Martin John

“Punk has been portrayed as music by and for angry white males, but in its inception, it was a rebellion against

all rock cliches. Gender, ethnic, sexual and class taboos were all challenged by our early punk community and 

that is a story which is not very often told. People of color, queer folk, women—all were present from the very

beginning of Punk.”

-Alice Bag

Chapter 1: Diving

Suzy opened the dumpster to the syrupy odor of rot and decay and leapt inside. That sour tang of garbage felt familiar, pleasant even, as she shone her white LED headlamp over an empty plastic tote and food. There was so much food in this bin. They’d first tried at a major chain grocery store. Once a regular stop for them, it recently had a locked fence and padlocks installed, making diving impossible. Those dumpsters had fed their squat for six months, and these shitheads had spent money to keep them from saving edible food. What was wrong with people? It disgusted Suzy—the food they trashed to create profit. She wanted to punch the CEO in the face and keep punching until he whispered from swollen lips that he would do better—help feed people instead of maximizing profits. It disgusted her how their sort drove Benzes while people starved. 

Today’s dumpster was filled with green bananas, artisan lettuce, unripe pineapples, apples, granola bars, whole food bars, donuts, trays of cookies, chips, biscuits, yogurt drinks, and cans of orange juice concentrate. She filled a tote and asked Tommy to hand her another. She filled it, passed it over the top, climbed out, and admired the treasure in their totes. These were real meals, derived from capitalist trash. 

“People are watching us,” Tommy said, as they popped lids onto the weathered, navy-colored bins and attached them with dull rubber bungee cords to their bike racks. 

His blonde hair flowed midway down the sides of his ears and extended to his nape, cascading down onto a sleeveless white tee. A weathered leather belt held up ripped jeans on his skinny-ripped frame—a mix between an Olympic swimmer and an avid drug user. His pale blue eyes squinted across the lot, through the twilight. 

“As long as they’re only watching,” Suzy replied, casting a look across the lot, where two men stood outside an oversized black Dodge pickup, glaring at them. 

It was one AM. No one usually cared about dumpster divers. Still, she imagined these guys anxiously huddled together, worrying that it might affect the price of their nearby multi-million-dollar homes. Their idea of ‘safe’ neighborhoods meant stockpiled wealth in investment properties they rented out at prices the working class couldn’t come close to affording. That kept the worker in their place and—most importantly—serving the elite Starbucks. These truck guys might consider themselves upper-class vigilantes, out to police their neighborhood from ‘trash.’ In truth, they were the human equivalent of trash. Everyone was so fucking self-centered. She wanted to flip them off, tell them to go fuck themselves, but Washington was an open-carry state. These guys were probably packing heat, and she didn’t want to catch any. 

It’d been a balmy evening, miraculous for an early Spring day in the Pacific Northwest. Cherry and apple trees inbloom lined the suburban streets, teasing intolerant summer temperatures that would replace the freezing rain. Global warming was going to cook the Earth, but tonight, the air was perfumed and the temperature refreshing, making their nocturnal lifestyle comfortable. Suzy reveled in the easy breeze; it grabbed tufts of her Chelsea haircut and blew them back. –

They pedaled off, leaving the ‘vigilantes’ behind. Her blunt bangs and braided rat-tail blew behind her in the wind as she coasted downhill. Cycling made her feel uninhibited—a small moment, in which she might recover some of the simple joys of her lost childhood. 

A growing rumble behind them made her glance over her shoulder. She saw Tommy swerve to avoid a truck. It was the Dodge, looking like it had risen from hell. Panic painted Tommy’s face as he swerved wildly to avoid the truck’s front tires. 

Fuck. They wanted to kill them.

She veered onto the sidewalk, skidding to a stop. The inertia from the overloaded tote misbalanced her awkwardly as she ramped the curb. It lifted her tires from the ground, and she nearly bailed.

The truck roared by, rocketing down the hill. It stopped at the bottom—idling.

She stifled a yell. Oh, how badly she wanted to pop her switchblade and stab their fucking necks out! They’d almost killed Tommy. 

“What the fuck?” Tommy said, before yelling at the truck. “Fuck you, you missed.” 

