INTRO: IT HURTS WHEN
YOU’RE MEAN TO US
T
he other night, Debbie and I both had the
same dream. We dreamed that you didn’t like
us. And we cried for days.
Your approval is very important to us.
That’s because you do your own zine, which
we like very much. But you wrote a negative
review of ANSWER Me! and shattered our
special friendship. You betrayed our love. You
broke the fragile chain which links the zine
community together.
But unlike most people, I wake up from my
dreams. So in the REAL world—and I’ll take a
polygraph test to prove it—I called you up on
the telephone. And this is what you said:
“A lot of people like your magazine.…
I liked it until you started threatening us.”
—Darby, a trust-fund baby from
Los Angeles who writes about
life as an airhead
Pretentious French butt plug—
the back cover to
CHOCOLATE IMPULSE
“I’ve never seen something so extreme
get so much attention .…All my friends
liked ANSWER Me!, so I wrote the
review to piss them off.”
—Aaron, a homely Kentuckian who features
beautiful women on his zine’s cover
“It was originally a good review, but
we told the guy to change it, because
you’ve been getting too many good
reviews.”
—Jack, a dull boy who edits a fluffily
postmodern Spy clone out of San Francisco
“I hadn’t even seen a copy of ANSWER
Me! when I trashed you. I just heard it
was the biggest zine in New York, so I
had to cut it down.”
—Selwyn, a tough guy from Brooklyn who’s
afraid to fight
Those are their “real” first names, or at least
how they list them in their zines. I’m not going
to print their last names, nor the names of their
zines, because I didn’t want to embarrass
them. I’m still hoping that we can all, you
know, work it out behind the scenes. And
frankly, why should I give them free publicity?
They’ve given me plenty of free publicity, but
since—criminy!—they’ve been so MEAN to
me, I don’t feel compelled to return the favor.
But I still feel like crying. My tummy churns
with the sense that my dear friends were lying
to me over the phone. I think they were only
trying to soften the pain for me. I don’t think
they gave us negative reviews because they
were jealous. I think it was because they
REALLY didn’t like us. And it HURTS us.
ANSWER Me! pulls a hoax on
its zine-world enemies by creating a zine
which hates ANSWER Me!
Is it cum…or chocolate?
The cover to the first (and only) issue of
CHOCOLATE IMPULSE
CHOCOLATE IMPULSE:
JUST ANOTHER
INTERRACIAL LESBIAN
VIRTUAL-REALITY ZINE
FROM KENTUCKY
W
e wanted you to like us so badly, we
created a zine which catered to your tastes. A
zine which we knew you’d like. And we do
know what you like. We know you better than
you know yourself.
We gave you what you wanted. We erected
a total zine environment tailor-made just for
you, a politically correct nativity scene which
would push all your buttons, tug at your
prejudices, and exploit your predictable
sympathies. It was easy:
• We know that REDNECKS are the under-
ground’s favorite burning effigies, so we cast
them as the enemies in our fantasy diorama;
• Boho bumblebees despise the hetero
lifestyle almost as much as they hate red-
necks, so we made our protagonists GAY;
• Since so much counterCULT rhetoric is anti-male,
we made those gay characters LESBIANS;
• And since the rednecks were looming in the
bushes, it seemed more valiant that our
heroes were INTERRACIAL lesbians, with
the black partner a dominant bisexual.
1
The making of Chocolate Impulse (left to right): 1,2…Debbie remains stoic throughout the physically demanding cover-photo sessions;
3…Preparing the squid; 4…Smearing the squid on each copy during the controversial (and not-yet-patented) “stink-wrapping” process.
I knew these imaginary broads would win
an Instant Sympathy Award for their tri-leveled
alternative lifestyle, their bohemia taken to
the third power, their Underground Cubed—
not only were they LESBIANS, they were
SALT-AND-PEPPER lesbians forced to weather
the scorching intolerance of inbred
REDNECKS! Talk about OUTSIDERS.
Interracial Appalachian lesbians—there’s a
screenplay in there somewhere.
The fantasy editors, we decided, would
publish a zine called Chocolate Impulse.
Debbie adopted the pseudonym of “Valerie
Chocolate,” the conquering black dyke
poetess. I was the pallid “Faith Impulse,”
sweet but more shy and analytical. “Valerie”
was the name of a cat I used to have. “Faith”
referred to Faith Goad, witness to our 1987
Vegas trailer-park marriage and wife of
Man-Haters: The rabidly anti-rape centerfold to our hoax-zine,
Chocolate Impulse. All other uncaptioned illustrations throughout
this article were taken straight outta Chocolate Impulse.
Reverend Walker Goad, the preacher who
hitched us. The inside-cover pictures of “Val”
and “Faith” came from some Frog bondage
rag. So did the French-language ad for the
“Analissimo,” a chrome butt plug we featured
on the back cover.
I wrote all of the “Faith Impulse” articles.
I wrote them as quickly and thoughtlessly as
possible, banging away at the keyboard like
an android, spewing fallacious logic like milk
from an over-ripe udder.
We made our phony zine exuberantly
awful in the way only zines can be. Just so
you’d think we’re AUTHENTIC, we aimed for
purely shit-rag aesthetics: a cryptic,
inscrutable cover shot; jagged strips of
typewritten copy pasted over fuzzy back-
ground patterns; crossed-out page numbers;
incongruous news-clipping headlines;
medical-text drawings of vaginas and uteri;
“found” religious images; caustically political
one- and two-sheets decrying rapists and
“sexist, redneck pigs”; postcards of dinosaurs
juxtaposed with newspaper ads for peaches;
and a liberal peppering of typos and
grammatical atrocities.
Of course, we made it digest-sized,
because that’s zinier. We decided it would be
thirty-two pages long, because that size
seems archetypically ziny. We charged a
dollar and two twenty-nine-cent stamps for it,
because that price is about as ziny as it gets.
The cover was a full-color laser copy, and the
editorial page was copied on chocolatey
brown stock, because different-colored pages
are very ziny. To give it that personalized,
gimmicky, “collector’s-item” varnish, we
“stink-wrapped” each copy, allegedly with
Faith Impulse’s acrid vaginal juices. We used
a pound of supermarket squid instead,
smearing malodorous sea creatures onto the
editorial page, making our zine smell like a
CUNT. Interestingly, most reviewers seemed to
mistake the squid stains for human feces.
BLOW-BY-BLOW
H ere’s an article-by-article breakdown
of what we stuffed into Chocolate Impulse’s
thirty-two pages:
★ INTRO: JUST 2 DYKES FROM
KENTUCKY
“My real name isn’t Faith Impulse,” reads a
passage from this, the leadoff piece. “Neither
is ‘Valerie Chocolate’ my co-editor’s name.”
Not one of you schlumps stopped to think that
maybe our names were Jim and Debbie
Goad, did you?
Faith (me) goes on to detail interracial
lesbian life in the suffocating little town of
Freeburn, Kentucky, a place “on the fringes of
nowhere,” an oppressive Reich where men—
WHITE men—rule the earth like monsters,
their cracker schlongs poised like earth-
splitting war missiles. Faith claims to be a
victim of hate crimes, alleging that hostile
mom-and-kid redneck commando squads
have thrown bottles at her. She calls her landlord “a big, fat,
homophobic, racist, macho sexist pig who don’t like blacks much less
BLACK LESBIANS.” She also states that her boss, a veterinarian, tried
to molest her: “You’re a pig, Doc, and I recommend that you be
neutered like most of the horny, uncontrollable Dobermans who come
through our office doors.”
When Faith and Val aren’t munchin’ labia, they’re worrying about
the ubiquitous lynch mob, which waits around every corner to string
their race-traitor lezzie asses up on a tree. Faith reveals her savagely
clichéd dream of moving to the BIG CITY, where there aren’t so many
dumb hillbillies.
At rant’s end, she unspools the hackneyed “How are you doing?
Let us know with your letters what your hopes and dreams are”
paragraph. With typical zine hospitality, she invites the readers to
contact her and Val if they’re ever in Freeburn, adding, “Who knows?
If you’re our type, maybe we can even get a threesome going.”
You see, it ALWAYS returns to sex with these girls. It’s a cheap prat-
fall, a sure laugh, throughout Chocolate Impulse. When ontological
questions become too heavy for the girls to hoist, they hop into the
sack and tongue each other’s clam casinos. Give them sex. Give them
SEX. Give them S-E-X. Their response is Pavlovian: They’ll come wag-
ging their tails, salivating, barking for you to throw them a bone.
★ IN THE CROSSHAIRS
This is the ticking time bomb inside Chocolate Impulse, its raison
d’être—an anti-ANSWER Me! screed (see layout, facing page). This
was the bait for the zine boobs. The article, “In the Crosshairs,” was
ostensibly intended to be a regular Chocolate Impulse column
wherein Faith criticizes someone she feels is detrimental to the nebu-
lous “scene.” Her first targets were, naturally, “Jim and Debbie Goad
of the way-too-popular ANSWER Me! zine.” Faith regurgitates every
negative misconception ever hurled our way, although I must admit
she’s a better writer than most of our critics. In fact, we had to do our
own anti-ANSWER Me! rant because yours were all so poorly written.
Faith calls us “self-absorbed egomaniacs…middle-aged poseurs” who
radiate “slick, elitist smugness.” She also finds some troubling under-
tones in what we do: “Their secret agenda—and it should be obvious
to anyone with half a brain in her head—is to suppress any truly
progressive thought in favor of a return to THE SAME OLD SHIT—
racist, sexist, fascist, classist, white-male-dominated society.” But she
predicts that the underground will ultimately triumph against
ANSWER Me! without having to fire a shot: “Hate destroys the per-
son who hates, and Jim Goad will destroy himself.”
Apart from being holy revenge against sniping zine weenies,
Chocolate Impulse was also fashioned as a preemptive strike against
feminist criticism of this here “rape” issue. Save your precious postage
stamps, ladies—Faith Impulse has already handled the fringe-femme
death threats for you. Somehow, perhaps through reading some other
zine, Faith has been made aware that ANSWER Me! was planning to
do an issue about rape. “WE ARE THE WOMEN OF THE NIGHT,” she
warns me. If I intended to joke about women’s suffering in my rape
issue, Faith vows to submit me to “the same violence you dream about
in your bedroom, only this time it’ll be REAL. Don’t fuck with this
Kentucky dyke, boy.” It’s all so much weirder when you realize that
I’m Faith. Bored with issuing death threats to others, I started
threatening myself.
Even though they theoretically hate ANSWER Me!, I actually like the
mythical Valerie and Faith. As predictably sheeplike as they are, they
are innocently so. They think they’re revolutionary, and for them, that’s
enough. If they think they’re revolutionary, they don’t have to do any
revolutionary thinking. They’re happy that way.
And then, of course, the article reverts to fish-farming. Faith con-
fesses that she’s had a crush on Debbie, inviting her to swim away
from me and into the briny pools of lesbianism. Faith comes on to my
wife! I mean—I come on to my wife. As a lesbian. I’m confused.
★ VAGINISMUS
The sex train chugs along with the next article, a fiction piece by
Valerie Chocolate (Debbie) which opens with the confession, “I broke
my hymen with an exacto [sic] knife. Ouch!”
★ DEATH IN
MY LIFE
This is Valerie
Chocolate’s grimly
confessional essay.
The piece consists of
Debbie’s ruminations
about actual dead
friends. Only the
names have been
changed. It garnered
a lot of sympathy
mail for Val. I won-
der if they’d have
empathized if they
knew it was Debbie?
★ JESSE
Another fiction piece by Valerie Chocolate which starts off
desperately depressed but quickly devolves into a sordid bestiality
scene between a lonely woman and her well-hung doggy. Licking
an animal’s bony cock is an insurrectionary political statement,
don’cha know?
★ ONLY WORDS…
We also dug up some hand-scribbled poetry from when Debbie was
sixteen, drunk, and dosed with acid. Some of that verse was actually
good, in my estimation: After the rain/After all the pain is gone/Then
I come out/to you/to see you/Ready and eager to destroy me.…
Not bad for a sixteen-year-old grrrl, huh? Debbie also contributed
some charmingly ziny drawings: “Valerie Just After Waking Up,”
which was allegedly drawn by Faith; and “Faith in a Bad Mood,”
attributed to Valerie.
★ POT-SMOKIN’, CUNT-LICKIN’,
LESBIAN KENTUCKY WEEKEND!
This article, written by Faith, seemed to be the critics’ choice.
It’s a party-weekend narrative wherein Faith and Val are driven by a
friend to Prestonburg, where they buy weed; they take a bus to
Lexington; find a bar and drink excessively; dance like epileptics to an
old jukebox; get their purses stolen; decide to hook for money; seduce
a “Goober” character into fucking them for a hundred and fifty bucks
plus a hotel room; ditch the Goober; go to a gay disco; find a third
female companion; take her back to the hotel; muff-dive all night;
and return to Freeburn. I thought I was laying it on a bit thick with
this one, but people actually believed it. What a gullible bunch
of bananas you all are.
Many people considered the “…Lesbian Kentucky Weekend!”
article heroic, when all the girls do is smoke dope and have a lot of
sex. Sex is sex. It is rarely theoretical. It isn’t revolutionary. It doesn’t
shock right-wingers into enlightenment, it just makes them think you’re
repulsive. And you are repulsive. But as long as Faith and Val thrust
their twats in each other’s faces, you think they’re committing acts of
sedition. Bitches in heat, misinterpreted as political heroes.
In the article, Faith and Val are driven back and forth to Freeburn
by a “cool” guy named Keith. That’s a veiled reference to J. Keith
Layne of Freeburn, Kentucky, our point man in the hoax. We met J.
Keith through the mail when he ordered a copy of ANSWER Me!
Without ever having met him, I trusted him to baby-sit the entire hoax.
J. Keith is a hardcore Kentucky Satanist. I doubt that he’s a murderer,
but I’m sure he’d rather slice up your mother than a house cat.
We sent out our original shipment of Chocolate Impulse
to J. Keith in Freeburn. He in turn mailed them to our targets,
ensuring that each envelope would have a Kentucky postmark.
For the first mass-mailing, I sent copies to all my zine enemies,
plus other zines who weren’t enemies but were visibly review-oriented.
Here was the bait for all the zine weasels—
our anti-ANSWER Me! article, reprinted
verbatim from CHOCOLATE IMPULSE.
 For diversity, I also schlepped
a few final issues to zines
which I’d never seen but
whose very names annoyed
me. J. Keith boomeranged all
response mail back to us in
Hollywood and was noble
enough not to read anything.
J. Keith is one of the good
ones. He’s for real.
INVASION OF
THE ZINE
WEASELS
HERE COME THE SUCKERS
F rom what we know, ten zines have printed reviews of Chocolate
Impulse, with nine of them reprinted to the right. (The tenth guy is too
nice, so we spared him.) As a result of those reviews, we filled about
fifty mail orders from unwitting zine consumers.
As we put this issue of ANSWER Me! to bed, Chocolate Impulse
has received a hundred and twelve articles of mail. I’m going to focus
on the responses of five zine editors, because I think that each of them
illustrates a separate loathsome facet of zinedom. I was planning to
send each of these zine jerks a copy of this issue, but I prefer to let
their friends—who all read ANSWER Me!—break the news to them.
Join me in laughing at their gullibility, won’t you?
☞ JEFF
Stupid in Seattle, Jeff publishes a zine with a title even dumber than

S ince its inception,

ANSWER Me! ’s critics have
Chocolate Impulse. He seems the classic B-grade rock critic, reviewing
bands by comparing them to four or five other bands.
We feel sorry for Jeff. He takes out little ads in the back of national
had a “reality problem” with newsprint zines, desperate ads which ask if his publication is “The Best
it. For some reason, they can’t Zine in America?” What’s so very pathetic about Jeff is the fact that HE
J. Keith Layne, our point man believe that we MEAN what has to ask whether he’s the best. The question never even occurred to
in the hoax, standing outside we say. The first mag ever anyone else.
the post office in
to review ANSWER Me! chal- Besides publishing ANSWER Me!, we had never done anything
Freeburn, Kentucky. to bother Jeff. Then one day we get a postcard from him. The only
lenged my editorial statement
message on it was, “Ooh—scary!” What a dick.
that “we’re too real to attract many advertisers, anyway.” “Mat,” We sent Jeff a copy of Chocolate Impulse. He sent “Valerie” and
from a now-defunct Jersey zine, once wrote me a letter stating that a “Faith” a postcard which read, in part, “I esp. liked yr take on
lot of scenesters argued as to whether or not we’re for real. The very ANSWER Me!—Very silly zine.” A few months later, Jeff simultane-
handsome Aaron (see photo, this page) inferred that because we were ously sent ANSWER Me! and Chocolate Impulse print reviews
courteous to our interviewees, our anger couldn’t be real. You of their respective zines. He called ANSWER Me! “silly” and
wouldn’t believe how many times we’ve heard this. One million? Six “contrived.” But of Chocolate Impulse, he wrote, “This is the real
million? However many Jews were killed in the Holocaust—that’s how thing.…Faith’s ‘In the Cross Hairs’ article rips apart ANSWER Me!
many times we’ve heard we aren’t for real. Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat, in a concise + precise essay.”
You called me silly, Jeffy-Weffy. Who looks silly now?
some people don’t even think “Goad” is our real name!
I reluctantly find myself ankle-deep in the zine world, a choppy white
sea of Xeroxed retardation. ANSWER Me! is somehow mistaken as a
☞ LEAH
She’s a hip, rich, teenaged grrrl living the hippity-dip alternative
“fanzine,” that smelly combustion of crude sloganeering and twenty- lifestyle in Manhattan. (Ask her Mas-
four-hour copy shops. We’re not fans, so we’re not a fanzine. And the sachusetts parents who pays the rent.) She
more generic term “zine” has a vaguely chipmunky ring to it. Sounds publishes a riot grrrl zine which is remark-
too cute and eager-to-please. Personally, I have nothing against zines. able only for the fact that its layout
From a pile of shit sometimes rises…well, flies. Filthy, disease- “scheme” is worse than Chocolate Impulse’s.
spreading flies. Perhaps I do have something against zines.
BELOW: A response to Chocolate Impulse’s
To my mind, this is how a zine usually reads: Woke up. anti-ANSWER Me! article sent to us by Aaron
Had chamomile tea and toast smeared with yummy orange (RIGHT), who also does his own zine.
marmalade. Pet the cat. Went to the food co-op, where I stocked up A lot of ugly guys do zines. Can you imagine
on brown rice and bulgur. Went to the coffee shop and wrote a long being SO insecure that you have to slag
something because all your friends like it?
letter to an old friend. Don’t you hate when
there are coffee grounds on the bottom of your
espresso cup? Paid for the coffee and mailed
the letter. Went home. Caught the Rush
Limbaugh TV show for the first time. What an
asshole. The main problem with these zines
isn’t that they’re personal, it’s that the writers’
lives are howling crevasses of dullness.
Reading their prose is as thrilling as watching
giraffes chew on eucalyptus leaves. Before
they dove into self-expression, they should
have made sure they HAD a self to express.
The most significant thing about Faith
Impulse and Valerie Chocolate, no matter how
absurdly we depicted their lives, was that NO
ZINESTERS QUESTIONED WHETHER OR
NOT THEY WERE FOR REAL. Everyone
believed that Faith and Val were the shit.
EVERYONE. But they were ethereal, a
fabrication. They don’t exist, only in your
rudimentary minds. We created a false reality,
and you fell for it. The only thing real about
Chocolate Impulse was the PO Box—and you
believed the whole story.
You like us! You REALLY
like us!

“Faith Impulse”
”
“Valerie Chocolate (a k a Jim Goad)
(a k a Debbie Goad)

She named her zine after an old female rock

star who had more talent than Leah ever will.
Leah never directly provoked us. Indirectly,
maybe. She’s a grrrl. That’s provocation
enough. So we sent her a copy of Chocolate
Impulse.
Leah responded with two letters. Here’s a
passage from the first, dated March 27:
“You’re both pretty awesome writers.…I also
could relate to your rant against the Goads—
but, yeah, I agree, Deb is pretty cute!”
Debbie was elated, only to be heartbroken
on July 7, when Leah sent a new issue of her
zine along with a note which contained these
words: “Totally agreed with you on the Goad
thing. (Except for Faith’s crush on Deb—
ewww).” Make up your mind, Leah—Debbie
can’t wait forever, you know!
Leah. Another rich, schizophrenic,
“oppressed” riot grrrl with a big mouth and
nothing to say. Why don’t you just Leah down
and die?

☞ KEVIN
Kevin shakes his radical-fairy buns up in
frosty Minneapolis, a town which still
fiercely clings to depressing, early-80s-style
shit-graphics and hilariously outmoded
anarchist threat-zines. To give you a sense
of just how far Kevin floats out in the
ionosphere, he thinks that Profane Existence
is a right-wing publication.
Without ever attributing them to ANSWER
Me!, Kevin lifted three whole paragraphs
from my “Wrath of Goad” editorial in AM! #2
and put them in his zine. He then wrote a
“commentary” on those three paragraphs
which was so disjointed and illogical, I’m
starting to think that all the sperm Kevin’s
taking up his ass is rotting his brain.
I’d quote some of it, but it doesn’t make any
sense. TRUST me on that.
So we sent Kevin a copy of Chocolate
Impulse. “Good shooting on the ANSWER
Me! article,” he wrote back in a letter
addressed to Valerie and Faith. “I bought
one without knowing what it was—what
shit.…If you hate everyone so much, why
are you trying to communicate with us?”
Because it’s so much fun, Kevin. And
I have a question for you—why the hell
do you buy magazines without first looking
at them? You ARE radical—radically
unintelligent.

☞ DUMB BITCHIE
Because she’s a dog who needs to be
spayed, I’ve “altered” this stinky broad’s
udderly worthless and supremely goofy
“zine name.” Bitchie is somehow romantically
entwined with Selwyn, the “tough guy” I
quoted at the beginning of this article. In his
writing, Selwyn dribbles like a broken condom
about how tough he is. In her writing, Bitchie
can’t stop barking about how tough Selwyn is.
Curiously, Selwyn isn’t keen to preen about
what happened when he encountered ME.
He was so terrified, he threatened to call
BOTH the LAPD and NYPD to report me.
I guess he’s only a tough guy around chicks,
huh, Bitchie? And you’re both so fucking real,
I suppose that’s why you hide behind
pseudonyms, isn’t it?
As was the case with EVERYONE named
in this article except Leah, Bitchie took the
first shot. We weren’t even planning to
include her in the hoax, but she stumbled
over her tits and fell into it. In a letter dated
August 2, she sent Chocolate Impulse the first
two issues of her dreadful boob-zine along
with this message: “…Hey, what’s this I hear
about you publishing anti-ANSWER Me!
stuff? I mean, I’m definitely behind you, but
I’m also scared for you! Jim Goad threatened
my mate w/death & made obscene &
threatening calls to his fucking parents!”
Get the facts straight, Bitchie. Stop licking
your nipples long enough to speak the TRUTH
for a change. It was DEBBIE who threatened
Selwyn’s parents, not me. Debbie could kick
both your asses at the
same time. That’s why I
love her.
Your lunkheaded boy-
friend once wrote about
how the truth hurts, Bitchie.
This might sting a little bit,
too: I know people where
he works, and they tell
me he’s been porking
everything that walks
through their doorways.
So much for your “mate.”
Now for you. I thought
that “Molesto the Clown” thing was pretty
funny on the back cover of your first issue.
I’m sure that you found it mirthful, too, when
you stole it from page ninety-eight of
ANSWER Me! #2.
You were right in what you wrote to
Chocolate Impulse, Bitchie. You’re “definitely
behind” us. You’re sniffing our assholes,
looking for clues.
☞ AARON
Young but overweight, Aaron is notable for
having written the most viciously personal
anti-ANSWER Me! review in history.
He called us “sad, lonely people trapped in
the dark.” He called us old. He called us rich.
He called us insincere. And without ever
having met us, he stated that I don’t pay
enough attention to Debbie, in the boudoir or
elsewhere. OOF!
Aaron didn’t restrain himself from speculat-
ing about our psychological motivations for
producing ANSWER Me! That’s why I have
no qualms about headshrinking him.
In his eager-little-beaver of a fanzine,
Aaron’s thin lips foam over insubstantial,
cardboard-pop-up, trash-culture icons. A boy
who accused ANSWER Me! of unoriginality
packs his own zine with music reviews,
Q & A’s, and scene gossip. But look at it a
pinch more carefully—apply the same “crit-
ical eye” Aaron said he was focusing on
ANSWER Me! What psychological signifi-
cance can you find in the things he puts in
his zine? There’s a male porn star here, a
70s pinup broad there, surrounded by
happy-happy text which annoyingly lapses
into black vernacular.
Look at the picture of Aaron on page 128.
It’s quite easy to draw these conclusions:
• He could never be a male porn star.
• He could never snag a 70s pinup broad.
(He sent Chocolate Impulse a photo of
his girlfriend, and she’s even ghastlier
than he is.)
• And, try as he may to emulate Snoop
Doggy Dogg, he could never be black.
Aaron’s lardlike buns are stuck in a world
of nonreality. It’s hipness-by-osmosis. He’s a
quintessential fanboy.
Since Aaron treated ANSWER Me! the
worst, I suppose there’s some poetic justice in
the fact that the pear-shaped, Jay Leno-chinned
zine maven bit down the hardest on our hoax.
Shortly after we sent him Chocolate
Impulse, Aaron shot back a four-page letter
which bubbled with I’m-a-woman-in-a-man’s-
body excitement. Whereas he had found the
writing in ANSWER Me! to be “so obvious
and clumsy that [it] fall[s] below criticism,” he
gurgled that Chocolate Impulse was “the best
zine I’ve seen all year.…Open, honest,
sympathetic writing, unlike most zine editors,
who huff and puff and put me off.…WELL
WRITTEN POETRY!… Jesus Christ! Do you
realize how many zine impossibilities you
have accomplished with your very first issue?
The mind reels.”
Indeed it does, Aaron. Reel on this: anato-
my is destiny, and you’re a mixture of Judd
Nelson and Tweedledum. That’s the REAL
reason why you write pro-geek, anti-macho
essays, isn’t it? Remember some of the playful
suggestions you made as to how I could
spend more meaningful time with my wife?
Here’s one for you: Tonight when you’re
plowing that field mouse you call a girlfriend,
try REALLY hard to pretend you’re both
good-looking.
Toward the end of his letter, Aaron encour-
ages Valerie and Faith to “show those moth-
erfuckers in Freeburn a real fuck you, the kind
Jim Goad could never fathom—be happy.”
Fathom this, Aaron—Jim Goad’s very
happy right now. REALLY.

YOUR ZINE IS
THE REASON THE
WORLD WILL END SOON
S o you button up your uniform, fasten
your badge, grab your registration card, and
walk out into the inky dusk, thinking that
you’re an individual. You’re fooling yourself.
Your zine is self-expression on cruise control.
Your zine was created using a formula. In five
or six years, someone will write a software
program which will cough up a zine like
yours in less than a minute.
You know the black, powdery toner inside
the Xerox machine which copies your zine?
That toner laughs at you behind your back.
The paper on which you copy your zine cries,
“RAPE!” If you open your zine and listen very
closely, you can hear the faint sound of words
whispering that they were misused.
Nothing in your zine shatters the senses.
Nothing in your zine makes me cry or laugh.
There’s nothing to agree with in your zine.
What’s worse, there’s nothing worth bothering
to disagree with. There’s nothing new in your
zine, and even the old stuff sucked back when
it was new. Your zine won’t lead people to cre-
ate or destroy. If you held a burning match
under it, your zine still wouldn’t catch fire. Your
zine is the reason the world will end soon,
because your zine is a staggering example of
straight-arrow mediocrity.
It isn’t the extremists, it’s the average peo-
ple who are killing the planet. The extremists
have always prodded the human beast
toward greatness. You and your middling,
unexceptional efforts are choking the earth
dead at its roots. There are too many normal
people. Average pricks such as you are ruin-
ing it for all of us. Because there are so many
of you, the Great Average Masses have
arrested the species’ advancement. Average
DNA replicates itself geometrically, stuffing
every inch of the earth with ordinary people.
Your zine is a celebration of the fact that
people can’t think anymore. What will all of
you slacker creeps do in forty to fifty years,
when your breed is so degenerated, your
brains such dry clusters of hardened jelly, that
you can’t even work your television remote
controls? Huh, dude? What will happen to the
world when people are so stupid, they can’t
even figure out how to watch TV?
I’m ready to die for my magazine—are you
ready to die for anything? Are you ready to
sweat for anything? You set too many limits.
You want the glory, but you don’t want to
WORK for it. I try harder than you do. I call it
dedication. You call it slickness. We put more
thought into one article than you put into a
lifetime. If we’re for real, you’re finished, and
you know it. Lying is the only way you can
attack us.
Publishing Chocolate Impulse was my way
of spreading anthrax among the zine sheep,
of loosening your grip on reality. Falsehoods
are everywhere. Only the clever among you
will suss them out.
Chocolate Impulse was created on “zine”
terms, and the zine world predictably
embraced it. It must be hard for you to admit
that not only can we do a better “slick” maga-
zine than you can, we can do a better zine
than you can. It took us eight days to throw that
pile of slop together. We could do forty
Chocolate Impulses a year. It’s easy for us to
do what you do. But you’d never be able to do
what we do. What the fuck are you good for?
You’re good for our amusement. We get
great pleasure out of laughing at your paltry
efforts. You entertain us in ways you can’t
imagine.
You cast the first stone. You wish you hadn’t
thrown it. You wish that the pebble would sail
backwards into your hand, where your wet
palm would clutch it tightly and hide it from
my gaze. You didn’t know what you were get-
ting into when you chose not to believe us.
And now, suddenly, there’s no way for you to
get out. You got in way over your head, and
no sort of humiliating apology can save you.
When you chose to talk shit about me, you
made a friend for life. You have a Goad mon-
key on your back. I’ll never forget you. My
entire life has been organized to ensure I get
the last laugh.
We’re in your homes, we’re in your
schools, we’re in your police and military,
and we even have some of your priests and
ministers on our side. They’re working around
the clock like little elves, making sure our ene-
mies’ lives slowly disintegrate.
The shit won’t stop, zine bitches. Just when
you were peering out your front door, hoping
not to see me outside with my gun, there I
was, hiding in your mailbox. Go ahead—
move to another state, grow a beard, wear
glasses, get plastic surgery—I’ll find you. And
for a while, you won’t even know it’s me. You
know that friendly man at the gas station who
wipes your windows and checks your oil? It
could be me. And that cashier at the super-
market looked a little like me, too, didn’t he?
Years may pass, but I never forget. Revenge
keeps me ticking.
My enemies underestimated me. Just
because I’m loud, they thought I was dumb.
What a dumb mistake. I can break you down
to quarklike simplicity with my mind or my
hands. Just when you think we’ve been
adequately pigeonholed and defused, we
come from a completely new direction. Day
after day, we rip open new assholes in you.
It took a hoax to prove that we’re real.
I become more powerful when you hate me.
I become more powerful when you love me.
I become more powerful when you’re indiffer-
ent. I become more powerful because I speak
the truth. If you were hated, it would devastate
you. To me, it’s like a blood transfusion, a
new reason to live. I’m a bloodsucker who
gorges on your weakness. Fuck all of you. I
hate you more than you could ever hate me
back. And that’s for REAL ■ .
 ISSUE 4

ANSWER Me! is conceived,

researched, written, edited, designed,
financed, rolled into a tube, and
SHOVED UP YOUR ASS
S PR E AD! ’ EM
by JIM & DEBBIE GOAD.
You got a problem with that?

OUR GUESTS IN TONIGHT’S GANGBANG:

YM
BLACK HOLES
VERBAL RAPISTS
S I C
Adam Parfrey • Shaun Partridge • Randall Phillip • K M O M M Y .
Boyd Rice • Peter Sotos 4
I ’ M A
G RAPH I C P E N E TR ATI O N
P I E
Jim Blanchard • Nick Bougas • Trevor Brown • C E
Timothy Patrick Butler • Tom Crites •
O F S H IT ★
Molly Kiely (token chick artist) • Max X. Smith
1 4
Cover by Frank Kozik
H E
Back Cover by Trevor Brown
T R I
Board Game Art by Mike Diana
E D T O
All material copyright © 1994 by F U C K
GOAD TO HELL ENTERPRISES ME ★ . .
FUCK L.A.! WE MOVED AGAIN: 1 6
PO Box XXXXX I ’ M O N
Portland, Oregon XXXXX T H E
PHONE: (503) XXX-XXXX
R A
Internerds, aim e-mail at: G ★ . .
XXXXXXXX@aol.com
Look out for our electronic newsletter called NET.JERK. 1 8
MSI L E S
Additional copies of this issue:
$X (first-class) / $X (third-class) A R
Send an AGE STATEMENT with EVERY order. E
For the innumerable ninnies among you, that means E V I L★
you must WRITE your AGE on a piece of paper,
SIGN it, and send it to us. . . . .
2 0
Individual copies of issues #1-3 are SOL D OUT.
C H I
However… C K S
ANSWER Me!: The First Three is a new 320-page
softcover book which contains the ENTIRE M A K
first three issues plus a short intro. E M E
It costs $XX postpaid through Goad to Hell.
N E R V O U S★
Distributors can bulk-order it through
XX XXXXX in San Francisco. 2 2
From an original press run of 145, only 30 copies

SPOKEN RAPE
of Chocolate Impulse remain.
Discerning fanboys can snatch them up for $XX each.

