The Knitting Circle Rapist Annihilation Squad (10 page)

Zebadiah looks away.

Their leader says, “Didst the heathen call after you sent your holy fucking text message?”

Zebadiah still cannot look at him, but does nod curtly.

“What sayeth she?”

“She said she bought some new sho—”

“Leaveth thee off the bit about the fucking shoes, and get thee to the meat of it.”

Zebadiah says, “She …” He trails off, turning bright red.

Their leader presses hard. “She sayeth what?” He stands. He moves around the table to stand next to Zebadiah. He insists, “What didst that Jezebel say?”

Zebadiah juts out his chin, then says, defiantly, “Her name is Jasmine, and I'd prefer you not call her Jezebel.”

All the men of MAWAR gasp, and stand as one. They surround Zebadiah, move in very close. He shrinks in his chair (while still covering his rack; he had a very nice Zamzummims stashed away for next turn), begins to sweat.

All of the men point at him with quivering, accusing fingers.

He wishes he were somewhere else, someone else.

Together they begin to chant, at first slowly, and then with more speed and intensity, all in a sing-song voice, “Zebadiah and Jezebel—”

He interrupts by shouting “Jasmine!”

They chant over him, “Sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes six Zebadiahs and six Jezebels—”

“Her name is Jasmine!”

“—in a baby carriage.”

They stop. They are silent for a moment before their leader says, “Ah, he's shy. Mr. Nads of Steel hath fallen under the spell of Jezebel.” They all laugh.

Zebadiah cries, “Her name's Jasmine!”

Later, after Bible Scrabble is finished, the leader comes to Zebadiah privately, and says, “So, are you going to moveth our plan forward?”

Zebadiah says, “Yes, sir. But it is so scary.”

“The plan is scary?”

“No, sir.”

“What these horrible women are wroughting on the world as we know it is scary?”

“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir, that is very scary.”

“But that's not it, is it?”

“No, sir.”

“We both know what it is that hath frightened thou, don't we?”

“Yes, sir. It is love. Love is very scary.”

“There are cures for love, you know.”

“Like marriage?”

“That's one. Intimacy is another. Friendship. Getting to know the other person. Conversation. All those doth surely kill love. So there is yet hope. Just talk to her a little while, brother Zebadiah, and your feelings will go away. Trust me on this one.”

“Thank you, sir. This helps, but still I feel so weak in the face of this love, and the temptations this love can bring.”

“You may be weak, but Jesus hath strength enough for all of us. And remember, he lived thirty-three years and never knew
a woman, never was intimate, never was in love. Let him be an example to you, and to us all. Let him be your strength. Let him be your holy fucking nads of steel.”

Zebadiah doesn't say anything.

The leader says, “Mindest thou if I speak explicitly?”

“No, please do.”

“Remember always that Jesus can help us in any circumstances, no matter how troubling. And he can help us with our sexuality, even though he died a virgin, blessings to him and to his blessed unused genitals.”

“He can help us, truly?”

“He can help us no matter what our trouble. Sometimes, even though I am married, when I see some woman other than my wife, my Peter doth still become a Rock; when that doth happen I think of Jesus on the Cross, and before you know it, I can tie my Peter in a knot and pee sideways. And Jesus helps me in the other direction, too. Sometimes with my wife it is not always easy to fulfill my husbandly duties….”

“I don't understand, sir.”

“Let's just say that Peter is not always the Rock upon which my church is founded. In those cases, even though I am with my wife, sometimes instead of thinking of her I picture the precious face of Jesus, I picture the flowing robes, I picture us breaking bread and drinking wine as we lean against each other at the Last Supper, and the Next to Last Supper, and the Supper Before That. I picture us walking hand in hand through the garden, I picture a gentle kiss (with no awkward consequences like some
other
kiss in the garden) with that sweet, sweet Man, and before you know it, Lazarus has been raised from the dead.”

“You do this, sir?”

“I do. And I think a lot of other people do, too. Why do
you think that so many people, when they are having sex, cry again and again, ‘Oh, Jesus! Oh my God! Oh, Jesus!'?”