Two white guys clambered out of the cab and perched on the truck’s running boards. One jerked at the waist of his pants, trying to draw a handgun from a holster. Guns trumped knives. She saw the weapon, yelled to Tommy, “Gun,” and ran into a nearby driveway. Motion lights hit them, burning their retinas with searing white light. Everything seemed weaponized against them to impede their getting away alive. Suzy checked her back, listening for the truck, then decided to chance crossing the yard, hoping someone didn’t shoot at them from the back porch. 

“Fuckers!” Suzy growled at Tommy. “C’mon.” 

She gestured for him to follow. They grabbed their totes, hoisted their bikes, and ran to the six-foot-tall, white picket fence at the end of a driveway. First, they threw their belongings over, and then themselves. The fence smelled like fresh paint and was tacky to her touch. She watched as her sneakers left a black mark on the fine white finish. She grabbed her bike and tote, watching the muscles in her arm strain. 

She’d been in worse places and survived. These guys wanted to put two in their backs before attending the local KKK rally. The thought fueled her dash across the back lawn, which triggered another harsh LED. Don’t shoot me. Please don’t shoot me. A thick oak fence separated them from an alleyway. They tossed their bikes and totes, then scrambled over it, dropping into a residential alley with crumbling, rotted concrete and potholes of stagnant water. Shadow cloaked them, but the LED’s glare outlined them. Suzy wanted to disappear. Wanted to be bulletproof. No such luck. 

She shook her head. She couldn’t afford to be distracted. She needed to be in the moment. It was so easy for her mind to wander. Stop daydreaming. Be here. She grabbed her gear and scooted across the alley, looking downhill, anticipating the black pickup. An engine rumbled nearby, making the earth tremble beneath her. They were close.

She slipped her pocketknife out of her boot, but kept it folded. It wouldn’t do much against a sidearm, but its weight in her palm was soothing. 

“What the fuck?” Tommy whispered, kneeling beside her and trembling, as adrenaline assailed his nervous system. 

“They’re armed,” she said. Fuck their constitutional right to carry death. They only had to claim that she was armed, that they were protecting themselves by opening fire, and they would get away with it. Their sort claimed to fear their government, but why did they have to fear anything? They were privileged white men. They wouldn’t last a day living her life. 

“What the fuck?” Beads of sweat flowed down Tommy’s brow. His nerves tickled the inside of her skull. She was sensitive like that—empathic in a way that bordered on psychic. 

“Yeah. They’re trying to make a point,” she said, scanning the alley and the yards around them—listening for the inevitable sirens. 

“What do we do?” Tommy asked. It felt like a game she’d played as a kid, her cousins fabricating sticks into guns and trying to shoot her. She remembered their high-pitched voices. Stop it. Stay in the moment.

“Move,” she said. “Cops’ll be coming, and I don’t want to be here for that.” 

They looked at one another knowingly, both wanting to avoid the police at all costs. ACAB. They trudged up the hill, took a hard left—away from the growling engine—then stopped, listened, reattached the totes, and mounted their bikes. They began pedaling as the truck appeared at the mouth of the alley. It turned and accelerated. Suzy dismounted, sprinting to the nearest yard. An eight-foot fence stood before her. Adrenaline lifted her onto it. She waited to ensure Tommy followed, then trailed him over. But her shirt snagged on the fence, causing her to fall headfirst. 

Darkness swallowed her like a hungry dog. 

She woke to an aching skull and squealing tires and panicked, unsure of where she was. Then she remembered—imagined her body getting run over, rag-dolling, twisting into a ball, trying to survive. She hated how her body reacted. She wanted to return fire—jump into the pickup’s cab and protect herself. Useless.

Her eyes opened to Tommy’s concerned face. Her vision blurred, and the darkness behind him snapped into focus. Behind him, a bright hole opened, yawning in the night. An obscured figure stood in its center. The hole shone with such intensity that it seemed material. She wanted to reach into it, yank the outline through, see who they were. 

Her eyes refocused, and she realized it was a motion light. Brain damage? No, she didn’t have the time to consider if her brain was bleeding. She groaned and pushed herself to sit, her head pounding in four/four time, reminding her of a Clash song she hated.