Once we get settled amid these loggers and lesbians,

Goad to Hell will branch out into book publishing T H E
under the imprint OBNOXIOUS BOOKS. N I C
We will also produce new magazines. E
The first two will be called TRUCKSTUD and S
A
T L K
Fabulous World of Schmockes.
E R (Richard
This issue’s disclaimer: Ramirez) . . . .
To honestly deal with the topic of rape—particularly 2 4
when it comes to the rapist’s psychic landscape—we felt it
necessary to use graphic language and imagery.
T H E
Performing some of the acts described herein J A I L
can land your tushie behind bars, P U N K (Donny)
so we don’t advocate trying any of them.
2 6
(Is that OK, Your Honor?)
T H E
Dedicated to your mother. Your wife.
Your sister. Your daughter…
D R E

2 ANSWER Me !
 YOU RE GONNA
LIVE FOREVER
Calm down. Lighten up. Take it easy. Relax. Everything’s fine.
You’re thinking too much. You’re taking it too seriously. Cool your
heels. Everything’s going to be alright.
Today is your lucky day. So start the day with a song in your heart
and a spring in your step. The hills are alive with the sound of music. Gray skies
are gonna clear up. Storm clouds behind you, blue skies ahead. Every cloud has
a silver lining. Every time it rains, it rains pennies from heaven. There’s a pot of
gold at the end of the rainbow. It’s always darkest before the dawn. The sun will
come out tomorrow. April showers bring May flowers. See, what did I tell you—
everything’s coming up roses!
You’d like to teach the world to sing. You are a child of the universe. You
have a right to be here. War is not healthy for children or other living things.
Everything is beautiful — in its own way.
You started at the top, and you’re gonna go higher. So keep the faith. Chin up.
Tighten your belt. Pull yourself up by the bootstraps. Buckle your galoshes. Straighten your
tie. Put your nose to the grindstone. Keep your eyes on the prize.
Think positive. Positive thinking yields positive results. It’ll work out. Everything
will be OK. Life is a bowl of cherries. The world is your oyster. When life hands you a
lemon, start making lemonade. You attract more flies with honey than with vinegar.
Good always triumphs over evil. Great things are going to happen. When you laugh,
the world laughs with you. Today is the first day of the rest of your life. Where there’s
life, there’s hope. Make your dreams a reality. It can only get better. It’s all for the best.
The future looks brighter than ever. All you need is love.
Flags flap in the wind. Balloons fill the sky. Twenty-one cannons sound at once.
Firecrackers light up the night. Telephones ring from coast to coast. Television studio
audiences applaud. Office workers throw confetti from windows. Carnival-goers dance in
the street. Cheerleaders toss batons. Tugboats offer a friendly toot from the harbor.
Piñatas gently collapse, sprinkling the children with candy treats.
A school of salmon swims upstream. Buffalos stampede over the prairie. Geese fly
south for the winter. And the other morning, the bird of paradise flew in through our kitchen
window, carrying a fortune cookie in its beak. The message inside the cookie was this:

Since then, I’ve stopped worrying. Since then, I’ve become realistic. Since then, I’ve
decided to do something proactive with my life.
Listen closely to me. I want you to believe everything you read. There will be no more
hatred. There will be no more disease. There will be no more war. Your best friends have
been telling you the truth. Our economic system will last another thousand years.
Overpopulation isn’t a problem—there’s plenty of room for everyone!
People who need people are the luckiest people in the world. Visualize world peace.
Practice random, senseless acts of beauty. Good things will come to those who wait. The worst
is over. Time heals all wounds. The only thing we have to fear is fear itself. People
will learn to get along. There WILL be peace on earth, goodwill toward men.
That’s because Debbie and I will be the only ones left alive. ■

ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE 3
 MY SICKK
M OM MY
M
ost men spend their lives fearing their mothers. I’ve spent
my life plotting ways to kill her.
You don’t understand, do you? Let me guess—you had a nice
mommy. She shoved that warm rosebud of a nipple into your bawl-
ing pink mouth. She wiped your heinie and harnessed you in a dry
plastic diaper. She tickled your bellybutton. She dressed you in
fluffy pajamas, the kind with footies attached. She wrapped you in
a cozy, clown-patterned blanket. She was the mommy duck and
you were the little baby duck. When you screamed out in the full
darkness of night, she rushed to your bedside and buried your tear-
streaked face between her droopy milk-balloons. She gave you
cherry syrup for your cough. Band-Aids for your skinned knee. A
cinnamon stick in your hot apple cider. You were a houseplant in
mommy’s care. She watered you daily and pointed you toward the
sun. She loved you, and you felt that love down to your curled-up
toes. You believed her when she cooed that you’re beautiful.
When she promised you that everything would be alright, you
believed that, too. She was a big fat honeycomb who drowned
you in her sticky affection. Maybe you’re such a broken-down
pussy that you can’t admit your mother was a worthless cunt who
farted out a useless child. You somehow sense it, but you just can’t
face it. Mommy couldn’t have been wrong, could she? It’s easy to
see why I hate you—you’re such a common, boring sap, but
you’ve had a good life. You were loved.
I wasn’t. And I want to smash my mother’s teeth in. So don’t
appeal to my finer instincts. I’ve heard, “She’s your mother—you
only get one” from countless well-meaning drones. What exactly
are you saying? Should I value rectal cancer if I only get it once?
My mother gave me life? She spread her legs. And if she hits me
or tries to keep me down, she’s an enemy before she’s my mother.
Feminists like to justify their anti-penis blather with claims that men
abused them, and it’s not a bad excuse. But remember this basic
law when you start sniffing around for misogyny’s roots—behind
every Sick White Male lies a Sick White Mommy.
Mommy. Mrs. Goad. Née Margaret Mary Parker in
Philadelphia on Valentine’s Day, 1925. When I picture her, I see
4 ANSWER Me !
a big falsehood with a vagina attached to it. It wasn’t her tit I
sucked on, it was factory rubber and canned milk. One thought of
her, and my stomach muscles form into a fist. My dick withers and
my balls roll back up into my groin. Steam geysers blast out of my
ears. Everything I hate about humanity—the stupidity, the lies, the
conformist cowardice—I first hated in my mommy.
I hate the way she looks. A chicken with a wig. Her pinhole eyes
cowering behind thick glasses. Those cloudy, magnified eyeballs
used to look straight into mine and lie. Those glazed eyes lied
every time they told me I wasn’t an accident. Those eyes lied when
they said that daddy never beat me until I bled. Her eyes lied when
they said she didn’t smack me around. I hated her weak Stan
Laurel chin. The unshaven hair on her flabby armpits. Her super-
astro-plastic, hundred-percent-artificial leisure suits. Her taste for
pastels and scented soaps. Her gnarled, blue-veined hands. The
way she neurotically counted imaginary numbers on her fingers.
Her cow tits and overgrown bush. Her crooked face which masked
prehistoric beliefs. Her pale mouth like a little pink leech. Her
coiled tongue, which piled up falsehoods like rat droppings. Her
lazy, bell-shaped, shopping-mall figure. In public, she walked slow-
ly and carefully, as if she were hiding a Bible up her ass.
At home, she’d scream with so much intensity you could imag-
ine blood spraying out of her mouth. It was a loud, sharp, factory-
whistle scream. Saliva flew from that tight mouth as she howled at
me not to use curse words. It seemed as if she might accidentally
spit out her soul with those screams. Ferocious. The effect was com-
pounded by her slave-class Philly accent, which sounded as if
she’d been chewing on green potato chips and rusty bottle caps
her whole life.
But despite such periodic eruptions, she was for the most part a
cool metal suppository, as clammy as a nurse who kills her
patients. She acted as if our emotional connection was severed the
second the umbilical cord was snipped. Words came out of her
yap like gray confetti from a cardboard shredder. She would pat
me on the back while hugging me, as if she wanted to get it over
as quickly as possible.
Little Jimmy. All alone at four or five years old. Shivering on my
parents’ numb bed on a Sunday morning when the old man was
out drinking and mommy was off to church. I felt a chilly Novocain
ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE 5
pit inside my ribs, the sense that I was
unloved. It felt pretty embarrassing. I got
that cold-gelatin feeling more than once.
Still get it every so often. That quiet ice-
block of nonemotion, that monochrome
color void, that near-autistic distance,
makes me want to shove mommy’s nasal
bones back into her brain.
Passive slit. Gullible cunt. To say that she
had no personality might imply that she
could have one, which would be going too
far. Mommy took the shape of whomever
was around her. She was a spread-eagled
recipient of societal programming. Her
flimsy sense of self was bludgeoned into
submission by a smirking world. It was easy
to brainwash her, because her brain was
never dirtied with too many thoughts in the
first place. She was a spindly doe caught in
the world’s headlights. She waited until the
other three cars went first at a four-way inter-
section. She believed all cops, politicians,
priests, doctors, lawyers, and tollbooth
clerks. If you wore a badge or had some
sort of title, you could tell her anything and
she’d swallow it like a fat glob of jit.
But if I told her that my father drew big
glops of blood from my little-boy mouth or
that he whipped me until my legs were
blanketed with bruises the color of grape
6 ANSWER Me !
juice, she didn’t believe it. “We must live in
two different houses,” she told me.
All my siblings had grown up and moved
out by the time I was six, leaving me alone
to face the full-on sucker punch of a fucked-
up marriage. It was obvious that mommy
and daddy hated each other. I was living
proof of that. You told me many times how
evil I am, didn’t you, mommy? Daddy, too,
leaned in my face all pie-eyed and
informed me that I have no heart. I was a
symptom who grew up being mistaken for
the problem. I was an emblem of their
doomed union, a living, breathing, eating,
shitting divorce certificate. I was blamed
for each new health problem they had,
every fried nerve. It was my fault that
daddy hadn’t fucked her in years, that he
drank a fifth of Scotch every day, that the
old lady sat on the sofa with her hair in
curlers and a cigarette in her mouth,
watching The Mike Douglas Show. The
resentment billowed from her half-smoked
Kent and filled the room.
She’d laugh in my face when I spilled my
heart out to her, her shoulders heaving, her
peppery head thrown back, guffawing like
a mechanized fun-house puppet. At five
years old, when I found a five-dollar bill on
the ground outside our tract home, I ran
over to mommy and said it was important
to find the man who lost it and give it back
to him. She looked at her housewife friend
and laughed. She looked back at me
and laughed. The lipstick cracked on their
skinny mouths as they both laughed and
laughed and laughed—not an “isn’t that
cute?” laugh—it was a “you’re a ridiculous
little idiot” laugh. I ran a few blocks to the
neighborhood football field, sat under a
tree, and cried five-dollar tears.
I weighed nearly ten pounds and mea-
sured twenty-one inches at birth. Bet I
stretched you out more than daddy’s DICK,
huh, mommy? I was the biggest cunt-fart
mommy ever had. That boiling cunt. That
sucking eel’s mouth. That blood-leaking
cardboard womb. That laceration. That suf-
focating hole. That trash can with mucus lin-
ing. That scum-dripping garbage disposal.
To think that I lived inside her hot little cave
of slime for nine months. To think that
I shared veins and arteries with her. To
think I was connected to that cunt for life-
support. Nearly a year inside those sticky
walls, penned-in by her fat, reeking bowels.
Her cold heart pumping its swill into mine,
infecting me with her genes. As I curled up
inside her yeasty, smelly, cheesy bacteria
pit, she took shits and wiped her hairy ass.

Bloody Kotex pads. Her balled-up
pantyhose and wrinkled old bras. Skid
marks and piss stains on dad’s faded
boxer shorts. I saw mommy’s cunt once.
Well, not the lips or anything, but the
bush. I was so young and small, it hovered
above my eye level. And what a rain for-
est it was! A big, black fist of hair.
Sasquatch country. Like those guys on the
cough-drop boxes.
I doubt that my mommy’s ever had an
orgasm, but what do I know—I never tried
to make her cum. Wasn’t interested. Not
my type. To be fair, she never offered,
either. For all I know, she could have been
a Super Freak. Who’s to say that while I
was popping my load in the bathroom to
visions of Cheryl Tiegs in a fishnet bathing
suit, mommy wasn’t splayed out on her
vibra-matic bed, wacking off to a Barnaby
Jones rerun?
Maybe she fingers herself. I wonder
what sorts of objects she uses, what nau-
seating fantasies she spins, what ruddy
Claude Akins/Porter Wagoner trucker
superstud she imagines fucking her blind.
Or does she secretly like women? My
father once wondered that aloud.
I think mommy liked to shove things up
my ass. It’s time for your enema! She’d
throw a towel on the bathroom floor. My
legs would stick in the air, my nude,
Vaselined rectum poised to receive a
hard plastic enema tube. That lavender
enema rig was as integral a part of my
bathroom experience as my box of Mr.
Bubble. Shove that thing up my asshole
and S-Q-U-E-E-Z-E, Mrs. Goad! Pure
power. Dominant mommy. Proud of all the
turd fossils you’ve loosened. After my rec-
tal high-tide had ebbed, I’d get a Bit O’
ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE
Honey candy bar as a reward for my anal At the time, I thought she was simply mak-
endurance. To this day, I can’t look at a Bit ing me presentable.
O’ Honey bar without thinking of excavat- No wonder I had my first paranormal
ed fecal crust. Enema after enema. Did I experience in that Pine-Sol-and-talcum-
need them? Only mommy knows for sure. powder-smelling bathroom, that antiseptic
But my bowels are now schizophrenic— torture chamber. It’s one of the first home
the shit either mummifies in my intestines movies way back in my memory’s
or I’m spraying week-long turd monsoons. mildewed archives, something that hap-
I don’t know if this condition was helped pened only three or four years after I had
by the enemas or caused by them. Who slid out from between mommy’s legs. I had
knows what mommy was squirting up my just taken a bath. All the water had
ass? already been sucked down the drain, and
My sister says mommy gave her a lot of my wet preschool body shivered in the
enemas, too. She says mommy made ene- shiny white tub. I was hit with a waking
mas (enemies) for (of) all four of her kids. nightmare, the powerful sense that I was
Sis recalls an almost unbearable warm being forced to relive every action of a life
feeling in her stomach after mommy inject- which had already ended in a violent
ed the magical potion up her poop chute.
death. I cried that I was powerless to stop
My sister says that mommy, not satisfied
fate’s locomotive thrust—I was going to
with mere liquid anal intrusions, also used
die again, and it was going to be grind-
to concoct laxative-laced chocolate drinks
ingly painful. My face was red and wet
for her and the older kids. I would have
with tears, my waterlogged fingers shriv-
preferred that to the shit-colored prune
eled up like pink prunes. Mommy didn’t
juice she poured down my gullet.
According to my sister, mommy became know what to say.
fixated on kid-poop through a friend She rarely had answers. Mommy was a
named Betty, a bloated old gash who dumb woman. Still is, I’m sure. A complete
resembled Burl Ives in drag. As mommy smacked ass. She fumed over the fact that
stood silently, Betty once loudly scolded I was smarter than her, that I could see
me for pissing on the toilet seat, stating through her social varnish. I think she
that my urinary infraction rendered me would have preferred a Down’s syndrome
unworthy of attending Boy Scout camp. baby, a drooling ape she could yank
The old fish-bucket had a lot of nerve—she around on a leash, somebody in a bib and
took the foulest dumps I’ve ever smelled, highchair with mashed yams all over his
an odor which to this day reminds me of face. A baby like that would believe your
old age. Betty ran some creepy kids’ foster lies. She wanted her baby to be identical
home where she “cared” for about twelve to her, not better.
orphaned dumplings at a
time. In order to keep her
brood’s intestinal trains
running on time, she
shoved daily morning
suppositories up each fos-
ter-child asshole. This is
the type of person my
mother respected.
When I was very
young, mommy touched
my cock a lot. Tiny bits of
lint from pure-cotton
underwear used to gath-
er in the rim between my
prick’s tip and the shaft.
As I sat nude on the toilet
with my cottony briefs
pulled down to my dan-
gling ankles, mommy
would kneel on the cold
tile floor and pluck at the
cotton balls. She had a
workmanlike expression
on her face as if she
were a slave girl and my
dick a cotton plantation.
7

She sabotaged every chance I had,
scoffed at every naive dream, shoved a
knife in every plan. In the eighth grade, I
took an entrance exam for an exclusive
high school in Delaware. About five hun-
dred others took the test along with me.
Three people, including me, scored high
enough to win scholarships, but my parents
wouldn’t let me accept it. Years later,
mommy told me—and I have this on tape—
”You were just, in our way of seeing it, not
worthy of it.” If I beat out four hundred and
ninety-seven others, how the fuck was I
unworthy?
I was also undeserving four years later,
when NYU accepted me to study theater
with Stella Adler, one of world’s best acting
teachers. Mommy drove me up to the
Pennsylvania alcoholics’ detox farm to ask
daddy if he could foot some of the tuition.
Fucking detox farm. Daddy had his liver up
on a clothesline, drying it out in the last
months before cancer ate him alive.
Mommy and daddy stood fifteen feet from
me, deciding my future. Daddy shook his
oily Richard Nixon head no. They had
enough money to pay the tuition ten times
over—they just didn’t want to bet on me. I
had to take out student loans and go into
something safer, like journalism.
I graduated summa cum laude, top of my
class, but over six grand in debt. The clang-
ing phone knocked me out of bed every
8 ANSWER Me !
morning, some hos- “Omminy, oominy, eeminy, shenockalah.”
tile yuppie jock has- She thought that the Holy Ghost was speak-
sling me about my ing through her in Aramaic or something.
delinquent student- “Slain in the spirit,” she fell to the floor.
loan payments. I Wriggling like a post-menopausal fetus,
swallowed my pride she kept babbling those same asinine
and called up words. It didn’t sound like a fucking foreign
mommy. Did the old language. It sounded like my mother say-
man leave me any ing, “Omminy, oominy, eeminy, shenock-
money? I need it alah.” Baby talk. As far as I know, she still
now. She sounded as tithes a tenth of her money to some small
if she were choking church house of shrieking, canyon-cunted
on her tears. “If there matrons. Jesus pimps my mommy for ten
was any money, percent. Jesus can have her.
John—I mean, Jim Mommy stuck food in my mouth. That’s
(she always called about it. Whatever I learned, I learned
me by my older myself. Not one teaspoon of wisdom from
brother’s name)—I’d mommy. Not a crumb of career advice. No
give it to you. I swear encouragement. She didn’t raise me. She
I would.” She said ate Valiums and tried to squash me.
my father left behind She divulged few scraps of beef about
about fifty grand. But her own childhood, but it seemed to be the
it was gone now. Grand Guignol scene you’d suspect. Her
Mommy said she mother shit out eleven unwashed Irish brats
had given all of it to into the Great Depression, forcing them to
my brother-in-law to share oatmeal and shoes, to piss, scream,
help his business, and sleep together. Her father split the
and he blew it. My scene with some fresher, finer ass, leaving
(now former) brother- his teeming litter to fend for itself. One time
in-law, whose name when mommy came down with chickenpox
is George, looks and had to be quarantined in a medical
vaguely like talk- clinic, she stood tippy-toed on her bed after
show host Gary Collins and sports a her mother left, wailing out the window for
boisterously obvious almond-colored her to come back. But her mother shrunk
toupee. For many years, as I played the into a small dot in the distance. On
role of Satan Baby, he was like the substi- another occasion, her older brothers and
tute “good” son adopted by Alex’s parents sisters locked her in a closet and told her
in A Clockwork Orange. He was my that the spaghetti she had just eaten was
parents’ enforcer. He always glared at me, actually a bowl of bloody worms. Shoved
threatening to beat my ass when I popped
shit at mommy, once bloodying my nose
when I was twelve and he was twenty-nine.
Frustrated guy. A few days before I gradu-
ated from high school, as I was peaking
on three hits of blotter acid and my old man
was drunk out of his mind, dad told me
about George’s chronic impotence. I think
the exact phrase was, “He’s not a man in
the bedroom.” And this bald, limp, over-
grown tadpole, no blood relation to
mommy, received my inheritance. And
he blew it.
Yeah, mommy punished me for being too
smart. And I want to kill her because she’s
so stupid. Because she did what she was
told. Because she believed in Jesus instead
of me. Because she feared that my friend’s
Black Sabbath album would fill the house
with demons. Because she thought that the
voice in her head was God’s.
One summer night in our dining room,
my mother “received” the gift of tongues. I
remember precisely what came out of her
mouth: Phonetically, I’d render it,
into the darkness, tucked amid the moth-
balls and tweed jackets. Abandoned.
Each fresh trauma shot a chunk out of
mommy’s brain. She became pretty much
lobotomized that Saturday in September,
1969, when she got a phone call informing
her that my brother had been murdered in
Paris. I was running outside to play and
had just swung the front door behind me
when I froze to the sound of a rolling,
unhinged moan, a throaty wail I only heard
one other time, when my female cat dis-
covered she had accidentally crushed her
newborn kitten to death.
My brother was a deaf-mute photogra-
pher and unpublished cartoonist. Although
he loved to travel, the delayed-flash pic-
tures he took of himself alone in hotel
rooms are the saddest photos I’ve ever
seen. His given name was Alton Howard
Goad, Jr., but since Alton, Sr., detested his
firstborn son and his birth defects, we
called him Bucky. It was an appropriate
nickname, because Bucky was a four-eyed
polyester nerd, a lost Brylcreem boy float-
ing against the hippie era’s heavy under-
tow. Deaf, dumb, and awkward, Bucky
found himself despised by my father. He
also once found himself pinned up against
a wall by my father, who was trying to
break Bucky’s arm. Bucky used his free
hand to smash a vase over daddy’s skull,
necessitating sixty-eight stitches. The pair
clashed bitterly the night before Bucky left
for Paris. While model son-in-law George
stuffed meat and gravy in his mouth with
the rest of us, Bucky was forced to sup in
another room like the family dog.
Two days later, Bucky was dead in a
Paris ditch. Lethally friendly, he had
apparently picked up at least one hitch-
hiker in his rent-a-car. A French trucker
spotted his blood-covered corpse in a road-
side gully early on the morning of
September 12. At first, the trucker didn’t
stop because it was a bad neighborhood
and he thought it might be a setup.
Returning on his route three hours later, he
saw that my brother’s body was still there.
He notified police. Bucky’s rental car was
parked a hundred yards away. His blood
had dripped all over the car’s interior. He
had been stabbed and beaten all over his
face and torso. A knife wound in the back
was identified as the fatal injury. He had
also been strangled with his own belt.
There were injuries on the back of his head
which indicated he had been hammered
with a blunt object. A diamond ring had
been removed from his finger. His expen-
sive cameras had been stolen and were
found along the banks of the Seine, with
the film missing. He had apparently
photographed his killers. Police traced his
rent-a-car to his hotel, where his fingerprints
ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE
were matched to his passport. They needed
those prints to identify him, because his
face had been stabbed and clobbered
beyond recognition.
The story hit UPI and the national
evening TV news. While we waited two
weeks to receive Bucky’s body, we got a
postcard he had mailed the day before he
was killed. “I’ll see you on the twenty-
seventh,” it read in part. His body was
shipped into Philly on the twenty-sixth.
There was a closed-casket wake on the
twenty-seventh, so we never really did get
to see him. I remember sitting in one of
many psychiatrist’s offices a little while
later, playing a game the nice man had
designed for me. He gave me shiny vinyl
Colorforms-style figurines—a mommy,
daddy, and kids—and told me to arrange
them on a picture which reminded me of
our house’s parlor. He wanted me to make
up a story. I showed the doctor a mommy
and her son walking in the front door. The
pair were surprised to see that someone
had been shot down with a machine gun
and was sprawled out dead on our carpet.
My sister remembers another shrink-test
drawing where I sketched some fascistic
historical power junkie—could’ve been
Napoleon—harnessed in a straitjacket.
I was apparently catching up with
mommy in the mental-illness department.
But as sick as she had been before, Bucky’s
murder seemed to shove her into an
emotional coffin. My sister says she thinks
mommy felt more than a pinch of guilt
because she had allowed the old man to
prey on her handicapped son.
But here’s the creepiest part, and it
illustrates how affectively cold my mommy
could be: When my parents asked the fam-
ily lawyer to fill in the details regarding my
brother’s murder, the lawyer allegedly said,
“Imagine the worst, because it’s far worse
than that.” And mommy’s response—unless
she’s lying and covering up some grisly
psychosexual rape scenario—was to drop
the matter. She didn’t push for any more
information. She was too meek or too
disinterested—or both—to press the
big attorney man for information on how
her own boy was slaughtered. She took
the lawyer’s word that it was in her
best interest not to know exactly what
had happened.
If mommy saw truth approaching her,
she’d cross the street to get away from it.
By the time of Bucky’s murder, my surviving
brother and sister had already “grown up”
and moved elsewhere. Snooping around in
a chest of drawers in our newly vacant
guest room, I remember finding color
snapshots of my nude brother and some
other unclad male—could have been my
cousin—wrestling around on a bed, blow-
ing each other. They looked like naked
hedgehogs entangled in some ancient
pubertal sperm rite. I remember them
smiling, as if they were having a simply
grand time. My brother seemed happier in
these pictures than when he posed fully
dressed. I slipped the photos back under
the sweaters where someone had
originally hid them. When I returned a few
days later, the photos were gone. Who
took them? No explanations, mommy. We
were Catholics. Those photos didn’t exist.
9
 breeze. Still tripping, still mellow,
we start hitchhiking home
around midnight. A car peels up.
I sit between the driver and a
prominent-foreheaded, thick-eye-
browed spud who calls himself
“Cosmo.” Everyone seems drunk
off their asses. Steve squeezes
between two guys in the back. A
fat ribbon of bad vibes throbs
through the car. As the driver
pulls into a deserted dumping
ground and hits the brakes, I feel
Cosmo’s flatiron fist crush into
my nose. It startled the fuck out of
me, allowing Cosmo to get five
or six clean punches straight on
my beak. I start spraying blood
all over the upholstery, and he
screams at me for bleeding in his
car. The douchebags in back
start kicking in Steve’s nuts.
I finally wrestle free and pop out
of the auto, running down a
dark, humid road toward home.
Blood rains from my nose with
each desperate stride. By the
time I dart in through my front
door, the thigh areas on my blue
jeans are literally more red than
blue, the sticky crimson sap
seeping through my pants and
adhering to my leg hairs. I can’t
As I dipped my fingers into a cruddy, slime-coated, holy-water font
believe what I see in our dining-room mirror—my nose is twice its
at church, I wiped my forehead clean of those pictures. It was a
normal size, a pulverized mushroom shoved up toward my left
weird reality shift—a plaster Jesus is bleeding up on that cross, and eye. Piss-faced and stubbly, dad ambles into the room. “Take me
my brother is off somewhere licking some grinning guy’s cock. to the hospital!” I gasp. “Why should I?” he shrugs. “You didn’t
I was getting bigger and wiser. When I started hitting mommy clean your room. You didn’t do the dishes. You didn’t vacuum the
back, no one besides me could understand why. How could a lit- floor.” And he was serious. To his besotted cerebrum, bleeding to
tle boy hit his own mother? Easy—with the back of my little-boy death seemed an apt punishment for not cleaning your room.
hand. I was born the day I hit her back. I liked doing it, OK? I felt After a protracted screaming match, he finally threw on his
happy when I smacked my mother. We were on summer vacation stale-smelling work clothes and drove me in his plumbing van to
down the Jersey shore. I was twelve, just tall enough to get an eye- the hospital. As I sat under brain-cleaving hospital lights, crashing
level peep at every pair of tube-top-encased tits which bobbled like Wall Street from the acid, my dad explained to the hospital
past me on the boardwalk. Paul Simon’s “Love Me Like a Rock” attendants how his son had been a disappointment to him.
was an unavoidable AM hit. The real world, with all its pizza And where was mommy? She had run away from home. “Fed
grease, rusty bumper cars, and zit-addled Philly debris, seemed up” with us, she had moved a few months earlier into a studio
fine. The family world was another matter. When mommy grabbed apartment somewhere in town. I say “somewhere” because she
me and shook me in the hallway to our seedy beach rental, I didn’t give me her forwarding address and phone number. So
shoved the old cow back, knocking her glasses loose. I smiled there I was at four a.m., bandages sopping up the blood from my
inside when I saw those foggy goggles hanging cockeyed off her face, lying down among the smell of copper pipes and dirty steel
nose—she looked helpless for a change. A few years later, when wool in my old man’s van. He had parked in some diner’s lot and
I was big enough to hit my father back, I nearly broke his jaw. went in to have breakfast without me. Mommy had run away.
Cocksucker never hit me again, boy. A thick dose of power, prop- Daddy was trying to starve me out of the house, a fact he later
erly applied, can solve all your problems. admitted. My parents were my blood enemies. While my face
Hitting my parents was the only time that family life seemed pulsated like one big toothache, daddy was dispassionately
worthwhile, the only time I could let loose and have a little fun shoveling eggs and scrapple into his mouth. As dew condensed
around my folks. All other happy memories occurred outside the on the van windows, I remember chanting, “I reject his flesh”
house, far away from my parents. But they always found a way to with post-acid-trauma urgency. Muscle-by-muscle, cell-by-cell,
bum my high. I remember one yellow spring day a month or two I divorced my parents that night.
before I graduated from high school. My friend Steve and I are sit- Cancer desiccated the old man into a hollow carcass within a
ting up in a cemetery tree, our heads two bright balloons from year. Mommy, so nauseated by the old man’s sodden howling that
some high-torqued acid. My problems seem so small, I feel like I she had separated from him while he was alive, was suddenly
could scoop them up in my hand and send them floating into the denying that daddy had ever done so much as pop a pimple on

10 ANSWER Me !
any of his kids. Her liver-spotted claws didn’t touch another dick “You were always portrayed like what?” mommy said, squint-
for eleven-and-a-half years, and when they did, damn it if that dick ing and leaning toward me in her crumpled blue windbreaker.
wasn’t another Goad dick! At sixty-six years old, she started fuck- “I was the evil one, the problem child, the bad seed.”
ing my old man’s brother Carlton. I was informed of mommy’s She met my stare. “You were, Jim. You were. You were—what
new fuck-boy by my sister, whom mommy had recently sued over I’m saying is, you were a problem.…You were a hard one to
a disputed debt. Seeking to resurrect—and perhaps cosmetically handle, Jim.…”
repair—her decrepit marriage, mommy chose the most genetical- “Where do you think the anger comes from?” I asked.
ly adjacent specimen possible and married for a second time. Mommy shot me that blank, faux-innocent stare. “I wonder.”
From one account, she also seduced him into drinking again after
“Well, if you have to wonder,” I countered, “you’re dumber
at least a decade of sobriety, apparently so he’d be identical to
than I think you are.”
my father. The only thing more demented would have been to
No emotion from mommy. “Possibly,” she nodded. “Possibly.”
exhume my old man’s bones, prop him up in a rocking chair, and
pour whisky down his dead throat. When I told friends that my More blaring silence. Grinding my teeth, I paid the check. I told
mother was straddling my uncle’s wrinkled old bone, their unani- mommy that the two years since I had spoken to her were the
mous response was, “Ugh!” happiest years of my life. Commanding her never to call me
Only one person didn’t think it was spooky—mommy. More again, I slammed a cab door shut on the bitch and stomped away
than two years earlier, I had told her never to call again unless in my leather boots. Debbie looked at me like she finally
she could cop to the fact that daddy used to beat my face in. She understood why I carry a ton of rage around in a suitcase.
finally called again, strung out in the desert near Phoenix with my She called my mommy at her hotel the following day. “If you
uncle. In some odd, elephant’s-graveyard-style ritual, they had dri- can’t see how charming, talented, smart, and beautiful Jimmy is,
ven West in order to reconcile with estranged children before they then you’re the one with the problem,” Debbie said.
got too fucking feeble to step on a gas pedal. They had been very “You could be right, Deb,” mommy said, and hung up. Almost
good parents. My uncle was looking for a son he hadn’t seen in three years ago. The last contact either of us had with her. I hear
years. Mommy was looking for me. she eventually married my uncle. According to my sister, Uncle
“John—I mean, Jim—I’m sorry,” she squeaked, her voice a Carty suffered a stroke two days after the wedding. What did it?
trampled puppy’s whimper. She sounded as if she was shivering Rough sex? He realized exactly whom he had married? Cyanide
in a dark basement’s damp corner. She sounded ready to in his TV dinner? He died shortly afterwards. Mommy’s second
apologize. She sounded a mess. I was powerfully tempted to dead Goad husband. More dead Goad-dick for the rats to eat.
laugh into her shriveled old ear. But I decided that for my own
Mommy spins around from the kitchen sink just in time to catch
peace of mind, I should give the ancient hag one last chance. We
me rushing up behind her. My eye meets hers. That muddled gray
agreed to meet in L.A. when she arrived two days later.
orb and its studied gloss of false innocence sits behind a thick glass
I hung up. As a savage God would have it, I was scheduled for
lens. Suddenly, the lens blows up to the size of a TV screen. I can
a barium enema at a Beverly Hills radiology clinic the next day. I
see every ragged red vein in her eye. Her wet, whitish tear ducts.
had been nagged with intestinal pains, so my doctor scheduled a
colonic probe to search for festering tumors and impacted shit
chunks. Wielding a plastic white pipeline twice the size of
mommy’s enema tube, the uncomfortably German-looking radiol-
ogist squirted isotopic love juice up my hole. Then, with the stat-
ed intent of stretching out my colon so they could examine every
potentially cancerous crater, they pumped air up my ass until I
was sure I would explode. As I squirmed on the cold steel table,
my intestines blown up like an eighteen-wheeler’s tire, Dr.
Mengele told me to keep still while he ogled my guts on a com-
puter screen. After the examination, they pulled the periscope
from my anus as if it was a cork and I was a champagne bottle.
I scurried in my hospital gown to a nearby bathroom, where my
rectum belched a fart which I swear lasted at least thirty seconds.
The enema, naturally, would be the easy part. As mommy start-
ed yammering over dinner the next night, those tiny poison mis-
siles started flying out of her mouth. I was a problem child. An
underachiever. A liar. Mommy looked older, shorter, weaker than
I remembered, like a little girl with some mysterious aging dis-
ease. Pouring curdled cream into muddy coffee, I said I was mere-
ly a kid reacting to an insane situation. Mommy intimated that
some psychologist must have put those ideas in my head.
If all she wanted was my blessing, I said, she could go the fuck
back where she came from. I was recording it all on a concealed
microcassette. “You want to hear that everything was OK,” is what
I say on the tape. “You really want to hear that, because if you
started admitting what went on, you would realize that a lot of it
was just wasted time.” There’s a thirty-five-second pause on the
tape, nothing but crashing silverware and spoons clinking in cof-
fee cups, before I speak again. “I mean, I was always portrayed
like I was the evil one, so of course I’m gonna act like the evil one.”

ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE 11

Tarantula-
sized eyelashes. Sweaty wrinkle flaps. Her
eye’s message is clear: “I’m IN you. You
can’t kill me, because I’m IN you.” Suddenly,
I can’t hit her. I wag my finger and shake my
head. “I’ll always hate you,” I spit in defeat.
I walk away. Just a dream.
I can’t pry her the fuck out of me. I could
bury my fingernails in my cheeks and split
my face wide open, but she’d still be there.
She owns me like a demon, a phantom
virus in my genetic code. I’m infected with
mommy. My sperm leaks poison in each
gleaming pearl drop.
The aging cunt is now living somewhere
near Denver with a woman my brother
divorced nearly twenty years ago, my
brother’s first wife of three. Mommy’s there
with my brother’s two kids, the younger of
whom allegedly murmured to a relative that
my brother molested her: “Daddy sure acts
funny when he’s taking his medication.”
Mommy helps pay the rent. They must need
that rent money desperately.
12
I try to put every thought of her behind
me. I want to bleed every drop of her out
of me. When I shut my mouth, holes burn
through my stomach. Every day I
strain to stop myself from smacking
the fuck out of something. I clench
my fist so tightly, the skin nearly
peels off my knuckles. Leave the
bitch alone. Let the old shrew dry
up and croak somewhere. She’s
broken contact with all three of her
surviving kids. Even her own sister
won’t speak to her now. Jesus Christ, just
make her die.
Then comes another phone call, bringing
up the bad feelings like blood-streaked
vomit. The call is from Jenny, my twenty-one-
year-old niece. Like mommy, Jenny has a
bell-shaped body and a generic bunny-rab-
bit honky face. At last count, she had cov-
ered her body with twenty-one tattoos, little
inky billboards which never fully articulate
her subcutaneous pain. She told me she
wants to get a light bulb tattooed on her
skull. An IQ test yielded results in the mid-
seventies. She has been diagnosed as mild-
ly autistic. She spent much of her teens in
institutions and on medication. She spends a
lot of time with Philly bikers and skinheads,
partaking freely of crack, acid, weed, and
beer. Over the last year or so, she hooked
as a call girl in Center City Philadelphia.
Last July, she tested HIV-positive. She real-
izes she’s in the shadow days of a short,
punishing existence. In many ways, she’s a
mascot for the family’s collapse.
And when you pick up the phone, she
doesn’t say, “Hi,” she just goes straight into
her story. And since she’s barely above the
cutoff line for mental retardation, I doubt
that she’s savvy enough to fabricate any-
thing. She says my mommy was the person
who drove her to the escort agency in
order to apply for the call-girl job. She also
says that my mommy, who was in her mid-
sixties at the time, requested a male hustler
but was turned away because the agency
only dealt in females. Jenny recalled an
incident two or three years ago when she
and my mommy snorted Jenny’s coke off
the kitchen table in mommy’s apartment:
“She didn’t even do it right,” Jenny sneers.
“She got it all over her face.” She says
mommy recently wrote her a check for five
grand and that she’s also willed her new
car to Jenny. I suppose mommy considers
Jenny a safe investment. Remember a few
years back, when mommy was crying little
plastic tears to me that she’d help me with
my student loan if only she had the money?
Jenny says that mommy was joking to rela-
tives, “I can’t give it to him and spend it at
the same time, can I?”
Ho, ho, ho. You’re a pip, mommy. And
how humorous it will be when I kick down
your front door. I want you to feel as help-
less as I did when I was being whipped by
daddy and you were barking out encour-
agement to him. I want you to grovel and
plead with me not to boot in your skull. I
want you to apologize and say I was right.
I want you to promise to do better. And
then I’m going to kill you.
Like the joker I am, I knock you flat on
your old, brittle ass. You comically beg at
my feet. No, I didn’t find it funny when you
were dominant. I was smaller and weaker
than you. But now that the magic wand is
in my hand, I find it deliciously amusing.
Your horrible old yellow flesh is split wide
open. Your old bones snap like pigeon
wings. What a riot. It’s hilarious when your
head caves in like a wedding cake. So
kooky when your brains drip like cement
from the walls. Hot, poison blood pumps
through my cheeks. Spasms in my lower
lip. Greasy sweat spews from my pores.
Your bony, ashen kneecaps. Your cunt all
dried-up like a shrunken voodoo head. It all
makes me giggle. I titter when the blood
flows in little creeks from your forehead to
your nose, where it falls one fat drop at a
time. My cock is oak-hard. The weight is
lifted. The debt is paid. And here’s the
punch line—I jerk off into my hand and
smack your dead face around with my cum-
lathered palm. Smack and smack and
smack and smack and smack and smack
and smack and smack, like I was smacked.
Get it? Isn’t it funny?
You used to say I’m not smart anymore.
Smart enough to find you, wasn’t I? How
much you sicken me. How very stupid you
are. How much you embody everything
that I hate. These memories have been eat-
ing me alive, mommy. It’s me or you. If I
don’t wipe you out, I’ll die inside. It feels
better to abuse than to be abused. It’s a
simple, universal law. I posit myself as more
important than you. That’s the essence of all
history, all power, all struggle, all rape.
You gave me life. I’m taking yours. You
set the ball rolling when you spread your
legs all those years ago. You set it in
motion. This is only a reprisal of the short
act of blood and rage in which I was con-
ceived. When all the salty, sticky red juice
comes burbling down around your hair,
you’ll finally realize that I was only a
missed period. A lost menstrual cycle. A
tragic accident. You should have carried
protection. ■
ANSWER Me !
ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE 13

