Protected: Dollar by Jet Moon

Riding to the demo on the train we are getting some unfriendly stares from commuters. Myself, Vex and Princess Brendan blink back at them.

‘At least we’ve made an effort with our appearance.’ Sneers Princess Brendan. All three of us tricked out in big pooufy princess dresses, smeary doll makeup, and wigs that took a lot of hairspray and back-combing to get this close to heaven.

‘Aww man, you look wild’ I say to Vex
He nods and grins, glitter sparkling in his beard. ‘You too, buddy. You too.’

Men in button-down suits – commuters off to their daily bump and grind – propping up late-stage capitalism and creaming off the rewards, riding this 8.15 am train into the Central Business District are treating us to their best homophobic (or is it transphobic? Or is it pure Freak Hate?) Stares.

‘These guys look HUNGRY,’ I say to Princess Brendan
‘Gagging for it.’ he says. Staring back at one of the suits sitting nearest who is

eyeing Princess Brendan up and down, up and down.
‘Like he’d like to lick you like an ice-cream,’ laughs Vex. ‘Lick, lick, lick.’ Princess Brendan purrs with silky allure. The suit quickly looks away.

Some of the more hostile stares could be to do with how much room we are taking up. Crammed into the crowded train carriage in our big frocks, carefully defending the giant cardboard dollar signs we are carrying – each as big and unwieldy as a cello. We spent a lot of time building these signs from dumpstered cartons and they need to make the ride intact. I stare another suit down and tussle for a bit of extra space. At Central Station we tumble out onto the platform, our giant dollar signs bundled under our arms and set off towards the Central Business District. Heading to join an early morning protest against big business war profiteers.

The banks, the stock traders, the big players; go on and do the maths, all of them are interwoven in a shitty web. Selling rights to things that shouldn’t be sold, fighting lawsuits against people they can afford to take, and making money, money, money. Out of war, oil, deforestation, land grabs, and murder– like when the Colombian, paramilitary bumped off several inconvenient union leaders from the local Coca-Cola bottling plant – and so it continues, water-rights privatised, big chunks of the Amazonian rain forest cut down to make room for beef cattle, mining and building dams.

As we approach the banking district there’s a small demo in progress. A barricade built out of twinkly toy warheads dangling together on string. A group of fierce looking women in bloodied latex nurse outfits are dancing – paramedic sluts from hell – jiggling their titties and arses lewdly in the name of peace and justice.

Like always, there’s one of those Trotskyist types trying to give you, me, anyone who will take it, one of their boring newspapers. The dry innards of which are supposed to inspire all of us to take up with the Trots and join the glorious workers’ revolution. When Mr Revolution approaches me, I smile and willingly accept the proffered newspaper, ‘Can I have an extra one for my friend?’ I ask. The guy looks chuffed and gives me two newspapers which I carry off, waving to the others. Vex chuckles maniacally when he sees what I have. The three of us act in union. Vex and I quickly tear the papers into sheets, Princess Brendan stabilising everything, as we crumple the papers up and use them as kindling to set between our propped together cardboard dollar signs.

Vex flicks his lighter, ’Skrick, skrick’ the tiny flame appears and licks the papers. We stand back to watch our artwork blossom.

I clap my hands applauding Vex’s fire-lighting skills and crow ‘What a happy morning!’

Flames are leaping high and fast. Our giant dollar signs burning brightly in the sunshine as we dance around them. Princess Brendan red-lipstick laughing wide and grinning. That is, until a killjoy TSG grunt-cop in blue khakis runs forward and douses the fire with an extinguisher.

‘Aw, what?’ Vex complains.
‘Always overcompensating,’ says Princess Brendan. ‘Jeez, everyone wants to be an artist,’ I sneer at the cop.

Toecutter is spinning music from the back of a little pick-up truck, sitting parked on a traffic island. He’s playing a weird mash-up of polka tunes and bright pop beats. Police on horseback move in to kettle us, rounding people up and pushing us tight against each other, encircling us so we can’t get out. We stand on the traffic island, a collection of strangely dressed figures, apocalypse drag-dolls, fake-blood-streaked zombie nurses, a couple of extra-keen junior anarchists types; dressed all in black, masked-up and looking like they came to the wrong party. Toecutter, unphased as ever, unfazed-as-ever finds the perfect tune for the occasion. A soft trumpet sounds, then Louis Armstrong sings ‘It’s a Wonderful World’ old record crackliness audible through the speakers. The songs refrain repeating and repeating as police horses canter – whirling about us – like fairground ponies on a carnival ride.

In 2021 Jet launched their peer – to – peer survivor writers project ‘Playing With Fire’ and completed ‘Peachy,’ a novella based on Jet’s teen experiences.

‘You Are Here’ expands Jet’s survivor writer’s platform; including interviews and a collaboration with Wellcome Collection. Jet has recently completed their novel ‘Artists Are Demons’: a glittering time capsule of a queer city. Dealing with themes of friendship, collectivism, grief, displacement and migration. It explores the collapse of idealism and what happens next. Based on Jet’s time in Sydney, Australia as part of the Anarchist left in the early 2000s.

Jet lives in London.

You can find Jet on Instagram and Facebook.