A Filthy Meninist — 2

Part II

To be read whilst wearing a hand-crafted bathrobe, made from the borrowed furs of dead or dying things. It is recommended that you laugh at the small crippled children outside in the streets before continuing on with part 4.

“Aw fart in yur poppy and call it a burp,” Gludia cursed aloud with an Irenean accent as a speck of mud hit her in the face. A woman burying a man. Typical. She snorted. Perhaps I am being too harsh. Meninism can’t be all bad. Some people actually are better than others. Gludia knew this.

She had known both men and women who deserved the distinction of moron. She had also known clever women but had never known a clever man. It is for this reason that she condemned the entire sex, not because they had wronged her in any way but because there was simply no other opinion to have of them. This may also be due to the fact that clever men hid in libraries instead of strutting about on the streets, waving their intelligence in the air above their heads, as they should do. They are strange creatures.

This is all moot, of course, as being clever is not the same thing as being good and the existence of a good man would prove the existence of flaws in both Meninist teachings and their less corrupt counterpart, Feminism.

I have never yet met a good man or a clever man. How shall I know him when I see him? Gludia pondered the question while digging the grave of the unfortunate elderly man who had his skull crushed by a rock. Gludia had offered to bury the man alone as she desired some time to think without seeming too unwilling to do a man’s work. As she dug, she caught a glimmer among the folds of the man’s blackened robes. She reached for the object and upon grasping a hilt, pulled from its place of hiding, finding a black knife no larger than a boar tusk. An engraven snake curled up along the hilt to rest it’s fangs on the base of a short blade. Along the edge were etched the words: MEN OF DEPTH SEEK THE DEPTH OF MEN.

Odd. she thought, A tool for a murderer. “This blade will find the depth of man.” This she said ironically. She then tucked it away for later use. Knives were elegant things; with their sharp edges they pierce deep and leave too little ugliness behind beside a usually mortal wound. Mortal wounds did not need to be so pretty. She could imagine more gruesome ways to kill. She looked at the headless form.

Gludia had examined the tool of destruction. A rock. The loathsome thing. So hard and jagged, so ugly and nefarious by nature. Sure, every building in the entire kingdom was built by stone and rock but tens even hundreds must have lost their lives through rock violence.

Poor man. He must have been incredibly compassionate to have his head crushed so easily. Only a hard-headed man could have survived the incident. Ironic… the hard-headed are protected yet the soft-skulled must be inflicted by the scourge of falling rocks. I shall start a petition once I am in power. No gentle man will ever again die without a group of females picketing a rock quarry in protest of rock violence. Indeed, it is common knowledge that the rock has more guilt than the hand that threw it. Why hate humans when you can hate rocks?

Gludia finished her work and buried the man. She did this with a short eulogy that proceeded thusly: “Aged men do not deserve to die yet die they do. The elderly men prove their strength of mind to survive the throes of time and their own latent stupidity yet time destroys the mind and any cleverness that might therein reside… or rocks in this case.”

“A good speech,” a voice cried out behind her. She threw back her head so that her hair would whip around dramatically and almost positively in slow-motion. She saw there a young man of medium height, medium build, medium attractiveness, medium sense of humor, medium respect for animals, insects, etc., and most certainly a medium intelligence. She immediately perceived his average

“There have been many eulogies spoken this day and not one of them have nearly as much nonsensical nuance as yours possesses, yet yours bares resemblance to a Viviatian roast or jest. Do you mock this poor dead man’s life?” asked the newcomer.

“I mock only that which stands in need of mocking.” Answered Gludia. “Do you stand in need of mocking?”

“All men stand in need of mocking,” he laughed. “but not all women are fit to mock. They more often than not are not up to the task. Are you up to the task?”

Gludia said nothing. She knew not what to say. With that the newcomer turned and walked away toward the village. Gludia pondered the stranger a moment. She hadn’t liked the fact that he could respond so quickly after she. If that man did prove to have wit, it would not bode well for the women of the kingdom, for a man with wit is a wicked tool. Gludia grabbed the shovel with sigh and headed back toward her fiance’s estate. Her hand caressed the serpentine blade as she thought of the presence of this newcomer; she knew not why, but in that moment her breath became cold and an icy fear began to take root from that moment onward.

