The Knitting Circle Rapist Annihilation Squad by Derrick Jensen, Stephanie McMillan Page B

I got at the mall. Remember, Suzie? The ones I showed you?”
    Suzie squeals back, “Per!Fect! I love those shoes!” She gushes to the group, “They have really thin straps around the ankle, like a quarter-inch wide … no, like an eighth of an inch. Maybe a quarter. Jaz, was it a quarter or an eighth?”
    Jasmine says enthusiastically, “More like an eighth. They’re, like, thin and delicate and they cross twice over the foot before going up like this.” She pantomimes the straps going up her ankle.
    Christine says, “They sound darling! And they remind meof some shoes my granddaughter wanted me to buy her for her birthday. Can you imagine such a little girl wanting heels?”
    Flint sighs, packs up his knitting, and starts to leave.
    Mary says to him, “Oh, dearie, where are you going? The fun has barely even started.”
    Flint replies, “That’s what I was afraid of.”
    The police are meeting again in the war room. While they wait for Flint, the chief refreshes himself on techniques of detection by reading
The Collected Works of Edgar Allen Poe.
He stops, underlines a phrase, then looks up at Rico and says thoughtfully, “I just had an idea. Is it possible that the killer could be an Orang-Outang?”
    Before Rico can answer, in walks Flint.
    The chief says, “And?”
    Flint says, “I can’t take it, Chief. They’re brutal, monstrous.”
    The chief says, “Brutal, eh? Like an Orang-Outang?”
    Flint replies, “Worse, boss. Worse than you can imagine.”
    The chief dismisses Flint with a small gesture, then turns to Rico, says, “You’re in. Let’s see if you can fight some crime without sniveling like a little girl.”
    As the police file out of the room, they hear the chief give Rico one last piece of advice: “Make sure not to let them make a monkey out of you.”
    It’s cream cheese week, and the day is so hot you could use the sidewalk to fry bacon. It’s Thursday, and the Knitting Circle is meeting.
    In walks someone who looks like a man, a burly man, a manly man oozing testosterone from the matted hairs on the backs of his hands. His low V-necked sweater reveals what wouldnormally be a décolletage, only with hair. Lots of it, as thick and matted as a 1970s shag carpet on which decades of beers have spilled and been left to dry into a yeasty crust. Beneath the sweater he wears a bra that is clearly full of something besides human flesh. And below his waist he wears a tastefully short plaid skirt that shows off his muscular, hairy legs. He is carrying a new copy of Camille Paglia’s
Sexual Personae.
He sits down.
    The women of the Knitting Circle look at him.
    The man says, “Ahem.”
    The women knit.
    The man says, “My name is Ric … Ric … Raquel, and I’m here to do some serious knittin’.”
    The women knit.
    Rico continues, “I’ve had it up to my tight sweet round ass with the Man, with Patriarchy. You know what I’m sayin’, girlfriends?”
    The women knit.
    Rico continues, “I’m tired of men groping me, tired of them lookin’ at me with their x-ray eyes, tired of them seein’ my secret treasures.”
    The women knit.
    Rico continues, “And I’m tired of stayin’ home, slavin’ all day at cookin’ and cleanin’, and then watchin’ soap operas and Oprah and Dr. Phil and Judge Judy, while my man sweats away his life to bring home a paycheck. And I’m tired of that filthy beastly man with eight hands wantin’ a piece of me.”
    The women knit.
    Rico notes, “He’s hung like a horse, by the way.”
    Brigitte stifles a laugh.
    Rico says, “I’m just sayin’.”
    The women knit.
    Rico says, “And I’m tired of goin’ through a divorce where the lousy biased judge only gives me half of the house that my ex-husband worked his fingers to the