I’m a nothing. I’m ugly. I’m stupid. I’m
worthless. I deserve to be crushed by you.
You dislike me. That’s because you’re better
than me. That’s why things go wrong.
I have nothing to offer. I entered the pic-
ture a loser. I’m still losing. I wish I was never
born. That was the first mistake. I emerged
breech. My umbilical cord was wrapped
around my neck, nearly choking me. I view
it as an early suicide attempt. I came seconds
away from dying but was placed on oxygen.
I still can’t breathe. I still feel suffocated.
I turned to my mother when I was ten and
cried, ”You brought me into this world. You
created me. It’s all your fault.” She had no
response. Later, she died.
Nothing’s changed for me.
I hyperventilate. A short-circuited, zipper-
like pain shoots through me. I grab my heart
and spring two inches in the air, my eyes
rolling up in my head. I think I’m gonna die.
Unfortunately, I live.
I can’t do anything right. I get in my car.
It’s raining. I’m half-asleep but in a rush.
CRASH! Head-on collision with a school bus.
The windshield smashes into my face.
Thousands of chips of glass burrow into me.
I bite my tongue. My right leg hits the
gearshift. I suffer a concussion. Out cold.
When I come to, I realize I’m still here. I
mumble, “Oh no.” They tell me I will heal.
Why must I live?
I walk past a parking lot. A mobile home
comes speeding out. It narrowly misses me
by a second. If I had taken one more step, I’d
be dead. I look at the driver’s face. Even
though he almost killed me, he does not see
me. There’s no way out.
I go to bed crying. I wake up crying. I’m
so fucking lonely. I follow my routine. I brush
my teeth, shower, stretch, and get dressed.
I faithfully report to my job. I do what I am
told. The work is silently laid out for me on
my desk. And I do it. Without it, I’m lost. I
start to feel comfortable. There’s some idle
chatter throughout the day but no meaning-
ful conversations. If they knew me, they
wouldn’t understand me. Things are kept on
the surface. I go to lunch alone and follow
my daily chores. Routinely doing the same
thing every Monday. Routinely doing the
same thing every Tuesday. Routinely doing
the same thing every Wednesday. Routinely
doing the same thing every Thursday.
Routinely doing the same thing every Friday.
I keep my opinions to myself. I don’t want to
stir up controversy. I don’t ask questions.
Keep it simple. It’s safe that way. No one
knows I’m here, and I’m safer that way. One
day they realize I’m here. So they get rid of
me. Permanently. They fire me.
I feel like a throw rug on a dirty floor.
Everything seems hard. My routine works its
way into a pattern. My routine drives me
crazy. The only thing that’s good is sleeping.
Blocking everything out. Shut it down. Shut it
off. Keep the pain away.
I wash my clothes. I clean my house. I read
the papers. I get my food. That’s all there is.
I look at the telephone, waiting for it to
ring. Knowing the next call will save my life.
No one calls. I listen to the clock ticking
away in the silence of my misery. Each
minute, I age. Blankness surrounds me.
Constant dread. I hate the boredom. There is
no compassion in this world. No, it’s not all
good. Tragedy happens. I feel incredible
sadness. The ones who lie win. I told the truth
and lost. I stop eating. Food has no taste
anymore.
You told me I was stupid with your eyes.
So you had to be right. You got up real close
and screamed directly in my ear what a
loser I am. What a fuck-up I am. How much
I spoil everything. You must have been on to
something. You must have the power to
know the truth.
 I look in the mirror and I see my ugly I’m invisible. So unclear. It’s because I do to be stomped out. I can easily be replaced.
father’s face staring back at me. I see my NOT matter. Yesterday’s news. The earth keeps No one will know I’m gone.
dead mother’s face, too. It’s voodoo how spinning on its axis no matter what happens. It I just want out of here. Get me the fuck out
they’re still attached. They told me I was is immune to the tortures and injustices existing of here. I just want to die. I just want to die.
shit, too. between its poles. It was here before I arrived. I just want to die.
I look again in the mirror. I get sick. My It will be here after I depart. I want to die so badly, it hurts. I’m not
stupid, strawlike hair. Stupid bags under my The sun’s up there high in the sky. It’s miles afraid to die. I’ve lived long enough. I’m
reddened eyes. Crooked nose. Liver spots. away, beyond my grasp. Yet every morning, more afraid to live. I’m tired of the pain.
Uneven eyebrows. Blemishes. Pimples. there’s a sunrise. Every night, a sunset. I’m When I’m dead, I’ll be happy. When I’m
Whiteheads. Sores. A scar over my left eye down here, insignificant, bored, and boring. I dead, I’ll like life better. When I’m dead, life
from my car accident. Traces of a faint mus- wasn’t meant for this planet. I don’t want to be will be more enjoyable. When I’m dead, life
tache around my upper lip. Hair sprouting here. There is nothing to do. Nothing’s fun. will be easier.
out of my chin. Wrinkles starting to develop. The days are long. I don’t fit in. I’m not in That’s what keeps me going the most.
I’m so ugly. demand. Knowing that I am really going to die one
I’m so clumsy. I’m so awkward. I’m so They stare at me because I’m so unlike day. Hallelujah! This stupid floor show is
unnecessary. My feeble daily attempts to them. The outcast. The underdog. I’m a really gonna end. They’ll finally flush me
create a life for myself. What’s the point? nonessential ant of a human being, needing down the toilet where I belong. ■
Why do I do it? Why do I go on?
Earthquake. The mirror cracks.
My hands shake. I hate myself. I rape
myself. I can’t take it anymore. I pull my dry,
gray hair out of my head in clumps. I smack
myself in the face. I clamp my teeth down on
my lower lip until it bleeds. I claw at my head
and pull out the dried-up flakes of dandruff. I
scratch myself until I bleed. I pick old scabs
from mosquito bites. I roll the crusts between
my fingers, then chew it for a while. I bite my
fingernails to the bone. I blow my nose like
an elephant. I rub my eyes until they’re
purplish and swollen. I crack my knuckles. I
cup my hands around my ass. I fart and then
smell my fingertips. This is the reason I go on.
But then someone else reappears, and so
does my self-doubt. It just doesn’t feel right.
The whole process starts all over again.
They misunderstand me. They’re not
interested in me. They laugh at me. They
hate me. I hate them.
I don’t want them to get any closer. All is
tense, forced, and unnatural. My feeble
attempts at talking. I try to sound interesting.
So useless. In one ear, out the other. They
don’t hear me. They won’t remember. I look
in their eyes. They look at my feet.

M ark Levine tried to fuck me when I was
only eight. He was seventeen. Ugly creep.
Slimy rodent. I’ve only recently remem-
bered this. You’re one of the first people
I’m telling.
The Levines lived on my street. Lois,
Mark’s younger sister, was emotionless and
distant, like she resided on the bottom of
the ocean. But at that age, for some crazy
reason, I guess I wanted friends. I’d go
over to Lois’s house after school, mostly to
get away from my dismal home life. My
parents nagged and drove me batty with
constant questions. I’d escape over to the
Levine house and play Scrabble with Lois.
The Levine house was dull. Mark was
dull. Sick people are always dull. Mark
was tall, nerdy, and wore glasses—your
basic Brooklyn yeshiva wimp. Apart from
those primary features, there was nothing
that stood out about him. Nothing. He was
obscenely ordinary, a regular guy. He
barely ever acknowledged me or spoke
to me.
One afternoon was different. I guess
Mark had a hard-on pressing tightly
against his polyester pants. He finally
noticed me.
I was minding my own business—quietly
playing—when Mark appeared out of
HE TRIED T
16
nowhere and instructed me to
follow him into Lois’s bedroom.
I figured we were looking for
something. But I was the “some-
thing” Mark wanted to see.
He told me to lie down on
his sister’s bed. I was naive.
I obeyed. He climbed on top
of me. He was much bigger
than me. It was hard to breathe.
He gave no explanation. All he
said was, “Close your eyes.”
The room was tense. Quiet.
Just me, Mark, and all of Lois’s
dolls. Mark placed his scummy,
clammy, wet mouth over mine.
I didn’t know what was going
on. I thought it must be some
kind of game. I never consid-
ered Mark my friend. Now he
was being a little too friendly.
He applied his bony hand to
my flat chest. Mark acted like
he wasn’t sure of what he was doing or
where this was headed.
Mark was hideous. With a face like his,
I’m sure he didn’t pull in too many chicks
his own age. I was probably the best he
could get. I was his toy. His guinea pig. His
chemistry set.
Mark was silent. His bedside manner
was colder than a surgeon’s. It was as if he
was brushing his teeth. His sexual
approach was as boring as his beige
sweater.
At the time, I didn’t understand what
Mark was doing. I was in the third grade
and knew nothing about sex. Nobody ever
bothered to tell me anything. But the further
Mark went, the more I sensed it was wrong.
Somehow I broke loose from his sweaty
grip and bolted out of Lois’s bedroom.
I didn’t tell anyone. I tried to pretend
everything was normal. No one would
have believed me anyhow, ESPECIALLY my
family. They’d say I made everything up.
They’d twist the story and say I asked for it.
They’d say I had an overactive imagina-
tion. They’d tell me to shut up. They’d
scream at me, my mother in the left ear, my
father in the right. They’d tell me that I said
something “naughty” and then pour pepper
on my tongue. My father would have taken
his belt off from his pudgy waist and
whipped my ass. And he would have
enjoyed every welt he raised.
I bottled the guilt inside of me. I wanted
everything to go OK, to fit into my parents’
warped scheme of life. Other persons’
perversions became secrets. So I took
the blame.
Time passed in my neighborhood. I’d turn
the corner and see Mark. A cold, creepy
wave would sweep over me. I couldn’t look
in his eyes. No more hellos were given. I felt
frustrated, pinned down. But I told no one.
Who knows how far the cockroach might
have gone if I hadn’t struggled against his
advances? What if he split my lip and tore
open my cunt down to the asshole? What if
he threatened to kill me if I ever told any-
body? What if he grabbed me by the hair
and forced my little-girl mouth onto his
dick? I don’t know. Something inside of me
knew to stop him.
I would never choose Mark Levine for a
sexual partner. Mark, such a boring name.
A mark. A dot. A blotch. Mark, such a
bloated sperm kernel.
It’s a world full of Mark Levines. They’re
not going away. They’re all over the streets.
They’re coming at me. Wherever I go,
walking cum-sacs accost me. Brainless,
deformed losers throw themselves at me.
Ugly, fat, hairy, smelly douchebags come
right up to my face and ask me how I’m
feeling. I’m feeling like ending your life.
You got a dick? Stay away. I’ll slice off
your balls. I’ll blast them right through your
legs with one quick bullet. You’re hiding out
there. You’re waiting for me. But I’m ready.
ANSWER Me !
 These thugs take it upon themselves to
fuck with me because I’m female. They
stare at me with their distorted faces. They
eye me up and down. I get the chills.
I feel my heart pounding. I can’t look into
their eyes. They’re able to fuck me with
their eyes alone.
Deranged male-monsters approach.
Again and again and again and again
and again and again. I grimace, trying to
look more insane than they do, hoping that
this will keep them away. But they only
come closer. They can tell that I hate them,
so they try to fuck with me. They try to get
eye contact going. When that doesn’t
work, they frantically wave their arms. They
whistle at me. They scream hello at me.
They shout suggestions. They grab their
balls defiantly. They ask me how long it’s
been since I last got laid. They take it upon
themselves to rate my looks. They tell me
that I’d be the perfect beauty if only my
eyes were green, not brown. Or if my butt
were bigger. They make comments about
my clothes. I’m going to sew up their
mouths.
I read their minds. It’s pornographic.
They want to fuck me. They want to hurt
me. They want to rape me. They want to
fuck my ass. They want to beat my brains
in, bloody my nose, slash my throat, stick
O FUCK ME
ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE
rocks up my cunt, and tear off my tits
with their teeth. They want to use me.
They want me to suck the crust off
their dirty, smelly dicks. They want to
shoot their diseased sperm—which
contains AIDS and trace elements of
crack—into my eyes. They want to
wipe their cum all over my face. They
want to kick me. They want to leave
me in an alleyway, beaten up like a
used Raggedy Ann doll. They want
to pour gasoline all over my body
and toss a lighted match on me.
They hate my cunt, yet they need to
get at it. They hate their own dicks,
but they’d kill to cum. They want to
fuck me so badly, they don’t care if
I’m already dead. To them, I’m
merely a wet hole. It doesn’t matter if
I’m deceased. They’ll spit on their
dicks and press onward.
A middle-aged male sees me walking.
He stops his car in the middle of the road.
He’s bald and wears gold chains on his
hairy chest. He stares and smiles. He’s
missing some teeth. Get lost! I’m not
interested! You’ve got to be kidding! But
apparently, he wants me to hop aboard.
My skirt’s two inches above my knees.
I suppose this waxes his surfboard. “Do
you want to get Maced?” I threaten.
He nods yes. Looks like a foreigner. He
must think “getting Maced” means getting
blown. He wiggles his eyebrows. I walk
away. He’s too easy a target.
I walk up to a pay phone. Some slime
yells at me that he can tell I’m not wearing
a bra. He continues staring. Another slug
pinches my ass. I give him a dirty look. He
walks away, laughing to his clone buddy. I
remember his face. I’ll get even.
I go to work. My boss tells me he hired
me because I had the best set of tits. Then
he reaches for a quick feel. I know where
he lives. I’ll get even.
It’s late. Dark. My car is stopped at a red
light. Some psycho with a hammer walks
up and smashes my window. He stares in
through the broken glass with his empty,
bloody eyes. Trembling, I step on the gas
and floor it. He chases me for half a block,
then drops his hands and stops in the
center of the street.
It’s Mark Levine all over again, whatever
the guy’s name. A dick with legs. Following
me. Always on my tail. Trying to fuck me.
Trying to hurt me. Trying to kill my soul.
Trying to break my spirit.
They’ve tried to fuck me one too many
times. I stop the car. I pop the trunk, where
I keep my riot pump. I make a U-turn. Six
shiny red shotgun shells. Hello, Mark.
Remember me? I’ve missed you terribly. ■
17
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t he
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I’m a fr

18
RAG ANSWER Me !

A bloody fucking woman. Each
month, it’s a mess. I start losing my grip
around the eleventh day after my last
period ended. Fire streams out of my
nostrils and asshole. You might say I’m
very edgy. Within three or four days, my
nerves are as burnt as truck-stop bacon.
I go insane over the pettiest things. If
there’s a speck of dust hiding behind a
flake of paint in a corner of the ceiling,
I feel uneasy. I run around the apart-
ment emptying ashtrays and garbage
pails. I dust, make the bed, wash the
kitchen floor, and vacuum. My patience
evaporates. I lie down. My heart beats
rapidly. I know I’m going to die.
But within seconds, I feel wonderful.
I jump naked into the air.
All of a sudden, my emotions are
smashed again. Retarded movies about
love make me cry. I snap. I’ve gotten
into thousands of arguments, given
myself dozens of ridiculous haircuts,
and entertained thoughts of suicide all
because of PMS.
Five more days tick away in my cycle.
The clouds surround and strangle me.
The buildup of water around my midriff
makes me look five months pregnant.
I’m bloated. My cellulite swells. I look
forty pounds heavier. It’s quite unattrac-
tive. My body pulls me down. Give me
sleep. I’m ready to clock out.
My head bleeds. It’s split down the
middle like a cashew. No matter how
many aspirins I take, the throbbing
doesn’t go away. My stomach shakes
like the earth beneath me. My body
swells. The soles of my feet feel like
they’ve been injected with lead. My
spine is ready to snap. My tits are sore.
I’m crabby. I’m horny. I piss every
twenty minutes. My mood’s black.
I could go for some double-swirl-
chocolate-fudge ice cream.
ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE
The day my blood-flood is due, I’m
ready to be committed. I want to scream
until my throat explodes. I want to beat
somebody up. I want to put my fist
through a window. There is no hope.
Only ugliness. The world makes me cry
and cry. Who invented life? The pain
and pressure overwhelm me. I lie in
my bed, counting the lines in the
ceiling and looking for a way out.
Within moments, I feel giddy. A squirt
comes out from between my legs. I
reach down and wipe. My tissue’s
stained the color of rust. I run to the toi-
let. The water turns pink. Lordy Jesus,
my friend is here. Unlike people, my
period’s reliable. It faithfully visits me
every twenty-seven days. I call that a
better friend than most people could be.
I was fourteen years old when my first
amigo de sangre arrived. Blurt! Blood
was everywhere, seeping onto my
bedsheets. I ran to fetch a sanitary
napkin just as I had been instructed in a
crackly old Girl Scouts film about
menstruation. The blood represents that
I’m a woman. I can reproduce. That’s
the scariest, most horrendous news I
could ever hear.
But with each cycle, I’ve learned to
understand my magical inner clock.
Month after month, year after year,
gallons of blood have poured out of me.
So I’ve made peace with myself. I had
no other choice than to bond with my
menstrual river. When it’s gushing, it
reaffirms that I am childless, thus free.
That’s the best news I could ever hear.
My blood is beautiful. I’ve studied it.
I’ve sniffed it. I’ve touched it. I’ve tasted
it. I’ve smeared it across my nipples. I
like my blood. It’s a part of me which I
like very, very much.
My flow starts out as shit-colored
brownish-black but quickly changes to
bright red. It takes five days to get all
the vaginal sewage out. My bladder’s
ready to pop open. Every hour I stick a
fluffy new spark plug up my twat. With
the wisdom of years, I’ve learned to do
it right. When I was a teen, I used to
stuff them up there sideways. But unlike
most chicks, who let their tampons swell
up until they’re like a janitor’s mop, I
like to keep it clean. Nevermore will
my blood bubble its way through my
rag and leave telltale stains on items
of apparel.
As my crotch keeps spewing red
garbage, I start getting clots. That’s
when the real fun begins. Each time I
feel a cramp, I know I’ve passed a clot.
Some of my clots are the size of small
amphibians. Cramps wrack my body
and remind me that I’m alive. It’s
nature’s way of saying it’s mad that I’m
not fertilizing my eggs. That’s nature’s
problem. I fall asleep.
I’m in for an early morning treat when
I pull out the graveyard-shift tampon.
My clots look like slices of raw liver from
a Cleveland meat market. I stare at
the spongy hemoglobin, the hellish,
oily cunt-resin. “This came out of me?”
I wonder.
Over the next couple of days, my
blood drips slower, until it’s like the last
dribbly gasps from a Mr. Coffee
machine. Maybe a few red dots in my
urine, nothing major. Best wishes until
next month, mon soeur.
But it ain’t over yet. When the haggy
old witch named menopause takes
command of my body, my insides will
dry up like a corn husk. It’s hard to
believe, but I’ll be even crankier. I’ll
pack on another twenty, thirty pounds.
I’ll bitch about leg cramps and hot
flashes. Varicose veins will split open all
over my ankles. My snatch will be the
texture of tire rubber. I’ll walk down the
street, talking to myself. I’ll terrorize
small children. I’ll contract an incurable
disease. I’ll suffer, then die. But at least
I’ll be off the rag. ■
19
 smile is a frown turned upside-down? No, a mouth is an asshole Nitwits. People think they won’t be considered sincere if a smile isn’t
A turned right-side-up. The smile is the gateway to a deep, black trench offered, if there isn’t a handshake, a nod of the head, a wave, an embrace,
a hug, or a kiss. But the wooden deliberation in all of these acts makes
ending in the anus.
Smile. Guile. Wile. Vile. Bile. People who smile should be forced sincerity impossible. People fool themselves and others by walking around
to stand trial. like windup dolls.
If you’re wondering what’s wrong with the world, look no further than Your smile is your membership card in society. Your smile doesn’t come
the smile. Are you running through the streets, trying to figure out whom from happiness, but from a sense of obligation. You pretend like you
you should kill? Kill all the smiling people. Look for all the idiots understand the joke, but you really don’t. Smiling is an exclusively social
with their lips curled act. Smiling is compromise. Smiling is death.
upward like greasy In its simplest form, a smile is a sign of hostility. Daily they smile, and
breakfast croissants, daily they lie, steal, and cheat. You’re told to say “cheese” and smile for the
their cheeks bulging camera. Everyone’s smiling in family portraits, but typically there’s
into fat spheres of violence, cheating, and incest behind all the white choppers. But like
forced enjoyment. brave soldiers, they continue to smile. Smiling helps them maintain
Punish the smilers. a small measure of plastic sanity.
Wipe those smiles off A smile is a lie told
their faces. with the teeth. A
A smile is a danger smile is a clear sign
sign. I run away from of malicious intent.
smiles. Where you see When a person
a row of white teeth, smiles, they reveal
I see a procession of the same teeth which
red flags. Those smiles are designed to disarm you. To disable you. they use to rip meat
To dummy you up for the lies which follow. apart. The smiler is
I can’t think of anything sadder than a smile. Smiles destroy your a fraud. His smile is
equilibrium. Smiles ruin your health. When you smile, you strain all the a direct betrayal of
veins in your neck, blocking the flow of blood to your brain. When you reality. Never buy a
smile, you expose your internal organs to airborne toxins. car from someone
The smile is an international symbol for ignorance. A happy face is who’s smiling. Never
a stupid face. Happiness is a sign of mental deficiency. You see a lot believe a WORD
of retarded and mentally handicapped people smiling, don’t you? that comes out of a
Ever wonder why? There’s a direct correlation. Smiles equal stupidity. smiling face.
Smiles equal complicity. Their exposed teeth represent pieces of brain A string of pearls. A row of tombstones. People resemble sharks when
matter which fell off and hardened. they smile. And as soon as you turn your back on them, they bite you.

20 ANSWER Me !
 When people smile, you smell
their breath. You feel stained
by the sulfurous molecules
SMILES streaming from their jaws.
It’s worse than any onion
or garlic or rotted broccoli.
You smell their phony egos.
Their egos need mouthwash.
I once knew a man—and I’m
overstating things to call him a man—who flashed his
pearlies from dawn ’til dusk. I worked for this man, and I’ll
call him Smilin’ Sam. He was a HELL of a smiler.
One more smile. One more foot in the grave. A step closer to cancer.
A day closer to getting shot in the head. A year away from war in the
streets. Keep smiling all the way to Armageddon. See you on the battlefield!
An old friend calls me from the East Coast. Thick words of
condescension drip from his mouth. He says the main difference between
him and me is the fact that he thinks “life is great.” Then his wife
leaves him. He cries and cries. Begs her to come back. She doesn’t.
He cries even more. Life is great.
A person should have a tooth
pulled out for every time they smile.
When they run out of teeth, wire
their jaws shut. Use the latest

ARE
advances in orthodontia to
If you stood around Sam long enough, his teeth would
STAMP OUT SMILING
have blinded you.
FACES.
People were drawn to Sam’s smilin’ teeth. They’d
I don’t like smiles, but
stand around him and smile, too. Sam’s teeth were conta- cavities are nice. Brown, dead
gious. He was invited to come and smile at social functions. teeth are OK. Gum disease is
People would clap when they saw Sam smile. His stretched lips good. Abscesses can be sweet.
Lip sores can’t hurt. Nerve damage is
pleasant. Lockjaw is worth considering. I’m
in favor of anything which destroys the integrity of the smile.
But you’ll pay for toothbrushes and dentures and crowns and caps and
braces and bloody surgery all to preserve the illusion. Fifteen thousand
dollars for a fake grin. Dentists will slice your mouth open to create the
appearance of happiness.

EVIL
A song on the small transistor radio tells me to keep on smilin’. I throw
a chair at that radio and smash it into cheap metal pieces. The man at
the delicatessen wraps Italian sausage in a piece of wax paper and tells me
I’d look prettier if I smiled. I throw a canned ham at his head. A friend
says that more people would like me if I smiled. That person isn’t a
friend anymore.
I can’t remember the last time I smiled. I’m not sure if my facial muscles
would know how to do it. So don’t come to me with your smilin’ face.
Don’t tell me the lie that your life is good. Be real and come clean with
your troubles. Admit it. You have problems. You have lots and lots and lots
and exposed gums gave people hope. If you had a problem, he had a smile of problems. You couldn’t solve your problems in ten lifetimes. Spit it out.
for you. If you were robbed at gunpoint, Sam would smile. If your dog died, Take the blame. You’re miserable. You deserved everything that happened
Sam would smile. If you were crippled for life in a train accident, to you. Have a good cry.
Sam would smile and smile at you. You’re upset, huh? Good! I’m finally smiling. ■
While Sam was smiling, he was stealing
thousands of dollars from the business and
burning holes through his nose with high-
priced L.A. coke. And despite all his smiling,
Sam was always rude and unkind to me. He
insulted the way I dressed and the way my
husband takes control of a room when he
enters it. Although Sam liked to judge others,
he was fouler than a homeless woman’s
cunt. Sam’s smilin’ fooled everyone except me.
Sam is now dying of an incurable illness.
Keep smilin’, Sam!
Yeah, keep on smilin’, you circus chimp.
Show your teeth to your master. Wear the
funny beanie. Catch the coin in the cup. Do a
back flip for me. Here’s a piece o’ sugar for
you. Now let me see that little red ass of
yours, chimpie-poo.
Show those teeth to the nice lady.
Show the last part of your body to decom-
pose after you die. Your smile will let you
down. Your smile will outlive you. You’ll be
dead, but your smiling skull will remain.

ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE 21
CHICKS MAKE ME

NERVOUS H ere a chick, there a chick, everywhere a chick-chick. Clucking

and fucking. Chirping and cheating. Peeping and weeping. Quacking
and lacking in all that’s important.
I open the door, and I see a chick. I look over my shoulder, and I
see a chick. I get on the bus, and there’s a chick in every seat.
But when I picture myself, I don’t see a chick. I have tits and a cunt,
but I think like a man. I’ve removed the chick inside and replaced it
with something more sensible.
Men make sense. Chicks make dinner. The chick has a hole,
but the chick has no soul.
Chicks make me nervous. Twats make me tense. Cunts make me
uncomfortable. Pussies piss me off. Vaginas get me violent.
Chicks make me nervous because weakness makes me nervous.
Because bullshit makes me nervous. Because it’s all an act. Chicks
are pieces of meat with decorations on them. Two bags of milk and a
bucket of fish.
Vaginas look like the melted skin on a burn victim’s face. Vaginas
look like an aerial view of a nuclear waste site. Vaginas look like
bleeding asteroids. Vaginas look like the mouths of toothless elderly
women. Vaginas look like jellified anuses. Vaginas look like rancid
antipasto. Vaginas invite trouble.
Fifty-one percent of the population, a hundred percent of the
annoyance. It’s hard for me to look at their faces without getting
nauseous. Put a bag over it, hon. Without makeup, they’re witches.
With makeup, they’re clowns.
But mention the word “rape,” and they drop the clown act.
They turn whiter than they normally are. They freeze up.
No more girlie bullshit. No more fun and games. Only sheer terror.
It’s rape. It’s time to be afraid, chicks.
Rape puts an end to the feminine charade. Rape shocks a chick
into her senses. Rape rips raw emotion out of her. Rape makes her
feel humiliated. Rape makes her suffer. Rape makes her more
down-to-earth. A chick usually likes to get the last word, but
suddenly she won’t be able to, because she’s gagging on
some evil stranger’s dick. Her mouth was made to fit that dick.
That dick was made to shut her up.

22 ANSWER Me !

This time, her red lips have no say in the matter. The horrific act
of rape—well, it’s only horrific if it’s done right—and a chick’s
lifelong memory of it will turn her into the humble bitch that she’s
supposed to be. She’ll become a baby chick again. An embr yo.
An egg. A little chickadee.
When she felt that dick reaching all the way up her spinal column,
she learned a valuable life-lesson. When she was hit hard enough to
see stars, she earned a college degree. Her eyes were opened to the
way things really are. And to the way people really are. She finally real-
izes that life really does suck. That death looks more attractive with
every day that passes. She’ll grow to be more suspicious of people—
just as she ought to be. Just as she needs to be. Just as she must be.
Her purse could have been stolen or her house set ablaze, but rape’s
so much closer to home. She remembers how the poison dripped
down from between her precious legs.
She’s changed. She won’t be showing off those legs for a while.
She’ll put off getting that manicure. She’ll cut off ties with most of her
friends and withdraw into that hole. Her entire consciousness will hide
inside that vagina. She won’t be so high-and-mighty. Suddenly, she’s
not so snobby. Suddenly, she’s not so slutty. Suddenly, she’s not such a
loudmouth. Suddenly, she has a real problem.
She wakes up in hell. She wishes that the rapist had killed her.
She realizes that she’s lost. She’s still alive and it hurts. It really hurts
this time. It’s a lot more serious than breaking a fingernail.
There’s nothing that she can do about her rape. The chick
surrenders. She’s finally defeated. The vicious brute wiped his scummy
nectar all over her face, lips, eyes, and mouth. His cum is molded into
her being. She wears his cum like a bodysuit.
ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE
Max X. Smith
Her “rape day” will be more significant than her birthday, wedding
anniversary, or Christmas. She should mark her calendar. It’s the first
time in her life that her looks, charm, and money couldn’t help her out.
Every woman should have a “rape day” to celebrate. Except me. Step
within ten feet of me, and I’ll kill you. Like I said, I think like a man.
I can only encourage the ravaged twat to realize that her rape
was the most dramatic event she’ll ever experience. It was her
highest calling. She met her Maker. She’s been to the mountain.
She’ll never top being raped.
Are you listening, guys? Don’t give her flowers. Don’t give her
chocolates. Don’t give her diamonds. Give her rape.
Make her feel like a natural woman. Take her through every
possible stage of humiliation. Make her feel properly appreciated—use
her. Make her feel good about herself—beat the shit out of her. Hit her
before you fuck her. Hit her after you fuck her. Hit her while you’re
fucking her. If a chick wants to get ahead in life, she has to be kept
down. So rape her. Pin her soul to the ground.
After her pussy’s been whipped, she won’t be such a pussy-whipper
anymore. She won’t be a chick, she’ll be a lady. She’ll know the
meaning of respect. She’ll learn the value of laughter. She’ll speak only
when spoken to. Things will be nicer for all parties concerned.
She’s lying there bleeding. Her will has been broken. Her cunt
has been smashed. Her clothes have been ripped and ruined.
She’s been fucked in her ass, punched in her face, and rubbed in the
dirt. Rape has reduced her to the garbage she truly is. She doesn’t have
that cunty tone in her voice anymore. Now she is a victim. A casualty.
A number. She no longer makes me nervous.
If I was a man, I’d be a rapist. Women are only pretty to me when
they’re in pain. Women are only interesting to me when they’re covered
with bruises. Only women bleed? Let’s hope so. ■
23
 Do you have what

The
it takes to be
Richard
Ramirez’s
girlfriend?

Nice
Stalker
Whatta hunk! Gorgeous teen idol
Richard “The Night Stalker” Ramirez
blows a kiss to his fans and promises,
“I’ll be out of jail soon!!!”

Y *
ou’re not a little girl anymore, at least Do you prefer to be called Richard or Richie?
not if you obeyed that “adults only”
thing on the front cover. Your bush What’s in a name?
is hairier, your breath smells worse, and
those tits ain’t quite as perky as they were
at age seventeen.
And since you’re now an adult woman,
* Are you seeing anybody right now?
No. Only in my dreams.
you’re having rape fantasies almost
nightly. But while you’re roaring away
with that lamp-sized vibrator, your legs
split at a 180º angle, who do you imagine
is your captor?
* What is something people would be surprised to
know about you?
That I ’m a nice stalker.

The teen idols were fine—when you were

a teen. But you’re a WOMAN now, and * What kind of clothes do you like to wear?
Jumpsuits with lots of pockets.

some little blond butter-boy just doesn’t
cut it anymore. Leave the ephemeral teen
stars to the chicken hawks. Open your legs,
close your eyes, and think about a MAN.
Richard Ramirez is a guy who’s been around the block
a few times. They say he’s fucked women after killing them,
so he just might know his way around a bedroom.
And gee willikers, do the girls go gaga over him!
*
Would you describe yourself as “girl crazy?”
Yeah, but I don’t have any time to wine
and dine them. Not crazy, just lazy.
* If you like a girl, how do you get her to notice you?
I pull out my gun.

A mutual friend (and actual necrophile) introduced

Ricky to ANSWER Me! starting with our second
issue. Some bad folks in the government say
Ramirez killed at least thirteen people, but we
* How do you feel about being a teen heartthrob?
Great. Keep the hate mail coming.

don’t believe them. Not our Ricky. He called Debbie

“radical.” Said we were “a match made in hell.”
We love him. * What do you like to do for fun?
Use drugs.
But it gets lonely year after year as you appeal your
death sentence, and Ricky’s thoughts often turn to
romance. Especially if it involves Chinese chicks who
are into bondage. Since ANSWER Me! is a magazine
about serial killers—and NOTHING BUT serial killers—
* What’s the one thing you would change
about the world if you could?
No more politicians.
Or, for that matter, government.
we felt obligated to find a girlfriend for
one of our favorites.
Ricky was nice enough to take time out
from his busy schedule and answer a few
questions through the mail. The questions
aren’t particularly original. In fact, with very
LOOK AT THOSE YUMMY EYES!
ARE THEY LOOKING AT YOU?
* What’s one thing you’d change about
yourself?
Not a damn thing, except where I’m at.
minor changes, they were all lifted directly
from a recent issue of a national teen-idol magazine.
Enjoy his whimsical answers and take a long gander at those
drop-dead photos. The next time you’re speed-buffing * How has your life changed as a result of your success?
Privacy is a thing of the past.
your clitoris to one of your many rape fantasies, is it
possible that Ricky could be the boy…for you?

24
* What’s your message to your fans?
Keep your spirit strong.

ANSWER Me !
Richie answers
the tough questions !
Take a look— do HIS
tastes match YOURS ?

Move over, Joey Lawrence!

Take a hike, Jonathan Brandis!
Suck a dick, Macaulay Culkin!
Only Richard Ramirez
gives the girls
what they deserve!

ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE 25
 D ON NY P U N K THE

WASN’T THE FIRST GUY TO GET FUCKED IN JAIL .

HE WAS MERELY THE MOST ARTICULATE .
OR AT LEAST THE MOST ARTICULATE ONE
WILLING TO TALK ABOUT IT.

S ome of our readers—and I pity them—will never be kicked in the jaw with
a hard rubber boot heel. Or bashed in the skull with a bicycle pump. Or
whipped by their parents until they can’t walk anymore.
You really don’t know what you’re missing.
Great souls rarely sprout from happy environments. While suffering may
destroy the weak, strong individuals are able to steer their misfortune toward
their own advantage. Using a kind of psychic alchemy, they’re able to take the
shit that’s been dumped on their heads and turn it into gold. Given the right
temperament, suffering can create character.
Donny the Punk has a lot of character.
He seemed to have been born with it, although he wasn’t called Donny the Punk
when he was born. That “baptism” would come three decades later. At birth, he
was named Robert Martin, Jr., son of a gung-ho Navy officer. Donny adopted the
pseudonym of Stephen Donaldson after graduating from high school. It was a
self-defining gesture. A way of reinventing himself. He does that a lot.
In 1973, when exercising your free speech carried the strong likelihood of
getting your head split open with a billy club, Donny stuck to his ideological guns.
As a former sailor who was committed to nonviolence, he said he felt a spiritual
“leading” to participate in a peaceful Quaker pray-in against the Vietnam War.
It was scheduled to be held on the White House lawn.
A true child of the times, Donny had thrown the I Ching to get a sense of what
lay ahead for the pray-in. The forecast looked like rain: Joy with coming misfortune.…
Breakthrough after a long accumulation of tension.…Resoluteness. One must
resolutely make the matter known at the court of the king. It must be announced
truthfully. Danger.… Attuning himself to the oracle, Donny felt strongly that he’d be
arrested for his nonviolent action.
As the Ancient Venerable Oriental Hexagrams of Soothsaying had predicted,
the pray-in began with a jolt of spiritual joy. Donny fairly quaked with communal love
and a sense of his own destiny. But THE MAN stepped onto the scene and busted
the pray-in. Unlike his colleagues, though, Donny refused to pay the ten-dollar bail.
He didn’t feel he had done anything wrong. A matter of principle.
It was also a factor, which he’ll readily admit, of middle-class naïveté. Donny had
been reporting on the Pentagon for the Overseas Weekly. With the unworldliness
typical of most reporters, he didn’t think twice about listing his occupation as “journalist”
when he was booked into D.C. Jail. That was his first mistake.

