I walk down the long concrete corridor, all gray and lit yellow from fluorescent lights contained inside cages. A guard is walking a few steps ahead of me, unlocking heavy security doors as we make our way deeper into the prison. He stops at a cell door and looks through the window before turning to me.
“I'll be waiting outside if there's any problems.” he said.
“I'll be fine.” I say, my voice a high falsetto. I am dressed as a woman. Two inch black Gucci heels bend awkwardly around my large feet, my unshaven legs hidden inside a pair of trousers that cling tight to my waist with the aid of a crocodile skin belt. My Yves blazer has large shoulders that jut out slightly awkwardly, it's slightly too small against my frame and is particularly tight on my scapula, though beneath this I'm wearing a two-tone silk shirt that is quite cool in the Los Angeles heat. I debated waxing my top lip for the occasion but decided to shave instead, though the perfume slightly stings my face now and then. With a well manicured hand I push open the cell door.
A woman is sat behind a steel table bolted to the floor. She looks up as I enter, her wide head supported by a long neck. Her mannerisms are somewhat birdlike. I sit down and clear my throat.
“Hello Ms. Lowfield.”
“Who are you?”
“I'm your lawyer, appointed by the court to-”
“You're not my lawyer.” she says coldly. She had me. It was a longshot, hoping that she had forgotten who her lawyer was, but I'd come this far.
“My name's Melissa Clark, I'm doing my PhD and I was wondering if I could ask you some questions for my thesis?” I said.
“What's it about?”
“The impact of gender roles and the progress of human civilization. I am trying to see what impact sexism has had in the development of the sciences with a focus on technological advancement.”
“How can you measure that?” she asked.
“I am comparing data of patents, number of scientists, doctors, lawyers and so on with gender, then postulating backward over the last one thousand years. It is my belief that humanity has more or less halved it's potential through centuries of sexism.”
“So you're studying economics?”
“Anthropology.”
“I see. And what kind of answers would I be able to tell you based on the sorts of questions needed for your thesis?”
“Your role as a member of The Fifth Wave is intriguing, what your...group is active in is particularly interesting.” I said, taking out a tape recorder. This was just for effect, I couldn't find any tapes, but it added a sense of atmosphere.
“What would you like to know?” she said, leaning towards the tape recorder.
The Fifth Wave, who the press have taken to calling 'The Pink Panthers', are a contemporary terrorist group operating out of America. Their members are all women who believe that an oncoming civil war is about to occur and they are taking preventative measures beforehand.
“Do you really think that there will be a war of woman versus man?”
“Of course. It's been happening for thousands of years. It's a cold war, though the casualties are in the millions. Mothers beaten, daughters raped, the violence continues today all across the world. We are fighting back, striking back at our enemy.”
“By cutting off men's dicks?”
“Yes. Some men would rather die than lose their penis. Most beg as we begin to flay the skin.”
“So it's true you skin the penises?”
“We start by fastening the penis into a sort of vice with a blade on each side. As we screw the vice shut, it shears off the skin and muscle leaving us with the bare urethra. We then use a pair of bolt cutters to remove the glans and each testicle one by one.”
“That sounds painful.”
“We use anesthetic. It is more shocking for the man to watch as we leave him with his urethra dangling between his legs and a bottle of painkillers.” she says.
“What happens after that?”
“It's up to them.”
“Why this form of assault?”
“In the early days we attacked them in a less organized manner. I feel the castration method is more effective as it breeds an element of fear, though I've experimented with different surgeries, such as just removing the penis or testicles, peeling back the corpus cavernosum so that it resembles a lily, subincision as par for course and a wide variety of other urological transfigurations. Atrocity is best realized through the voice of a victim.”
“Surely this fear also breeds anger? Some would say you're inciting more violence through your actions.”
“A civil war is going to happen Melissa. And we will win.”
“Gynarchy!”
“Like the Iroquois or Hopi. Did you know the Hopi often retreated to a kiva, a type of underground chamber, in order to be close to their ancestors? I suppose this prison is my kiva.” she said, her dark eyes reflecting the light wetly.
“Are you recruiting prisoners?”
“Of course. Our numbers will swell into the thousands. Every man will go to bed wondering if he'll be attacked in the night and stripped of what he thinks makes him a man.” she says, smiling to herself. I nod. It sounds reasonable enough to me. I thank her for answering my questions and make my way back through the corridors of the Central California Women's facility. In the distance I can hear shouting and the stamping of feet.
