Cyril Zyk must hold back naked protestors who want to bring down an entire dystopian system where people are "men-women" and nothing is ever what it seems."Cyril Zyk sat at the kitchen table in his underpants and dipped a hard bread roll into a bowl of tepid water. The bread tasted as good as it did everyday, he told himself, to avoid thinking the obvious—that not only did his mother refuse to stop writing poetry that used words like wet and enter me, but Mamica, he used her first name because the regime deemed everyone should be equal, had also become a protestor."