DONNY IN 1972: PRE-JAIL PUNK, PRE-PUNK ROCK,

YET STILL SURPRISINGLY PUNKY

26 ANSWER Me !

For a week he was assigned to one of the
jail’s cushier wings, which was stocked with a
few white-collar crooks and sexagenarian
blacks. He played chess and discussed ideology
with Watergate burglar and psychotic
ANSWER Me! hero G. Gordon Liddy. Although
Liddy couldn’t be more of a polar opposite to
Donny politically, he grudgingly gave him his
mustachioed respect. Liddy had Donny correctly
pegged as a man of action, not a follower.
Jail, however, is no place for idealism. After
seven days of relatively luxurious incarceration,
Donny still refused to foot the ten-buck bail. But
the jail cops, headed by a man with the
quintessentially coplike name of Clinton Cobb,
seemed to think that Donny was digging dirt for
a newspaper exposé on corrupt jail conditions.
Cobb called Donny to his office and firmly
suggested that he pay his ten dollars and scoot.
Donny refused. On principle. That was his
second mistake.
Clinton “Corn on the” Cobb reassigned
Donny to Cellblock 2, the jail’s most fearsome
sector. The violent wing. Where they kept the
killers and rapists, some three hundred of them
on five tiers. His ass was grass.
During what was known as “indoor recre-
ation period” on Donny’s first night in CB2, a
youth calling himself “Baseball” befriended
him. Said he’d heard that Donny was a paci-
fist. Said that he and a bunch of friends wanted
to discuss pacifism with him. Agreeing that it
was a subject worthy of serious discourse,
Donny went back to a cell with Baseball and a
group of his ideologically inclined buddies.
That was his third strike, and he got called out.
Since Donny was the one who went through
it, I’ll let him pick it up at this point.…
“Three guys were already in the cell. About five
followed after me, including Baseball. They told
me to pull my pants down, and I said,‘Hell, no!’ So
they picked me up and started banging my head
against the bunk’s steel framework. They did this
several times. Then they threw me down onto the
toilet seat. So I’m sitting there, and Baseball
swings his dick in front of my mouth and tells me
to suck it. I refused. They told me there was no
place in the prison where they couldn’t get to me,
and I knew this to be true. They said they’d kill me
I’d say overall, maybe a third of the guys went up my ass, and the rest of them got
head.…There was a lot of variation in the reaction. Some guys were really, uh,
were really rough, and they’d make racial comments, for example, ‘Your ass
belongs to the black man. Don’t you ever forget it.’ Stuff like that, you know. Other
guys would be just the opposite, they’d be callin’ me by their girlfriend’s name,
especially if they were fucking me, and they’d, like, lick the back of my neck and
they’d lick my ear lobes, which is, I guess, what they do with girls. You know, just
perceive me as a girl substitute. And some of ’em would stay inside me after they
came off for a while, which I discovered was a very welcome relief, ’cause since
they weren’t moving, it wasn’t hurting, and it kept everybody else from
gettin’ on me.”
Donny’s voice, a touch tremulous to begin with, cracks as he recounts what
happened to him twenty-one years ago. During his first night in CB2, Donny’s
virgin buns were dragged from cell to cell along the block, with an estimated
forty-five criminal cocks getting a poke at either his asshole or mouth.
Submit…or die. Which would you choose? Precisely how many dicks need
to be jammed up your ass before you bend down, pucker up, and let it in?
There is a point within most individuals where immediate bodily pain overrides
any indignities to the ego. Dick after dick was stabbing holes through Donny’s
identity. At some point during nearly four hours of jail house gang rape, he
stopped fighting.
“I went through all kinds of changes during those hours.…I had some out-of-body
experiences. There were times when I was imagining what it felt like for the guys
that were on me, you know—what was motivating them, or what did it feel like for
them? There were times when I felt like I was paying for all the sins of the white
race. There were times when I had very religious feelings, it was like this was God
Almighty, to which I could only surrender. God was represented by this eternal big
black dick. You know, because after a while, I couldn’t differentiate, really, between
one person and the next. It was just this endless big black dick that was in me.
Every last one of them. There was only one other white boy in the block, and he
was getting fucked, too.…
“There were moments, for example, where I felt I was just dead, you know, all
of my ego defenses had been totally demolished, and I had nothing left to live for,
I had nothing left to fight about, there was just nothing left. And the amazing thing
Ease on down the road with

Jail Punk
if I snitched on them, and Baseball’s hitting me on
the head, left and right. ™
“It hurt so much. There was no escape, so I
finally took his dick in my mouth, figuring it would
stop the pain. His partner was next. I think it was 100% PURE ASS GREASE
the third guy who wanted to fuck my ass, and I
still wouldn’t take my pants off, so they ripped FIELD-TESTED • NET WT. 10 OZ.
’em off and hauled me over to the bottom bunk
and stretched me out on the bottom bunk on my
stomach and put a pillow under and over my head
so that I couldn’t make any noise. And the guy
tried to fuck me, and he couldn’t get it in. And
they had to call for some grease. They greased up
my ass, and then he finally managed to get it in.

ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE 27
was that, even through all the pain and the
terror, you go into a state of total relaxation.
You know, because there’s just nothing left to
defend. You just give yourself up to the will of
God, basically, you know, ‘Into thy hands I
commend my spirit’ and all that. And that was
a very religious experience.”
Baseball and his friends, however, had other
things on their minds besides religion.
Cigarettes, to be precise. They were charging
other prisoners two packs of smokes for a
crack at Donny’s mouth or asshole. Around
ten-thirty p.m., Baseball’s crew carted Donny
off to the showers for a final round of bloody
penetration. A weaker individual may have
watched his soul swirl down the drain amid a
hailstorm of blood, cum, shit, and piss. Yet
Donny was able to find…rebirth?
“In the shower room, they had me on all fours,
front and back, and I was gettin’ it front and
back at the same time for about maybe half an
hour. And then Baseball started pissin’ on me,
and a bunch of guys followed his example. They
pissed on me, or pissed into my mouth—had
me open up my mouth and then just pissed
down my throat. And for me, this was a
welcome relief, too, because it didn’t hurt.
I was in terrible agony. My ass and my throat
were both just, just incredibly painful.
“And so when they pissed on me, it was just
like warm water, it was just like warm water
from the shower runnin’ over me, and my
whole mind, mentality, was at a very animal
level. Just very basic.”
One lucky jailbird bartered enough cancer-
sticks to get Donny’s butt for the night. And that’s
where it became even more confusing. That’s
where the pain and blood and piss became
enmeshed with seemingly incompatible things
such as warmth. And emotional release. And,
most improbably of all, affection.
“And so I ended up in somebody else’s cell after
the doors were locked. And he wanted to fuck
me, and I begged him not to do it. And he said,
‘Well, you know, I really gotta do it. But I’ll be
real quick about it.’ He was true to his word.
I mean, he came off lickety-split. Then he stayed
inside me for, I don’t know, about an hour,
I guess. He just, like, covered me up. And it was
a very strange experience. He was soothing
me. You know, I was crying. I really let go
emotionally. And yet his body warmth was,
like, enveloping me. Giving me all these very
mixed feelings. And he was saying, ‘Oh, you
know, this is just how we treat the guys on
the first night, and it won’t happen again.’
And he was trying to cheer me up. It was
very strange.”
The next day, Baseball’s team came around
and resumed batting practice. Donny
estimates that he was throat-fucked and
ass-slammed a combination of fifteen times
28
during that second day, bringing the total
number of times he’d been violated to a mind-
cracking sixty. At one point when Donny had
started gagging on all the cum he had
swallowed, his tormentors allowed him a
short break. Wearing nothing but a T-shirt, he
dove onto the catwalk and desperately scam-
pered down to the guard’s post, where a pair
of cops yanked him safely out of the block.
According to Donny, the guards then told him
he’d been set up for a righteous gang-raping
by Cap’n Cobb.
Donny later spent a week in a veteran’s
hospital recovering from rectal surgery. As he
puts it, “The government sewed up the tears in
my rectum which the government occa-
sioned.” While his ass was still torn and his
emotions still numbed, he did what no male in
American history had ever done: He
summoned a press conference and reported
that he’d been brutally raped while in jail. He
also demanded to know why no one seemed
accountable for what had happened to him.
His unprecedented proclamation attracted
quite a few bushels of media attention,
although prison officials didn’t seem to
care a whit.
Donny was acquitted of charges relating to
the pray-in. Over the next three years, he
struggled to proceed with the scraps that
remained of his life. And he remained
idealistic. In late 1976, he was a graduate
student of religion at Columbia University.
While driving south toward Florida, where his
mother lay in a fresh grave after committing
DONNY IN PRISON, 1982:
HEY, WHAT’S THAT JAIL PUNK
LISTENING TO ON HIS WALKMAN?
COULD IT BE…PUNK ROCK?
suicide, he stopped in a hard-nosed Marine
town called Jacksonville, North Carolina. After
an evening stroll through the enchanting urban
hub, Donny paused to take a leak in his motel
parking lot. And the cops watched every
drop. Busted again. They searched his motel
room and found a half-ounce of weed.
As fate’s spidery strands would have it,
Donny found himself a lone ex-sailor in a cell-
block comprised of twelve Marines. Eleven of
them—the first seven black, the last four
white—raped him that night. It was déjà vu of
the worst possible sort. It was also the begin-
ning of a strange socialization process.
“I was quite paralyzed. Psychologically, the
trauma of D.C. Jail flooded back into my
consciousness, and I was just shaking. No way
to resist it. So the first night was pretty grim.
Then the next morning, the four white Marines
came up to me in a group and said, ‘You’re
movin’ in with us.’ Like that. So I figured,
‘What the hell? I might as well.’ So they moved
me into their cell. There were five of us in a
four-man cell. And they took turns sleepin’
on the floor, keeping everybody else out.…
“And essentially, they taught me the role of
jail punk. You know, they protected me from
everybody else. If I went to the shower, I had
a four-man Marine escort taking me to the
shower. They brought my food in trays to me.
If I needed stamps, they gave them to me.
Anything I needed, they got it for me. And they
never said anything to put me down. Never
once. Which amazed me.…
“We just stayed in that cell twenty-four
hours a day, and these guys, being nineteen,
twenty, two of them twenty-one—the horniest
time of their life—they, you know, were bored
all of the time. And the way they would deal
with their boredom was to have sex with me.
So I must have spent half of my time in those
three weeks with some Marine dick in me.
One end or the other. There was one of them
who liked to fuck me, but the other three were
oral. And they would do some things to me
that, in my head, were pretty strange. Again,
contrasting it with the D.C. experience. Like
Dan, who was kind of put in charge of me—he
would sit up in his bunk reading cowboy stories,
right? And he’d have me lie down with my head
in his lap and he’d stroke my head. Just not
doing anything sexually. And I asked him,‘Why
do you do this?’ And he said, ‘Well, this is what
I do with my girlfriend back home. So I reckon
if you’re gonna be our girlfriend here, I’ll do
the same thing with you.’ ”
Whether you consider it a defloration or a
blossoming, Donny’s psychic transformation
was complete. He was turned out. Punked
out. He accepted the role of punk as his
preordained position in the jail hierarchy.
Yes, it required his debasement, but it also
insured his survival. And he soon began to
approach his role with the same fervor he had
applied to life outside the joint. The same
concentration. The same quiet devotion.
ANSWER Me !
“One of the things that you have to realize
is that when you spend hour after hour in
intimate contact with people, things happen.
First of all, you have to relax eventually. You just
have to. Time and fatigue will do that. When
you relax, you develop an awareness of other
things going on, and this is when I really started
becoming aware of intimacy and body warmth
and closeness and stuff like that.
“Um, having a guy’s dick in your mouth for
an hour or two, you know, you connect with
that guy, I mean, I don’t care how you feel
about it when you start out. It’s so close, and
there’s this incredibly intense nonverbal
communication. I discovered after learning to
relax that I became very good at giving head,
at giving deep throat. And all you had to do
was just go into a certain total relaxation,
which my Buddhist meditation had prepared
me for. I’d just meditate. I discovered that
they could throat me for hours on end—I
mean, they were in heaven. It was the most
wonderful thing that had happened since
they were locked up. And they got very
grateful and cherished the experience.”
And Donny learned to cherish the experience
as well. He was totally protected against
strangers by four strong, well-trained fighters.
He had perfected his role. He was needed.
He knew what was expected of him, and he
was able to deliver total satisfaction. As
incomprehensible as it may seem to an
outsider, the jail’s clearly delineated social
structure met Donny’s needs better than the
murky human cesspool which lay outside the
hoosegow walls.
Released from jail and acquitted in North
Carolina, Donny went back to school.
After intentionally cutting his wrist, he
returned to his hometown of Norfolk, Virginia,
and tried to get arrested. Donny was finally
nailed in May of ‘77 for selling acid to an
undercover Norfolk piggy. He was sent back
to jail. And he kissed the blues goodbye.
“I wasn’t very good at resisting pressure by
now. I didn’t want to go through another gang
rape. So I basically agreed with guys who were
putting pressure on me to give them what
they wanted. And there, the pattern was
buddies—pairs of buddies—would take me,
and they’d get in a dormitory bunk and hang
sheets on both sides of the bunk so nobody
could see in, and one would fuck me in the ass
and one in the mouth at the same time.
And they’d watch each other, right, and I
could feel the energy going through me
[laughs], back and forth between the two of
them. It was quite somethin’. It was, like,
here are these really close buddies, close
friends, and here they get a chance to sort of
be sexual with each other without either one
being in the subordinate role.”
But someone eventually snitched on Donny’s
“buddy system,” which got Donny classified
as a “protective custody” case and sent to an
area where prison officials kept the lambs,
ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE
those most vulnerable to attack. In another
vicious paradox, it was also where they kept
the wolves, the prisoners most likely to commit
violence against others. During his first night
in the segregation area, Donny was assigned
to a cell with three black inmates, who raped
him. He was later told that the trio had paid
the guards five dollars to switch him into their
cell. This was not a matter of consent. No
role-playing here. It was D.C. Jail all over
again. Donny couldn’t bear his boiling
indignation. After being physically subdued,
submerged in their sweat and cum, Donny
started swinging with his fists the moment
his attackers relented.
Police dragged him away and chucked him
into solitary confinement. After five days in
the hole, he was returned to the segregation
area. A prisoner named Terry recognized
him as the cops brought Donny into his cell.
“Look,” Terry said to his cellmates, “it’s
Donny, the punk.” Robert Martin, Jr., a k a
Stephen Donaldson, finally had a name for his
new identity.
“And so I was in there now with a bunch of
white guys, and Terry put a claim on me, and
he became my man for, I guess, another
two-and-a-half months. He was a burglar from
Texas who had grown up in the circus—really
fascinating kid. Twenty-one-year-old sailor.
And he was very nice to me. Like, whenever
he got some pot, he’d always share it with me.
He had one really peculiar custom. Any time
he had to take a piss, he would make me
open my mouth, and he’d piss in my mouth.
DONNY IN 1994:
OUT OF JAIL, BUT
PERMANENTLY PUNKED-OUT
I thought, ‘Well, this is really hard to under-
stand. Why does he want me to do this?’ And
in the absence of privacy, he wouldn’t talk
about it.
“So eventually, you know, I put two and two
together. Terry and I were very stable in
that cell, but with the other two bunks, it
was a constant flow of people in and out.
And whenever somebody was moved in there,
one of the first things that they would
experience, that they’d see, was this really,
really tough guy—Terry—making me drink his
piss. And they’d get freaked out and totally
intimidated, and they never challenged him.
He never had to fight in that cell. Everybody
regarded him as the king. It was a totally
effective tactic. As soon as I caught on to it,
and I realized that my security was also being
secured the same way because it depended on
his, then I was able to appreciate it. It still
wasn’t easy, but it developed over time into
something more like a bond between us.…
“It became almost like a gift, and usually
when I would do it with my man, our eyes would
be locked and I would be looking up at him.
It was a symbolic reaffirmation of the whole
role of him being on top and me being the
submissive punk, you know, but relating to
each other. Not being an object.…”
Donny’s saga is, I suppose, a classic
demonstration of what the lefties call “not
being identified by your oppressor.” He has
taken the word “punk,” which in its nonmusi-
cal context has always been a term of deri-
sion, and turned it into an emblem of honor.
He has performed the same etymological
magic trick that others have done with the
term “nigger.” Or “queer.” Or “white trash.”
Donny even wears a “PUNK” belt buckle. He
owns a T-shirt which says “#1 JAIL PUNK” on
the front and lists all the joints he’s “toured”
on the back.
And ever since he got out of Norfolk jail,
his criminal charges dropped when the
arresting officer committed suicide, Donny
has strongly identified with punk rock. But
where everyone else’s elocution places the
emphasis on the “rock”—punk ROCK—
Donny’s the only person I’ve ever heard who
stresses the first word. PUNK rock. The song
which turned him on to punk rock was a song
about a punk—Patti Smith’s “Horses,” which
deals with a boy who gets raped in front of a
school locker.
“When I’m having sex with a guy, I don’t get
aroused. I don’t get a hard-on.…But there are
other aspects of it that I definitely will relate
to and that I find fulfilling—the warmth, the
intimacy, the intensity. The real intensity of
it is something that appeals to me a great deal.
My whole life is like that. That’s one reason I’m
a punk rocker. And, you know, I like to live
intensely. And it involves a lot of suffering.
It also involves a lot of joy. I’d much rather have
that than this kind of even, suburban lifestyle,
you know, where the worst thing you have to
worry about is whether you’re going to miss your
favorite TV show or not. That appeals to me.”
29
Ah, intensity. The finest character trait of them
all. It’s better to be intense than even-tempered,
no matter how wacky you appear to the Great
Ugly Flock. Intensity spawns greatness. Viva
intensidad!
Yet intensity, like the suffering which often
produces it, can be fatal if improperly chan-
neled. In March, 1980, Donny was feeling
plenty intense. In behavior customary of male
rape survivors, he had become hyper-macho:
Donny had guns, leather, and connections with
an armed underground anarchist cell.
Although he still had never been convicted of
any crime, Donny had endured three
traumatic stints behind bars.
And he was now jobless. And his living
quarters were burglarized twice prior to that
decisive day when he wandered into the
Bronx’s Veteran’s Administration Hospital and
demanded medical treatment. They turned
him away, so Donny came back with a
.25-caliber pistol and repeated his request.
“Oh, put away that toy,” Donny quotes the
female doctor as saying. “That isn’t a real
gun.” Although the doctor didn’t know it,
she was effectively stating that Donny was
dickless. To prove that he wasn’t, Donny shot
a bullet through a hospital window.
For that manly demonstration, Donny spent
four years in the federal pen, during which he
estimates he was raped another five times.
For most of his stay, though, he was hooked
up with daddies who kept him safe in
exchange for sexual compliance. And he
speaks of those daddies with the fondness
usually reserved for dearly departed friends.
Permit a meat-eater from Philadelphia (by
reputation, the U.S.A.’s jail-rape capital)
to offer a capsule synopsis of Eastern
philosophy: Reality is quite the multilayered
onion, and seeming contradictions can there-
fore coexist peacefully. I believe that’s why
Donny, whose answering-machine message
includes a line about how he may be too busy
reciting his mantra to pick up the receiver, is
able to reconcile his life’s apparent conun-
drums. On one hand, he speaks of his time in
prison almost like a former high-school foot-
ball star talks about his glory days. “I was a
star alright,” he says, “a star cocksucker.”
On the other hand, Donny is America’s
most persistently eloquent opponent of institu-
tionalized prison rape. In 1988, Donny
became president of a grass-roots group
which he later re-christened as Stop Prison
Rape. Instead of shooting at windows or
selling acid to the fuzz, Donny now uses that
well-developed cauliflower between his ears
to push for social change.
And it’s difficult to argue with his gentle,
Yoda-like wisdom. The facts are hard to
dispute. Based on inferences drawn from
official reports, some three hundred thousand
men and boys are raped yearly in American
penological institutions. But no judge has
ever officially declared rape to be a suitable
punishment for any crime.
30
Donny’s “resoluteness,” as foreshadowed
in the I Ching, is finally beginning to show
results. Influenced by a friend-of-the-court
brief filed by Donny, the U.S. Supreme Court
recently recognized inmates’ right to sue the
government if they can prove they were
“incarcerated under conditions posing a
substantial risk of serious harm.” The nine old
black-robed bastards also unanimously
agreed that prison rape “is simply not part
of the penalty” for having committed a crime.
Donny successfully ass-fucked the legal code.
Mr. Punk Goes to Washington.
But the laws are easier to change than
social prejudice. For the longest time,
Americans have preferred to pretend that
prison rape doesn’t exist. When the topic is
broached at all, it’s treated either comically or
vindictively. It’s either “watch that bar of
soap” or “serves you right.”
During a recent appearance on L.A.’s
annoying “John and Ken” radio show, Donny
was buffeted with the hostility of howling
bitches who wanted to claim rape as their
exclusive domain. As I listened to him being
verbally gang-raped by a willfully dumb
opposition, Donny’s quest never seemed
more quixotic. Yet through it all, he
countered their mob-mentality ignorance
with unassailable logic.
“There’s always a reason for everything. Most
of the feminist activists in the rape movement
are themselves rape survivors, and they have
a very strong emotional reaction to men as a
result. Which I can understand. That’s because
they’re middle-class intellectuals. Most middle-
class intellectuals cannot deal with their
emotions. They pervert them into their logic.…
“In my case, I mean, I’m unusual. I mean, I
have an IQ of over 175, and I can take things
that a lot of guys can’t handle, and I can see
them from different angles and work with
them and deal with them, transform them,
transmute them. And I’ve done that. That’s
the only way I can continue to operate in
public on this subject, because it still causes
me problems.”
I’m not about to pretend that I’ve experienced
the level of pain which Donny has. Yet I keep
thinking back to a nightmare I had when I
was about five years old. It’s the most vivid
dream of my life.
It came in two quick segments, each lasting
about fifteen seconds. In the first, my sister
and I were crossing a Vermont wheat field on
our way to a little red schoolhouse when we
were stopped by a life-sized cartoon-character
wolf. Grinning, the wolf applied a sheet of
sticky flypaper to my face and peeled it away.
My face was now smooth and featureless, like
a fencer’s mask. When I looked down at the
flypaper in the wolf’s hand, it contained my
face’s image. The wolf had stolen my face.
Fade-out.
As the dream resumed, I saw myself sleep-
ing in the living room of my grandmother’s
Pappy Yokum-style Vermont shack. It was very
dark. The sparse moonlight which filtered in
through the unlocked screen door cast some
milky rays on other relatives in the room, all of
them wearing earplugs and snoring loudly.
Suddenly, the cartoon wolf, his eyes big and
white, appeared at the door. I screamed at
the top of my kindergartener’s lungs. But since
all my relatives had chosen to wear
earplugs, they couldn’t hear me. My family’s
indifference was more terrifying to me than
the prospect of being attacked.
In a sense, Donny’s still screaming, although
very few people want to hear about it.
“I have dreams about jails probably about once
every two weeks. They usually involve me
coming into a cellblock and being surrounded
by horny guys. And people approaching me,
talking with me, very often welcoming me.
Sort of, you know, ‘Welcome home.’ And I
wake up before, usually before, anything
actually sexual occurs. But it’s very strange.
It’s not a typical jail nightmare the way most
rape survivors have reported it. And part of
that is, what I’ve done is taken the more
comfortable memories and superimposed
them over the traumatic memories, which is a
very human response.…
“And it has its drawbacks—in my case, it’s
almost made me nostalgic for jail, because
I had such good relationships when I was
hooked up. Then I forget about all of the
horrible things that happened to me when I
was independent, and I just think about the
relationships. Especially when I get lonely, late
at night, if I’m here alone with my cat, if I get
very depressed, and my mind wanders and I
think of, gee, you know, these guys that really,
really appreciated me. You know, they cared
for me. And I contrast that with, you know,
this cold life here in New York City, where
even the punks that say hello to you, you know,
as soon as the show’s over, everybody scatters
in a hundred directions. So jail is a temptation
that I have to fight, a temptation which exists
only because none of the guys who owned me
ever mistreated me. And that makes me very
different from most punks.…
“I know how atypical, in a sense, my jail
experience has been. I’m more sophisticated
and more adaptable, you know, more mentally
flexible. And by spiritualizing the whole thing.
For example, I’ve gotten into Shiva Hinduism
from Buddhism, in part because there’s a very
strong phallic-worship tradition there. And I
can relate to that. I can relate to the phallus as
the symbol of total power, of creativity, and
see how it emanates a sense of awe, which is
the basic feeling of religion. You know, the
uncanny. The awesome. The hallowed. All the
feelings that have nothing to do with good and
evil.…Just this sense of incredible power, this
overwhelming energy that is so other, so totally
other, and yet it touches you so closely inside.
That’s religion.” ■
ANSWER Me !
ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE 31
O
In wide, loopy handwriting which slanted to the left, Rob made
nce in a great wide strip of time, we’ll get a letter that just no secret of the fact that he hated women. Every drop of ink on
glimmers with drama. Something which fairly radiates above every page he wrote was a sour, poisonous indictment of cunthood.
the dull white mail pile. There’s a certain GLEAM in the ragged, It was truly eyeball-blasting prose which glistened with loathing.
unhinged penmanship. An easy, offhanded brutality to the writing. There was a pungency to his misogyny unlike any I had ever
An unpremeditated preoccupation with forbidden subject matter. smelled. A rank, weevily tenor to his hatred. A gaminess.
Maybe they’ll send pictures. Or ass hairs. Or things which are better An unblinking harshness. Brutish. Ugly. Crude. Vulgar. Unpolished.
left unmentioned. We know we’ve made Rob also exuded the mommy-hatred which I prize so highly.
a friend. There was a psychosexual malice in his letters and poetry which
Most of the prisoners who write to us made me wonder if rape had been a part of his crimes. So I
turn out to be leeches who want free wrote and asked him.
magazines. Free stamps. Free money. Rob fired a letter back quickly. He told me he had raped six
They get nothing. I usually make an women and that “each time it got a little more violent!” His final two
exception, however, when the mail rapes, which included one murder, were barbarous enough to earn
comes from Death Row. The guys on him the death penalty. He seemed to fit the classic rapist’s profile.
the Row have made the crucial distinction All the elements were there, in near-stereotypical abundance: an
between neurosis and psychosis, falling unloving, backwoods, po’-white existence. Rob lost his virginity to his
safely on the psychotic side. They are mother. His father fucked his sister. And as he got older, he
practitioners, not theorists. They get learned that he liked to control his girlfriends. It turned from
free magazines. mind games to violence, from violence to murder.
“Dear dead ANSWER Me!” read I liked Rob because he was White Trash Like Me,
Rob’s first letter to us, sent in January, a shanty baby from Western Pennsylvania, the other
1994, “I am a 29-year-old convicted side of my home state. He had a raw, ugly,
murderer here in Pittsburgh’s non-mediagenic quality. A homeliness. An inelegance.
Maximum Security Hell! Being on Death Row, I I pictured a common—VERY common—Joe.
don’t get to talk to too many people about my
A giant, stretch-lipped grin with broken teeth.
fascination for snuffing people for fun!” Rob
A bruiser. Sweat and shit. Bathtub
got a free copy of our third issue.
speed, biker skanks, manual labor, and
And he sent eight more let-
dirty, white-boy armpits.
ters, each of them escalating
There was no way out for Rob.
in severity. Pitching himself
as an ANSWER Me! His shattered family
writer, he also predetermined his
began sending us hopeless life. He didn’t
unsolicited poems of give a fuck about the
sexual insanity. And world, and the world
highly rancid ink returned the favor.
drawings of rape
scenarios in which
the attacker’s face
was always
obscured.

32 ANSWER Me !
He was a fist-fucker of society. A man
removed from the entire social swamp. He
could only comment about the world,
never belong to it.
And somewhere in his frustrated young
life, he had lost the distinction between sex
and violence. Rob was someone who had
tasted it. And who liked what he tasted and
wanted to kill more. But now that he was
locked up and no longer able to do it, he
liked to think about it and write about it
and draw it. He approached his “art” with
the same lupine zeal that he had committed
his crimes.
To my mind, Rob seemed born with the gift
of detachment, the rare ability to scrutinize
his own sickness. He loved to write about
what he’d done, and he’d dwell on the small,
excruciating details. He seemed as if he
had never really unloaded on anyone about
his crimes, and I got the feeling that we were
going to be the first. He had an enthusiasm.
An eagerness. He wanted to talk. He was
a friggin’ blabbermouth. The stuff of which
ANSWER Me! interviewees are made.
I wrote him again and asked if he’d like to
do an interview. I even offered to pay him our
piddling contributor’s fee of fifty bucks for his
drawings. He jet-propelled his affirmative
answer back to me: “I’ll do my best to
enlighten the readers of your mag on the
pleasures of forceful fucking!” He also solic-
ited our renowned skills at matchmaking:
“If you come across any ladies out there who drinking and beating on my mother. I have one What don’t people understand about you?
feel the way I do, have them sling me some sister who is 4 years older than me. I am 29. My What’s wrong with people in general? More
ink.…Give my best to Deb!!” father was really into sex. I can remember stand- specifically, what don’t women understand
Rob answered my questions in a nine-page ing at my parents’ bedroom door, watching them about you?
handwritten letter. If I had asked him a
fuck, then he began taking an interest in my sis- People don’t understand that I am a really pissed-
thousand questions, I think he would have
ter. By the time she was 15 he was fucking her! I off person, some people can sit with their anger
answered them all. In the interest of and rage. I have to take it out on someone, people
journalistic integrity, I’ve carefully preserved
always hated my mother because she knew, and
don’t see that [the] world is fucked-up and I do
all of Rob’s multitudinous TYPOS in their never stopped him, if she said anything he would
what I want!
original form. Although he was no beat her! As a kid, dad would let me watch porno
Women? They don’t understand me at all,
grammarian, he wrote with undeniable movies, always S-M bondage type. I remember
before I came to prison I was a wild guy, always
passion. We were going to use his real that I began to get excited from them. He died
on the edge, women always look at me and say,
name, but we chose to give him a when I was 15, the same year my sister married he’s too wild-looking. Or he has tattoos, he’s dan-
pseudonym. Later you’ll find out why. out and my mother began to molest me, little gerous. Women would always say, Rob, you
things at first like having me lie in bed beside her should settle down, they couldn’t see that I love
while she fingered herself, it eventually led to the wild, dangerous, on-the-edge life!
What comes to mind when you hear the
oral sex then to me whipping her with a belt, then
word “women?”
to me fucking her! This went on for two years Do you consider yourself angry? Unhappy?
Sex and violence come to my mind when I hear
until at 17 I left home and I haven’t been back yet! If so, and if you think these are chronic
the word women!
problems, what would it take to rid yourself
Women always act like just because they have
First sexual experience? First girlfriend? of these feelings?
a cunt, they can control men and manipulate!
First time you fused sex with violence? I consider myself a very angry person, anger has
My first sexual experience was with my mother always been my best friend, I don’t think it is a
Tell me about your home life as a kid,
focusing on events which you think may at age 15, my first real girlfriend was a girl I met curable problem, the only way to control it is to
have contributed to your later “criminal” when I was 17, and a runaway. That was also my act it out on someone, counselors are full of shit,
acts. If you grew up with both parents, tell first angry, violent sexual experience, I tied her rage can’t be cured, in some people it can be
me about both. to the bed and every time she said stop I slapped eased or controlled, but not me!
I grew up in Beaver County [PA], Raccoon her, when I got bored with hitting her I untied
Township to be specific, city people refer to it as her, she stayed with me for a year and she began Tell me about the first time you raped
the Boonies, my father was an alcoholic, always loving me beating her!! She was wild! someone—not just the specifics, but also

ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE 33

ROB’S POE TRY
Women Haters!
Y ea, that is what they call us who
have raped and killed.
They are so blind
I don’t hate them, I love them.
I love them when they Beg!
I love them when they Cry!
I love them when they Bleed!
And I love them when they die!
Society doesn’t understand me and
I don’t expect them too! I see these
little cunts walking around in
these come fuck me jeans, skirts
and tops, and everyman who sees
them says to himself, man I would
love to fuck her!
that’s the difference between them and
me.
I don’t say anything, I wait for the
night time and take her!
What good is a fantasy, if you are
afraid to live it?
no, I don’t hate them
I love them.
Rage
I feel it mostly when I first wake
up, the sound of heavy keys, doors
made of steel being slammed shut,
then the voices Begin, Mr Steele it’s
shower time, Mr Steele it’s chow time,
they stand at my cell, smileing, their
shit eating grins, feeding my hatred.
How I so much want to Kill them,
to torture them slowly, the same way
I am being Killed in this cage,
they are afraid of me, they always
Come in pairs of 2, I see the fear
in their faces, they know I would
rip their fucking eyeballs out if
I had the chance, …
now I feel the rage Beginining to
Build up, suddenly my hands
Begin to shake, my fist clench
so tight my Knuckles turn white,
I can taste their Blood
in my mouth, feel their guts in
my hands, ah yes this is the
shit I wake up to Everyday,
good morning rage!!!
Untitled 1-5
T o kill, you must hate
for me it’s no problem, I hate,
my body gives off violence like
shit stinks.
I love killing, it feeds my mind
I wish I could kill all the mind-
fucked lames out there,
they locked me up just at the
time that I was Begining to
experience the ecstasy of Killing,
I was on my way to being the
next Superman, and shopping
malls were looking really good!
mother fuckers, die.
spit, spit, spit, goes my mac 10,
these people won’t shop anymore!
no one gets out alive,
toys R us, fuck you, die.
now I sit in this cell, Building
up hatred and rage.
they will never let me out, I am
the one they fear,
But not to worry, someone will
take over where I left off!
I remember how mommy used to
do the things she did to me.
using clothes pins, and sometimes
razors,
how I would try and scream
the Bitch deserves what she got
I could of, ya know
34
what was going on inside your head.
I still see her face, contorted in
pain as I sliced little tiny strips The first time I raped someone I was 18 years old,
of flesh from her tits
the Blood didn’t Bother me, it was
I was at a swimming party at a friend’s house, I
fun to paint on the walls with.
Even did a nice portrait of mom,
saw this sexy girl. But when I asked her if she
wanted to go for a walk, she said hell no, then I
fucking whore!
I made her pay, shoved a heard her tell some girl I was really ugly and
Baseball Bat up her ass, she looked
so good I had to fuck her! she wouldn’t touch me for anything. I remember
But first I poked at her eyes
with needles! die Bitch die getting pissed and wanting to punch her, but I
after I had fun with her, I did it! spiked her drink, and when she began to get
She should never have used
those toys the way she did fucked-up, I persuaded her to go for a walk, when
Now mommy’s dead and
I can play like I always wanted! I tried to kiss her she said no, so I slapped her,
she said she was going back so I grabbed her and
I
t happened today put a knife to her throat, I remember feeling so
they Buried her,
after so many days of me sneaking powerfull, here was the girl who said I was ugly.
in to see her, to taste her and to fuck
her. Begging me not to hurt her. I made her blow
I miss her so much, sure there will me, then I fucked her in the ass!
Be another one pretty soon.
My father will dress her up real nice
so her family can look at her in Tell me about the subsequent rapes—spare
the casket, one last time,
But when daddy leaves, I will no gruesome detail, PLEASE—and tell me
sneak in the back and play with her. why you think it got more violent each
cool how it makes me hard to
lick her dead face, she’s so good- time. Focus on the victims’ reactions, and
looking too. Bad father left the
stitches so big up her body. I think
he comes here to see her too,
also on how you reacted to their reactions.
Was it better for you if they struggled?
one day I came to visit she was
all wet, um, I feel her cunt, I After that, every women I saw I wanted to rape
need her to love me, I see she’s them, the second thru fourth rapes were basically
not the same as the last one.
it’s too bad they buried her today! the same as the first, me seeing a girl at a party,
then persuading her to leave, when she resisted,
L ast night I dreamed about her
you know,
I would force her to go and rape her! I loved to
the last one I did it to see them cry and beg, when they showed fear I
She was so afraid, I loved it got more excited, and to git more fear from them
I watched the little tears roll
down her face, so helpless I began to hurt them, burning their nipples with
tied to the bed
she knew I would use the knife cigarettes, slapping them, anything to git more
the way she sobbed as I gently
ran the shiny blade over
fear from them, my 4th rape, I cut the girl’s tit
her skin with a knife, when I saw her blood I got even
she begged to me, not to hurt
her more excited, rubbed my cock with blood then
that did it slice
a nice cut across the left tit made her blow me! I like them to struggle, the
blood is so bright-looking more the better. The 5th women I raped strug-
she’s really hurting now,
I best fuck her before I git carried
away
gled really hard, so I beat her really bad until she
soon she will git to feel all of
my rage
begged me to stop, then I fucked her in the ass, I
had the knife in my hand and as I fucked her, I
everything that has ever pissed
me off will be given to her. got really pissed off, because she was crying and
my knife will become my cock
and I will fuck her to death. making a lot of noise, so just before I came, I
ha!
stabbed her in the back, she screamed and I slit
T he act of rapeing is very powerful
because you are taking something
her throat, then I left her! When I got back to my
place, I masturbated while I pictured her scream-
by force. sex for me isn’t
even the least bit exciting ing, bleeding and dying, the next day a friend told
unless I am making her
feel pain, me I was being looked for in connection of a
unless she shows me she
is hurting I have no interest,
rape/murder, that night I followed a 28-year-old
she becomes the outlet for my lady to her apartment and forced my way inside,
rage and hatred.
and I sho her no mercy. where I tied her to the bed and fucked her repeat-
feel it, Bitch, feel the hurt
Experience my hate.
edly, and then stabbed her 26 times!
at first it was just giving
a little pain. But soon the
need got greater, sometimes This may sound naive, but there’s an old
I don’t even feel like fucking cliché, “You can’t thread a moving needle.”
her.
How did you get them to sit still in order to
the pleasure comes from seeing
her twitch and struggle, to beg
for her life, while just hours
complete the act? Were they wet? Was it
before she would have looked at better for you if they were dry? Did any of
me and said fuck off! them give you an indication that they
now I’m in control, it’s my game.
I make the rules. enjoyed it?
and when the game is over
you die!!
To get them to sit still, or stop struggling, all it
took was some pain, a pinch, slap, or cut, then
ANSWER Me !
they did as I said. None of the girls I raped gave
a indication that they enjoyed it! It didn’t matter
to me if they were wet or dry—only that they
showed fear!
Do you think some women ask to be raped?
Do you think some of them enjoy it? Do you
think some of them fantasize about it?
Yes, I feel some women asked to be raped, they
walk around with short-shorts, flashing there
cunts and then tell guys to fuck off! Yea, they
ask for it!
I know some do fantasize and enjoy being
raped! I write to 2 women now who have fantasies
of being raped by force, I think there are a lot
more out there who would like it!
When, where, and how did you get busted
for the “crimes” which sent you to the Row?
Was there media hype involved? What
specifically were the charges, and how was
the trial? Were any family members there
to support you?
I was arrested in 1988 for 2 counts each of
murder and rape, one count of robbery, they
busted me in South Caralina for a robbery and
thru N.C.I.C., they found I was wanted in PA
for murder/rape! Of course, PA extradited me,
and the whole jail process began! The media
really didn’t make a big thing of it, I was in the
papers twice, the trial was an annonamaus
decision, based on DNA tests, it was basically cut
and dried, PA tries to cover up any real crimes
here as far as the media goes, they are afraid it
will give them a bad rep.
No family members were there, my sister
wanted to come to the trial, but I told her not too,
I didn’t want her being hounded by press!
Any remorse? Why or why not?
The only remorse I have is I am in prison and will
probably be killed by the fucked up death penal-
ty laws! That’s the only remorse I have, as for the
victims, I only wish there were more!!!
Tell me how the first week would go if you
got out of prison tomorrow.
What would I do if I got out of prison tomorrow?
3 things, 1) get stoned and drunk, 2.) Buy a gun
or knife! 3.) go on a rapeing spree that would ter-
rorize PA.!!!
Like I had said, Rob seemed to be the classic
rapist. In fact, his answers were a little too
stereotypical for our comfort. So Debbie
called the state prison in Pittsburgh where he
was being held just to verify that Rob was
who he said he was.
He wasn’t. Instead of waiting to be execut-
ed for a savage rape-slaying, Rob was almost
finished with a thirty-month sentence for
robbery. I wrote back to Rob and asked what
was up. “I don’t know where your info came
from, but someone’s pulling your dick,”
was his response. He seemed especially
concerned about getting his measly fifty
bucks. Yeah, someone was pulling my dick.
Rob had pulled it all the way to Pittsburgh.
And that was the last I heard from Rob.
I really don’t know whether he ever raped
anyone or not, only that he’s not on Death
Row and that he wasn’t sentenced for rape. In
fact, we called back before we went to press,
and it turns out that Rob had been paroled
on July 5, 1994. Perhaps he’ll feel the need to
prove himself. Maybe he will go on a “rapeing
spree” after all. He certainly has an active
imagination, and he’s already an ace at the
self-mythology game. What’s important is
that he wants to be a rapist. And he wants
to be THOUGHT OF as a rapist. He’s
already taken the first couple of steps.
But for now, Rob only wanted his fifty bucks
and his fifteen minutes. I think he would have
said anything to get us to like him. It must
be the saddest of all worlds—you wanna be
a rapist, but you’re only a robber. ■

What are your experiences concerning rape

in prison?
I really haven’t had problems here in prison, rape
is considered OK among convicts the only ones
hated are the child-molesters, there are a lot of
people here for rape so it’s pretty much accepted,
as for rapes that occur here in the prison, yea it
happens. I’m locked up twenty-three hours a day,
so I don’t see much!

