The Knitting Circle Rapist Annihilation Squad Read online

  When women complain that so often in films, “the women get younger and younger and nuder and nuder,” von Trier responds, “That’s all I needed to hear. I most definitely intend for the women in this film to get younger and younger and nuder and nuder.”

  When the film is finally released, viewers learn that, in order to make the film “more psychologically complex and, you know, edgy,” to use von Trier’s words, the women do not use the knitting needles to kill rapists, but rather, in what von Trier openly declares is an homage to “the greatest filmmaker of all time, Lars von Trier,” they use the knitting needles to reproduce a scene from one of his earlier films and mutilate their own genitals.

  Members of the knitting circle know, however, that there are much better places to put their needles.

  Suzie and Jasmine go for a walk in the park, stepping over goose poop on their way to the lake.

  Suzie says, “I’m very concerned about your boyfriend.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know how to ask this,” Suzie says, “but is he for real?”

  “Oh, yes, this all feels so right to me! So real!” “No, I mean, does he really exist?”

  “Exist?”

  “Like you or me.”

  Jasmine giggles, says, “Well, he’s got some differences …”

  “Like …”

  “I’m not going to talk about that!”

  “Here’s what I’m trying to ask: have you met him except for those times you said at the Xanadu?”

  “Yes! We meet all the time! Almost every night!”

  “You do? You haven’t told me about that. What’s he like?”

  “Like I said at Grandma Ahn’s, he’s really changeable.”

  “That’s what I didn’t understand. Do you mean, like he’s inconsistent? One day nice, the next day angry? That’s not a good sign, Jaz.”

  “No, I meant what I said at the nursing home. It’s his looks. It’s so wonderful. One night I’m hanging out with Brad Pitt, and then a wombat, and lately a centaur. Centaurs are the sexiest!”

  “Jaz, I’m getting very worried about you.”

  “And sometimes when he comes up to me hearts burst into the room and fly away like little red butterflies!”

  “Jaz?”

  “You ask, is he real? It doesn’t get any more real than The One, does it?”

  Billy Bob walks down the stairs to the MAWAR office, partly because he never can get quite enough peeks at the August cheesecake from the defunct tire company calendar, and partly because he suspects Zebadiah is on the computer again, and presumably up to no good.

  He’s not so worried that Zebadiah might be looking at porn. No one in MAWAR has ever been interested in anything more than cheesecake, and they’ve not even been interested enough in that to update their calendar. For some reason their leader always seems more interested in updating the Twelve Monthly Miracles of Jesus calendars. Besides, someone once installed a porn alarm on the computer that would go off anytime anyone typed in a search that matched potential porn triggers, and in the whole year’s subscription the only times it went off were false positives, as when someone searched for phrases like the Virgin Mary, inflamed prostate (first having looked up enflamed prostate, which would have been an entirely different health problem), Onan (embarrassingly enough), or David and Bathsheba, this latter because the porn alarm considered the scene where David sees Bathsheba bathing on the rooftop too racy.

  But he still wants to know what he’s doing on the computer.

  Billy Bob peeks around the corner to see Zebadiah staring at the screen. Zebadiah sees him, too, and quickly taps a few times at the keyboard.

  Billy Bob asks, “What lookest thou at on the computer?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Let me see.”

  Zebadiah shows him.

  Billy Bob says, “That’s just the username and password page. That doesn’t do me any good.”

  Zebadiah says, “That’s the point.” He gets up and leaves.

  But Billy Bob has watched enough detective movies on television to know that most people’s usernames and passwords can be discovered in mere moments—and certainly before the next commercial—if chance will merely provide the right clues to set off a brilliant series of semilogical leaps on the part of the detective. So, he looks around the room, sees the cheesecake, and types in “tires” and “round” (since that’s what tires are). Nothing. He sees the picture of Jesus and types in “Jesus” and “OurLordandSavior” but that doesn’t work either. He starts to think the detective shows might not be as accurate as he had hoped.