To be read in a high-pitched British accent whilst spitting at the tiresome poor and crippled children who often dare to look your way. It is also recommended that you scoff at anyone wearing blue, as the color is not currently in fashion.

“Hypothetically, which is more morally deplorable: to slap a male child or kick an elderly woman? Both are human, but only one is female.” Gludia nodded with feigned understanding at the speaker’s words. The man stood upon a soapbox which had the words VANITY IS CLARITY etched along its side. She continued to listen to the street evangelist, becoming more and more interested on the outside and more and more unconvinced within. Should I move on? What will the others think of me? No, no. Better to seem informed than to be comfortable, she thought to herself.

A voice spoke in her ear: “Which is more morally laudable: a woman on her own or a woman on the throne?” She jumped in surprise. The voice was rough and intelligent, a potent mix. She turned to see the blueish eyes of the man from the graveside. The one with wit. A spark bit at her throat. It had been almost a month since he had first spoken to her and since then, she had developed an immense hatred for the man.

“I would rather be alone and without a throne then be seen standing with a man like you,” she responded with a smile. He seemed offended by this. And for some reason, a bite of guilt prodded at her chest.

“I have not come to test your tolerance of my kind. I have come to obliterate it. You think of every word as a test but you’ve already failed at that. It is time to reap the reward and gather what you have sown.” This he spoke with kindness but had a dangerous gleam in his eye. She glanced down. He held a bag. Within she could see a dark shape and the glint of some golden thing. She shivered. Her eyes met his again as she said, “I am not afraid of man’s games. I’ve played them before and I will not lose.” The man smiled, turned to go, then paused. “I hope not Lady, I hope not.”

“Who are you?” she uttered as he left.

He smiled, “a conscientious consumer of souls.”

She lost him to the crowd.

“Place the veil upon her head; wait til the day has fallen and she’s fallen dead,” Cledus wrote again. He had repeated the phrase aloud all morning long. I must be going mad, he thought in interest. It wouldn’t be the worst thing. The king is mad and people look to him as some cosmic being. If the mad are thus treated, then call me crazy.

He recalled the dream he’d had the night before: A man in black garb stood before Cledus as he lay in bed. He had the affect of a knight of darkness — A bringer of cold and stillness. The stranger proceeded to place his hand within his darkened sanguine robes, pulling out three items. He held one of the items aloft, a ring of amber and gold: “This I place in a place of rest, the place be found when you pass the test.” The man waved his hand and the ring disappeared. “This I give you and I give it now, a potion for strength to wear the crown.” This second item he held out to his right and set down on the end table once he’d finished his words. The third item was a veil. This the man hung on his bedpost as he said, “place the veil upon her head; wait til the day has fallen and she’s fallen dead.”

Cledus had woken in a sweat. He was sure it had only been a dream and after a few moments had discarded it as mere fantasy. But his eye caught the golden veil on his bedpost. An empty vial lay on the floor next to his bed — the strength to wear the crown.

“Strike higher! Strike him aft Yesika! Harder!” Gludia shrieked as the crowd roared. The Slapping School had become an annual festival — a day on which women were given the right to strike any man without cause. 300 men had been lined up across the fields behind Cledus’ estate. Gludia cheered for her maid Yesika, the latter having found a profound pleasure in watching a man in pain. I also enjoy seeing a man suffer. It serves them right she thought. There is no excuse for their status in life. Women should have what men have. They grow beards and grow fat. They kill, laugh, fart, burp, and pollute the world with their crude remarks. Imagine a world where women have all these things. It would smell much more like a rose. But a rose afire and mixed with a touch red wine’s scent. Just then, a bearded woman 709 miles east was being brought before the town council on charges of being a witch. She would burn without a goodnight kiss.

Gludia shivered as a man’s shriek echoed into her very soul. The echo seemed to stay there within her, never truly fading out. Ignoring this sensation, she continued to cheer. She laughed with the crowd as a small child went from man to man, kicking each in the groin. The child had racked up quite the count; she had struck her 156th man without tiring. Down the line the child went, kicking and screaming as she saw the practice was indeed the liberation of all women. The child became the champion of what women want.

“WHAT BEGAN IN JEST WILL END IN DEATH.”

The shout brought Gludia to her knees. She looked around, frightened. Nobody else had heard it. It seems I’m going quite mad, she thought to herself. Bullocks.

There ya go, Abby O. Akoto.