Describe as best you can “the pleasures of

forceful fucking.” Why is it better than
fucking with consent? Did your pleasure
increase with the victim’s displeasure?
The pleasures I got from rapeing is hard to
describe. I got pleasure because, I was in control,
it’s all about control, it’s more a powerfull feeling,
it’s better than consenting fucking because, if ya
want to fuck her in the ass, ya do it she doesn’t or
can’t say no, you can do all those kinky things
you couldn’t usually do!
The more they hurt, the better!

ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE 35
36 ANSWER Me !
ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE 37
W
omen are only good for fucking and beating. When
you get tired of fucking them, there’s only one thing left to do.
After you fuck them, they start talking. That’s when you beat
them. They all talk too much, especially when you don’t want
to hear it.
And what do they talk about? Violence toward women. But they
fail to realize that their whining is what provokes most of the
violence. They don’t understand what their eternal screeching
does to men. Shut up! We don’t need to hit you. Just shut
your mouths.
One simple rule, guys—the first time she gives you some lip,
bust it open WIDE. She won’t talk shit again. Not if she’s smart,
she won’t. Smack her mouth so hard, she won’t be able to
open it for a month. It’s difficult to bitch and moan and nag
38
with a broken jaw, isn’t it? Your fists are a judge’s gavels. When
she’s in contempt, pound down on her until there’s order in the
court. Don’t let her get away. Make her pay for being a woman.
Such a sweet little girl. So annoying. Daddy’s little snookums.
Now you’re wiping the blood off your mouth. What would your
father say if he saw me smack the snot out of your nose and onto
the walls? Would he cry? Would he call the cops? He’d better
not—I’ll snatch that wooden cane out of his hand and beat him to
death. Your brother says he wants to kick my ass? Let him try it.
Let him just fucking TRY it. Tell him to bring his friends, too, ‘cause
I’m in a killing mood. Oh—you want to start shit yourself? Very
funny. You’re a woman. You hit like a girl.
I like to punch women and kick them and shove them up against
walls. I like grabbing them by their pretty hair and swinging them
into door frames, rubbing their noses in the carpet like they’re
puppies, dragging them into the bathroom and half-drowning
them in the toilet. Sinks—either bathroom or kitchen sinks—are
real good, because you can knock out a whole row of teeth when
you slam a woman’s face into one. Watch all the gooey blood
dripping on the white porcelain. It’s a real treat.
I destroy everything that’s important to women. I smash their
glass figurines and rip the stuffing out of their teddy bears. Then I
shred their love letters into little ribbons as they watch and cry.
The only solution to the female problem? Loutish, piglike, male
FORCE. Ain’t nothing wrong with women that a good backhand
won’t solve. Punch her in the stomach until she doubles over and
wheezes. Crush her nose with one shot. Throw her up against
your fish tank. Break things. Break everything. Smash
telephones, destroy appliances, and kick down doors. Neighbors
will call the cops. Shout threats to her as they hustle you into a
squad car. She takes out a restraining order. That won’t stop you.
Women are on the RECEIVING end, and we all know ‘tis
better to give. Females are egg-bearing brine shrimp. Sex objects.
Men are the nouns. Fucking is the verb. Women are the direct
OBJECTS. Two-dimensional. Why kid around? Women are
defined by those cunts and nothing else. They were fashioned by
nature as achingly beautiful mannequins, dead girls in store
windows. Victims. See all the dead lilies in the trash can behind
the flower shop. Fragile blossoms. Used. Decaying.
Women. Weak. Very pretty in their weakness. Ugly otherwise.
Don’t give her power—she doesn’t know how to handle it.
Women are intriguing little house pets, but they need to be tamed.
ANSWER Me !
Keep her chained down. Break the chain,
and watch her walk all over you. And
you’d deserve it, because you gave away
your power for free. Women say they’re
looking for nice guys, but they don’t
respect passive pussy-men. Women want
their lovers to be killers. Give them what
they want.
Women get beaten because they’re so
EASY to beat. Hear them crying in a
hundred thousand trailers all over America
tonight. Get a police scanner and listen
to all the domestic-violence calls. Blasts of
static. Street addresses. Ages and races of
suspects. What they’re wearing. Do you
need backup? Police dispatchers always
have a flat, flavorless tone in their voices.
They don’t convey the VIOLENCE. The
desperate, vicious couples. The shirtless,
sweaty men with their mouths hanging
open. The sobbing women holding paper
towels to their bleeding, matted scalps. The
screaming, tear-streaked kids running
around in shitty diapers. The lacerated
She asks him to stop. He doesn’t. She the dickless extremists may tell you, we
emotions. Such a scene demands violence
struggles. He pulls a knife from his boot live under an occupational matriarchal
to restore order. The cops can’t beat every-
and slices a deep red notch running from regime, where a man’s God-given
one; domestic violence picks up the slack.
her throat down to her pussy. She falls to instrument of adjudication—a swift, fat
All the battered women in all their
the forest floor, splashing blood onto the fist—is considered an inappropriate
battered women’s shelters. Swollen eyes,
autumn leaves. He covers her mouth and method for ending an argument.
fat lips, cracked ribs. Fractured illusions.
fucks her ass. He blows his jam up her Chicks get away with murder these days.
Love’s sweet promise broken a million times
fudge hole as she dies. She asked for it. But we’re not arguing with the feminists,
over. Crying that they still love him.
That’s how he sees it, anyway. we’re competing against them. We agree
Keeping it together for the kids’ sake. He
And his opinion is the only one that with the fem-nuts that the penis is the
says he’s sorry. She forgives him. He finds
matters. You wouldn’t listen to a woman, instrument of their oppression, subjugation,
a job. They get back together, and it’s nice
for a while. Then he beats her with a tire would you? humiliation, and enslavement. That’s a
jack until her ribs puncture her lungs. Dead It’s common knowledge that when given. Problems only arise in proportion
promise. Dead wife. women are given power, they become to your resistance to this niggling little fact.
Two teenagers wander into the woods, every bit as corrupt as any dick-bearing It’s a simple struggle: men versus women.
away from a keg party. They stop in the despot—more so, because they lack But nature has given our side a tremendous
mossy darkness. I’ll love you forever, she nature’s clearest emblem of a divine advantage—nature made us men. We’re
tells him. They lock tongues together. He scepter, the penis. Without natural benedic- born to win.
reaches down and unzips her pants. tion, women thrash about in tyrannical We are, to use one of your favorite
frustration, never quite getting it right. Ever words, EMPOWERED through violence
work for a female boss? Then you’ll know toward women. It’s a real ego-booster. But
what I mean. The first chance these skanks ladies, don’t think that we hate you.
get, they rush in and imitate their Women, when they keep their place and
“oppressors” in every way imaginable. don’t step over the line, can actually be
They’re even less tolerable, because they quite lovely. At least the good-looking ones.
smear a moralistic donut glaze atop their So if you’re a woman reading this, submit
naked drive for power. Their violence is at all costs. Lick each gluey drop of cum
righteous because it’s committed in the holy with a smile on your face. It’s good for
name of REVENGE! your complexion. Then get back into the
The female gender’s biggest flaw is their kitchen and rustle me up some vittles before
notion that women are somehow more I beat you again.
moral, noble, and sacred than men. You Sorry, ladies—it’s time to turn back the
aren’t sacred. You’re scared. You’re our clock. The cave men—now THERE were
disposable playthings. When we don’t some men! They knew how to keep their
want you anymore, we pop you with a pin. women in line. We need a new breed of
You aren’t the only girl for sale. cave men—fat, brutal, drunken man-
Women can’t get around the cunt’s beasts—to terrorize all these uppity bitches.
structural and metaphorical passivity. The ideal “nineties woman” will be bare-
Feminists are ultimately fighting against foot and pregnant. She’ll have a black eye,
nature. And they’re winning! Despite what too. There she is—Miss America! ■

ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE 39
 How many rapists does it take to screw in a light bulb?
Only one, but they prefer soda bottles.
“If you beg and plead with me, maybe I’ll let
you live,” said the rapist to his victim as he
sodomized her at knifepoint.
“You call this living?” asked the woman.
“What on earth happened to
you?” shrieked the mother to
her sobbing daughter as the
little girl ran bleeding into their house.
“Mommy, a man raped me!” the girl cried.
“He punched me in the face, stuck his finger in my
bottom, and he raped me! He did it at least three
times, because I passed out after the
third. When I woke up, he was
gone. He took my purse and
bus pass, too!”
“That’s terrible!” said
the girl’s mother. “That
bus pass was good
until next week!”
“You pig!” screamed the rape
victim at her assailant as
her dry vagina was being
forcibly violated. “You slime!
You scum! You loser! You bastard!”
“Jesus Christ!” shouted the rapist,
“somebody’s hostile, isn’t she?”
THERE
’S
NOTH I
FU NNY GN
ABOU T RAPE
40
“Please don’t hurt me!” begged
the frightened woman as the
rapist cornered her in an alley.
“I just lost my job, I recently
had a miscarriage, and last
night some thieves broke
into my apartment and
stole everything!”
“Just because you had a bad
week,” countered the rapist,
“should I suffer?”
“You have a choice,” said the rapist
to his prey, “I can rape you or I
can kill you.”
“How big is your dick?” she asked him.
“Three inches.”
“Kill me.”
“What horrible thing,”
wailed the rape victim to
her rapist while being
ravaged, “could have happened to
you in your childhood to make you
such a monster?”
“Oh—it’s not good enough that I fuck
you,” replied the rapist, “I gotta tell you
my life’s story, too?”
“For a priest to rape little boys,” Father Duffy
intoned, “is a sin worse than murder.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Father McGonigle replied,
“I’ve never murdered anyone.”
ANSWER Me !
 During the third hour of a frat-party
gang rape, the latest pledge to have his way
with a sorority girl became slightly concerned
“Do you smoke when his victim, her eyes blackened and her
after raping face coated with beery vomit and sperm,
someone?” appeared to be losing consciousness.
“No, but I sizzle a Nevertheless, he kept fucking her. “Are you
little.” alright?” he gently inquired while plowing
her shredded gash. “I mean, I’m the twelfth
guy you’ve had tonight.”

Nuns who’ve been raped “Actually, you’re the thirteenth,” muttered the girl
as she wove her way back toward the crest of
should go out on the
awareness, “but who’s counting?”
town and celibate!

How can a blind woman

identify her rapist?
Guess she’ll have to fuck Name one good thing about rape.
him again, won’t she? Just one?

“Waiter, what’s this rapist

doing in my soup?”

If there’s nothing funny about rape, why do women “Looks like your wife.”
get hysterical over it?

What do you say when you find out

that the person who’s raping you
is a millionaire?
FASTER! FASTER!

What do you call a rape victim who refuses

to press charges?
A good sport.

What smells like hell, has two legs, and flies?

A homeless rapist.

“I’m going to fuck you blind,” said the rapist

to his victim.
“Well, at least I won’t have to look at you,”
came the brave woman’s snappy retort.

Being raped is a fate worse than death. I should know—

I was raped.
So why don’t you kill yourself ?

“Call me daddy,” said the rapist to his victim.

“I don’t think so,” she replied. “Daddy’s dick was bigger.”

There was a young rapist from Philly/

Who’d rape this old lady named Millie/
I just raped a stewardess as
When he schtupped her again/
I flew in from Vegas, and boy,
She shivered within/
is my dick tired!
And said, “At least shut the door,
’cause it’s chilly.”

A woman is raped every forty-five seconds in

this country.
Sheesh—doesn’t she ever catch a break?

ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE 41
 R.A.P.E.
(Revolt Against Penis Envy)
Contributing Toward an Understanding of
Male/Female Harmony
by BOYD RICE

In man and woman, two kinds of history are fighting for power. In the
masculine being, there is a certain contradiction; he is this man, yet he
A t one time, all was right with the world. It was lorded over by men
who imposed their will by force. Women kept their mouths shut, under-
is something else besides, which woman neither understands nor admits, lings knew their place, and those who opposed the prevailing order had
which she feels as robbery and violence upon that which to her is holiest. their heads cut off. So far, so good. In this bygone Golden Age, sadistic
This secret and fundamental war of the sexes has gone on ever since there values determined the quality of life. Sadistic values are exclusively
were sexes, and will continue—silent, bitter, unforgiving, pitiless.… male values, values predicated not upon baseless intellectual abstrac-
—Oswald Spengler, The Decline of the West tions or wishful thinking, but upon hard biological truths.
One such truth involves testosterone, the hormone responsible for
In the sixties, talk of a “war between the sexes” was very popular. In point shaping the male character. It lies at the root of man’s aggression and
of fact, what was being described was not a war at all, merely the recog- domination and has consequently played the key role in
nition of a change in the balance that had previously existed shaping mankind’s history.
between the two sexes. The grip of man’s domination was And the history of mankind is, quite
loosening, and women rushed forward to take advantage simply, the history of man. It is the story of
of the situation. The natural relationship which had hith- his creativity and his daring. It is the story
erto existed between man and woman was put under of his strength, his courage, and his
increasing strain by the shift in balance and was invention. Every great idea, great
rapidly evolving into an ever-more-adversarial coali- empire, or great undertaking has been
tion. But war? the byproduct of man and man alone.
War is the variety of violence which one tradition- History’s great epochs are those in
ally resorts to when all other means of asserting his dom- which male domination and male
inance have been exhausted. There was no war between force reigned supreme.
the sexes in the sixties simply because man had long since Just as testosterone ordained
ceased to assert his dominance by any means. It is pre- man’s preeminent role as creator
cisely this male backsliding which gave rise to the tension and master of world history,
woman’s position was
which was misconstrued as war, and which has grown
likewise decided by her
steadily worse until today. Perhaps a war will be
hormonal predisposition.
necessary to bridge the abyss across which the sexes
Estrogen lies at the
stare mistrustingly at each other. center of the
—Harry P. Ness feminine
character,
Woman is a temple…built over a sewer. and it is
—Anonymous this hormone,

42 ANSWER Me !
says science, that is responsible for woman’s
overabundance of emotion and apparent lack
of logic. This primary biological difference is
the basis of what is commonly referred to as
sexual differentiation.
Woman is quick to embrace the concept of
sexual/hormonal differentiation when she can
use it to her advantage—to explain, for
instance, why men are such brutes. But when
the same criteria are applied to explain her
own shortcomings, she dismisses it as a cruel
construct invented by man to discredit her.
She is far more comfortable with feelings than
with facts. Facts, in her opinion, are made by
man in the image of man, to be used against
her, to keep her down. When confronted by
the cold reality of facts, woman’s emotions fly
into a tizzy, and her emotions have no origin in
the intellect, or in instinct, or in any sort of
observation or deductive reasoning. They are
instead a primordial amalgam of overblown
hopes and fears, childish fantasies carried to
absurd extremes.
As reactions to external realities, her emo-
tions make no apparent sense. Only when rec-
ognized as the byproduct of an overwhelming
internal reality—that of estrogen—do her
emotions and perceptions finally begin to
become comprehensible.
In a once-glorious past, woman was a crea-
ture without rights, a second-class citizen. In
some places, she wasn’t considered a citizen at
all—she was property. She was part cook, part
whore, part servant, and all child. So what has
changed to put woman on an equal footing
with man, deserving of the same rights and
privileges? Has woman herself changed?
Decidedly not. Not in temperament, character,
or ability. She is the same creature she has
always been, with the sad addition of some
rather unflattering conceits.
It is not woman’s advancement in the realm
of character which has facilitated her upward
mobility—rather, it is man’s loss of character.
She has gained ground only because he has
lost ground. And why has he lost ground?
Because the white male has been bamboozled.
He has been shamed into submission and
made to feel guilty about his aggression and
his will-to-power. But are not aggression and
the will-to-power part and parcel of his charac-
ter, stamped upon his soul by nature itself?
Are they not in fact the very things which once
ordained his greatness?
Modern woman would have us believe that
she has been oppressed by countless cen-
turies of male domination. Can this be true?
She would have us believe that her standing
was the outcome of some arbitrary bit of
whimsy, concocted spitefully by man and
imposed maliciously (unfairly!) upon woman.

ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE 43
 Was woman forcibly held back by the superior strength and
intellect of man, or was she simply in an “inferior” position
due to some lack of those qualities within herself? Was it man
who chose a second-class existence for woman, or was it, in
fact, nature? Man sought only to act in accordance
with the reality dictated by nature’s wisdom.
Woman, in her bitterness, blamed man
for the position in which she found herself. This was
surely his doing. He had cruelly cheated her out of
all that was rightfully hers. The cad! Allowing her
emotions to run wild (as usual), woman blamed man
for all the world’s ills, attacking male values at every
opportunity. Ironically, it was the collapse and disappearance
of male values which permitted woman’s rise to begin with.
The “domination” which she so fervently attacked had,
for all intents and purposes, long since vanished from
public life. The positive, aggressive male values behind
every step of upward evolution have been superseded
by a soft and passive female ethic.
What can be done to subdue the sickly
sway of feminine values? How can we silence the
interminable whining of feminism’s sob sisters? In a
nutshell: Woman must be put back in her place.
Man’s great error was to put woman on a pedestal,
when she is far more at ease on her knees—
where she belongs. The only way to subdue
feminine values is by subduing the female
herself. Woman must be reacquainted with
truth and force. She must be reacquainted
with truth through force.
Since woman is above all an
emotional creature, appeals to her
“intellect” are worthless. She must
be shown in no uncertain terms the
absolute nature of the master/slave
relationship endemic to the sexes.
What plainer way to demonstrate this relationship
than the simple act of rape? This primary act
reveals beyond a reasonable doubt certain
irrefutable verities: Man is taller, woman is
smaller. Man is strong, woman is weak.
Man is master, woman is not.
The ritual we now call
marriage originated as
abduction, rape, and
enslavement. In those
happy-go-lucky days,
one’s rights were not mere
abstractions based on
legislation, but rather the
outcome of what could be
imposed by physical force
alone. Force was recog-
nized as truth in action,
and the outcome of force

44 ANSWER Me !
was acknowledged as justice. Although this principle has been widely
disavowed, its truth is as absolute now as it ever was.
And the only truth a woman is capable of understanding is that which
she can feel wholly within the depths of her childlike emotions. At one
time, those emotions could be swayed by the sweet notion of romance,
but her envy has long since destroyed that. These days, the only way to
restore balance between the sexes is by fear and pain. Fear commands
respect, and pain demands understanding (read: compliance).
Rape is the act by which fear and pain are united in love. It is the
triumph of harmony through oppression.
Rape teaches balance—the natural balance of man-above/woman-
below. This balance is a lesson which woman must learn, and only man
can teach her.
The only way to teach subjugation is through hands-on oppression.
And woman must learn subjugation. The only way to teach submission
is through active domination. And woman must learn submission. She
ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE
must be brought down to her natural kneeling position. She must be
returned to the bottom, where she’s happiest. Only then may man be
happy once more.
If it takes war to reinstate this happiness, then let there be war. Not a
war between the sexes, but a war of the sexes, against the pernicious
doctrine of sexual equality. And if the chief weapon in this war is rape,
then let there be rape. Let there be triumphant male force riding
roughshod over woman and her values. Let there be brutal male force
instructing and enlightening woman in absolute terms. Each rape is but
a battle in a war. And each battle won is but a link in a glorious chain—
a chain which will one day be used to keep woman in her naturally
ordained place—beneath man.
But enough of talk. The time for words is over. The time for action
has come. Now is the time to rise up. Now is the time to go forth. Now
is the time to educate. Now is the time to subjugate. Now is the time to
dominate. Now is the time to rape. Now is the time to rape. Now is the
time to rape. Let the Revolt Against Penis Envy commence. Go forth!
Rise up! Rape! Rape! Rape!
Long live oppression!
Long live love!
Long live rape! ■
45
The
Promotion
of

the
Justification
for

and the
Encouragement
of Rape
Text & Drawing by

ape is an affirmation of uninhibited self-respect. Whether the field

R is public education or sexual freedom, the application of rape
is utilized for social control or personal success. Time-tested morals have
proven this to be true. To say it another way: Love can work only if it
is recognized as hate. Ruining another human being is the ultimate
act of love. Some call this ‘compromising’ or ‘showing compassion.’
Contrary to popular belief, both the ‘rapist’ and the ‘victim’ are consenting
participants. Victims are self-designed. Victims want to be victims, or else
they wouldn’t be. Rape ‘victims’ are themselves willing to be trained by the
rapists on how to become better people. It is the rapist’s duty to teach the
world how to become stronger. The rapist’s pupil will learn more about
his or her own desires. It is this one-on-one training which makes for
a solid character. Rape is not so much about control as it is about passion.
Women, if you really look at them, are ugly. The majority of victims
who are raped are women. The most savage offense that the act of rape
produces is the woman’s outrage at receiving such profound attention.
If they didn’t want it, then why did they get it? This sentiment goes double
for the spineless male victims who whine and protest. Complainers are not
virtuous victims. Why complain if you didn’t do enough to prevent it?
Sadly, this is just one more reason why the rapist dispatches his prey
with much haste.

46 ANSWER Me !

IF SOMEONE DOESN’T WANT
TO GET RAPED, THEN HOW IS IT
THAT THEY GET RAPED?
IF YOU’RE GETTING RAPED,
IT’S BECAUSE YOU
TO GET RAPED.
YOU DON’T WANT TO GET RAPED?
THEN DON’T GET RAPED.…
Everything has a legitimate reason. It just may not be the reason
you want to hear. This, of course, includes the things that you and I
hate as well. I am stating here the actual reasons for rape—not the
misunderstood ‘reasons’ that modern psychology babbles about, nor the
deliberately false reasons that the Judeo-Christian Bible concocts.
Human animals go through life with a price tag on them, and they
take on all enemies who dare to make the payment.
WANT Be glad to be alive. Be glad to feel anything at all. And be glad
that I am generous enough to give you pain and make your worthless
lives interesting. You can thank me by crying and bleeding like
you’re supposed to. ■

We live in a virtuous society which promotes and encourages rape,

so it is much more noble to let the victim live. Care must be taken by the
rapist, because some of society’s members are whistle-blowers and
tattletales. Some can be sufficiently enticed to
become sympathetic to their predators, while
a brave handful get the gumption to dispatch
their predators. This is all part of the brave
rapist’s challenge.
If someone doesn’t want to get raped, then
how is it that they get raped? If you’re getting
raped, it’s because you want to get raped. You
don’t want to get raped? Then don’t get raped—
take the necessary means to fend off a rapist.
Have the brains to wake up to the reality that
this is a predatory existence. We were all
weaklings at one time. Those who are strong
protect themselves. Those who remain
weaklings look to something other than
themselves for protection. They usually roll
their eyes toward heaven in search of God,
Christ, and their whore-police to protect them.
All I can say to the lot of you is: “Have fun
getting raped. And while you’re at it, have a
good time being a weakling, too.”
When human animals are born, they
immediately are up-for-grabs as potential prey.
All prey are taught by each other, especially
the older ones, on how to become rapists.
The prey learn by being raped over and over
again, until they learn how to rape others
themselves. Many people rape or get raped
without even knowing it. How can this be,
you might ask? It’s like this: When first you
were raped, you thought it was terrible.
Remember? But you were consoled and came
to realize the truth: Rape was the way
it was supposed to be. So then you swallowed
the sperm and began to enjoy it. That’s how it all
began. Remember? Then you went on to
become the endless rapists and endless victims
that you are now. You made it with flying colors!
And none too worse for the wear, either!
Without the insistent biological drive to
procreate, there would be no compelling desire
to copulate. Since there is this compelling
desire, there exists the will to rape. Rape fulfills
the biological lusts which lead to procreation.

ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE 47
 R a p e
is
Lo v e by Sha
un Partridge
Some enchanted
evening, you may
see a stranger.…
Crickets humming,
the smell of wooden stoves
a–burnin’, a crystal–clear,
promise–filled night. Car keys
fumbling in hand, you hear
something behind you.
Suddenly, a tall, dark stranger
sweeps you off your feet.
A scream shatters the stillness.
Ah, yes, two ships passing
in the night. The night will be
over in the morning, but the
damage is forever!
Ah, what a crazy, wonderful,
mixed–up emotion—love!
Or should I say rape? When a
woman gets raped, it is an
unexpected pleasure. A delightful
derailment from the monotony
of everyday life! It’s when that
special someone who admires
you from afar says, “Hey, you!
Yes, you—YOU ARE MINE!!!”
48
Whether she’s young or old,
rape is a cherished event in any
gal’s life. Heck, my mom was
raped once, and she’s a better
person for it. It shows, it really
does. And hey, homely gals need
lovin’, too. The best advice I can
give you broads would be to
loiter in dark, desolate parking
lots and other unpatrolled
areas. Trust me—it works!
I know, I know—some busybodies
go around whining about how
horrible rape is, how it’s
hatred directed at women.
Hatred directed at women?
Good night, nurse!!! What the
hell are these skirts going on
about? If these guys hated them
so much, I don’t think they’d be
balling them. I think they’d be
killing them. Dig?
ANSWER Me !
 FACT: Most rapes Women, like roadside drinking
go unreported. Why? fountains, are there for everybody’s
It’s as simple as a use. Go ahead—take a sip! There’s
subhuman—those nothing like a big ol’ buxom bimbo
babes loved every with “Victim” written all over her
dull–witted mug! Hey, tits—kiss the
second.
Rod, and I don’t mean McKuen.
FACT: When she
Rape assures women that they’re
says no, she means
still sexually alluring, that they still
yes. She’s just playing
“have it.” I mean, can you imagine
hard–to–get, gents. how crestfallen a tit-sac would feel
FACT: Rape is if she got dolled-up all nice and
emotionally and asking-for-it and didn’t get any?
sexually satisfying for But she’ll get some. Women have
both partners. Some been getting balled, beaten, punched,
people say that the and drilled in the ass since the
woman doesn’t enjoy beginning of time. And I don’t reckon
it—whatta load of it’s gonna change any time soon.
malarkey! If she isn’t Rape is the world’s oldest pastime.
And fellas, can you think of a nicer
enjoying it, why is she
way to spend your free time? ■
screaming so much?
FACT: When a female rape victim makes love to her
husband or boyfriend, she will conjure the image of her
assailant. She will fantasize that her lover is the man who
gave it to her and gave it to her good!
Face the FACTS—the main reason that so many
females denounce rape is simply because they’re not
getting any. They’re jealous and horny, with clits the size
of golf balls. I am woman, hear me whine. I am woman,
watch me grovel. I am woman, watch me beg for worth,
the worth which can only be found in a fat, swollen cock!
Rape is mm–mm–good!

ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE 49
 fucking
andrea
dworkin
by adam parfrey

50 ANSWER Me !

Y ou’ve seen the section in bookstores—
“Women’s Studies,” a jumble of lesbian
propaganda disguised as clinical research
into straight sex lives; the “blessed-be’s” and
hairy-legged tracts of so-called “white
witches”; cunt coloring books; coy celebrations
of menstruation and other uterine mysteries;
spurious archaeology fabricating a golden,
peaceful age of matriarchy; and, most
entertainingly, violent screeds calling for
male gendercide. Very few males blunder
into this “pedagogy of the oppressed,” and
fewer still actually ingest the suffocatingly
righteous blithering.
Not that they’re invited to. Women’s Studies
are by women for women, a gender-exclusive
club appropriating the wardrobe of third-world
rhetoric. This is the language of the victim, a
screeching vocabulary of complaint and revolt
against the despotic tyranny of men. Male
despots are not welcome to enter into dialogue
with the Women’s Studies club unless they
check their testosterone at the door, guiltily
accept the “bad guy” rap, and cluck their
tongues against the miscreants of their own
gender who stubbornly deny female moral
superiority. These de-juiced specimens can be
viewed to best advantage in college towns,
their concave chests cuddling the bastard off-
spring of Birkenstock-shod mates who are
busy passing out petitions for the removal of
Penthouse from convenience stores.
ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE
ARRIBA!
∼ in its present incarnation. Her book Intercourse
SENORA DWORKIN
ES MUY GORDO !
During my own college days, misspent
in a feminist stronghold ninety miles south
of San Francisco, I observed backsliding
impulses among even the staunchest “sisters,”
a yearning, one might even say craving,
for men who weren’t (I often heard them use
this word) wimps. Gloria Steinem would go
ashen at the sight of this river of liberal-arts
cooze virtually throwing themselves at males
who hadn’t succumbed to the program and
were thus capable of ardor in their fucking,
men who were (by feminist definition) pigs.
In fact, the weak-willed males, hang-dog
looking with scraggly beards and wire-rimmed
glasses, so sympathetic to the feminist
struggle, received the major share of female
contempt. They were tolerated as toadies and
taken to bed as cut-rate dildos.
A dozen years have passed since those
disheartening days spent under the specter of
stentorian vaginas and pipsqueak penises.
Since then, there seems to have been a
gradual return to male and female archetypes,
to scenarios of mystery and seduction.
Of the former feminists, the more attractive
of them got down to the business of finding
and keeping a mate, while, in most cases, the
less attractive grew more sophisticated and
militant in their man-hatred. Do not presume,
amidst these generalities, the disappearance of
victimized rhetoric from the lip-glossed
mouths of erstwhile suffragettes. That would
be asking too much. A feminist litany remains
ever at hand to badger and browbeat husbands
and boyfriends into sheepish admission of
egregious maleness.
The browbeaters are what I term the
Integrationist Feminists, those who like their
cock on call. The Segregationist Feminists are
harridans who don’t like cock at all.
Pachydermlike Andrea Dworkin may be the
uncrowned queen of Segregationist Feminism
has become the touchstone of contemporary
feminist theory. Part literary criticism, part
propaganda, and all elegant hysteria,
Intercourse was written to further a simple
program: to intellectually convince women to
avoid the admittance of the male generative
organ into connective friction with the vagina.
And that’s not all, fellas. Don’t touch, but for
God’s sake, don’t look, either. Pornography,
Dworkin’s earlier tract, advanced her convic-
tion that hardcore pornography and softcore
men’s magazines together fuel homicidal
violence against women. And for all her
leftist caterwauling, Dworkin’s authoring of
anti-pornography legislation with comrade
Catharine MacKinnon has earned her ovations
on the dais with the likes of Edwin Meese
and Phyllis Schlafly.
Don’t make the mistake of confusing
Dworkin’s underdog vocabulary with empathy
for anyone but her own kind. In Intercourse,
Dworkin bases her equation of racism with
heterosexual sex on the work of James
Baldwin, a black homosexual. (The phallic
braggarts of the Black Panther school she
must, of course, pass by without so much as a
word.) This is the same Dworkin who spells
America with a “K” throughout her books,
masking her own tyrannical will to prohibit
other peoples’ happiness with the argot of the
oppressed. She descends to calling vital males
“National Socialists” and the women who love
them “collaborators.” “That collaboration,”
she rants in Intercourse, “fully manifested
when a woman values her lover, the National
Socialist, above any woman, anyone of her own
kind or class or status, may have simple
beginnings: the first act of complicity that
destroys self-respect, the capacity for self-
determination and freedom—readying the
body for the fuck instead of for freedom.”
In other words, Dworkin denies the bond of
the male-female relationship, taunting women
as Nazi collaborators who value their
boyfriend or husband “above any woman.”
What Dworkin wants is an inversion of
loyalty, for women to run to the call of Sappho
and Sisterhood and to tar and feather their
male oppressors.
It is clear that the abolition of pornography
will not suffice as the end goal of Ms.
Dworkin’s program. What will it take to calm
Andrea Dworkin, to quell her tirades, to fill the
yawning chasm of her sense of injustice?
Men, flop your tube steaks on the chopping
blocks. Dworkin wants your cocks for mulch.
Fucking, dilates Dworkin, annihilates the
woman, overwhelming her with a sense of
51