Zebadiah sits in the dimly lit, lonely basement office of MAWAR. He is confused. What used to be clear is now muddled. The Knitting Circle must be stopped, and the way to stop the Knitting Circle is to kidnap Jasmine and hold her hostage. But his feelings are getting in the way. It's not that he particularly objects to snatching her; snatching her is necessary for the plan to succeed. He doesn't even particularly object to snatching someone he likes. The problem is that now that he likes her, he finds himself too scared to even talk to her.

He thinks on his predicament, and reflects on the wise words given by his wise leader, “Let Jesus be your strength.” So, what would Jesus do in these circumstances? What would Jesus do if he were planning to kidnap a woman in order to force her knitting circle to stop killing rapists? What would Jesus do if he met this woman in a nightclub called Xanadu, and if Jesus called the woman “fox-ay,” and this woman really was pretty hot, and if Jesus started to like her, but then found himself too scared and tongue-tied to pull off the kidnapping? What would Jesus do then?

Zebadiah looks around the room, takes in the fusty drapes concealing a window that has been nailed shut, the Jesus-on-a-String Mountain Breeze cherry-kiwi air freshener, the desk, the computer, the telephone, the print on the wall of Jesus emerging from the grave, the twenty-five-year-old cheesecake calendar for a defunct tire company. What would Jesus do in this room?

Zebadiah looks again around the room and thinks about his beloved Jesus. He pictures Jesus being reborn—pictures Jesus having lived not only two thousand years ago but getting a
chance at a second life right now!—and imagines Jesus walking around the room in his flowing robe and sitting down at the desk (first running his hand over his bottom to smooth out his robe). All at once, Zebadiah knows exactly what he needs to do.

Meanwhile the knitting circle continues to grow.

Men are starting to join, too.

On garlic cheddar day a man walks quietly into the knitting circle meeting, nods to the women, sits down, and begins knitting a very thin, long piece that doesn't look like any item of clothing the other knitters have ever seen before. It is a gorgeous cerulean. He comes back the next week, and the week after, and the week after. Eventually, his knitted whatever-it-is trails down and coils in a pile on the floor. In all that time he does not say a word.

Finally, Brigitte has to know. “What are you knitting? That's too long and skinny even for a scarf.”

The man holds up a knitted rope. He says, “In my case, it was my teacher.”

Christine says, “I'm so sorry, dear.”

Mary looks at the rope and says, “But it's
very
nice knitting. Very even.”

And Jasmine: “I adore that color.”

Picture this: a man is in his library. An impressive selection of books lines the walls. They signify a fine intellectual mind, the mind of a learned man, the mind of someone worthy of passing his wisdom to the next generation. (He has not read most of them, but let's ignore that—mentioning it would be uncharitable.) This man wears a tweed jacket. It has leather patches on the elbows. This style choice also signifies a fine,
highly developed intellect. Everybody knows that all the best teachers wear this kind of jacket. He also wears a knitted rope. This rope weaves its way around his hands, binding them tightly together, and around his neck, and around the base of the chandelier in this man's fine library. This rope is cerulean. The man's feet do not touch the floor.

People who aren't direct victims are joining, too.

A tall scrawny man wears a sleeveless leather jacket. From shoulder to wrist his arms are a writhing mass of tattoos. His hair is long and stringy, and his hairline is receding. He has a full beard and mustache and is missing an incisor and a canine. Though the day is overcast, he wears sunglasses. Beneath his leather jacket he wears a T-shirt that once was white. Around his neck is a braided leather thong, from which dangles a single bear claw.

He strides into the room (which smells of Roquefort cheese), throws bloody knitting needles onto the table, and declares, “He did my little sister.”

Gina hurriedly takes a pair of disposable rubber gloves from her purse, puts them on, picks up the knitting needles, sterilizes them and with alcohol (which she also happens to carry in her purse), and hands the needles back to him. She says, “Proper cleanliness prevents disease. Have a seat, hon.”

The man takes the cleaned needles, sits down, and starts knitting expertly—red mittens, if you must know.