“We should leave,” she said. People were rousing, lights flickering on in nearby houses. They had guns… and no qualms about shooting them dead. Tommy helped her up, and they ran to a nearby gate to exit the yard. Their bikes were in pieces, having been run over. The totes sat unopened on the sidewalk. They snatched them and ran down the nearest alley. Moments later, they heard police sirens and quickened their pace.

They crisscrossed streets, looking over their shoulders, expecting to be shot at any moment—but the bullets never came. Suzy’s head throbbed, pain hatching and spreading through her brain, making her skull feel like it was Pangaea cracking into new continents. She worried that the pain was spurts of blood, flowing freely from her brain and into her skull—and that blood would eventually spill out of her eyes and ears. 

Their squat was an abandoned, five-bedroom home—three thousand square feet of laundered money and tax benefits at the end of a cul-de-sac, on a quiet residential street, hidden behind hedges providing ample privacy to enjoy its bland modern architecture. The house had been furnished and forgotten—an asset accruing ridiculous profits by simply existing, all the while, countless people remained houseless. 

Their white van sat dead in the driveway, reminding Suzy she had to replace its fuel pump. Walking through the front door, they were greeted by a foyer with eighteen-foot ceilings, a square-shaped crystal chandelier, off-white eggshell walls, Blanco Carrara marble floors, and a spiral staircase with oak railings that ascended to the second floor.

Suzy rehoused her knife in her boot. Her hands shook, causing the pearlescent handle to tap repeatedly against her calf. Shock. Jarring, certainly, but her body had known worse. 

“Fuck,” she said. Part of her wanted to cry, but she wouldn’t let herself. She wouldn’t let them win. Thriving would be her vengeance. 

Tommy nodded. “I need a fucking beer,” he said, heading into the kitchen.

Jay climbed down the second-floor landing, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “What’s up? It’s early.” 

The piercings in his lip wobbled as he talked, and his limp mohawk draped over his shoulders and smooth-shaved skull. His bare torso showed off his tattoos, ranging from professional to barely legible stick-and-pokes. His face was weathered and youthful in concordance—life experience imprinted into his skin. 

“Yeah,” Suzy said. “Tonight was fucked.” 

Jay looked concerned. “What happened?” He swept hair from his eyes.

“These guys were creeping in a pickup, and the next thing you know, they’re chasing us, trying to run us down.” Her leg twitched at the thought. Shock.  

Jay’s body tensed, his biceps and back tightening visibly as his inner warrior arose. “Let’s go find them.”

“They were packing,” she said, raising her thumb and fingers to form a gun. Bang. She shot Jay with it. 

Jay bristled and punched the wall in frustration. “Cowards.” 

They followed behind him; Suzy tossed her tote beside Tommy’s on the marble island. Tommy had already chugged one beer and was working hard on another. She tasted the beer on her tongue, but didn’t partake. There was a time when she would have sunk a bottle of whisky to calm herself, but not anymore. She had painstakingly dragged herself from the smoking ruins of her past, and drinking was regressive, not progressive. 

“So,” Jay said, motioning to the totes. “You get food?”

“Yeah. No idea what state it’s in now, though.” 

She barely cared right now, but knew they needed food. What little cash they possessed had been diverted to van repairs, and they relied on dumpster diving to eat. The one they’d just tapped had been a gold mine, and now these guys would be patrolling. 

They processed the food, carefully washing each item and turning ‘trash’ into food. It became valuable again. Washing a pineapple, Suzy’s skin grew cold and damp, and her vision spun. She sat down hard on the floor, her head bouncing off her chest. Anxiety welled in her—images of blood pouring from her ears. 

She noticed Tommy kneeling beside her. “You all right? I didn’t tell you, but when you fell earlier tonight, you started convulsing.”

Suzy sat quietly, assessing her injury. Did she need medical attention? 

Jay sat across from her. “You should think about going to urgent care.”

“I’ll be good… just need to sleep,” she said, though she wasn’t so sure. She was sure she couldn’t afford it, though. She tried to unclench her fists, scanning her knuckles and admiring the scars she found there—all souvenirs of fights won. But she couldn’t fight brain damage. 

“You sure? I can call a cab, or Mark to give us a lift.” He put his hand on her forehead to feel her temperature. His hands were cool to the touch, which felt nice.  