possession that ultimately leads to degradation
and death. (That is, she allows, when the sex
is good.) “That loss of self,” writes Dworkin
in the chapter entitled “Possession,” “is a
physical reality, not just a psychic vampirism;
and as a physical reality it is chilling and
extreme, a literal erosion of the body’s
integrity and its ability to function and
survive.…This sexual possession is a sensual
state of being that borders on anti-being until
it ends in death. The body dies, or the lover
discards the body when it is used up, throws
away an old, useless thing, emptied, like an
empty bottle. The body is used up; and the will
is raped.”
Intercourse invokes the propaganda tech-
nique popularized by Julius Streicher. The
enemy is portrayed as a vampire that is
at once morally subhuman and yet
preternaturally powerful and dangerous.
52
sacré bleu!
la derrière de
mademoiselle
dworkin est très
érotique!
Dworkin’s full-tilt fictions are not some private
exorcism of grief and rage, but rather a
bellows to fan the flames of righteous hysteria
in order to seize, ban, burn, and extirpate.
Because she plays the role of violated victim,
Dworkin is given license to practice what
she assails in the penised people, that is,
the unleashing of sadistic vengeance on an
entire gender and sexual preference.
Remember that Dworkin contributed to the
Meese Commission’s inquest on pornography
and helped Catharine MacKinnon to enact
Canada’s Tariff Code 9956, to ban the
importation and sale of all materials “which
depict or describe sexual acts that appear to
degrade or dehumanize....” This incredibly
broad and subjective code could be interpreted
in such a way as to proscribe most books
published, including the Bible and Dworkin’s
own screeds. (A Canadian customs agent once
seized a shipment of one of Dworkin’s books
for several hours but then quickly released
them, apologizing for the “mistake.”) In
practice, Tariff Code 9956 anally penetrates
publishers too penurious to initiate costly
lawsuits to fight government seizures, as well
as pro-sex lesbian bookshops that make a
living selling the now-banned works of Pat
Califa and Susie Bright.
According to the blurbs of praise that fill
Intercourse’s book jacket: “…Dworkin analyzes
the institution [!] of sexual intercourse, and
how that institution, as defined and controlled
by patriarchy, has proven to be a devastating
enslavement of women” (Robin Morgan);
“Dworkin’s prose is elegant, her passion for
truth profound, her longing for justice both
lyrical and unrelenting, her use of history and
literature stunning, her understanding of
racism, antisemitism, and misogyny lucid,
palpable” (Phyllis Chesler); “The book is
outstanding, original, and an act of forbidden
rebellion” (Shere Hite).
Shere Hite, perpetrator of The Hite Report
on male and female sexuality, is described by
Dworkin in Intercourse as “the strongest femi-
nist and most honorable philosopher among
sex researchers.…” Dworkin is, of course,
grateful for Hite’s statistics which claim that
only three women in ten attain orgasm during
intercourse. Dworkin brandishes this statistic
to underscore the uselessness of cock for
women’s pleasure. Later, she again quotes
Hite’s suggestion for heterosexual sex in
which “thrusting would not be considered…
necessary…[There might be] more a mutual
lying together in pleasure…vagina-covering-
penis, with female orgasm providing much of
the stimulation necessary for male orgasm.”
Hite’s prescription for thrust-free, “mutual
lying together,” “vagina-covering-penis” sex
demands complete passivity from the male.
As Hite suggests in bold type in a later chapter
of her Hite Report, “Intercourse can become
androgynous.” No thrusting and exploring for
Hite’s males, no sir, this is woman’s eminent
domain. A man is to lie on his back, hold
his breath, and stay perfectly still until the
woman has squirmed her way to a cum
atop a stationary and never-threatening-to-be-
dominant ding-dong. This is the only mention
of a male-female sex procedure that Dworkin
even mildly approves of throughout the entire
length of Intercourse. One must assume that
Dworkin sanctions this ridiculous posture only
as an interim measure designed to wean
women of their desire for cock entirely.
One wonders, however, what the porn-
thwacking Dworkin must think of the nude,
cunt-splayed photos taken in 1968 of the
massive-muffed and Tampax-stringed Hite
that were eventually displayed in Hustler’s
April 1977 issue. Or what Dworkin had to say
to Germaine Greer for her toes-to-the-ceiling,
cunt-to-the-camera shenanigans in the Amster-
dam sex paper, Suck, in the mid-seventies.
ANSWER Me !
 I suppose Dworkin was not about to split cunt hairs over the issue,
especially with ideological comrades. All this taken into account, how
are we to take Germaine Greer’s blurb on Intercourse’s front cover: “The S I EG H E I L !
most shocking book any feminist has yet written.” Shocking in what
sense? In the quality of its fantasy, its idiocy, or its hatred? F R A U D WO R K I N
At the risk of contradicting Ms. Greer, the most extreme feminist
tract has got to be Valerie Solanas’s S.C.U.M. Manifesto, the handbook IST GUT!
of the Society for Cutting Up Men. Solanas, who shot and almost killed
Andy Warhol in the late sixties, pleads for women to “destroy the male
sex.” Norman Mailer, who quotes from the Manifesto in his meditation
on feminist writing, The Prisoner of Sex, provides insight into why the
S.C.U.M. Manifesto was reprinted in the popular feminist anthology,
Sisterhood is Powerful: “… the S.C.U.M. Manifesto, while extreme, even
extreme of the extreme, is nonetheless a magnetic north for Women’s
Lib.” Though Dworkin neglects to list the S.C.U.M. Manifesto in her
extensive bibliography at the end of Intercourse, the spirit of Solanas’s
mandate is ever-present.
Just as humans have a prior right to existence over dogs by virtue of
being more highly evolved and having a superior consciousness, so women
have a prior right to existence over men. The elimination of any male is,
therefore, a righteous and good act, an act highly beneficial to women as
well as an act of mercy. (The S.C.U.M. Manifesto, p. 67.)
Magnetic north of the women’s movement? Consider the Bobbitt
case, in which Lorena’s psychotic cock-cutting episode was elevated to
a heroic call to action by various feminist groups; consider that bootleg
pamphlets of the S.C.U.M. Manifesto have been circulating in women’s
bookstores for more than twenty years. Dworkin doesn’t have Solanas’s
humor or her damningly explicit methodology of attaining an anti-male
utopia, but she possesses the ingenuity of a modern major general.
She knows how to employ all the weapons of a propaganda war:
how to incite, persuade, and, most of all, bully.
Although Dworkin resembles the steatopygous Earth Mother, she
doesn’t pay much attention to the technology-equals-patriarchy argu- Perhaps it is unfair to lump Dworkin in the feminist category, for her
ments of Wiccan feminism. For Dworkin, technology will provide the turgid hysteria has more in common with Carry Nation or the Marquis
way out of heterosexuality and intercourse: de Sade than Susan B. Anthony. Nowhere in Dworkin’s writings or
It is not that there is no way out if, for instance, one were to establish public appearances does she argue for the accumulation of rights or
or believe that intercourse itself determines women’s lower status. New opportunities. That would be too dull for her. Recently I enjoyed the
reproductive technologies have changed and will continue to change the opportunity of seeing Dworkin lecture at Portland State University,
nature of the world. Intercourse is not necessary to existence anymore. where she recounted atrocity stories, cried, and flapped her arms,
Existence does not depend on female compliance, nor on the violation of screaming for vengeance. But the shrill passion didn’t succeed in
female boundaries, nor on lesser female privacy, nor on the physical
whipping up inquisitional hysteria in the pampered and comfortable
occupation of the female body. Intercourse is the pure, sterile, formal
middle-class femme contingent, probably for many of the same reasons
expression of men’s contempt for women; but that contempt can turn
why the JDL hasn’t yet convinced Beverly Hills yentas to assassinate
gothic and express itself in many sexual and sadistic practices that eschew
intercourse per se. Any violation of a woman’s body can become sex for Holocaust Revisionists. Only a small portion of Dworkin’s audience later
men; this is the essential truth of pornography. participated in a march to a local jerk-off arcade, where a handful of
It is indeed strange for the morbidly obese, pus-ugly Andrea Dworkin bulldykes startled the raincoat rats with unladylike epithets. Too bad
to localize sexual intercourse as man’s greatest expression of contempt Andrea was too circumspect to take the axe to the peep booths.
for women. If forced at gunpoint to fuck Andrea Dworkin, my Those who most treasure Dworkin’s hysteria aren’t mainstream
“contempt” for her would not reveal itself in a robust erection; to the feminists but prohibitionist paper-pushers and the fundamentalist right.
contrary, my shrivel-dick would require the services of a geeklike I’ve envisioned a scene fit for a Jodorowsky movie in which Richard
proxy, such as those seen servicing the glandular atrocities in the Viguerie and Jesse Helms go down on Dworkin and MacKinnon on
Life in the Fat Lane porn video series. a bed of severed penises.
In one of those weird twists of fate, Dworkin’s real-life “platonic” In the end, it is understandable for Andrea Dworkin to wield the
live-in mate, John Stoltenberg, is rumored to be a biological male. cudgel of victim politics against men. In our “rape culture,” women like
Stoltenberg is infamous in New York City’s publishing community as Dworkin aren’t worthy of the trivialization accorded sex objects. They
Dworkin’s rabid lap dog, conveying threats and intimidation to those are rejected utterly. This rejection has obviously left its mark on
who do not indulge the whims of his tyrannical mentor. Dworkin’s Andrea Dworkin; it has honed a vengeful and crusading intelligence
big-footed imprint is seen all over Stoltenberg’s unintentionally hilarious bent on evening the score. Let us not weaken and pity the Gorgon;
books, Refusing to be a Man and The End of Manhood, which rather the fig leaf of victimization is creating victims of us all. ■
vainly inveigh against such biological verities as male genitalia and
testosterone. Stoltenberg is the embodiment of one of Valerie Solanas’s
“Men’s Auxiliary” members: “S.C.U.M. will conduct Turd Sessions,” Adam Parfrey publishes several high-quality books under the Feral House imprint,
wrote Solanas, “at which every male present will give a speech although someone told me it’s really a front for the Masons. Send for a catalog to
beginning with the sentence: ‘I am a turd, a lowly, abject turd,’ then PO Box 3466, Portland, OR 97208. Like Howard Stern, Adam wants you to know
proceed to list all the ways in which he is.” that he’s only half-Jewish.

ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE 53
quality
time.
by
PETER
SOTOS
You’re such a pretty girl.
You shouldn’t cry. Such a dear. Those tears
aren’t pretty, are they? Look at me, stupid.
Now—Are…Those…Fucking…Tears…
Pretty?…Cunt?
Do you like making your mommy cry? Do
you like that? Huh? The poor fucking
woman. You selfish little brat; you cunt.
How do you think she feels, huh? Huh,
cunt? How terrible you are. How mean.
How mean and cruel to your mother you
are. Don’t you feel horrible? Making her
cry. Making her hurt so badly. I think you’re
absolutely terrible. A fucking brat. Fucking
horrible cunt. Shame on you.
Now there, there. Crying won’t help. You
already made your mommy cry. Nothing
can help your mom now. She feels very,
very bad, and you did it. You can’t change
that…cunt. You’re a cunt, and momma’s
gonna cry for-fucking-ever. Your momma’s
gonna miss you something awful. She will
never get over you leaving her and never
coming back. You’re killing her.
It’s all your fault.
Do you think mommy’s out looking for
you? Do you think she’s worried about you?
Can’t you just see her?…Walking through
your once-happy home, her eyes swollen
almost shut from the continuous stream of
tears, hands clamped to the sides of her
head as she mumbles.…She’s yattering
your name over and over and over. Can’t
you just see her? Her blotchy middle-aged
face covered with scratches and her dress
all mussed and caked with the makeup and
mascara that slipped and slid from her
wrinkles and crow’s fucking feet. You’re

illustrations #1-6 by
TREVOR BROWN
54 ANSWER Me !
driving your mother crazy. She’s losing her
mind from worry and fear. All because of
you. She’s pulling her hair out. She’s tug-
ging at her cheeks. Poking at her eyes.
‘Cause she misses you, she’s afraid for you.
She wants her little baby back. Her darling
daughter. She wants to hold you. She wants
to press your head against her chest and
kiss your forehead. Do you like it when
mommy hugs you? Do you feel safe then?
You love your momma, don’t you? Do you
like to kiss her and feel her warmth next to
you? No one can hold you like momma,
ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE
right? Don’t you wish you were there right
now? Mmm. You’ll never see her again, you
know. That’s right. You’ll never see your
beautiful mother again. Ever. Never, ever.
Nope. No more hugs from mommy. No
more love. From anyone. No one loves you
anymore. No one cares if you live or die.
Your mom cares, I guess. So, I’m sorry—I
made a mistake. No one but your mom
cares. But you’ll never see your mom
again…so…I guess…no one fucking cares
for this poor fucking little fucking cunt who
sits in front of me, crying like a big fucking
baby. Cry, cry. Crybaby. Fucking cunt cry-
baby. Cunt. Bitch. Fucking pig. Fucking
pussy.
You really are disgusting. You really are.
I want to hurt you so fucking bad.
I’m really gonna make you cry. You’re
going to cry so much more, you’ll think your
eyes are going to melt. Those crybaby tears
are going to burst open your eyes and rip
deep red streaks straight through your face.
You are absolutely doomed, my sweet
thing. I’m gonna hurt you so much.
55
 I’m going to see you dead. I’m gonna look down at your pale, Let me show you something. Let me show you…this. You wanna
bruised, and bloodied corpse and masturbate. I’m going to run my kiss it, cunt? Feel my balls? Wanna suck the head? You wanna lick
fingers through your matted hair—I’m going to let my calloused it like a lollipop? How ‘bout my piss, cunt…you wanna drink my
fingers get caught and tangled in the blood and sweat and grease. piss, cunt? You want to get down on your knees and pray to it? Get
I’m going to pry your wounds further apart and peel off the dried down on your knees! Get down on your knees and
blood and carve new holes in your corpse so I can fuck your thank your God that this cock will soon be spewing
entire ten-year-old being. cum all over your child’s body. Pray thanks to God
Dear, I will watch you die a horrible death. for bringing you here.
But then, that’s the last thing you’ll know—death I like to rub my dick when you cry. I like
will be a relief. Because I’m going to hurt you so to put my hand here—just at the base of the
much. ‘Cause I love to hurt you. I want to shaft and massage up and down like this.
hurt you and other little girls. And you’ll be Slowly. Slowly. Just like this. I want you to
dead and gone, but I’ll still be around to hurt cry now. Cry harder, before I slap your
your friends. baby-fat flesh off your fucking face. And
I like to watch you cry. It gives me such a then I’m going to make you lick this shit
hard-on. Do you know what a hard-on is? that shoots out the end of this mon-
Cunt? Have you ever heard of a boner? An ster.
erection? A blood-engorged penis? No? A See that hole
hard-on is for you. That’s right. Just for you. It’s there? See it? Stick
what defines your entire existence. It’s what made your tongue out.
you. It’s what drove your stupid fucking father to Stick it out further,
plug your disgusting pig-slut of a mother and you brain-dead
produce you. But it’s more than that. Because, cunt. Little Miss Brain-
really, your father’s imbecility and your Damaged. Stick it out
mother’s greed are hardly worth dwelling and taste the tip of
on here. An erection, which is another my sweaty dick.
name for a big fucking hard-on, is what I’m going to fuck
forces men—lesser men—to lower you so hard and
themselves to even consider women. You so bad. Oh,
didn’t know that, did you? You see, men dear, my
and women are very different, and yours little dear.
is a rather sorry lot. My little
OK. A quick sex lesson. A quick sex- sweetheart—
education class for a pretty little girl you’re
whose destiny hardly demands such an going to
education, but whose innocence and pray to die.
puffy, wide eyes tell me she deserves it. Mmm-
But be forewarned, my sweet pupil— hmm.
your concerned parent or guardian would want Oh, fuck off—I am ter-
me to be sure I told you this—certain graphic details ribly sorry. I was about to
may be offensive to more sensitive and, um,
vulnerable individuals.

56 ANSWER Me !
give you an education. Please do forgive
me. You’ll see my little digression was
understandable under the circumstances. In
fact, I think that you’ll find it an aid to bet-
ter understanding the following concepts:
Men, you see, tend to give themselves over
to their erections, and, often, they think of
nothing else but satisfying the urge to cum.
Thoughtless, yes, I think we can agree.
Allow me to continue. Women, one of
which you’ll be quite lucky not to evolve
into, thank you, are fairly worthless.
Honestly, I can’t think of a single thing
they’re good for in this day and age. I’m in
the minority with this line of thinking, unfor-
tunately, and my fellow man has allowed
pigs like your mothers and sisters a sad
degree of attention, which, of course, they
wield as power. Men have surrendered this
power because they lack the personal
strength to step in front of this—the thing
most men view as their sole reason for exist-
ing. Their instinctual responsibility, if you
will. That’s right—this red bastard, which is
just the perfect size for your mouth, cunt,
and butthole, is the be-all and end-all of
most men’s lives. Just like your father’s.
Pathetic, isn’t it?
Now, don’t get me wrong. I don’t want to
sound bitter or deluded—I mean, I’m sure
that somewhere, somehow, there is a rea-
son for animals such as yourself, be it bio-
logical or otherwise. But just now—you
know, today, this year, this generation, I just
can’t see it. And given that there’s no such
thing as Santa Claus, you girls really make
no sense at all.
You don’t believe in Santa, do you?
You see, my dear, trusting student, this is
reality. This is what makes sense. Your situ-
ation right at this very moment. This is the
way it is.
Dog.
You can imagine huge piles of women—
rows and rows of dead female bodies all
deposited amongst stinking garbage heaps
and dirt-filled burial pits—and no one would
be the poorer. No one would mind. There’s
too many of you things. You’ve never been
something to worry about individually.
And, honestly, you’re all as stupid as shit.
Though, still, I’m quite looking forward to
fucking you up.
Tell me, do all worldly things have one
purpose? One reason for being? Just like
they tell you in church? Do you go to
church, you hypocritical pile of cunt-spew?
Did your mother and father bundle you up
and parade you down to that fucking hole
where everyone pretends to care? How
sweet. Truly, how sweet.
But you know there’s no real truth there,
don’t you? What, can you tell me, is the sole
ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE
reason for being? Is it God? Power? remember that’s me, wants you to stop
Money? Is it possible to do unto others as involving him in your filth.
you would have others do unto you? What Your innocence is very exciting, my dear.
makes sense to you? What is the sole rea- You cunt. You are just a cunt.
son for being, cunt? What is it, cunt? Do you And I think it’s very important for you to
know, cunt? Do you want me to tell you, know that, if you were allowed to grow into
cunt? Huh, cunt? a woman—but don’t worry, as you won’t—
It is to serve me. but if you were allowed, then along with the
I am God. sweating and moaning and licking and
And I bring you reality. This is everything fondling and groping and sucking and spit-
you will ever know. You’ve reached the ting—arm-in-arm with all that passes for,
absolute. You’ve arrived at the pinnacle of um, sharing—somewhere amongst all
being and purpose. Lucky girl. I bring you, that—there is love. And respect. Mustn’t
and you’re a most unworthy piece of filth, forget respect.
the most pure of all philosophies. The Do you believe me? Are you so innocent?
knowledge that will ultimately set you free. No, of course not. I’m teasing you, aren’t
The only existing truth. I? You know it as well. There is no such
You get to have your body cut and thing as love or respect, is there?
bruised by my punches. Have your tiny nip- If there is none, then what have we? Do
ples ripped off by my teeth. Have a yellow you know?
holy-water shower and bathe resplendent in There is pain.
the ascendant social allegories contained in That we know.
a heady stream of hot piss. Yes, imagine For sure.
your deep sense of pride and honor as you There can be unbelievable amounts of
pain.
lovingly lick out the inside of my asshole.
Physical pain.
Imagine the nobility—the ascetic
And suffering.
delight—that lights your face as I bust your
And brutality.
cherry during your first and last sexual
experience. And satisfaction.
Now ask yourself this question: What do
Such a lucky girl.
Now, I’d like to see you cry
again.
And don’t worry, dear, I’m
just being facetious. The truth is,
I’m certainly not so stupid to
think that there’s only one reason
to our existence. But you knew
that, didn’t you? It’s just that,
now as always, I’m not bothered
at all by your purpose or,
indeed, your sense of self.
It doesn’t matter in the slightest.
And, if I may be so bold, your
present situation seems to sug-
gest that it can’t mean much to
anyone else.
Being forever female, you’re
just too easy to understand.
However, I’ll admit to musing
over your psychology as far as it
concerns enjoying my day.
That’s all the flattery you’re
allowed, sweetness.
What do you know about…
convenience?
…love?
What do you know about
compromise?
What do you know about
humiliation?
I think your God wants you to
suffer. I think your God, and
57
I know, and what have I been through
tonight? And tell me—do you think your
God has deserted you? Your money?
Santa?
You’re so young. Your mind is so full of
yourself that you barely compare to a bowl
of Jell-O. But your innocence is slowly
starting to annoy me. Fuck’s sake, you, just
like your mother and all of her pig kind, are
so easily fooled. The fairy tales only work
up to a certain point. And it’s nice to know
that your mother’s bubble will burst at about
the same time as yours.
Yes, dear. Oh, yes, ma’am, I believe in
love. And in forgiveness. And respect.
Think now—of how painful the rest of
your mommy’s life is going to be. How she’ll
hurt from the moment she notices you’re
gone ‘til the day she dies. How she’ll never
be able to think of anything else. How
nothing else will ever matter. How no other
thoughts will be able to push the images of
your pain and torture and desperate death
out of her mind. You will always be there—
like a Catholic’s bleeding and crying Christ
on a cross—in the forefront of her mind.
Everything she does from now on will be
controlled by images of you laughing in
58
your crib turning into images of you, silent
in your casket.
Maybe you should beg for mercy.
Remember this—and this’ll be the last
word on the subject, I promise—the pain
felt by others is never as bad as the pain
you feel.
Can you, for example, imagine anything
as fucking stupid as the efforts designed to
save the fucking African hippo or North
American lab hamster? Can you imagine?
Don’t tell me about the chain—the food
chain, the ecological chain, or the great
karma chain. I don’t know any fucking hip-
pos. Fucking morons. Quite honestly, I get a
fair charge from vivisection.
Do you have a dog, dear?
A cat?
A fucking parakeet? Favorite
squirrel? Fish? Roach? A head
louse you’ve grown particularly
fond of?
Well, then—it’s all the same
to us, isn’t it? People who want
to save animals are the same
people who can’t even talk
to other people. You see,
animals, being stupid and
instinctual, are rather safe
company for these loathsome
ne’er-do-wells who like to
worry about the planet.
Vegetarians worried about the
treatment of fucking cows and
pigs—fuck’s sake, it’s enough
to put you off your supper.
I’ve seen some wonderful
footage of animal pain. I like it
a lot. It’s a damned good
source of amusement. But I am
always left a bit empty after-
wards, I’m afraid. Animals
don’t provide quite the right
kick—it’s OK for a while.
Good fun watching dogs and
cats and pigs and monkeys
howl and shriek. But there’s
just not enough—pardon the
pun—meat. When one enjoys
the torture of another, one
wants to feel the full reality of
the situation. You want the
baggage that comes with the person. You’ll
see what I mean, firsthand, soon enough.
You do like to know that the person has
some degree of humanity. For example, if
they’re homosexual or Republican.
Generally happy or sad, the way they dress
and the reason they picked that particular
look for that
particular day. You like to feel their
conscience. Gives their pain a resonance.
What else are animals good for? Did I
ever tell you ‘bout the time me and a couple
of friends shot to death a possum with our
BB guns? Great fun—we were pretty young,
and the fucking thing seemed huge. Fuck
knows what the bastard was doing in our
neighborhood. It took forever to die, and no
one believes me when I say this, but I guar-
antee you—that beast, who was bleeding
from everywhere, cried. I saw tears drop
from those eyes. ‘Course we were aiming
for the eyes but never seemed to hit ‘em, I
think, until it was already dead. Stupid thing
ran into a corner somewhere in an alley
and just shook from fear. It didn’t fight—just
took each shot, one after another, and
pushed itself tighter into the corner.
Screamed, of course. Good fun, good
times—and it all seemed pleasantly natural.
But it’s all like looking at photos or TV
footage of thousands killed by hurricanes
or gas attacks in Iraq. It has little effect.
Those people have no personalities. They’re
just dead meat. Their only reason for
existing is to be there on my TV screen while
I eat my dinner. There is no feeling there.
None at all.
Cancer is a much more personal death. I
love shows on cancer. The victims and their
families are so pathetic. Honestly—mothers
and relatives and friends all gathered
around some dumb sap’s bed, holding
hands and rubbing the soon-to-be-
deceased’s arms and legs. I like when
people cry. I like to watch. And there’s a
world of difference between watching
someone, say, a sister, bawl over her
brother as he rots away from the inside,
and a fat, hooded female covered in warts
and burlap cry over her son who’s died of
dysentery as part of some ridiculous mass
epidemic. Give me a break. They’re not
people—they’re not even entertainment.
Barely a diversion. OK, TV is, but
nothing more.
Your predicament is much more special. I
certainly don’t mean to lump you in with all
the rest. My sweet little beatific doll. You are
special. Extremely special. Why, after all,
you’re the most important thing on earth,
aren’t you? Yes, of course you are. You
deserve all this attention. Don’t all little girls
feel that way? Isn’t that unique to your way
of thinking? No. I don’t think so, either. It’s
just that you’re here now. Waiting for things
to be done for you. To you.
Do you want to go home?
Yes?
Do you want to see mommy again? And
your father? Are you lucky enough to have
a little baby brother? Or sister? Do you
want to be safe in bed at home and
nestled tightly, securely, in mommy’s arms?
I know you do. But you can’t. You’ll never
see anyone you like—love—again. You’re
going to die.
ANSWER Me !
 And it’s going to hurt very much. Shut the fuck up. just for the sake of letting you know, here’s
Would you like to know how I’m going to You’re getting blood all over the fucking some of the very female fun you’re going to
hurt you? Where I’m gonna ram that hard- place. be missing. After men cum—and that’s
on I showed you? Would you like to see it Wipe yourself. what you call it, like when I had that icky
again? Taste it some more? Huh, slut? You Clean yourself up. stuff shoot out of my penis—after we cum,
want me to grind it so deep into your very Hurts, doesn’t it? we really don’t want to be bothered with
being that you pass fucking out? Completely Yes, I know, baby. There, there… your type. You know, you’ve served your
unconscious—just because your tender,
lithe li’l body can’t handle the extreme, um,
sensations.
I want to see you naked. NOW! I want
you to get undressed. I want you to take off
your clothes. The way mommy taught you.
Pull your top off over your head and shimmy
out of those pants.
Do you know what kiddie porn is?
You have such a beautiful body.
Yeah, don’t believe it.
Do you know what these are?
Have you ever seen your daddy shave his
face? In the morning—have you ever
watched him in front of the mirror with
cream all over his face? When he looks just
like Santa Claus?
These are toys. Fun toys. Here. Sharp,
isn’t it? Be careful, dear. Hold it in your
palm. Give it back now. There’s a good girl.
There’s a good girl. Not a terribly bright
girl—but a good girl.
Mommy told you to be careful with sharp
things, didn’t she?
Didn’t she?
Answer…
What?
Pardon?
Excuse me?
Answer me, now, cunt…
SHUT UP!
Cunt.
Why does mommy want you to be careful?
Why?
Because sharp things can cut us. Right?
They hurt us.
If we’re not careful.
Never eat sharp things. Shhhh… purpose and, really, women have absolutely
Shut the fuck up before I fucking rip your nothing to offer after that. You’re a bucket.
Put this in your mouth.
head off. You stupid little baby. You wanna So, thank you, it was a magnificent cum,
Open up.
chew on another razor blade? Then shut up. and I do appreciate your bleeding and cry-
Open up. Wide.
Stop crying and yelling and drooling and ing, but I’m rather tired of it now.
This won’t hurt. I was only kidding. See?
bleeding and…Jesus fuck, you’re a fucking So do us both a favor, alright? Shut it.
It’s just a toy. It’s just pretend. It’s not really
mess. Fucking pig. You really should have Look—you’re getting blood all over your
sharp. Now open your mouth and see.
known better. Shut your trap or I’ll hit you tiny tits and all over your face and in your
Open your fucking mouth, or I’ll smash it
again. hair and…look—look what’s happening.
open. I’ll cut your lip again. You’re about to get me hard again. I can
Now. You want me to yank your teeth out? feel it in my balls. It’s that combination of
Cunt. I’ll slice your lips up all over again if you tears and blood. Honestly, a better cocktail
Stick this in. don’t stop crying. I couldn’t imagine.
…
This is not going to end, dear. You’re C’mere and let me see those cuts in your
… going to be like this for a long time. This mouth. C’mere and let me see those slashes
… isn’t going to be any fun—not for you, any- in your cheeks and lips. Does it hurt? Does
Shut up. way—so be quiet, starting now. You really it hurt when I fucking squeeze it, you little
Quit your crying. are giving me a headache. fucking cunt? Huh? You slimy fuck. You
And stop your yelling. You see, this is a real lesson in life for cunt. Cry harder, you bitch. Cry for me.
You’re giving me a headache. you. A lot of good it’s going to do you. But, Scream louder. You cunt. You baby fucking

ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE 59

cunt. Scream. Keep crying. OK? OK? Huh,
cunt? Can’t you fucking scream any louder?
You like that? Do ya, you fuck? Huh? You
bucket. You hole. You filth.
Y’know, it’s a good thing you don’t have
much longer to live, dear—you’d rather not
suffer the rest of your life with those scars.
Imagine how hard it would be to get a
boyfriend. No one would want you, my
dear. Don’t believe that shit about personal-
ities—I know way too many lonely fat peo-
ple. These scars would put you right up there
with dwarves in the eligibility department.
C’mere and wipe your mouth off on my
cock.
I want my cock soaked with your blood
and baby tears.
Tell me what’s sweeter—my cum or your
blood? What’s warmer? Your blood run-
ning down your throat, or my cum sliding
down it? What feels worse? Do the muscles
in my cock make the rips in your mouth
ache even worse? Yeah?
What about my piss?
Is my piss the warmest yet?
What’s worse, love?
What really makes you cry?
Your face is becoming really ugly. Where
did all those bruises come from? My good
Lord, who did this to you? Who would
hurt you? What kind of maniac would do
these sorts of things—these horrible, bestial
things—to such a sweet, innocent girl?
I think people like that should be shot.
Hell, they’re not even people. I mean, chil-
dren are so…innocent. And trusting. Kids’
minds are so fragile. They can’t handle
abuse the way an adult might be able to.
Kids’ minds fall apart. I know all this is true
because I saw it on TV.
Do you watch Geraldo?
Oprah?
20/20? 60 Minutes? Frontline? Hard
Copy? A Current Affair?
Christ—they’ve all done specials on child
60
sexual abuse. They’re fucking great shows,
too. Kinda stupid—but great to watch. I’ve
seen all sorts of weepy mothers on ‘em. And
they teach you all sorts of things. Healthy,
moral sorts of things.
Do you like TV?
Do you?
What’s your favorite show?
Really, you’re going to have to stop cry-
ing now. I’d like to share some quality time
with you. Really get to know you, you stupid
cunt.
Shut up and tell me your favorite TV
program.
What do you like best? Playing outside or
watching TV? I’ll tell you this—if you say
playing outside, I’m gonna crack your skull
open on the floor. So, OK, what do you like
best? C’mon, concentrate, will you? What’s
your very most favorite TV show?
Do you like cartoons?
Situation comedies?
Did you see the HBO special on rape?
How about the Frontline exposé on serial
killers? I miss Bundy. Truly terrible what they
did to him. A waste, don’t you think?
Did you see any of the weekly features on
day-care abuse and neglect?
I’ll tell ya, you’ve been missing some
great programming. You’ve really got to
use your brain some more.
But I will bet you’re going to miss it. Yes,
ma’am, you’re going to miss TV. If I gave
you a choice, what would you pick: watch-
ing wonderful TV or swallowing dirt and
bugs for all eternity from inside a pink-and-
white baby’s coffin? What sounds like
more fun?
Can you imagine your mother’s wet little
mind when she tries to decide whether or
not to give you a closed-casket wake? I’m
going to ease her pain a bit. I’m going to
make sure no amount of makeup will cover
what I’m going to do to your fresh baby
innocence.
Your bruises will be legendary. Deep red
gashes and raised black welts and thick
fucking pits where your mouth and teeth
used to be.
Closed-casket for sure.
Have you ever seen a baby’s coffin?
They’re incredibly tiny. Embarrassingly tiny.
Instant hard-on stuff, I swear.
You’ll be dressed by some mortician who
probably masturbates over dead bodies.
You’ll be such a prize for him. Just like the
prize you’ll be for the detectives assigned to
your case. The investigators will covet your
murder photos and autopsy reports like the
memories of their cherished first days on the
job: the first corpse they saw—the one lying
in the middle of the street spouting blood
like a fountain; the first street whore they
fondled and busted; the first quivering crack
baby they pulled out of the projects. Full-
color glossies of your young raped cunt,
your cracked and smashed face and skull,
your blood-drenched torso.
Your baby body will be flooded with
embalming fluid, and your bruises, cuts,
and welts—deep and long and fat and
thick—will be badly masked and stitched.
I love the idea of your small corpse taking
up so very little space in the cold, blue
morgue. Your frail, vulnerable body supine
on a frigid metal drainage table—and tubes
and scalpels and saws poking into you and
tearing you apart.
You are going to be missing so much.
I’d like to be there to watch your mom
and dad and relatives fall apart. You’re
going to be just a mound of meat tied up in
a pathetic, sweet, feminine dress. The con-
trast should be astounding. Hacked and
masticated flesh, broken bones, and the vis-
cid marks of a putrescible feast, all covered
by some silly, frilly, froufrou costume.
Darling. Forever.
You better fucking hope I don’t get
another hard-on, you cunt.
Not just yet. Right?
Doll?
We were talking about television, weren’t
we? This rape show was wonderful. Did you
know that over fifty percent of all rapes are
done by people who know the victim? Or
that twenty-five percent of rapes are perpe-
trated on victims older than sixty-five? Or
that forty-five percent of all rape victims are
under fifteen years old? Or that seventy-five
percent of rapists cum in the victim’s mouth
in the first ten minutes of attack? Forty per-
cent of all rape victims deserved exactly
what they got? Sixty percent of all rape vic-
tims got off easy?
I don’t remember what percentage of
rapes are performed by blacks. I know the
figure’s high. You know what crack and
ANSWER Me !
overcrowding can do to a laboratory rat’s
brain—I’ll have to get back to you on the
exact figure.
I know you’re going to miss TV.
Or…is your mom one of those cunts who
says too much TV is bad for you? Is she?
You look pretty well-fed. I’ll bet you’ve got
parents who are that pretentious. I’ll be
doing you a favor. Putting you out of your
misery. You have such caring parents—so
smart.
You’re gonna miss TV.
You’re gonna want your MTV.
But you’ll be dead.
Did you ever notice how fucking piggish
the women in music videos look? Big tits
and fat asses. Would you like the chance to
grow up into a video slut? Would you like
the chance to let those little mosquito bites
sprout out about two fucking feet into those
monstrously fat, cancer-pumped, secondary
sex glands? Can you lip-synch? How far
can you spread your legs? Can you pout?
Let me see you shake your chest. Let’s see
you jiggle that flat, bony body.
Does that sound good to you, cunt?
These fucking things right here. These
cute little pink things—fucking hell, the
fabulous things you can do with these. The
difference between mega-stardom and
bag-ladydom.
ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE
I’m sorry, did that hurt? Cry, or I’ll hit you harder.
Didn’t your father ever pinch your tight You like that?
little nipples? Harder?
Stop your crying. You want it harder?
Louder! Keep crying, cunt.
I want you to cry a lot louder. How hard do you want it?
Cunt. How much more do you want to bleed?
Whore. I’m saving you, bitch. I’m doing you and
Slut. the whole world a favor. I would let you
Fucking prostitute. grow up into the cunt you were, for what-
You little piece of worthless baby fat. ever reason, destined to be. But see, this is
You’re an ugly little girl. reality—your reality, your destiny. I’ll do
Your mommy hates you. what I want for now. And I think I’m here for
Your mommy wants me to hurt you. better things. Better things than watching
I’m gonna fuck you up. your stretch marks peel. Watching your
You sleaze. vagina widen and your ass expand. Your
You hairless cunt. hips spread and your veins pop. I’ve seen
You pig without tits. the videos, dear. Childbirth and rock music
You shit stain. don’t mix. Females shouldn’t dabble in
Cunt. either—but the combination is dreadful.
Cunt, fucking cunt. Let’s leave birthing to the sheep.
Filthy fucking cunt, rotten, diseased fuck- Let’s just leave cunnilingus to the sheep.
ing cunt. Let’s leave tits and ass to the sheep.
Lie down. Let’s leave blue, blood-soaked, pickled
All the way. and wrinkled babies that slide out of squat-
Put your back on the floor. ting Puerto Rican pig mothers in dilapidated
All the fucking way, put your head back. birthing barns to the sheep.
Do it now, before I rip your tiny head off. Do you know what Down’s syndrome is?
Move. Do you have any retards as neighbors,
Cry louder. classmates, relatives?
You baby, you little, helpless baby. Anyone your momma calls “slow?”
61
 They are hideous.
I’ve seen two highly exciting porno films that featured these sorts
of mistakes. The first was of this Frankensteinian retard girl who was
being taught how to fuck horses. Unbelievable. Another girl had to
show the slow creature how to do absolutely everything. How to
hold the horse dick, how to lick and suck it, and how to try to fit it
in her monster cunt. It looked like the retardo didn’t even know she
had a vagina. The horse wasn’t very big, unfortunately, but its cock
was still rather formidable. The most hilarious part of the film didn’t
even involve the stupid animal—the horse, that is. The normal girl,
which I realize is a relative term here, tried to instruct the dim one
in the truly repulsive act of cunt-licking. And the dullard just couldn’t
figure it out. She didn’t have a clue! She just opened her mouth and
let her fat tongue hang out while the other girl kind of shook the
retard’s head up and down in the general direction of her clit. You
should have seen it.
The other retard film I saw—um, these were 8mm films, not
videos—the other one was kiddie porn. This very young beastie just
cried and cried and cried throughout the entire film. This withered,
skinny old European man really put her through the paces, though.
The retard didn’t want to be there at all, but that didn’t bother him—
he fucked her, ate her, made her lick his balls and suck his cock.
And the docile dog did it all while tears poured from her sunken
eyes. The European was fairly ancient-looking—typically thin and
pale and with a huge, long, uncircumcised cock which was, oddly
enough, perpetually soft. The girl was about as tall as his navel,
meaning his flaccid meat was almost constantly in her face during
the instruction sessions. He just let it dangle in her face, and then
sloshed it in and out of her gaping mouth. Did I mention that the
barely human thing was so severely damaged that she even had a
hunchback? She had that troll-like body that those sort of fuck-ups
get. Fat, puffy, and soft. All in about a twelve-year-old frame—
though her mental age was, I’m sure, quite considerably less.
I highly recommend all retard sex films and videos.
I wish I could film this. It would be a marvelous souvenir. One of
the all-time great jerk-off videos. Too dangerous, though. Too much
hassle. And don’t you think it would cheapen the moment?
But I could turn you into such a star. You wouldn’t dare miss your
mark with me. Are you good with directions? Will you do a nude
scene? It is essential to the character development, I assure you.
Let me explain your character to you. You look like you could use
a little motivation. Is there a problem here? The main thing I need
62
you to think about—I need you to focus on—pain. Lots of fucking
intense pain. Keep that plastered to the forefront of your small mind
at all times.
I’ll hurt you, so it shouldn’t be all that difficult, OK?
See that deviant slash cut between your skinny thighs—that hole
from hell? I’m going to spread it open and force all sorts of things
up into you. And everything that grinds into you won’t fit exactly.
But we’ll get it in. You’re going to bleed a bathtubful. Everywhere.
I’m going to puncture the walls of your bowels with everything from
my cock to chair legs. You’ll shit blood all down your legs and over
your ankles and across your feet. And you get to lick the blood off
everything.
You’re going to suck and lap and taste and swallow all your
blood. I’m going to massage it all over your body. And my body.
Over my balls—my sac, my hairy, smelly balls, and the stem of my
dick. In my pubic hair and the head of my cock. And you’ll hate it—
you’ll need to vomit. And you’ll choke and sputter and suffocate
and come just this close to blacking out. This close to dying. Your
eyes will turn white from the inside, and you suddenly won’t be able
to cry anymore. Your throat will clamp tight. Your skull will pound.
And I’ll be cumming in your dry mouth and I won’t let you die. I’ll
wrest my dick out of your face and run my sweat, my sperm, and
your blood all over your entire existence. My piss will taste exactly
like you.
Your pain will make me want to keep you alive. I’ll want to watch
you die forever.
Please stop crying.
I’m sorry.
Go on, beg me not to hurt you.
Beg me to stop.
Beg me not to pull your face apart.
I think there may be a chance for you if you ask me nicely. Just
like mommy taught you. What do you say? What do you say to the
nice man? C’mon. Don’t you say, “Thank you?” Do you say,
“Please?” Say: “Please don’t fucking torture and destroy me.” Say:
“I’m only ten.” Say: “I have my whole life in front of me.” Tell me
how you want a chance to grow up into a successful and worth-
while addition to the community and society at-large.
Tell me how you want to see your mommy again.
Tell me what your bedroom’s like. Do you feel safe there?
If you beg me—if you ask nicely—I’ll let you go home.
I will, I promise.
ANSWER Me !
 Look, I feel bad suddenly. Honestly. I will not fuck your ass.
You believe me, don’t you? I won’t cum in your blood-drenched asshole.
Don’t you? I will not spread your ass cheeks far, far apart and jam my cock
Look—stop crying. in and out of that horribly tight little hole you use for shitting darling
I want you to ask me not to hurt you. I want you to ask me not to baby-girl turds until your whole body bursts.
make you permanently null and void. But I want you to look at me— I won’t pull at your hairless cunt anymore.
look me in the eyes, smile demurely, and ask politely. Just like I won’t ram my finger up inside you.
mommy and daddy taught you. Ask me not to hurt you any longer. I won’t force my fingers up inside you. And I won’t yank your
Tell me it hurts. Tell me I shouldn’t hurt a little girl like you. whole fucking soul out from inside you.
And if you do, if you can do that for me, if you can do that simple I won’t fuck you.
thing, I’ll let you go. Then I won’t hurt you anymore. I will not fuck you for the very first time.
Now. Do you think you can do that, honey? I will not break your cherry.
Slow down and try. I will not bruise your lips.
C’mon, dear. Take a deep breath. I won’t make you eat any more mean toys.
Stop those sad little tears. I will not smash your cunt up into your stomach.
I won’t slap your face anymore. I will not fucking destroy that disgusting sick hole down there.
Just ask. I will not cum in your cunt.
I promise I won’t hurt you—anymore. Or on your cunt, as you watch and cry and howl.
I won’t punch your fucking face anymore. I will not stick my dick into your tiny mouth.
I won’t twist your arm. I will not make you lick my balls or suck out my asshole.
I won’t pull your titties anymore. I won’t rip those fucking pimples I won’t piss, shit, or cum on your face.
you call nipples right off your chest. I will not kill you.
I won’t punch your face, my dear. I will not tear you apart.
I won’t bang your head. I will not destroy every inch of your soon-to-blossom female self.
I won’t kick you anymore. I will not take you from your mommy and daddy and dog.
I won’t slam my fucking hand into your cutesy baby face You can go home.
anymore. Won’t that be better?
But you have to really want it. You have to beg me. You have to
convince me. Make me want to let you go home.
I promise I’ll let you go. I’ll take you right up the stairs to your
home and tell your mom and dad that I’m sorry and that I promise
never, ever to see you again.
And I don’t even care if I get in trouble.
But you have to help me. You have to make me believe that you
want all that.
Do you want to go home?
Do you want to see mommy?
I want every bone in your body. I want every muscle—every living
cell—to shake and plead with me to let you live.
C’mon, try, honey.
Cry louder, goddamnit.
Stop crying.
Go ahead, cry.
Stop it.
Cry, you cunt.
Stop.
Cry.
Stop.
Cry.
Cry. Cry. Cry. Cry, you dead little fuck.
Stop it.
Please, honey, stop crying.
Cry, cunt.
Cunt.
Yes?
No?
Yes?
Maybe? What? Yes?
What did you say? Did you say something? Did you say yes?
Go ahead—cry.
Stop crying.
Grow up.
What’s your name?
What’s your momma’s name?

ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE 63
 What kind of dog do you have? happened to anyone. It’s just that I ended And your parents. Your parents are
Ever seen its dick? up with you. For no other reason than you going to miss you for the rest of their ridicu-
Did you ever play with your dog’s fuzzy were available at the right time. Nothing lous lives. They’re going to hurt and be mis-
red dick? anyone could’ve done would’ve helped you. erable human wastes from this day forward.
What about your dad? No books on how to say no. No videos They are going to grow to hate the very
Have you ever seen your dad’s dick? about bad touching or how to stay safe. No thought of you. Starting soon enough. Your
Huh? Michael Landon specials or TV documen- pain will be their pain until they die. They’re
Have you ever had your dad’s meat in taries with helpful phone numbers or neigh- just that stupid.
your mouth? Has he ever shoved it your way borhood support groups. You were born for It’s all worked out really well, don’t you
when you expected him to tuck you in bed? this. think? ■
Mommy’s stretched-out cunt? It’s more than bad luck.
Ever seen her episiotomy scar? You lived your few years under mom and
Does her cunt look all fucking chewed- dad’s caring, watchful gaze all in prepara-
up? tion for this day.
Do her tits sag? Fucking beast. It all comes down to this.
Want to see Europe? And all the fun you had. All the warmth
Do you want to live another five minutes? that closeted you. And all the love and care
Cry louder. you fell for. It all adds up to a small,
Scream. inchoate personality that’ll fit just perfectly
Make your face redder.
over the tip of my dick.
Make your body shake again.
Scream, you helpless bastard.
Scream louder.
Stop.
Now stop it.
Stop it, or I’ll kill you.
I’m sorry. I’ll let you go.
You can go home now.
Really. Get dressed and go home.
This is far too much fun.
Keep crying.
Don’t be so silly.
You’re going to die.
I’m sorry.
You cunt. I said I’m sorry.
You filth.
You female.
You dog.
Bark for me.
Dry your face and go home.
Let’s go see mommy.
Wanna see mommy?
Wanna go bye-bye in the car?
Nope. I want to ram this chair leg in your
ass first.
I want to send you home to mommy,
bleeding from the asshole.
Stick this in your mouth.
Stick this in your fucking mouth.
Open up your fucking mouth and stick
out your tongue and lick this fucking thing
before I reach in there and pull your tonsils
out and make you eat them out of my fist.
Imagine the marvelous blow job you can
give me when you don’t have any teeth in
that cute red mouth of yours.
Jesus fucking Christ, I like to watch you
cry and choke.
I hope that doesn’t offend you. I mean,
it’s nothing…now, don’t get the idea that
this isn’t personal. This is about as personal
as you can get. But just think—this stuff—all
this stuff that’s happening to you. It could’ve

64 ANSWER Me !
 multiple choice
If you have more than 6 bullets ,
give 2 back to the arsenal .
If you have less than 6 bullets ,
take 2 .
If you have exactly 6 bullets ,
roll again.
RAPIST ’S
ROULETTE
CUT THE DECK OF CARDS AND
DRAW AGAIN.
Your new prosthetic
girdle makes it easier
than ever to rape!
Count how many
bullets you have
and advance that
number of spaces.
A SMALL RED
SORE APPEARS ON
YOUR PENIS.
MOVE BACK
SPACE.
A SUDDEN, INEXPLICABLE WAVE
OF REMORSE OVERCOMES YOU.
DIVIDE THE PREY’S AGE BY 5,
ROUND IT OFF,
AND RETREAT THAT
NUMBER OF SPACES.
FREE BRIDGE ACCESS
Keep this card.
When you reach the Tollbooth,
you can take the shortcut
over the Bridge
no matter if your dice roll
is odd or even.
(This card is neutralized by a Cemetery card.)
66
Despite all that therapeutic Your state-appointed psychiatrist
refuses to renew your
cream, your herpes infection
Thorazine prescription.
continues to rage.
Retreat to the previous “minus
Give 2 bullets to your Prey. bullet” space and lose a bullet.
GANGBANG CA RD THE POLICE HAVE INSUFFICIENT
KEEP THIS CARD. IT ENABLES YOU TO
EVIDENCE TO PROSECUTE YOU FOR
WIN ANY SHOOTOUT, EVEN IF YOUR PREY
HAS MORE BULLETS THAN YOU.
ONLY ONE EXCEPTION:
CHILD MOLESTATION.
IF YOUR PREY IS IN POSSESSION OF A
MACE CARD, ADVANCE TO THE NEXT
THE CARDS NEUTRALIZE EACH OTHER,
AND WHOEVER HAS THE MOST BULLETS
WINS THE SHOOTOUT.
SAFE SPOT.
THE FOSTER PARENT WHO
MOLESTED YOU WINDS UP
BEING RAPED IN AN
CEMETERY
OLD-AGE HOME. CARD
Keep this card.
ADVANCE WHATEVER When you reach the Tollbooth, you must
NUMBER OF SPACES ARE take the Cemetery route.
INDICATED ON THE DICE.
(This card is neutralized by a FREE BRIDGE ACCESS card.)
DNA TESTS LINK YOUR REMEMBER THE NUN
SEMEN TO SPERM
SAMPLES FOUND IN THE YOU RAPED LAST WEEK?
CORPSES OF SEVERAL SHE FORGIVES YOU AND
NECROPH ILIAC-RAPE
VICTIMS IN THE REFUSES TO PRESS
METROPOLITAN AREA. CHARGES.
1 GO BACK T W I C E THE TAKE 2 BULLETS
NUMBER OF SPACES
INDICATED ON THE DICE. FROM THE A RSENAL.
YOUR PAROLE OFFICER SHIT! You forgot
the ski mask!
MARRIES YOUR FORMER VICTIM.
Count how many
bullets you have and
GO BACK TO PRISON. retreat that number
of spaces.
THE LAST WOMAN YOU RAPED WITHOUT ALCOHOL,
ASKED FOR YOUR PHONE YOU’RE IMPOTENT.
NUMBER AFTER IT WAS OVER. Wherever you are on the
board, move your piece to the
GO TO THE NEXT frat party
“ PLUS BULLET ” SPACE bad-guy space in the campus
AND TAKE A BULLET. sector and get some beer.
ANSWER Me !
ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE 65
 PREY PREY PREY

PREY PREY PREY

PREY PREY PREY

PREY PREY PREY

PREY PREY PREY

PREY PREY PREY

68 ANSWER Me !
 Your yeast infection is so bad,
multiple choice You run out of Xanax right when
several area bakeries have
If you have more than 6 bullets , you need to complete a
give 2 back to the arsenal .
offered to hire you. freelance design project.
If you have less than 6 bullets ,
take 2 . Give 2 bullets to your Retreat to the previous “minus
If you have exactly 6 bullets , Predator. bullet” space and lose a bullet.
roll again.

S AY A P R AY E R M ACE C ARD YOUR LOVER DOESN’T REALIZE

KEEP THIS CARD.
IT ENABLES YOU TO WIN ANY SHOOTOUT,
YOU’RE HAVING AN AFFAIR WITH
FOR THE PREY EVEN IF YOUR PREDATOR HAS MORE
BULLETS THAN YOU.
ONLY ONE EXCEPTION: THE ESPRESSO-BAR CASHIER.
IF YOUR PREDATOR IS IN POSSESSION OF A
GANGBANG CARD,
CUT THE DECK OF CARDS AND THE CARDS NEUTRALIZE EACH OTHER, ADVANCE TO THE NEXT
DRAW AGAIN. AND WHOEVER HAS THE MOST BULLETS
WINS THE SHOOTOUT. SAFE SPOT.

Your money- market you experience a sense of

fund accrues healing when your rich

uncle admits to sticking his
CEMETERY
interest!
Count how many
pinkie up your rectum
when you were young.
CARD
Keep this card.
bullets you have When you reach the Tollbooth, you must
ADVANCE whatever number
and advance that of SPACES ARE take the Cemetery route.
number of spaces. INDICATED ON THE DICE. (This card is neutralized by a FREE BRIDGE ACCESS card.)

THAT RUSSIAN YOUR PA RENTS

YOU’VE ALWAYS E x change student
you fucked si x ALLOW YOU TO
WONDERED HOW weeks ago has DIP INTO
IT WOULD FEEL. tested positive for
aids. THE TRUST FUND.
MOVE BACK 1 GO BACK T W I C E THE TAKE 2 BULLETS
NUMBER OF SPACES
SPACE.
INDICATED ON THE DICE. FROM THE A RSENAL.

YOU COME TO AN
UNCOMFORTABLE APPRECIATION YOUR KARATE INSTRUCTOR Holy cow! You forgot
OF YOUR PREDATOR’S RELATIVE your tennis racket!
SOCIOECONOMIC DISADVANTAGES. RAPES YOU.
Count how many
DIVIDE THE PREDATOR’S AGE BY
bullets you have and
5, ROUND IT OFF,
retreat that number
AND RETREAT THAT
NUMBER OF SPACES.
GO BACK TO THE HOSPITAL. of spaces.

FREE BRIDGE ACCESS YOUR JOGGING HABIT HAS YOU’RE IN THE MOOD FOR A
LITTLE SISTERHOOD.
Keep this card. RENDERED YOU PHYSICALLY Wherever you are on the board,
When you reach the Tollbooth,
you can take the shortcut FIT, IF A TRIFLE ANNOYING. move your piece to the
over the Bridge CANDLELIGHT VIGIL
no matter if your dice roll GO TO THE NEXT good-guy space in the campus
is odd or even. “PLUS BULLET ” SPACE sector and do a little
(This card is neutralized by a Cemetery card.)
AND TAKE A BULLET. consciousness-raising.

ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE 67
RAPE WORLD
I NT R O . . . . . . . . p . 70
I T’S A R A P E , R A P E ,
RAPE, RAPE, RAPE,
RAPE WORLD
B AT T L E G R O U N D S . . . . . . . p. 76
WAR
RACE
CAMPUS
M A R R I AG E

A BU S E OF P OW E R . . . . . . . p. 82
INCEST
D AY - C A R E W O R K E R S
SCOUTMASTERS P R E D AT O R S . . . . . . p . 9 2
COPS AIDS TERRORISTS
DOCTORS JUVENILE OFFENDERS
H O LY M E N JOCKS
THE GANGBANG
THE SERIAL RAPIST
THE LUST KILLER

PR E Y . . . . . . . . . . p. 10 2
GIRLS
BOYS
T H E R E TA R D E D
NUNS
OLD LADIES
UNLUCKY WOMEN
ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE 69
 IT S A RAPE , RAPE , RAPE ,
’

RAPE , RAPE , RAPE WORLD

All men are rapists. —Marilyn French, feminist

Only in your dreams, bitch. —Jim Goad, misogynist

I ’ve never raped anyone. I’ve never wanted to rape anyone.

I’ve never even fantasized about raping anyone.
I’m just not the type of guy who’d stick a pistol into a struggling
woman’s mouth and pull the trigger as I pump my vanilla goop into
her shredded pussy. I like to think of myself as a gentleman, not some
rogue character who’d shove his fist so far up a little girl’s rectum that
she dies from internal bleeding. If I had a pair of garden shears in
my hands, I’d go trim some hedges, not hack a pregnant woman’s
cunt, thighs, and buttocks into red ribbons. And there’s no WAY I’d
snip off her lactating nipples just to see the color of milk streaked with
blood.
…Is there something wrong with me?
I mean, my entire life has been one continuous project designed
not to disappoint the feminists, but I fear I must—I’m simply NOT A
RAPIST. I’ve never made unsolicited sexual comments to women,
either on the street or in close company. Fuck, I rarely even make eye
contact with women. And I’ve never come remotely close to forcing
sex on a chick.
For some reason, my cock—and I know my cock pretty well—wilts
at the first sign of resistance or disinterest on a woman’s part. On the
other hand, consent has my dingus pointing skyward like a proud
stalk of sugar cane. Might have something to do with my mom,
might not, but I was always stultifyingly careful about being polite Rape is a dull, blunt, ugly act committed by punk kids.…And yet,
in sexual matters. In most of my romantic episodes, a woman pretty on the shoulders of these unthinking, predictable, insensitive,
much had to tickle my nose with her pussy hairs before I realized she violence-prone young men there rests an age-old burden that
was interested in me. Not only do I refuse to believe that women amounts to an historic mission: the perpetuation of male
“ask for it,” I can’t even tell when they are asking for it! So, due to domination over women by force.…Rather than society’s
aberrants or ‘spoilers of purity,’ men who commit rape have
a deep-seated character flaw, I am not a rapist.
served in effect as front-line masculine shock troops,
I tell my dick what to do, not vicey-versey. I’ve never felt as if my
terrorist guerrillas in the longest sustained battle the world
cock led me around on a leash. Nor have I ever blamed my behav-
has ever known.
ior on a boner. I’ve always found dopey dudes who harass women —Susan Brownmiller, Against Our Will: Men,Women and Rape
to be repellent. Have you seen most of these Clydes? Hairy backs.
Missing teeth. Angry black stubble. Thick eyebrows. And those I am not now, nor have I ever been, a member of a global male
STUPID horny smiles. Their dicks swinging like roach antennae conspiracy to subjugate women by force. —Jim Goad
toward the nearest phlegmy quim. Utterly repugnant. They have
sex drives as strong as armored trucks, yet they’re the least sexy
creatures on Goad’s Green Earth. So I have some powerfully
negative cognitive associations regarding rape. Just as I’m
Y ou see what I mean? There they go again, like I’m guilty of rape-
by-proxy, like I’ve hired mercenaries to go out and rape people.
What dizzy, irrational broads.
reasonably sure that I’ll never eat a sardines-and-whipped-cream Alright, so I’m a dick-wielding devil. But even so, I think I clearly
sandwich, I’m comfortably certain that I’ll never rape anyone. understand the main feminist positions regarding rape:
But you never know. I’m a MAN. I could SNAP at any time, right?
• We live in a “rape culture” which fosters attitudes encouraging
What’s wrong with you bitches? Is it that time of the month? Should men to devalue and abuse women;
I open a window or something?
One in five of you fish-crotches will be raped at some point in your • Rape either has very little or nothing at all to do with sex;
life.1 And only one in fifty of your crusty, drooling, unimaginably hor-
• Power is rape’s essential message. Sex is merely the medium.
rible assailants will ever do jail time.2 That means there are thick,
salty rivers of blood and sperm, acres of bruises and broken teeth, I fully comprehend what they’re trying to say. The problem is that
which will never see justice. But DON’T BLAME ME. Take a Midol I disagree with it. And, just as a rapist tears open a twelve-year-old
and calm the fuck down. girl’s hymen, I’m going to rip their theory to pieces.

70 ANSWER Me !
Pornography promotes violence against
women. —Popular feminist slogan
All I see are spread beavers. Show me
pornography which promotes violence
against women, and I’ll buy it. —Jim Goad
F eminist anti-rape theory is founded on the
notion of a “rape culture,” that our society
is somehow telling its young men to go out
and rape. Yes, that’s true—rapists and
child molesters are right up there with
doctors and lawyers in terms of societal
esteem. Our culture holds the sexual criminal
in VERY high regard.
Ahem—from what I’ve seen, there seems to
be SOLID societal consensus that rape is the
vilest of crimes. Even the sex-sensitive left and
the sex-fearing right would agree on that.
Rape provokes such screechingly negative
reactions because our very idea of society is
founded on the nuclear family. Man’s natural
tendency is to rape; our “culture,” in part,
arose to counter this tendency. Rape conjures
explain why men are this way. Pressed for a
motivational explanation for rape which runs
deeper than vague sociopolitical malice, most
of these bitches are mute. Instead of giving a
concrete answer, they superstitiously shrug
and blame it on the dark side.
By insisting that rape is almost exclusively a
political act with global implications, and by
dismissing any sexual overtones as incidental
at best, feminists bite off their clits to spite their
own pussies. They lose the forest for the trees,
or the vulva amid the bush. Blinded by a chok-
ing haze of left-bank dialectical inanity, they
prefer to see rape as a factor of commodity
aesthetics, rather than what it essentially is,
which should be obvious to a motherfuckin’
duck—an act of FORCED SEX. To claim that
rape has nothing (or little) to do with sex is as
ludicrous as saying that murder has nothing to
do with aggression. Rape is by definition a
sexual act, its genital aspect distinguishing it
from other deviant human behaviors such as
square dancing and stealing hubcaps.
As sociologist Lee Ellis has noted,3 liberal
theorists have a long-standing tradition
of being pro-sex and anti-aggression. In
divorcing rape’s sexual components from its
aggressive ones, they have doctored reality in
order to conform to theory. By denying that
ANY violent aspects exist in the natural
mating process, liberals are able to continue
having sex, only the thought of it doesn’t hurt
so much anymore. Their theory is the K-Y jelly
which lubes their dirty little animal behavior.
Rape isn’t about sex, it’s about power.
—Popular feminist slogan
If rape isn’t about sex, there are an
awful lot of penises and vaginas that
need explaining. —Jim Goad
L ike a slowly rising erection, I’m going to
start with a simple premise and build from
there. The detumescent stump of my argument
is this: Human beings are animals. T’ain’t
particularly lofty, nor is it original, but the
evidence is as thick as a horse cock.

Tom Crites
images of a not-so-distant Viking diorama of
anarchic debauchery, where men slugged
each other for the privilege of slugging
women. Monogamy is a form of protective
pairing. Our entire socio-sexual Magna
Carta is antithetical to rape. If we indeed have
a culture, its anti-rape message couldn’t be
more loudly expressed.
Fuckin’ feminists and their gelded male
lackeys. So stoned on their ethereal notion of
“culture,” that indefinable ideational blob
which changes to suit their needs, they’ll deny
that anything can be learned from biology. Or
anthropology. Or logic. The pro-wimmin
legions tend to dismiss such educational dis-
ciplines as EVIL MALE CREATIONS, arrogant
cum shots from an academic boys’ club. Set
free from the male-imposed requirement to
actually prove what they say in some quan-
tifiable—or at least logically consistent—
fashion, the femme guerrillas’ labia can flap
freely in the wind, liberated from the need
to make sense. But since they have nothing
to back up their statements except…their
statements, their frail ankles sink in a
quagmire of unfounded assertions.
In the bulging canon of fem-lit, you will find
plenty of observations, even more condemna-
tions, but precious few explanations. Most
hard-line femme-defenders are apparently
afraid that a scientific inquiry into rape would
be misinterpreted as an attempt to excuse
rape. They can’t seem to distinguish between
explanations and alibis. So they flit about in
Theoryland. As superficially academic as
their observations are, their explanation for
rape is rarely more profound than this—men
are BAD. Men are evil. Men are power
junkies. Men are morally retarded vis-à-vis
women. These platitudes are offered as
facts—and I’m not saying they aren’t—but the
superstar femme authors make little effort to

ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE 71

Humans, like animals and unlike spatulas,
are animate beings. Whatever you choose to
call it—the spirit, ego, will, life force, or
soul—humans and animals all possess some
internal pilot light which keeps their lungs
breathing and their hearts beating. Most
animal behaviorists would agree that this
unlearned instinct toward self-preservation,
this primary life spark, propels everything
which animals do.
The sex drive is perhaps the clearest
manifestation of the deeper desire to stay
alive, because sex preserves one’s “self”—in
this case, one’s biological cartography—for
at least another generation. Where you see
tits and ass, your body sees self-replication.
While the theoretical meaning of sex is
anyone’s guess, the sex drive itself is an
unlearned, preliterate impulse. It’s hard to
argue with the fact that people get horny,
regardless of the cultural input they’ve
received. Although porn-starved for
thousands of years prior to the advent of
Shaved Pussies magazine, men still “commit-
ted” intercourse “against” women. I’d even
venture to say that if you placed a male and
female baby of any culture together on a
deserted island, they’d be fucking by the time
puberty rolled around. Brooke Shields
proved this fact in that Blue Lagoon movie.
In addition to our physiological similarities
to animals—head, limbs, torso, genitals,
asshole—we tend to behave like the varmints,
too. Like all other animals, we are dependent
on air and water. We subsist by preying on
other life forms, whether animal or plant—
their continued death assures our prolonged
vitality. Most of us mark our territory, even
liberal feminists living in high-security
72
apartment buildings. And, just like animals
do, we form social coalitions. Although based
on a fuzzily egalitarian concern for the
common good, these coalitions are fraught
with elaborate pecking orders.
To establish that rape among humans is
strictly the product of a “rape culture,” one
would need only to prove that other animal
species don’t rape. If “lower” organisms don’t
rape, it might make sense to claim that rape
among humans results from cultural signals
alone. In Against Our Will, Susan
Brownmiller really stuck her neck out on the
chopping block by stating, “No zoologist, as
far as I know, has ever observed that animals
rape in their natural habitat, the wild.” She
was—of course—ignorant of the facts,
although levelheaded enough to admit that
possibility. And since I’m a fair (though
inherently evil) guy, allow me to note that
these studies which I’ll cite were all published
after Brownmiller’s book.
Most mating rituals involve at least a
smidgen of struggle, but there are some
animals who just won’t take no for an answer.
So here’s the horrifying truth about ANIMAL
RAPISTS: Birds (at least certain breeds of
ducks, geese, and bluebirds4) do it. Bees may
not do it, but the male scorpionfly has been
known to rush an unwilling female, grab her
with pincers attached to his abdomen, and
schtup the poor maiden against her will.5 You
know why the lion is the king of the jungle,
don’t you? Because he gets it WHEREVER and
WHENEVER he wants it.6 The graceful, loping
orangutan, that contemplative, ass-scratching
creature who delights zoo-goers of all ages,
has been known to forcibly seize a slice of
orange pussy when more persuasive methods
fail.7 The adorable chimpanzee, so pivotal
in the careers of Michael Jackson and
Ronald Reagan, has also been known to
rape.8 So has its smaller, faggier cousin, the
spider monkey.9
“Joy to the fishies in the deep blue sea,”
eh? Sure, as long as you don’t get RAPED by
one of them. Playful male dolphins, those
super-smart sea scamps who wiggle their fins
and bop beach balls around with their snouts,
team together and abduct lone dolphettes for
their filthy aquatic purposes.10 Jealous male
leaf fish and sunfish have been known to bust
into the love nests of unsuspecting mating
pairs and pop their load all over the female’s
eggs.11 In effect, the “rapist” male sunfish
steals the “consensual” male sunfish’s place in
the sperm derby.
As is the case with rape among humans,
females aren’t the exclusive victims of
animal-kingdom sex crimes: Male acantho-
cephalan worms have been observed
committing homosexual rape against weaker
male “punk” worms.12
Rape among humans also mirrors sexual
aggression among our beastly brethren in that
it tends to follow strong seasonal cues. A study
of rape statistics in sixteen U.S. locations13
gives credence to the notion of a “rape
season,” an eight-week stretch beginning in
early July and ending in early September,
when crimes of sexual violence are more
likely to occur than at any other time. This
pattern mimics the cyclical, seasonal phenom-
enon of “rutting” among male mammals,
when the sex drive—and the probability of
using force to satisfy it—are at a peak.
It’s important to note that rapists in the
animal kingdom tend to be losers who have
trouble snagging babes. And female animals,
who can be as snooty as their human sisters,
don’t make the dating process any easier.
The female scorpionfly, for instance, is a
coldhearted little gold digger who won’t give
you the time of day unless you present her
with a dead insect, which is her equivalent of
flowers and candy. Once you’ve courted her
with the dead bug—which will provide her
with enough nutrition to produce healthy
eggs—she’ll fuck you. The problem for male
scorpionflies is that almost two-thirds of them
die in their attempts to steal dead insects from
spider webs. And even if the spiders don’t kill
them, stronger male scorpionflies are likely to
wrest the bugs away from them in the
competition for females. So, instead of
enduring the headaches involved in the
courtship process, impatient male scorpionflies
will tap that fly-girl ass by force. Sex—and, by
implication, self-preservation—is his goal.
Force is merely the means to achieve it.
And using force to get nooky isn’t a trait
exclusive to male animals. Among certain
insect species, the female is measurably
stronger than the male. Do these Amazonian
pests back away from dominating their part-
ners out of heightened nurturing tendencies?
No—they find ‘em, feel ‘em, fuck ‘em, and
forget ‘em, sometimes killing ‘em after they’ve
ANSWER Me !
fertilized their eggs. Black widow spiders can
be real bitches, not to mention queen bees.
So, at least among icky insects, it would
appear that your relative physical strength
determines how “male” you act, regardless of
your genital configuration.
Suppose that nature, in its hermaphroditic
wisdom, had chosen to bestow human
women with scorpionlike tails tipped off with
lethal stingers. Do you honestly believe that
human broads, in their innate “goodness,”
would have historically refrained from using
those stingers to intimidate men into personal
and political submission? I don’t. I think that
woman-battering would have been replaced
by man-stinging.
Hunt, pursuit, and capture are biologically
programmed into male sexuality.…In
western culture there are no nonexploitative
relationships. Everyone has killed in order to
live.…Sex is power. —Camille Paglia
Sex and power are two testicles in the same
sac. —Jim Goad
P rincess Eggy is a super-soft, noodle-limp,
eight-pound orange female Persian cat
with a heart of gold and a face like Edward
G. Robinson’s. She’s missing most of her front
teeth and therefore half-chews/half-sucks her
food. She keeps mainly to herself as she
lounges around our apartment, either playing
with a ratty catnip toy or staring dreamily
toward Persia.
Eggy usually bunny-hops away in terror,
though, when Bjørn enters the room. Bjørn is
a scabby, snarling, twenty-one-pound lump of
swingin’ half-Siamese flab. Bjørn tries to
mount his drooping haunches atop Eggy’s
cotton-ball cunt, but he’s unable to achieve an
erection. (We paid a veterinarian to snip off
his nuts.) But even though Bjørn can no longer
achieve his measly, mealworm-like kitty-cat
hard-on, his aggressive instincts have survived
the operation intact. So instead of trying to
fuck Eggy, he merely beats the hell out of her.
He paws at her, chases her, corners her,
throws his weight on her, and bites her neck
until she screams. Overpowered, Eggy can
do nothing but run, hide, and stay alert.
From my subjective standpoint, I’m morally
outraged by Bjørn’s behavior. How dare he
impose his obese, inelegant, Vic Tayback self
onto Eggy’s sweet little Zsa Zsa tuchis? If I
were Eggy, I’d attend kitty-cat candlelight
vigils, uniting with other pussycats-with-
pussies against the brutish ways of tomcats.
Fortunately for Bjørn, nature knows of no
such thing as morality. He gets away with
maiming and mauling Eggy because he’s
bigger than she is. It’s about math, not morals.
Why doesn’t Eggy assault Bjørn? Because
she’s less than half his size. For the same
reason, five-year-old girls rarely attack grown
ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE
men. And cheerleaders don’t rape football
teams. And patients in traction don’t rape
doctors. And peasant women don’t rape
conquering armies. It’s a thuddingly obvious
matter of physical, not theoretical, power.
So if your purpose is to fight rape, you’re
wasting your time by laying guilt trips on
rapists. Your moral outrage means nothing to
a rapist. It’s your pussy he’s after.
And unless you’re able to fight him off with
physical force—not persuasive rhetoric—it’s
your pussy he’s gonna get.
Surprise, surprise, Gomer Pyle—in all the
rape cases cited in the seeming half-ton of
source materials I used to research this article,
the perpetrator was either physically stronger
than his victim or used weapons and tactics
which gave him a physical advantage. Wow!
What a revelation! How unique to view rape
as an act occurring between real bodies on a
physical plane, instead of a concept as
distant and inscrutable as Foucault’s bunghole.
Apart from the fact that they have a sex
drive, the main reason that rapists rape is
because they’re able to rape. An aggressor’s
chances of success wither significantly when
his intended victim is stronger or better-armed
than he is. Therefore, rapists tend to prey
almost exclusively on those they perceive to
be weaker than themselves. They don’t rape
out of cognitive hostility to the concept of
weakness—weakness simply makes it easier
for them to rape.
Feminists have long argued that rape is
about power, with sex merely the chosen
medium of expression. Invert that statement,
and I think you’ll be much closer to reality:
Rape is about sex, with power merely the best
means of achieving it.
If men raped primarily out of an urge to
dominate and humiliate, don’t you think
they’d realize this? Among studies where
convicted date rapists14 and rapists of
strangers15 were asked to explain what
motivated them, themes of power and
dominance surfaced far less frequently than
comments along the lines of, “Gosh, I was just
as horny as a jack rabbit.” In the rare
instances where power was mentioned, it was
usually described as a means to an end,
the can opener which provided access to the
tuna fish.
So humans are animals. And animals rape.
And stronger animals rape weaker ones. That
still doesn’t explain why I’m not a rapist.
It’s because I don’t think like a rapist. Or,
more precisely, because rapists seem unable
to think like me.
What’s most astonishing about rapists’
personal testimonials is their unanimity of
opinion regarding their victims: THE FUCK-
ING BITCH ASKED FOR IT. At first, this seems
like a pathetically cheesy cop-out. When
you’ve heard it a few times, it becomes a bad
joke. But after almost every rapist you study
uses this line—and seems to mean it—you
begin to wonder why they all feel this way.
73

