The Knitting Circle Rapist Annihilation Squad

by Derrick Jensen

  Chuck says, “You know you loved it.”

  The chief says, “You in back, shh. We’re trying to figure out what to do about these knitting needle murderers. They’ve got our balls in a wringer, all right.”

  Sandy says to the chief, “I have an idea.”

  The chief says, “I wish someone had an idea.”

  Sandy says, “I’ll go in, Chief.”

  The chief says, “I know it’s a rough assignment, but doesn’t even one of you who have the balls to act like a woman? Won’t any of you volunteer?”

  Sandy raises her hand. “I volunteer. I was the Regional Knitting Champion in high school, and later I won the Golden Needle, the Pulitzer Prize of the Fiber Arts world. I can fit in with them, no problem.”

  The chief says, “It’s going to cost so much to train one of you to knit. Don’t any of you already know how?”

  Another cop speaks up, “I saw Sandy knitting in the break room. Why don’t we send her?”

  The chief says, “That’s a brilliant idea. I’ll remember that when you’re next up for promotion.”

  This week the cheese is Ossau-Iraty, a rare cheese made only from the milk of black-faced Manech sheep, a cheese known for its luscious ivory color and its slightly acidic slightly hazelnut taste. As the women begin knitting, they are overcome by emotion at the beauty of the smell. Some close their eyes. Some stare into space. Some weep silently.

  Sandy Dougher walks in. She sits down.

  The knitters leave their reverie, slowly, regretfully, as if waking from a wondrous dream they know they will soon forget.

  Sandy says to them, “I know you’re not stupid. I’m a cop. I’ve been sent here to shut you down, but I’m really here for other reasons.”

  Gina shakes her head slightly, to bring herself fully awake. Then she says to the group, “Today we are going to learn some of the Fair Isle knitting techniques.”

  Sandy continues, “I also know you can’t trust a cop unless you have good reason. Please just watch the news tomorrow.” She rises to leave and hands Gina a slip of paper. She says, “Listen for this name.”

  Gina reads the name aloud to the group, “‘Lieutenant Chuck Kort.’” She turns to Sandy, says, “Who’s this?”

  Sandy responds, “Let’s just say he fits the profile.”

  The next evening, the television is on again. Franz Maihem no longer looks like Jesus, but more like Jeremiah, with overtones of Howard Beale, Lonesome Rhodes, Jimmy Swaggart, and an elderly Bela Lugosi, as depicted by Jimmy Stewart circa 1956. He stares into the camera, into the very souls of his flock, and says, mournfully, “Tragedy struck again this morning for our heroic men in blue. Lieutenant Chuck Kort was found in the precinct break room, pinned to a vending machine with a knitting needle to the throat. If these terrorists can strike in the hallowed halls of a police station, they can strike anywhere. Be afraid. Be very afraid.”

  We are back in the war room. The chief is now reading The Complete Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. He stops, looks around the room, and asks piercingly, “What do you hear?”

  No one says anything for a moment, till Flint says, “Nothing, Chief.”

  The chief looks at them, triumphant, and exclaims, “Exactly! And that is the clue we’ve been waiting for.” When no one responds, his look becomes as piercing as was his voice. He takes in each person, one by one. They are all wearing black armbands with their uniforms, except for Sandy, who is wearing bright pink. He says to her, “You are not showing proper respect for our fallen brother.”

  She responds, “I have to wear this—I’m undercover. Don’t worry; my underwear is black.”

  Flint perks up, says, “And lacy?”

  The chief says to her, “I hope you have some good news for us. We need to catch these lunatics. Sure, if they kill rapists, we’ll do our duty and investigate, whatever. But these fiends have attacked two of our own, one right here in our fortress! This means war. Have you found anything?”

  “I’ve been to several meetings now, and I think we’re on to something. This group is hot.”

  “How hot?”

  “Very hot.”

  “Give us the full report, then.”

  “The full report?”

  “They’re hot?”

  “Very hot.”

  “Full report.”

  Sandy takes a deep breath before she begins, “So, Jasmine recently purchased a pair of stilettos….”

  The chief interrupts, “Stilettos. That’s definitely an escalation over knitting needles.”

  Sandy continues, “Stiletto shoes with skinny straps, that are either a quarter or an eighth of an inch….”