  But he gets the same lucky break they always get in the mystery movies when Zebadiah turns on the stereo upstairs and starts to blast Ted Nugent Plays Gospel Favorites. Billy Bob listens to the first song—”How Great Thou Art”—thinks about Zebadiah’s taste in music, types in “wretched” for a username, realizes that Zebadiah would of course not say that about his own musical tastes, deletes that word, and types in “HowGreatTedArt.” He feels comfortable with this. But he still needs a password. He closes his eyes, lets his mind drift. He thinks about Jezebel/Jasmine, about the courage Zebadiah has to even consider getting so close to such an agent of Beelzebub. He thinks how Zebadiah must have … That’s it! He types in “holyfuckingnadsofsteel” and hits enter.

  He is shocked by what comes up on the screen. He knows that he and Zebadiah need to talk, and they need to talk now.

  It takes a surprisingly short time for Zebadiah to move through Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’s stages of “having been caught doing something stupid,” zooming past defensiveness, blaming someone else, embarrassment, and humiliation right to enthusiasm and pride and “it’s really cool and everybody else is doing it anyway.”

  Billy Bob says, “Okay, let me get this straight. You pay real money so you can have a second ‘life’ on a computer?”

  “Well, I figured since I don’t have a life in reality, I may as well have one somewhere, and besides, it’s only ten dollars a month! That’s not too much to pay to have a life, is it?”

  “Brother Zebadiah—”

  “And it’s even better. I own land there!”

  “Own land, on the computer?”

  “And you should see how much land I own! Look!” A few clicks and Zebadiah is showing Billy Bob his mansion, complete with 3-D moving pictures of Jesus on every wall, and even on the floor, with the floor Jesuses always deftly stepping out of the way of the user’s virtual foot.

  Despite himself, Billy Bob is impressed. “You’ve got yourself a nice piece of property, Brother Zebadiah.”

  “And it only costs me another hundred dollars a month.”

  “Wait. You pay real money for a fake house?”

  “At thirty-five dollars per plasma donation, and at two donations per week, I can pay for my monthly rental in only ten days. That leaves me with all the other donations to use for spending money. How do you think I bought the ‘water into wine’ fountain for the grand entry hall?”

  “You trade blood for pixels?”

  “Yes, but everybody’s doing it, aren’t they? Isn’t that what the whole computer culture is about, trading real life for virtual life? I’m on the leading edge, Billy Bob! I’m on the front lines of yet another revolution.”

  Billy Bob nods grimly. “Thou doest surely have holy fucking nads of steel. But isn’t this blood donation all too much? Doth it not make thee really fucking weak?”

  “Well, I’ve also been selling to the sperm bank.”

  “Selling to the sperm bank? Unfaithful to Jezebel already?”

  “Jasmine!”

  “Have you told her?”

  “No. It’s just that sometimes when we are chatting on here

  “You meet her in this computer place?”

  “Yes, and sometimes when we are chatting here and I start thinking about her that way, I just tell her I have to go to work.”

  Billy Bob thinks a moment. “How much doth thou make for these holy donati
ons?”

  “One hundred dollars, Brother Billy Bob.”

  “One hundred dollars a whack?”

  “It is good money, my brother. Thou shouldst try it.”

  “But I still do not understand. Good money to buy a house in computerville? A house that doth not really exist?”

  “It may not exist, Billy Bob, but like you saw, it’s really big.” Zebadiah shows him more of his property, including the swimming pool. He says, “The pool has an adjustable temperature, so when it’s cold in computerville I make it an Olympic-size hot tub, and when it’s warm I turn the pool way down. It feels so good!”

  “Feels?”

  “And look what else my character can do!” Zebadiah pushes a button and suddenly hearts flutter all over the screen and flit away like butterflies. He says, “So whenever I see Jasmine I can shower her with hearts!” He says, proudly, “I paid $200 for that ability.”

  Billy Bob’s eyes go wide.

  Zebadiah says, “That’s only one whack and three pints of blood … and it sure is pretty!”

