and eventually heard traffic, but the woods distorted the rush, making it hard to pinpoint the direction.

"How many folks have you brought to the Boneyard?" Devon said.

"Just you," Gene said, "I want to take a girl there someday. I bet the bones would like that. I don't know if any girl would get it, though. 'Course, if I told anybody about it, they'd say I was some kind of pervert." He slipped his foot under a stick and sent it flying into the brush. "It's nothing my dad would do, that's for sure. Tight-assed sonuvabitch." Gene stopped and shined the flashlight on Devon. "You think I'm a tight-ass?"

Devon froze in the light, and tried to see Gene's expression behind the glare.

"You think I'm a fucker?" Gene said.

Devon held up his hands. "No," he said, "You're cool."

Gene stomped off while Devon hurried to his side. "I'm a fucker," Gene said, "Just like him. I know I am. I see my friends turning into old farts like the guys at the auto body shop. I just don't know how I can not be him and still keep my car running."

Devon shook his head, "I don't think the bones would call to your dad."

Gene stopped to see a plane's lights blink overhead. "He calls me more than they ever will," he said, "I gotta get going. You still coming to the liquor store?"

"Uh huh," Devon said, and ducked under the tree branches which came at him. "If I could come back to Boston with you, too, I'd be really grateful."

"No problem, man."

"Hang on." Devon pulled out his Zippo and flicked it on. "This lit your fire," he said, and handed it to Gene, "It's yours now."

Gene's leathery hand slid over his open palm as he shut the top and picked up the lighter. He repeatedly flicked it with the twitches of his thumb. The edges of his lips curled up. "I love these things," he said, "You sure about this? For real?"

Devon bowed his head to him. "Least I can do," he said, "Brother."

Gene slipped the Zippo in his pocket and sized up Devon, head to toe. His footsteps quickened until they reached the highway. They followed the breakdown lane and soon found the Toyota. Gene smacked its rear bumper and rubbed it. He opened his door and leaned on the roof.

"Thanks for being there," he said, "The bones bring good luck, every time I go. Whatever you're going back to, it'll be okay. Luck of the Boneyard's with us."

Devon glanced back at the woods before he slid in the car again. The back seat had more space with the newspapers all gone. "Not a problem," he said as he buckled himself in, "Hey, can we listen to one of your tapes?"

"Sure, you pick," Gene said, and revved the engine. Devon found a Meat Loaf album and popped it in the stereo. He had not thought about Bit in an hour. Everything might work out.

As they sped away, Devon checked for road signs or landmarks, but he saw none for miles. He rubbed his temples and knew he would never be able to find that place by himself again.

 

Alicia Goranson
Alicia Goranson is a Boston-based writer who believes in activism of the pen. She wrote the Project: QueerLit winning novel Supervillainz as an example to the literary community on how to handle trans characters with respect and style. She was inspired by taking classes with Toni Amato. Read more of her work at www.supervillainz.com.

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