  Flint says, “Here it comes.”

  Rico blurts, “Please, God. No.”

  The chief asks, “Can you get to the point?”

  Sandy says, “I told you they were hot. And I think I can get them to give me some information.”

  The chief urges her to continue.

  She says, “Well, Jasmine is thinking of changing her nail polish from Go to Bed Red to Hot Slut, and we’re all wondering whether her new boyfriend, well, we’re not sure if he’s actually her new boyfriend, since he hasn’t actually called her, will like the new shade better than the old.”

  Rico begs, “Chief, make her stop.”

  But Sandy talks over him: “I haven’t gotten to the good part yet. Suzie needs a major change in her life, and she’s wondering whether bangs would be sufficient …”

  The chief asks, “Bangs, as in explosives?”

  Sandy continues, “Or whether she’ll need to go all the way.”

  The chief leans forward. “‘All the way’ as in, come clean and become an informant? Or, accelerate the murders?”

  Sandy answers, “All the way’ as in change her hair color.”

  Rico wails, “I can’t take it.”

  Sandy keeps going, “And if she does, should she whisper with shimmering gold highlights, or shout with a shocking bright red-orange or a dramatic sable-black?”

  Rico sways in his chair.

  Sandy says, “And after that, is she going to want to go with an Aveda Black Malva Color Conditioner, or more of a Pantene Pro-V Brunette Expressions Daily Color Enhancing Shampoo?”

  Rico clutches his heart, starts to fall from his chair. His last words before hitting the floor are, “Mother of Mercy, is this the end of Rico?”

  CHAPTER 5

  Five men sit on mismatched thrift-store sofas in a room lit by four weak and failing light bulbs set in three different yet equally hideous lamp fixtures. One fixture is composed of taxidermied squirrel frozen in the act of scratching a ceramic pine stump, with a shade crafted of old neckties. Another is a plastic monkey wearing a vest and holding a light bulb in each hand. A third has a red pump shoe for a base, and a fishnet stocking—clad female mannequin leg for a post. The bare bulb sticks out at a fifteen-degree angle at the top.

  The room is carpeted in cruddy red shag, with walls lined with peeling fake wood paneling. Crucifixes compete with praying hands for wall space around a poster of Jesus wearing camo fatigues and pointing at the viewer, with the caption, “Jesus wants YOU to save some souls.” A fiberboard bookshelf held together with duct tape stands in one corner. Nestled within are seven stolen Gideon Bibles, the complete Left Behind series, a clearly-intentionally-mangled sacrificial copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, a DVD of Cats, a CD of Ted Nugent Plays Gospel Favorites, and an ancient and well-read copy of Everything You Always Wanted to Know about Sex, But Were Afraid to Ask, all book-ended by a pair of carved wooden NASCAR Jesuses.

  The men wear baby blue T-shirts with the letters MAWAR stenciled beneath an awkwardly designed logo: the circle/arrow symbol for “male” surrounding a clenched fist with a cross sprouting from the second knuckle like an upraised middle finger.

  The first man, clearly the leader, says, “The cops still hath their heads up their asses, fuckin’ wankers.”

  The rest of the group responds with a hearty “A
men!”

  The first man continues, “These pussies hath not the balls to even catch a bunch of dumb females. We hath to perform their job for them while they waveth around their dicks.”

  The group responds, “Praise the Lord!”

  One of the MAWAR members, Billy Bob, asks another, “Brother Zebadiah, hast thou initiated the holy plan to grab that heathen ditz Jasmine?”

  Zebadiah responds, “I have, Brother Billy Bob. I have seen the infidel many times at a pernicious den of sin called Xanadu. I have seen her even this last night. And I have called her by the name of ‘Fox-ay.’ Having seen this woman many times, I feel she is now in the palm of my hand, ready to feel the mighty fury of the Lord.”

  Billy Bob nods. “Brother, you got you some holy fuckin’ nads of steel to come in such close proximity to such a Jezebel. What comes next?”

  Zebadiah answers, “Phase Two of our holy plan begins in three days.”

  “Praise Jesus. But why not tomorrow?”

  “It’s the three-day rule. If you call one of these wanton hussies before three days, she turns down even the Holiest of Holy men. If you wait three days, she’s yours.”