  Billy Bob tells their leader, who calls a MAWAR meeting. There it is determined that while they all appreciate Zebadiah’s creativity in moving to ensnare the heathen Jezebel through getting to know her on a computer, he must in fact call her, and he must in fact see her in real life, no matter how scary this may be for him. They urge him to remember that Jesus and his guardian angels will be with him at every moment, and that while he may sometimes walk afraid, he will never walk alone. He strenuously argues against all of this, saying that his plan only needs more time, and that he has already been saving up for a gilded prison room for her in computerville, and it would only have taken another couple of months of blood and masturbation before it would be ready. They point out to him that kidnapping her in computerville would not actually serve their purpose. They need to kidnap her in real life. It takes a while to convince him of this distinction.

  At this point it is clear that Zebadiah is not only frightened, but that his pride is hurt over the failure of his other plan. To mollify him, all members of MAWAR agree that from this time forward, they will never again call her Jezebel, and that when they play Bible Scrabble the word Jezebel will be worth only half points. These concessions make Zebadiah happy, and help him gird his loins to move forward.

  Suzie and Sam are once again in bed. They are, sadly, once again fully clothed. Suzie says to Sam, “Now do you believe that even taking into account the brainwashing and training of our oppressive patriarchal culture, I genuinely want to make love with you?”

  Sam responds, “I sort of believe it. I think we could proceed, as long as we’re careful. I think that not only should we be absolutely certain that in advance, in the abstract, that we want to make love, but that at each step of the way, in the concrete, we agree with each action, and verbally acknowledge that we still indeed want it.”

  Suzie says, reasonably enough, “Huh?”

  Sam says, “I’ll show you. Can I kiss your lips?”

  “Oh god yes, I’ve only been begging you to start!” She grabs him and pulls him on top of her, and kisses him passionately.

  He backs off hurriedly. “No, no. You’re missing my point. We should each ask consent about every part. Like this: Can I touch your arm?”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “See? You don’t want me to. It’s a good thing I asked.”

  “No, I mean, really, you’re going to ask each time you touch a new body part?”

  “It’s the only way I can be sure that you want me to do it. And to be fair, you should ask me as well.”

  Suzie sighs. “Okay. I want you to feel comfortable. Can I touch your shoulder?”

  “I’d love that. Can I touch your hair?”

  “Absolutely. Can I kiss your neck?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Is that a ‘yes’?”

  “Yes!”

  “Just making sure. Can I touch your chest?”

  “Not yet,” Sam says. “Go a bit slower, please. Can I kiss your fingers?”

  “Go for it. Can I run the fingers of my other hand down the inside of your arm?”

  “Yes, that would feel good.”

  Their voices fade. Romantic music swells. They caress each other slower and slower, asking about each individual touch and not getting very far before they both fall asleep. They both snore softly, as cute as kittens.

  Weeks pass, and we are back at MAWAR headquarters, where the NASCAR Jesuses continue to serenely overlook the three ugliest lamps on the planet.

  The leader says, “The fuckin’ cops won’t do their job to stop these devils. The feds aren’t doing it. And the commie pinko liberal media certainly doesn’t give a rat’s ass. It’s up to us to do the righteous work of the Lord and smite the wicked.”

  The group responds as one, “Amen!”

  Their leader says, “Brother Zebadiah! It’s been weeks since we made our new arrangement. The situation is deteriorating. Why hast thou not yet nabbed Jasmine? I thought you were on the cusp of glory!”

  Zebadiah responds, “I’m almost there! All praise to the Lord!”

  Their leader says, “Then why hast thou not brought that hussy home!”

  Zebadiah says, “You said you’d call her Jasmine!”

  “I said I’d not call her Jezebel, and I didn’t call her that name.”

  “You’re cheating.”

  “Don’t change the subject, Brother Zebadiah. You’ve been out with her three times! Do you even have a single testicle? We need her so we can bargain with the heathens!”

  Zebadiah says, earnestly, “I couldn’t take her home on the first date. Even for Jesus. It would have been too great a sin.”

  Billy Bob asks, “What about the second date? I’m sure you would have been forgiven for that.”

  Zebadiah says, “Just thinking about it made me feel impure. On our third date, I tried to pray for her soul, but Jasmine made disparaging remarks about Our Lord. I couldn’t countenance that.”

