Bitches

It was once said by a man that the gears of the machine can be stopped with enough human bodies resting atop of them. In the end, women’s bodies are always the first to be sacrificed. And how did it happen that we women were the only ones brave enough to place our bodies between the dogs and their hunters? The Wildlands turned into fields of rape when the resistance began. Hunters dropped their phallic symbols and held tight to their phalluses, as if they were beautifully crafted swords forged in a fire kindled by hatred. In the resistance we joked that the hunters carried in their pants rapiers that made them rape-ier. It was a dark joke that we chuckled at only nervously, fearful we’d become one of these women, caught with our puppet decoys and dealt with brutally. I only heard of the rapes second and third hand, but I kept a gun next to my wolf puppet at all times. And even these days, long after the hunt, long after the disappearance of our leader, jane, long after my time in the resistance, I still think of that woman-my comrade-bleeding from a hole in her side, her puppet torn and smudged with dirt, surrounded by snarling dogs who protected her body from further debasement. Soon they’d be picked off too, one bullet for each dog too brave, too honorable or too foolish to run upon hearing the thrusting of a man’s clicking shotgun pump.