  It is late at night. Marilyn sits alone in her family’s dark living room. The front door opens. “Mom?” Marilyn calls.

  Gina enters and asks, “What are you doing up so late?”

  “What are you doing out so late? It’s 2 a.m.!”

  “I outgrew my curfew a few years ago. I get to stay out as late as I want. When you’re a mother, you’ll get to do the same thing.”

  Marilyn says, with only a half-hearted sneer, “I hate it when you use that tone.”

  Gina responds, “When you’re a mother you’ll get to use this tone, too.”

  Marilyn’s sneer is gone entirely. She says, sincerely, “It’s just I worry about you getting into trouble.”

  Gina hugs Marilyn. “I know what I’m doing, kiddo.”

  “You wouldn’t let me get by with that,” Marilyn says.

  Gina says, predictably, “When you’re a mother …”

  Marilyn hesitates, then begins, “I guess the reason I stayed up is that I wanted to tell you that I understand what you’re doing. I understand now why you’re doing it. And it’s … it’s okay.”

  Gina hugs her again, and says, “That means an awful lot to me. Thank you, Marilyn.”

  “But I still can’t go along with it. I can’t join you,” Marilyn says.

  Gina responds, “That’s okay, honey. I would never ask you to go against your principles.”

  A comfortable silence passes between them. Then Gina pulls a pair of knitting needles from her purse. “I want to ask you, though, to carry these. You don’t have to use them. Just keep them handy. In case you ever need them.” She holds them out, waiting.

  Marilyn hesitates, and then takes them.

  A few days later, Jasmine and Suzie sit inside the Red Moon Sacred Gyn Mill Tea House for Wimmin of All Kinds and Kindreds. Several signs on the walls make clear that this tea house “does not discriminate on the basis of gender, sexual preference, race, skin color, skin tone, the relative smoothness and softness of one’s skin, nationality of origin, religious preference, height, weight, age, food preferences, driving record, species, handedness, competence at chess, literacy, hair color, hair length, soap choices, food allergies, chemical sensitivities, fatigue, neuroses, phobias, past lives, astrological signs, clothing, boots, pocket-knife preference, brand of pickup, or canine/ feline/companion animal preference. Nor does it descriminate on the basis of misspellings or typos.”

  Another sign states, “If you mention calories, you WILL be asked to leave.” By the silverware a sign reads, “Sisters: we refrain from the patriarchal weapons of knives and forks when nurturing ourselves and each other. Please use the healing womb of a spoon.” Yet another sign comforts customers: “13 hugs are healing.” The teahouse’s slogan is painted on the wall behind the cash register: “Where there’s not a single penis between us.”

  The saltshaker is inscribed with the words, “The Gift of Mother Ocean.” Exposed wood beams on the ceiling read, “The Gift of Mother Forest.” A ceramic vase on the table is inscribed, “The Gift of Mother Earth.” The tampon dispenser in the bathroom is inscribed, “The Gift of Mother Moon.”

  The handmade mugs have ceramic breasts. The plates are shaped like 3D vulvas, providing a convenient crevice in which to rest the spoons. Customers intent on consuming every crumb of dessert are often driven to probe the plates’ folds with determined tongues.

  Jasmine and Suzie are looking at the menu, trying to decide between: 1) wheat-free, dairy-free, sugar-free carob pie sweetened with lemon juice; 2) wheat-free, dairy-free, sugar-free gingerbread wimmin and gyrl cookies, anatomically correct; 3) wheat-free, dairy-free, sugar-free cookies with oregano/basil flour; 4) a wheat-free, dairy-free, sugar-free ice creme sundae; 5) wheat-free, dairy-free, sugar-free, caffeine-free brownies; and 6) triple chocolate cheesecake called “Praise the Lourde!”

  It does not take them long to choose number six. Once they are seated, Jasmine can no longer contain her excitement. She blurts, “He asked me out!”

  “Finally! Congratulations! Where?” Suzie asks.

  “I don’t know yet. I have to call him. Do you think I should call right away, or wait until tomorrow? I should keep him waiting, right? Be friendly but not too-too available, right?”

  Suzie doesn’t focus on the question, but on Jaz’s first sentence. “What do you mean you don’t know where? What did he say?”

  Jasmine holds up her cell phone so Suzie can see a text message.