Franz Maihem, who looks like a jumping spider, except that jumping spiders have eight legs and are actually kind of cute (and also have far more interesting and egalitarian courtship patterns), stares into the television camera (with only two eyes,
as opposed to the jumping spider's eight; his eyes also see only three primary colors, as opposed to the four seen by jumping spiders, meaning their sensory color space is four-dimensional—but apart from that, and the fact that he can't jump several times his body length, oh, and also the fact that jumping spiders are by nature inquisitive and courageous, he is just like a jumping spider), and says, “This is Franz Maihem with ultraurgent breaking news. We are linking you live to our FBI contact Chet Stirling for an emergency announcement. Chet, go ahead.”

Chet stands at his desk for several awkward seconds, staring blankly at the camera as the audio delay ticks by. Then his voice crackles as he says, “We have received a communiqué from the so-called Ice Queen Killers, whom our agency has classified as the greatest terrorist threat facing America today. They are more dangerous than al-Qaeda, the Taliban, North Korea, or Iran. They are even more dangerous and ruthless than domestic environmentalists. They are our top priority and we pledge to eradicate them.”

Franz asks, “What does the communiqué say, Chet?”

“It says, ‘We will stop killing rapists when men stop raping.'”

Franz asks, “That's it?”

“That's it. The entire message.”

Franz asks, “What the heck does it mean, Chet?”

Chet responds with the uncertainty of a man standing waving his arms while he cries, “Where's my ass?”: “Well, Franz, we're baffled. We have no idea what this could possibly mean. It's certainly shocking and depraved, but you know chicks, I mean women—they're incomprehensible.”

“What do women want? That's the age-old question, isn't it, Chet?”

“Yes. We've done extensive research on this question, and experts concur that women are irrational, hysterical, and contradictory. They often say
no
when they mean yes. In fact, sometimes they're saying
no
with their mouths at the exact moment their eyes, and often their tantalizing breasts, are saying yes. They are devious, manipulative, lying, cheating, slutty whores.”

Franz clears his throat. “The message, Chet?”

Chet regains his composure, such as it is, and says, “Cryptologists are urgently trying to decipher this message as we speak. As soon as we figure out its precise meaning, we'll alert the public. Meanwhile, please remain vigilant and report any suspicious activity.”

The chief summons the remaining police to the war room. The police find the walls lined with large cardboard boxes. The chief is sitting at a table spread with Captain Marvel comics.

Flint points at the boxes. “What are these, Chief?”

The chief says, “I can't stop thinking about that message from the killers: ‘We will stop killing rapists when men stop raping.' And I just can't understand what it could possibly mean. My thirty-five years, six months, and two weeks' experience as a police officer tells me this message is the key to stopping these murders.”

“What does that have to do with these boxes?”

“That's where my extensive library of textbooks on different modes of detective theory and practices comes in so handy.” He waves his hand over his desk, asks, “What do you see?”

“A bunch of comic books.”

“That, Flint, is why I'm behind this desk and you are standing kind of off to the side at an angle. How do you think I got to be chief?”

“Because your father was chief, and also because both you and he gave lots of money to poll workers at the stations where you pulled in 175 percent of the vote.”

“Besides that, how do you think I got to be chief?”

“Was it the ‘get out of jail free' cards you handed to your primary donors and supporters?”

“Those are nice looking cards, aren't they? But besides that.”

“The death threats against opponents?”

“Well, that, too, but besides all of those.”

“I have no idea.”

“Which is why you are there and I am here. I'll tell you. It's because I work my ass off to keep educated on both classic and modern practices of detection. Just last night I learned by reading
Encyclopedia Brown
how to consistently stop a bully named Bugs Meany. And then the night before I learned of the importance of always listening to Lassie. God knows how many times Timmy would have died if people hadn't learned to listen.”

“I'm not following, sir.”

“I'll make it clear: if this message is in code, we need to look at the techniques used by the world's expert code-ologist. And who is that?” He points at the comics, and says, “It's Captain Marvel, who at one time supplied the entire nation's next generation of potential police chiefs with secret decoder rings.”