“I’m fine.” Her hand trembled, and she tried to stop it, but it worsened.

Jay slipped his hand into hers and met her gaze. “I think we should go.” 

“We don’t have money for it.” Suzy pulled her hand away. “I’m all right. Really. I’ll let you know if I need help.” She didn’t need a mother. One had been enough. 

Jay got up, stretched, and left. She didn’t want his pity; she didn’t want to be told anything by a man right now, even if he had good intentions. It was making her angry. She retreated to her room, sat on the floor, and opened her lyrics notebook. She started writing, trying to find a way to free the tightness in her chest. She grabbed her arm in an effort to stop her hand shaking. 

Helpless, she wrote, it’s that feeling that I get when my choices are snatched. I don’t want to feel helpless, but you’re not making it easy. Threaten me with weapons. Come for me while I try to save the world from heat death. Did I have a target on my back? Oh wait, I almost forgot I’m a –.

“Hey, can I come in? The guys told me what was up.” Riff stood in the doorway, in cotton underwear and a beat-up Harley T, riddled with holes. They were concerned and tired, massaging their hands to wake themselves. Once they sat down, a huge smile opened, and their brown eyes filled with joy. Riff was good. She calmed Suzy. 

“No. I feel fucked up,” she said. “My head hurts, and I feel powerless.” Riff took her hand in theirs. She ripped her hand away. “No. I’m good.” She didn’t need to be babied. 

“You sure?” Riff said, getting up to leave. “If you need something, come and get me.” Suzy sat silently. “Okay? I’m just worried, that’s all. You need help, you come get me, okay?”

“Okay,” she replied quietly. Riff meant well, but their energy overwhelmed her. They exited the room. She lay back on her mattress. Her headache fractured and throbbed like something was hatching from her skull. Her breath quickened. Anxiety crept in. She didn’t want to die. She’d been close once, and vividly remembered how alone it had felt. Alone, crumpled in an alley, bleeding out. She didn’t want to experience that again.

She got up, walked to the restroom, and dampened a facecloth. She placed it on her neck and leaned forward to splash water onto her face. She was alive. She wasn’t going to die. At least not today. And not because of men. She would survive this to spite them. She uncapped a bottle of Extra-Strength Advil and swallowed two, then returned to her bed and the welcome darkness. She thought about the figure she’d seen standing in the bright light—a hallucination? There was no other explanation. She smiled. The brain was capable of such deception. It could show you one thing, while perceiving something entirely different—sneaky little bastard. 

Sleep crept up and claimed her, bringing with it dreams of an empty landscape. In the distance, something walked towards her. Each step they took caused a reverberation. Boom. Boom. The steps synced with the throbbing in her head. She noticed that the figure wore a tailored suit with black leather brogues. A light blossomed from atop their neck. Every step they took caused a cascading pain to grow inside her, and as she drifted into the pain, she felt something pull at her, dragging her in. She finally succumbed, letting herself drift into a warm light—comfortable and steeped in bliss—it was only a dream, after all. Then she noticed the figure’s rotting, yellow teeth. It frightened her, and she pulled away, and her head started to pound again. Boom. Boom. 

—

She awoke to the aroma of bacon wafting in from the kitchen. She had survived. Her stomach rumbled happily. Down in the kitchen, everyone was helping with breakfast. Tommy cooked pancakes: they had recently found a box of mix in a dumpster. Jay was frying eggs. He cooked them in a pool of bacon grease, which crisped the egg whites up. Their ceramic pour-over with a metal filter made incredible coffee, which Riff was carefully pouring boiling water into, over freshly ground coffee. They handed a cup to Suzy. 

This morning felt idyllic—a sharp contrast with last night.

Riff caught her eyes and grabbed her hand to let Suzy know they supported her. Their hand felt nice on hers. 

“Did you sleep?” Jay asked, as he flipped an egg onto a pancake and handed it to Suzy. His jaw was set—he was still ready to fight for her. 

“I crashed. I feel okay,” she rubbed her brow, trying to massage the lingering headache away. “Nothing to worry about.”

“So, you’re okay for the show?” Jay scooped a bite of syrup-drenched pancake into his mouth.

Suzy rolled her eyes, sighed, and nodded. 