  Suzie reads, “‘U R hot. Can I C U?’ Jaz. That’s his invitation? … Um … “ Jasmine begins to look worried, so Suzie switches tone and gushes, “Wow! He asked you out!”

  Jasmine responds, “Suzie, I know it might be too soon to say this, but I think he might be The One!”

  Gina and Lawrence are lying in their sensible bed. A fair while ago they made some very sensible love—and Gina was neither stuffy nor stodgy nor blah, and she was indeed proactive; beyond that we will leave Gina’s and Lawrence’s sexual activities to Gina and Lawrence—and after caressing and chatting and snuggling and generally lingering, they—and this part is not nearly so sensible—turn on the television.

  They see Franz Maihem.

  Lawrence asks, “Doesn’t he remind you of someone?”

  Gina looks closely. “He reminds me of … No, I don’t see it. Who does he remind you of?”

  Lawrence says, “Well … I guess he doesn’t remind me of … No! Wait! I’ve got it. He reminds me of Howdy Doody!”

  “Yes! Except without the red hair!”

  “And without the freckles!”

  “And not so cute!”

  “And,” Lawrence adds, “You can see his strings ever so much better.”

  Franz is speaking with the urgency he reserves for only the most important news, like celebrity break-ups, environmental catastrophes, six-car pileups, and the latest winners of American Idol: “The FBI has released a shocking new profile of the knitting needle serial killers. Folks, brace yourselves. The FBI now believes that these vicious serial killers are chicks, I mean women. Yes, women. This is very shocking and bizarre because as we all know, almost all serial killers are men. To think that women would do this is extremely upsetting for everyone. After this report we’ll be giving information about instant computerassisted counseling you can access to deal with the trauma of this information. But right now, here’s an urgent update from FBI profiler Chet Stirling.”

  Gina and Lawrence exchange a satisfied, amused look. Gina says, “Finally, they noticed.”

  Franz asks, “What made you realize that the killers are chicks, I mean women?”

  Chet speaks with the certainty of the perpetually clueless. “Well, Franz, they’re just like every normal rational serial killer in every way, but for one bizarre, freaky exception.”

  “What is that, Chet?”

  “It’s alm
ost unheard of in the long, illustrious history and tradition of serial killing. It’s frankly horrifying.”

  “Tell us, Chet.”

  “All the victims are men.”

  Franz cannot contain his trained emotion. “Oh my god, Chet. That’s impossible! Perverse!” He shudders. “I was here for the Balzac Massacre of ‘97, and the Pinetree Trail Dismemberment Murders of ‘03, but this one really gives me the creeps.”

  “Yes, Franz. I think that’s a perfectly normal response.”

  “What more can you tell us, Chet?”

  Chet speaks now with the placid certainty of one who wears denial like a neatly knitted afghan comforter. “We have redubbed them the ‘Ice Queen Killers.’ It has a better ring to it than ‘Knitting Needle Killers,’ don’t you think? Ice Queen Killers. Scary! Our investigations are continuing. In the meantime, we implore the public to be vigilant and to report any suspicious activity.” He removes his glasses, stares straight into the camera. “To all you men out there, if your wife or girlfriend turns you down for sex too many times, we want to hear about it. If a girl won’t go to the prom with you, we want to hear about it. If some beeyotch talks trash to you and disrespects you, you need to alert us immediately.”

  Gina and Lawrence exchange a horrified look. Gina says, “Report suspicious activity?”

  Franz continues, “You heard it, folks. We have additional confirmation from an important unidentified high-level official that the killers are ‘man-hating bitches.’ This urgent situation will require extreme vigilance from all of us, and prompt reporting of any instance of man-hating. Hey, Katherine, you listening? Tonight, baby—you can’t turn me down. Heh heh.” He catches himself, pauses, then says, “I will be providing instant, up-to-the-nanosecond reports throughout the day on developments of this case. Check out my constant stream of reportage on Facebook, Twitter, and Blabber.”

  Gina rolls on top of Lawrence, kissing and hugging him. She says, “Watch out, I’m a terrifying man-hater!”

  Lawrence calls out, “Help, help! FBI!”

  They laugh and kiss.

  Then Lawrence, always sensible, says, “Seriously, this raises the stakes. I want you to be careful.”