  Billy Bob says, “You don’t have to like that demon spawn. Just. Bring. Her. Home.”

  Zebadiah responds, “I’ve been praying my ass off over this, Brother. I believe the Lord wanted me to wait. Bringing a woman home on the fourth date is only a minor sin. So I made another date with her for Friday. I’m ready for the glory!”

  Their leader says, “Lemme hear an Amen!”

  The room explodes with a hearty Amen.

  Their leader says, “It’s do-or-die time, Brother Zebadiah. Make the Lord proud. Be strong in righteous ass-kickery! We are the last best hope for godly men! Go forth with the fire of the Lord’s fury burning in your loins!”

  The men in the room respond with an Amen that leaves the NASCAR Jesuses rocking back and forth in its wake.

  Jasmine and Suzie are back the Red Moon Sacred Gyn Mill Tea House for Wimmin of All Kinds and Kindreds, eating the only edible item on the menu. Jasmine fills in Suzie on her recent dates with Zebadiah.

  Suzie says, “He pretended to pray for your soul?”

  Jasmine responds, “I thought it was tasteless, you know? Making fun of Christian fundamentalists like that. I told him it was tacky, like mocking the mentally ill. Because isn’t that really what he was doing?”

  “So, Jaz, why are you going out with him again?”

  “I admit he’s a little weird. And I’m not so sure any more that he’s The One. But he’s cute, and maybe I could convince myself that his freaky quirks are charming eccentricities. Right?”

  “I don’t know if I could do that. He seems kind of repulsive.”

  “Yeah. But I’m not sure he’s quite bad enough for me to not date him. It’s easy for you to judge—you’ve got Sam. It’s different for me. I’m almost twenty-three years old, and even before Zebadiah I hadn’t had a boyfriend for a whole three months! I don’t want to wind up sixty-two years old, alone on the streets, a ranting bag lady.”

  Suzie thinks, then comments, “Getting married is no guarantee you won’t e
nd up alone, a ranting bag lady in the streets. It can happen to anyone.”

  Jasmine sighs. “I know. I know. If he keeps being weird, I’ll stop seeing him. But I want to give our relationship one more chance. I can’t give up yet. I’ve invested too many daydreaming hours figuring out the color scheme of our wedding.”

  Nick hasn’t left Brigitte’s for months. She doesn’t have an attic, so he hasn’t been able to hide there. Nor has he kept his promise to not make a peep. Mainly he’s sat in front of the television, obsessively watching news of the knitting needle phenomenon and getting on Brigitte’s nerves, as she has gotten on his. But the “nonrelationship” has survived as well as could have been hoped.

  As Franz and Chet chatter ominously on the TV, Brigitte picks up her tote bag and car keys. She says, “I’m going out, Nick. Do you want anything?”

  “Where are you going?” Nick asks.

  Brigitte responds, slightly annoyed, “Various errands.”

  “When will you be back?” he asks.

  “Nick, I know you’re stir-crazy, stuck in my home as a fugitive. But let’s not forget who we are, okay? We’re very independent people. We like that about each other. If you start asking me where I’m going and when I’ll be back every time I go anywhere, it’s going to depress me more than I already am with you here. I’m starting to feel like you’re my mother, or worse, my husband.”

  He says, “I’m sorry. I know. I can’t seem to help myself.” She responds, “It sneaks up on people when they live together.”

  “I never wanted this to happen. We’re becoming just like cranky, boring married people, with lives stripped of charm and mystery. Bleh. I don’t want us to lose the magic, Brigitte. I want the romance, the hot lust, the fun.”

  She says, “Let’s try this again. I’m going out—do you want anything?”

  “Yes. We’re out of cookies and I’m desperate. The round ones with the flaky dough and the strawberry filling? About this big?”

  “I know the ones.”

  They smile and she goes out the door. He turns back to the TV.

  The president addresses the nation in a press conference. He says, “We urge patience, vigilance, and calm. I assure you, the American people, that the Knitting Needle Killings are nearly under control and will be stopped.”