“You guys. I’m all right. Now, kindly fuck off.” She flipped Jay off to accentuate her point. 

Riff smiled. “You sure? You sure about that? You sure? Want us to ask you again?” They stuck their tongue out at her. 

Brat. Suzy ignored them. “The other bands check in to let us know they’re coming?” she asked, staring at the Seattle-grey sky. 

“Mark didn’t,” Jay said, “and he still has our PA from his last show.” 

Mark was the lead singer in The Skid Plates, who had been playing local shows for decades and were underground-punk-house famous, and definitely your favorite punk band’s favorite punk band. 

“Well,” Suzy said. “Sure, he doesn’t own a phone. But he’s reliable enough. He won’t miss the chance to party. He’ll be there—with the PA—,and if he isn’t, well, then we hunt him down and kill him.” 

Jay glared over at her. Suzy laughed at him. “We might have to kill him. But chill. We can go grab the PA.”

“If we have the van, we can,” he said, catching Suzy’s eye. “Will we have the van? The gas tank is still sitting in the driveway.”

“The part comes in today.” She was annoyed at the suggestion that the van wouldn’t be ready. “Installing it’ll only take a couple hours.”

“Good,” he said, stuffing his mouth with bacon. “We need her running.”

“We firmed up on a Vegas show?” she said, steering the conversation to his responsibilities.

“No.” He looked out the window, avoiding eye contact. 

Jay had arranged their tour down the West Coast, and their last show was in L.A. Suzy wanted a Vegas date to end the tour.

“Our first tour,” Riff said, trying to cut the tension with a smile. “I thought we’d have broken up by now.” 

They giggled, which pissed Suzy off.

Riff started backpedaling. “What? If we break up, it’ll be explosive. You and Jay have enough ego to fuel a decade of Guns N’ Roses divorces. 

“Which reminds me, I’ve registered the name Suzy Destroy and the Cynics under my copyright,” Riff said, winking at Suzy with manic pixie energy. 

Suzy chuckled. “You can’t own my name, and your name is too close to a copyrighted one.”

“I can own anything in this country,” they laughed as they said it. “You lost it to me in a poker game last night. You’re just too brain-damaged to remember.” 

Why did they have to bring that up? It was a light concussion at worst. It would be okay. 

“You wish,” Suzy said, smiling, her mood improving with their banter. 

“I thought we said we’d ditch the name if we broke up,” Tommy said sleepily, ignoring the implication. 

“Shush, Tommy, your himbo is showing,” Riff said, followed by a stage whisper. “That was a joke. You’re smart as nails.” 

Tommy glared at her. “The saying is ‘tough as nails,’ and I am not a himbo. I am a perfectly normal gay man. One in a distinguished line of gay men who don’t understand subtext.” 

“You’re this close to straight,” Riff pinched their fingers together, punctuating her motion with an impish grin. Tommy laughed.

 “You’re certainly in a mood this morning, you little evil elf.”

Riff smiled at her. “I’m practicing seeing which of you will be the first to lose your cool on the road. I have odds and everything. I’m taking bets.”

“Yeah,” Jay asked, “And who do you have as most likely?”

Riff smirked at him. “You! I don’t think you’ll be able to stand twelve hours of me farting and cracking shit jokes.” 

Suzy cackled, but if it were true, she would be the one to throw Riff out of the moving van.

Jay took a pancake and threw it at Riff. “One fart, and you’re out.” 

The pancake hit them in the face, and they faked shock, then farted suddenly, smiling all the while. “See? You’ve already resorted to violence… and you’re wasting pancakes. You’ve sinned in the eyes of the punk gods.”

“No god can judge me. I’m a godless Indian, and damn proud of it,” he said with a smile, then changed the subject. “You’re lucky you’re a good bassist.”

“Groove master, I’m not just a bassist. I want to be called The Groove Master.” Riff started drumming on the table and then looked over at Suzy. “Pass me the syrup.” They took the pancake Jay had hit her with and took a bite. 

Suzy passed the syrup, and Riff poured it into their mouth with a wicked grin. “Don’t want to anger the punk gods. This is good,” they said with a full mouth. “You should try it.” They offered Suzy the syrup—a droplet of it dripping from their smile onto the countertop.