Anxiety

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.

Festival Experience 2013

I was standing in a muddy field, tweeting, dressed from head to toe in leather. It's festival season in England and I have used this opportunity to meet the manager of Daughter, the indie-folk band from London. I had been listening to them before they were famous, but Daughter had played Glastonbury and were selling a personal record number of albums across the country, getting serious air time on all the big radio stations and podcast d'loads. Their manager, Ryan Riley approached me carefully. He looked like a bird or reptile, all dead in the eyes and thin in the face. I introduced myself and he lead me towards the stage that the trio were playing on.
"I'm the one with all the ideas you see. I came up with the name of the band even." he said.
"Really?"
"Yeah, I also did the cover art for their first album, but they ended up going with that photograph of them trees. Still, if you're interested I printed off a few copies with the original artwork on."
"So how did you meet the band?"
"Well I met them at a pub. They all played or sang so I said, you guys should be in a band. I had to help them a fair bit as they didn't know what to do at first, but I reckon they're getting better now."
"Yeah. They're really stupid."
"That's good right?" said Ryan. I nod and remove the leather cap from off my hair. We're backstage, fat men roll cigarettes in the dark. I trip over a crate of bottled water as we make our way to the green room.
"Hold on, can you take my picture? It's that one." he says, pointing at a button. I take his picture next to the door, it has a sheet of paper that says 'Daughter' stuck to it. We wait in the green room as the last few notes are played onstage and Elena Tondra thanks the audience. A few minutes later they appear, slightly ruffled after playing for the last eighty minutes. I introduce myself and rest my bag on the table, snapping it open and taking out a machine.
"What's that for?" says Igor Haefeli, the guitarist. I attach the lump of metal to the side of my head and begin to plug it into the power supply resting at the bottom of my bag.
"I'm experimenting with some new recording equipment." I say before turning the machine on. Magnets descend over my face and begin to hum. I have to grab onto the table quite tightly as the machine begins to vibrate my whole body as if I'm having a fit, though this is part of the process. The hum rises to a high tone before clicking off, the sounds of the fans and inner mechanisms running themselves still once more. The pieces of metal are drawn back into the machine and I set it down back onto the table. The four people sat around now look exactly like me. I have printed my face onto their heads.
"What just happened?" says Ryan Riley. It is odd to see myself speaking with someone else's voice, wearing somebody else's clothes. They look at one another and begin to shout, although they are confused which one is me. I run out of the room and out behind the stage, chased by my facial clones.