Back in high school, I used to marvel at how all the chubby, zitty,
hairy guys in polyester plaid pants felt no shame about grabbing their
nuts and making smooching noises at every woman who passed.
“Don’t they realize how disgusting they are?” I would think to myself.
“Can’t they see how much they nauseate that girl?” The more I study
sex offenders, the closer I come to this conclusion: No, they can’t see.
They can’t see it at all.
My bedroom was so dark that I couldn’t see anything, but I didn’t
need a flashlight to know that Dennis’s hand had slipped down my
underwear. I awoke to find him squeezing my dick as if testing it for
ripeness. My eyes were wide open now, but the room was still black.
I had been sleeping on the floor, the nylon carpet fibers itching my
elbows and heels. And Dennis was leaning down from the bed,
sampling my fresh produce. I felt pinned to the carpet by a
simultaneous rush of bewilderment, embarrassment, and anger.
I couldn’t believe what was happening. I finally grunted like I was
half-asleep and rolled over on my stomach, away from Dennis’s
unsolicited grip on my Love Yam.
Still dark. My heart was trying to punch its way out of my chest. Is
he still awake? Why the fuck did he do that? I was fourteen. Dennis
was fifteen. Steve—who was sleeping on the bed to the other side of
Dennis—was only thirteen. We had gone to the Monsignor Bonner
High School Mixer earlier that night, vainly trying to get Catholic
chicks to dance with us. To be honest, we were a sorry-looking crew.
I was a barely pubed-out Irish boy with a Prince Valiant ‘do and a
74
dorky fat bow tie. Steve looked like a Sicilian’s idea of Bozo
the Clown. Dennis had the mildly reptilian features and soft
jowls of a telethon-era Jerry Lewis. He was a Star Trek fan
who emitted a faintly medicinal smell which in retrospect
was probably dried sperm.
A mere six hours earlier I had stood at the auditorium’s
fringes, horny as a chinchilla for those sweaty little girls
dancing to “Ballroom Blitz” and “Suffragette City.” And this
is the action I get? Jerry Lewis molests me? To this day, the
name “Dennis” reminds me of the word “penis.”
I never confronted Dennis about this. I think my spudlike
male psyche was too freaked by the whole matter. But I did
mention it to Steve a few days later, and he told me that
Dennis had tried to yank his crank the same night. And, like
me, Steve said he was too paralyzed by the experience to
do anything but wriggle loose and turn over.
Steve and I began avoiding Dennis but kept going to the
Catholic high-school dances. Even on cold nights, the
sadistic priests kept the auditorium doors closed until the
precise second the dance was scheduled to begin. So
we’d wait outside and graze around on the sprawling
schoolyard, our platform heels clicking on the dewy black
asphalt. The guys, of course, would mill together on one end
of the schoolyard, girls on the other. Steve and I would bum
cigarettes from dudes with wide collars and skimpy
teenaged mustaches, everyone bullshitting each other about
how many girls they’d fucked.
We all stopped talking when we heard the scream. An untethered
wail like you’d hear from an animal caught in a trap. It shot across
the blacktop from the bushes far on the schoolyard’s other end. The
screams kept coming like labor contractions, each one sharper than
the next. It was hard to see through the glum Philly fog, but street lights
cast a few beams on a disheveled girl, wrapped in a white sweater
or towel, emerging from the bushes. “SON OF A BITCH! I CAN’T
BELIEVE HE DID THIS TO ME!” Her sobbing gasps were as wide and
deep as the schoolyard. No one had to say a word. We all somehow
knew instinctively that she’d been raped. First Dennis, now this. Right
at the age when I was beginning to experience strong sexual urges,
I was starting to realize that sex could be a very dangerous thing.
A few years later, my visibly upset next-door neighbor John paid
me a visit. It seemed that Dennis, home on semester break from
medical college in Ohio, had tried to touch John’s dick. John was
more rattled than I’d ever seen him. He wanted to kill Dennis. He
ended up doing nothing.
When Dennis had graduated from high school, his class of nearly
a thousand voted him “Most Likely to Succeed.” The nuns, who hated
me, loved him. I used to wonder what they would have thought
if they knew he was grabbing every cock he could wrap his
fingers around. Dennis had also worked part-time as a paramedic,
providing him with access to accident-victim wee-wees throughout
Philadelphia. As far as I know, he’s now a physician with a private
practice. Now turn your head and cough.…
As a poor teenager trapped in the suburbs
without a job or a car, I used to hitchhike my
way around the faceless cement landscapes
of Delaware County, Pennsylvania. And more
than once, the male drivers who picked me
up offered “a good time” in addition to my
ride. It usually started with the driver resting
his hand on my knee. Depending on my
mood, I’d either smash the guy’s teeth or
demand to be let out of the car. During the
summer before I started college, I hitched a
ride with a very friendly older man. His
hair was white and coarse like toothbrush
bristles. His skin was even whiter, the color
of wedding-cake frosting, interrupted only
by clusters of blue veins. And as he was
talking and smiling, he put his white, veiny
hand on my knee. I was in a good mood that
ANSWER Me !
afternoon, so all I did was get out of the car.
When I entered college that fall, I realized he
was a teacher in my journalism department.
Too bad I hadn’t punched him.
Now, I’m a lobsterlike bastard who takes
everything personally, but I still don’t get the
lower-intestinal feeling that what Dennis and
the pervy old teacher did to me were malicious
acts intended to destroy my soul. In an odd
way, I sensed that I wasn’t even in the same
place as them when the shit was going on, that
my admittedly luscious dick was all that
mattered. I didn’t get the sense that they
wanted to hurt my feelings, because I didn’t
think they were even aware of my feelings.
The inability—not the conscious refusal, but
the literal inability—to correctly interpret signs
of disinterest and resistance is a hallmark of
almost all sex offenders. So when some hulking
Cro-Magnon insists that his victim’s desperate
screams were merely a coy tactic designed to
heighten his arousal, I tend to believe that’s the
way he really saw it.
And there’s some scientific evidence to but-
tress my intuitive hunch. It’s been established
that the influx of testosterone and other andro-
gens during male sexual development are
positively correlated to the strength of one’s
sex drive. But the same hormonal factors have
also been shown to negatively affect the
degree of one’s sensitivity to external signals
such as the feelings of others or the threat of
jail time.16 In a stroke of biochemical cruelty,
the horniest men are also the least likely to
care whether or not you’re in the mood.
You don’t prepare for a storm by crying
about the injustices of weather. Human
history is a long, spermy parade of people
who couldn’t keep their pants buttoned.
There are a lot of hard dicks out there just observed them. Your stereotypical rape
looking for a hole—maybe yours—to fill. Your clipping reads like this:
morality and your theory and your loud,
Student Found Raped, Murdered
whiny voice won’t stop them. The only A college exchange student from Taiwan
thing which stops them is your ability to hit was found murdered Thursday evening in
them with more force than they throw her dormitory room on Goadnolia Avenue
at you. So ignore that prudish Catharine in Butte, police said yesterday. Police also
MacKinnon book and take a karate class. said they found evidence of burglary and
Skip that consciousness-elevating session and ritualistic sexual assault.
The body of astrophysics major Yin
buy a Glock .45 with laser sights. It’s your Sung, 19, was discovered by her room-
only salvation. mate shortly after 7 p.m., police said. Stan
Traditionally, “rape” has been defined as Sneech, 23, an unemployed truck driver
forcible male-to-female sexual penetration, from Anaconda, is being held without bail
with all other forms of sexual assault falling on suspicion of first-degree murder.
under the umbrella of “sex crimes.” But in
honor of Dennis’s dick-diddling and Debbie’s In the mainstream accounts, that’s about as
mild victimization at the hands of Mark “He much titillation as you’re likely to get. They
Tried to Fuck Me” Levine, we’re expanding won’t tell you that Stan sliced off her left tit
our definition of rape in RAPEWORLD to down to the ribs. Or about the sperm samples
include all forms of sexual aggression. Apart taken from Yin Sung’s mouth, vagina, and
from the penile-vaginal particulars, the act is anus. Or the bruises on her neck. Or the
essentially the same. name “Stan,” carved a quarter-inch deep into
A deplorable hypocrisy infects most printed her left ass cheek. They’d have no way of
accounts of rape. In fact, reporters didn’t even knowing that, while he fucked her, Stan kept
call it “rape” until about thirty years ago, asking, “You like my white dick, bitch?” Or
preferring to bury the act under less-sexy- that she looked in Stan’s eyes and cried,
sounding charges such as “assault” or “Why?” Or that Stan really had no idea why.
“outrage.” Even today, most journalists stop at Not all men are rapists, but most of them
the bedroom and resume only after the police are dopes. Some gorilla may misinterpret your
have cleaned up. If you catch my sleazy drift, lipstick and halter top as a come-on. He may
there’s an unwritten law that you can’t linger walk up behind you, wrap a hairy forearm
on sex or bodily fluids—or even the psycho-
around your neck, and drag you in back of a
sexual passion which fueled the act. But if you
Burger King dumpster. He might slit your pants
know what a nice guy I am, you’ll know that I
open with a knife and shove his ugly purplish
won’t spare you any of the hate or love or
blood or sperm. I’m too honest and consider- cock so far up inside you that it squeezes the
ate to cheat you out of the truth. Most news tears out of your eyes. You don’t want to die
hacks, though, are so bound-and-gagged just to satisfy some ugly animal’s sick needs,
by an outmoded sense of propriety that they do you? Of course you don’t. So be careful
report incidents of rape as if a robot had out there. Or at least douche next time. ■

FOOTNOTES: 1, 2. Koss,Woodruff & Koss, “Statistics on Sexual Violence Against Women—A Criminological Study,” 8/90.
3. Ellis, Lee, “A Synthesized (Biosocial) Theory of Rape.” Journal of Consulting and Clinical Psychology, Vol. 5, 1991, p. 631.
4. Batten, Mary, “Why Men Rape.” Science Digest, 7/82, p. 64. 5. “Behaviour: Scorpionfly Reproduction.” The Times (London), 7/19/80,
p. 14e. 6. Rosenthal, Elisabeth, “The Forgotten Female.” Discover, 12/91, p. 22. 7. Batten, op. cit. 8, 9, 10. Rosenthal, op. cit.
11. Batten, op. cit. 12. Abele, L.G. and Gilchrist, S., “Homosexual rape and sexual selection in acanthocephalan worms.” Science,
197: 81-83, 1977. 13. Herbert,W., “Rape Season: Legacy of Our Past?” Science News, 7/23/83, p. 53. 14. Yegidis, 1986, p. 53 (cited
in Ellis). 15. Field, H.S., “Attitudes Toward Rape: A Comparative Analysis of Police, Rapists, Crisis Counselors, and Citizens.”
Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 1978, pp. 156-179. 16. Ellis, op. cit.

ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE 75
 BATTLEGROUNDS
TITS ’N’ ASS HAVE LAUNCHED A THOUSAND HUMAN STRUGGLES.
WAR
A man’s highest job in life is to break his
enemies, to drive them before him, to take
from them all the things that have been
theirs, to hear the weeping of those who
cherished them, to take their horses
between his knees, and to press in his arms
the most desirable of his women.
—Genghis Khan
Can’t you understand it if a soldier who has
crossed thousands of kilometers through
blood and fire and death has fun with a
woman or takes some trifle?
—Joseph Stalin
In a war, what you can’t use or carry off, you
destroy.
—Abimael Guzman, founder of Peru’s Shining Path
guerrillas
The rapes in the Serbian war of aggression
against Bosnia-Herzegovina and Croatia are
to everyday rape what the Holocaust was to
everyday antisemitism: both like it and not
like it at all, both continuous with it and a
whole new departure, a unique atrocity yet
also a pinnacle moment in something that
goes on all the time.
—Catharine “Hot Lips” MacKinnon
No WONDER the Serbs were disqualified from the World Cup soccer finals.
76
We were ordered to rape so that our morale
would be higher. We were told we would fight
better if we raped the women.…I was just a
soldier. Everybody does it.
—Serbian infantryman Borislav Herak
M en get killed in war. Women get raped.
Wherever wars happen—which is
everywhere—gender roles tend to split along
these lines. And winners rape a lot more than
losers do. To the victor belongs the booty.
Shake that booty.
The enemy’s coming. Bomb after bomb,
the blasts so bright you see a solid sheet
of white in the back of your head. You’re
shuddering. Tanks are rolling. Bullets
spraying. Sperm squirting. Marching. Killing.
Raping. Dominating. Row after row of con-
quering cock. Buckets of cum for our victory
parade. Huddled crowds of peasant women
bleeding between the legs. The busted cherry
of a new regime.
Anarchy, wonderful anarchy. Let’s drive out
of town, way past all the blown-out buildings,
and go to a rape camp. A thousand pale,
emaciated enemy women to choose from.
Take your time and pick a good one. No such
thing as sexual harassment when you’re the
winning army. Date rape? Fuck her dirty
enemy slit with the steel barrel of your AK and
then shoot her in the head. Fuck and kill
two dozen of them this week. Who’s going to
stop you? There’s no law until the war’s over,
and then only if we lose. So fuck her in front
of her hunchbacked old father and fat mother.
Bind and gag her husband. But let him see
your dick going in and out like a moray eel.
Make sure he gets a slow, painful gawk at
what your “gun” looks like when it’s loaded
and cocked.
It isn’t enough to destroy the enemy’s
factories. You have to crush his will, too. Kick
him until he doesn’t want to get up again.
Seize both his means of production and
reproduction. Rape is the final act of
impalement, the last bayonet thrust. Like a
tomcat pissing on curtains, it’s a way of
marking territory. We’ve already torn apart
your social fabric. Now it’s time for your
daughter’s vulva. So while you’re humping
that dirty peasant bitch, tell her that her
family’s bodies are sprinkled all over the
countryside. I guess your brother and father
were too weak to prevent this from happen-
ing. Everything your people have worked and
died for is now mine. I’ve taken your soil,
your railroads, your food, your language…
and you. It’s my country now, and I can park
my dick wherever I want.
Right now, the bloody Balkans are dripping
with Serb sperm, the primary detergent used
in “ethnic cleansing.” In the area formerly
known as Bosnia-Herzegovina, nationalist
instincts which had slumbered under commu-
nism exploded violently the moment the
Soviets—pardon the entendre—pulled out.
The Serbs, who are currently dominating
the Croats and Bosnian Muslims, are skillful
terror-mongers. There have been reports of
soccer games where Serbs use severed
Muslim and Croat heads as balls; of gold
tooth fillings pried out of live prisoners’
mouths; of Bosnian men forced to drink motor
oil and then castrated; of live crucifixions; of
Serb tanks “plastered with pornography” like
an adolescent boy’s bedroom; of a hundred
mass graves; of screaming children thrown
into ovens; of a woman tied to a stake, her
pregnant belly sliced open, her unborn baby’s
arm torn off and stuffed into its father’s mouth;
of busloads of naked Muslim men with open
holes where ears, noses, and testicles used to
be—yet still ALIVE—paraded in front of their
wives and daughters.
Pieced together, the scraps of personal
testimony emerging from the Balkans
complement each other so well that you tend
to believe the rape stories are true. Or if not,
it’s one hell of a elaborately latticed lie.
ANSWER Me !

The nightmare usually goes this-a-way—Serb tanks, full-color stroke-
mag centerfolds taped and glued to their exteriors, roll into badly
shelled Muslim villages. Serb troops delegate authority to tattletales
among local Serbs, who mark the houses of all Muslims and Croats.
Enemy men of fighting age are typically rounded up and either imme-
diately slaughtered or shipped to the death camps. Women, children,
and old folks are left behind with the Serb soldiers. Then come the
rapes—day and night. Houses metamorphose into whorehouses, with
women’s screams pealing from every window. Mothers and daughters
are simultaneously fucked by hooting soldiers, one platoon after the
next, week after week, until the women show pregnancy’s visible
swelling.
At that point, the pregnant Muslims are typically set loose as
refugees, free to dodge the front line en route to safety zones. The
raped Muslim woman’s former village is now a ghost town. It is
cleansed. Enemy Serbs will soon move into the house where she was
born, the house where she was raped. Back among her fellow
Muslims, the pregnant rape victim will find herself ostracized, a
dirty whore carrying a half-breed fetus. Islam doesn’t cut the chicks
any slack.
This is, of course, a best-case scenario. She could have been sent to
one of the rape camps to be fucked and tortured under spotlights amid
the chicken wire, dysentery, parasitic water, and deep dirt craters
where they toss the dead people after shooting them. Her gang rape
and slow murder by guffawing Serb soldiers could have been video-
taped—many of them reportedly are. The videocam lens could have
zoomed in on her face as she was shocked with electric prongs,
ass-fucked with a truncheon, and forced to sing Serbian nationalist
songs. The Serbs have even broadcast naked, uncut rape footage as
war propaganda on local TV stations.
Borislav Herak was a sex-crazed twenty-one-year-old Serb with a
big fucking rifle and a license to shoot Muslims. Amid the violent cloud
of civil war, he lost touch with his father. Eventually, one of his
comrades planted an idea in his head. He told Boris that the Muslims
had killed his dad. It may have been a lie. It didn’t matter.
Brought before a war-crimes tribunal in Sarajevo, Herak confessed
to killing twenty Muslims and was suspected of slaughtering at least ten
more. He stated that, compared to his comrades, his body count was
relatively low. Herak said he learned how to kill in boot camp, where
he practiced by slicing pigs’ throats. He testified that his superiors com-
manded him to kill Bosnians “like pigs” and to rape their women as a
morale-booster. In a basement northwest of Sarajevo, Boris obeyed
official commands and machine-gunned a Muslim family of ten, which
included two elderly women and four children. He told of glutting
himself with food and drinking brandy after participating in the
ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE
close-range machine-gun slaughter of a hundred and fifty Muslim
villagers. When asked by a reporter whether he thought he deserved
to die, he replied yes and politely requested some cigarettes.
Borislav Herak reportedly kept stacks of cum-varnished porno mags
in his bedroom at home. Of the twenty murders to which he confessed,
ten involved raping and shooting Muslim women. He said he remem-
bered all of his victims’ names.
Boris and his soldier friends procured their Muslim chicks from two
prisons-cum-whorehouses on Sarajevo’s outskirts. One of the jail
bordellos was known, with great élan, as the Sonja Café. It housed
roughly seventy Muslim women and girls. Turnover was rapid. After
picking a victim or two, Boris and the boys would force her into an
empty room where they’d rape her repeatedly, cheering each other on
as if they were taking turns at a video game. After they emptied their
nuts, it was off to the hills or forests, where their Muslim party girl
would be shot and dumped.
Borislav Herak was convicted of his crimes and sentenced to death.
Before his execution, he confessed that he never had sexual
intercourse until he became a soldier and raped his first Muslim.
You should never give a gun to a virgin.
Although there exists no scientific way to determine precisely how
many Muslim and Croat women have been raped in the Balkan
conflict (what would you use—a spermometer? Serbograms?), most
estimates flutter at around fifty thousand. Not bad for a postage-stamp
republic in the European beet belt, but significantly lower than the
quarter-million Korean and Chinese dames held as “comfort women”
to service the egg-roll-sized members of Japanese soldiers during
WWII. Or the estimated four hundred thousand Bangladeshi
broads raped by Pakistani soldiers in 1972. Or the two MILLION
German women forced to cram Russian cock as a vengeful Red Army
turned the tide against Hitler. To be fair to Hitler (we like his mustache,
OK?), his brownshirts had been eager rapists themselves when they
were winning.
The perceptive among us know that in a few years—not many years
at all—the whole world will be one big flamin’ Bosnia. As you read
this, comparable wartime situations—with the attendant mass rape of
enemy women—are flaring in Uganda, Myanmar, Liberia, and
Rwanda. As in Bosnia, both men and women are the victims of
sexual torture, with Liberian males privy to the sizzling experience of
having red-hot cutlasses applied to their genitals. If you doubt
that there will be rape camps in Des Moines one day, you’ll probably
end up in one. ■
RACE
Come up, black dada nihilismus. Rape the white girls.
Rape their fathers. Cut the mothers’ throats. —LeRoi Jones
Any oppressed group, when obtaining power, tends to acquire the
females of the group that has been the oppressor.
—Calvin C. Hernton
When one group uses the trappings of authority to maintain power
over another group, there comes a time when some small thing—
a crime, perhaps—will become the spark that unleashes
long-suppressed passions.
—Theon Wright, Rape in Paradise
Hey, where are the white women at?
—Cleavon Little, Blazing Saddles
D espite Thomas Jefferson’s slave-fuckery and Bill Clinton’s rumored
Mulatto Love Babies, interracial whoopee-making in the U.S.A.
has largely been proscribed by an invisible code of genital apartheid.
77

Although apparently unafraid of an incipient
black intellectual takeover, Joe Whitey
has traditionally dreaded the phallically
phearsome “Horn of Africa” as if it signaled
his own genetic demise.
This isn’t to say that Japanese fathers don’t
beat their daughters when they date Koreans.
Or that Jewish mothers don’t tell their sons to
avoid shiksas. Or that in the mid-eighties, my
black girlfriend didn’t hear, “What are you
doing with that white boy?” from every
Ripple-tippling “brother” we saw on the street.
Or that in high school, my half-Puerto
Rican/half-Chinese paramour had to tell her
father I was her math tutor, because daddy
would never let his salted plum date a smelly
European. Despite my best miscegenatin’
efforts, I soon realized that the true “color
line” was the vaginal gateway, and that every
race employs border-patrol guards along its
females’ labia.
Because of our tense racial history, sex
between blacks and whites in America seems
to acquire a meaning which transcends the
mere salt-and-pepper coupling. The “mean-
ing” of interracial sex, though, seems more
open to interpretation than the implications of
interracial RAPE. In the U.S.A., those
meanings seem predetermined. White-on-
black rape is linked to subjugation—keep ‘em
down. Black-on-white rape tends to be viewed
as retaliation—get ‘em back.
Any bean-pie salesman on any urban
corner will tell you that variations in black-
American skin color can be traced to the rape
of slaves by the horny li’l devils who owned
plantations. By force-fucking those cotton-
pickin’ African women, slaveholders created
mulattos, quadroons, octoroons, and possibly
even macaroons and nectaroons. The wanton
infusion of Caucasoid goo into reluctant slave
women is a familiar, if unpleasant, chapter of
the American saga.
78
As is the lynch mob. Innumerable dead,
swollen, charred, and de-balled black-male
bodies have floated down this country’s
rivers. Many of them were undoubtedly
innocent of the charge which most inflamed a
white crowd, that of raping some pale Dixie
belle. Sexual hysteria was typical of the
lynch mob, with a hallmark of many
lynchings being the removal of the victim’s
coffee-colored scrotum.
On January 31, 1930, a sixteen-year-old
white girl was discovered dead in a puddle of
water along a rural Georgia roadside. She
had last been seen walking down the road to
deliver a letter. The girl was found stabbed to
death, with deep hack marks around her tits
and throat. One of her eyes was missing,
apparently plucked out of its socket with a
knife.
Local whites—and you know how those
Jaw-ja locals can be—suspected James Irwin,
a black wagon-driver. An estimated
THOUSAND irate crackers abducted Irwin
and remanded him to the murder scene. Irwin
was chained to a tree. One by one, his
fingers and toes were lopped off and passed
around as souvenirs. His abductors used
wire-pullers to remove his teeth, one bloody
bicuspid at a time. When Irwin would cry,
his tormentors speared his mouth with a
sharpened pole.
After an hour of torture, Irwin was still
alive. His captors then strung his fingerless
hands up to a tree and built a fire underneath
him, soaking the tinder with gasoline. Irwin’s
writhing body was peppered with bullets as it
burned. After the flames died, Irwin’s killers
let his body hang all day in plain view of
the roadside. His charbroiled carcass
became a tourist attraction for the rest of
the day, with entire white families making
pilgrimages to the site as if Irwin were the
Macy’s Christmas tree.
The lynch mob is still alive, if only in spirit.
Apprehension of the Schwarz-colored
Schvanz still looms like a Stealth Bomber in
the minds of many white Americans. George
Bush won the presidency in 1988 by
threatening a black cock in every bedroom.
His campaign managers chose a sloe-eyed
honeydripper named Willie Horton to exploit
white sexual fear. Back in 1974, Horton and
two other men hacked a white gas-station
attendant to death in Massachusetts, castrating
the victim and jamming his cadaver into a trash
can. Horton received life without parole for his
crime. Ten years later, under a state-sponsored
furlough program, Horton began receiving
weekend passes. He dutifully returned from
nine weekends of freedom but vanished after
the tenth. Nearly a year later, in April, 1987,
Horton busted into a Maryland couple’s home,
raping the woman at least twice and using a
knife to carve patterns into her boyfriend’s skin.
Bush’s campaign managers adroitly used
the Horton case as proof of liberal “softness”
(note the penile implications) on crime. Bush’s
opponent, an autocratic morph of Richard
Benjamin and Leonard Nimoy named
Michael Dukakis, began to lose his lead in the
polls after Horton’s dusted-out face started
appearing in Bush’s TV spots. Dukakis also
shot himself in his Greek dick during one of
the presidential debates when he stammered
through an autistically cold answer to the
question of how he’d react if his emotionally
brittle, rubbing-alcohol-guzzling wife Kitty
were raped. Ironically, it wasn’t even Dukakis
who had sponsored the prisoner-furlough pro-
gram which set Horton loose, it was his
Republican predecessor. But the mere
perception of what Dukakis had done, which
was to unleash the libidos of countless
Mandingo bucks onto unsullied Caucasian
squack, was what killed him.
There have been many Willie Hortons
throughout American history, black men
whose horrifying boners are held up as a
threat to the social order. But unlike Horton,
many of them were innocent of any sexual
crime. Names such as Emmett Till, Willie
McGee, The Scottsboro Boys, and The
Martinsville Seven should be familiar to most
American blacks, but to very few whites. They
were all young black men who were either
murdered or railroaded into long prison
sentences because they were victims of
whitey’s “rape complex.” It’s all true.
So is this story. On December 29, 1992, a
white woman named Melissa McLauchlin was
kidnapped in North Charleston, South
Carolina. Her abductors, all of whom were
black, took her to a trailer park. At least five
ANSWER Me !
men raped her. McLauchlin was then forced
to scrub her vagina with bleach and peroxide
to remove any spermy evidence. She was
then shoved back into a car and driven to
a Charleston suburb, where she was shot
six times in the face and dumped along
the highway.
Under questioning, suspect Carl Matthew
Mack told police that he and two other defen-
dants had made a New Year’s resolution to
kill a white woman in response to “four
hundred years of oppression.” Although that
statement is brow-raising enough, I’m amazed
that a man who’s over four hundred years old
would be able to achieve an erection and
rape someone. Detectives found a leaflet
belonging to one of the defendants entitled
“X-Man,” a black nationalist screed calling for
violent revenge against whites. Mack, who
was eventually convicted of McLauchlin’s
murder, said that he and his friends had
decided to pick a victim at random. “I said
any white girl would do,” he reportedly told
police. “We were just sitting around joking.”
Less than a month after McLauchlin’s
murder, a fifteen-year-old white girl was
kidnapped at a Brooklyn bus stop by two
black men in a car. “Why are you doing
this to me?” she pleaded while being forcibly
disrobed and having her eyes taped shut.
The answer should have been obvious:
“Because you are white and perfect.” ■

CAMPUS
When I’m old and turning gray, I’ll only gang-
bang once a day.
—Fraternity rhyme (origin unknown)

We can rape whoever we want!
—Phrase chanted by Princeton University
counter-protesters during a 1987
“Take Back the Night” march
Date rape, I assure you, lies in our medium-
term future.
—P. Jay Fetner, of Yale University’s Skull and Bones
Society, on what would happen if women were
admitted to the club
I can’t help the anatomy God gave me.
—Convicted campus rapist David Caballero of
Lake Superior State University
T he college years occur at a frustrating
age when men are most likely to be horny
and women are most likely to protest against
horny men. So while the boys jack off,
the girls stage sit-ins. Lesbian folk singers
majoring in Eastern philosophy take
melodious coffeehouse shits on linebackers
who are flunking business administration.
The radical feminists control campus
discourse because their natural enemies—the
dumb dudes—are too busy getting chicks
drunk to show up for debates. The girls win in
a no-show. So with their braless breasts
swinging proudly beneath the school’s bell
tower, their armpit hairs lightly blowing with
the winds of change, raging anti-rape activists
organize porn boycotts. They form discussion
groups. They paint picket signs, sell bumper
stickers, and hand out leaflets.
They’re going to stage a soy-milk-only
hunger strike to protest the fact that every
Board of Trustees member is a man. And that
most of their teachers are men. And that the
library, which is named after a dead man, is
stacked with dusty history books, all of them
written by men. At their last consciousness-
raising session, one of the girls suggested that
they protest the bell tower itself, because its
design is phallic and therefore oppressive.
For next Friday night, the women’s group
has planned a candlelight vigil to mourn all
their sisters raped and slain on campuses
nationwide. They’ll light a candle for Laura
Hefley, who in 1969 was sexually assaulted,
killed, and hidden under a rowboat at the
University of Louisville. They’ll mutter a prayer
for Elaura Jeanne Jaquette, a choir girl
whose half-nude body was stuffed under a
University of Colorado pipe organ in 1966.
To properly honor beauty queen Carolyn
Nevins, whose raped and snow-encrusted
cadaver was found behind some U. of
Omaha bushes in 1955, they’ll sing a medley
of Helen Reddy songs.
And they’ll offer a special moment of
silence for all the college students being
raped and murdered today, because the
sisterhood agrees that the problem’s much
worse now. In the past, campus sex-killings
had the power to shock because they
appeared to be aberrations. Nowadays, if
people hear that Danny Rolling slaughtered

ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE 79
five U. of Florida students during one humid
August week in 1990, decapitating one
victim and leaving her head on a bookshelf,
they’re bored. What—no cannibalism?
The college fembots have attempted to com-
bat such frightening apathy with their own
scare tactics, expanding their definition of
“consent” to the point where a man can’t
have a wet dream without being pegged as a
rapist. College cunts can get nasty. In 1990,
women’s bathroom walls at Brown University
were blanketed with felt-pen-scribbled lists
containing the names of alleged campus
rapists. The girls at Carleton College did
much the same thing, calling their Rapists’
Social Register a “castration list.” At Duke
University in ‘91, pairs of female rape
activists made a habit of pouncing on male
students who were walking alone at night and
then slapping orange “GOTCHA” stickers
onto their shirts. Trying to instill a small sense
of empathy—and a whopping dose of guilt—
they’d then hand their orange-stickered victim
some leaflets describing women’s fear of
sexual assault.
That was sort of clever for a small-scale
cunt-stunt. But last year, in a move admirable
for its ovarian audacity alone, University of
Maryland art teacher Josephine Withers and
her female pupils designed a billboard
with the headline POTENTIAL RAPISTS.
The rest of the billboard consisted of a list of
the school’s sixteen thousand male students.
Angry “potential rapists” responded with
picket signs reading, WITHERS MIGHT BE
A WHORE.
Over at the frat houses, they can’t hear
all the theoretical clamor. That’s because
Pearl Jam is cranked up too fucking loud. The
Enemy Men, lost in an orgiastic landfill of
empty beer cans, crushed pizza boxes, cheap
speed, used rubbers, and Cliff Notes, are too
drunk to care about sexual politics. It’s
frightening, even to me, to think of all those
marketing majors at the height of their sex
drives. All those pink-bellied guys awash in
dudethink. Shirtless WASP boys jockeying for
position of Head Rooster. Homoerotic
bonding rituals in which they slap each
other’s asses and chug suds like pitchers of
sperm. They all have straight teeth and good
connections. They’re going to split the world
wide open.
But no one understands a frat boy’s sense
of humor. That’s why the killjoy feminists at
L.A.’s Occidental College sent bloody tam-
pons to the puckish party boys over at the
Alpha Tau Omega fraternity. The only thing
the frat brothers had done was distribute a
flyer inviting “buddies and slutties” to a
bowling party. It also included some harmless
limerick about “Buffalo Pete,” whose huge
penis makes women scream when he
ass-rapes them. Another frat-party flyer, this
one advertising a “war-games” soiree at Cal
State-Northridge, listed rape as one of the
war games. And lyrics in a fraternity song
book at UCLA’s Theta Xi extolled chopping
women into dice-sized pieces.
80
I’m a cat who in all of my nine lives could
never understand why anyone would want to
go to a frat party. But some girls won’t listen
to me. And if they don’t want a group of
stocky, hairy, rugby-shirt-wearing mules to
poke at them with stubby cocks, they’d better
watch what they drink. Studies have shown
that liquor plays a role in nine out of ten cam-
pus rapes. So go easy on the firewater,
ladies. You don’t want to pass out and wake
up naked in a strange dorm room, surround-
ed by four varsity swimmers who laugh as you
puke into a bucket.
Stay away from the frat boys if you don’t
want to get raped. And stay away from
Antioch College if you want to get laid. Last
year, bowing to the blistering steam iron of
feminist pressure, the Ohio school enforced
dating regulations which made it nigh impos-
sible to fuck someone without a lawyer and a
notary public present. The Antioch rules not
only require consent, they demand the
woman’s verbal approval at each level of the
seduction process. You have to ask her per-
mission from the first kiss all the way up to the
act of donut-threading. As a logical extension
of feminist illogic, the Antioch rules seem
designed to prevent campus rape by causing
potential rapists to slowly lose their erections:
Can I kiss you?
Sure.
Can I unbutton your blouse?
OK.
I’d like to knead your left nipple between
my thumb and forefinger—is that alright?
Yeah.
How about if me and eight of my dorm
buddies anally invade you with a lacrosse
stick?
That might be pushing it, sweetie.… ■
MARRIAGE
If a woman is raped by a stranger, she has
to live with the memory. If she’s raped by
her husband, she has to live with the rapist.
—David Finkelhor of New Hampshire’s Family Violence
Research Program
Wives die the most. Husbands kill the most.
—Maria Ines Serreira, Center for the Study of
Violence, São Paulo, Brazil
But the husband cannot be guilty of a rape
committed by himself upon his lawful wife,
for by their mutual consent and contract,
the wife hath given herself up in this kind
unto the husband which she cannot retract.
—British jurist Sir Matthew Hale, 1736
But if you can’t rape your wife, who can you
rape?
—California state senator Bob Wilson, 1979
H e’s had an abominably bad day at work.
The boss was at his throat all afternoon.
Car overheated in traffic on the way home.
Poodle is barking. Kids are screaming. Phone
is ringing. The TV game show makes his ears
bleed. I want my turkey pot pie served HOT,
I want my beer COLD, I want the kids in
CLEAN clothes, and I want your legs to
spread open like an electric garage door
whenever I press the button. Get in the
bedroom and give me some pussy or I’m
going to smack your ass into the backyard.
Not tonight, honey, I have a headache.
Well, guess what—now you’re gonna
have a migraine.
ANSWER Me !
 I’m really not in the mood. of love, fitting her with a dog collar and Philly in his plumbing van, which resembled
I don’t give a fuck if you sleep through it. chain, raping her asshole, cumming and a crushed-up beer can on wheels. “All of
To his bloodshot eyes, you aren’t much pissing in her mouth while forbidding her your aunts are that way. They tell your uncles,
more than a remote-control device. He thinks from pissing or shitting herself, whipping her ‘If you don’t take out the trash, you don’t get
he can channel-surf you whenever he wants. with a coat hanger and a wooden stick, in my pants.’” Dad sniffed with distaste and
Pop you open like the tab on a can of Old shitting on a plate and cramming it down continued. “That’s disgusting. I’d never swal-
English 800. No more kisses, no foreplay, just her maw.…But still, she didn’t love him. low my pride just to get some pussy. I’ll go out
spread ‘em and BLOP!—zzzZZZZZ. He’s She left him. and get a hooker before I stoop that low,” he
asleep and snoring like a leaf-blower. The And he kept chasing her. Donald caught said with stern resolve. It was a rare and
cum dribbles onto his swollen belly, where it up with Jacquelynn at a Greyhound ticket oddly beautiful moment of father-son bonding.
will congeal into dull white flakes. A shit stain window in Canton, throwing her against a And it’s probably the only crumb of wisdom I
graces his underwear, which he flung on the ever gleaned from the old cocksucker.
wall so forcefully that one witness thought the
floor before he raped you. Ah, bliss.… I don’t think my soused père was saying
bus station would collapse. Jacquelynn ran
On an average day, twice as many women that women deserve to be mistreated. To me,
out into the parking lot. Donald darted after
are raped by their spouses than by strangers. his slurred sermon preached the opposite, that
One in seven wives can expect to be raped her. She jumped into her car. He started
NO ONE should accept abuse, male or
by their horny hubbies. Ever since our pro- pulling her out. She turned around and killed
female. If you take it once, you’re a victim.
truding-foreheaded forefathers began slipping him with two quick .32 slugs. Because he Twice, you’re an idiot.
ankle rings around cave women and drag- was dead, Donald found it difficult to Love often turns to poison. It can go from
ging them away—a tradition symbolically continue beating and raping his wife. hickeys and footsies to ambulance stretchers
honored with the modern wedding ring—men Comprende, ladies? Force only succumbs and CPR. As they haul you into the meat
have acted as if they owned the title deed to to greater force. The easy availability of lethal wagon, think back to your first kiss. That first
their mates’ genitalia. weaponry provides women with the physical breezy summer night together. Your perfect
When he pushed your face through that prowess which evolution cruelly denied them. honeymoon. The first time he broke one of
sliding-glass door, he was letting you know he Aided by pistols, Mace, and stun guns, your teeth. When you stood at the altar
feels strongly about you. Understand that pledging “for better or for worse,” I’m sure
women can now bully themselves toward
when he slams your head into walls and fucks you didn’t picture his bulging cock rammed
sexual equality—or even supremacy. Good
you with a car antenna, it’s because he down your throat at four a.m. Or the time he
luck to all parties involved. I’ll enjoy every raped you while you were on the toilet trying
LOVES you. Couldn’t live without ya.
minute of the blood bath. to shit.
Paul Snider loved his wife, Playboy’s 1980
I only admired my father once, on a Things usually get worse. People break their
Playmate of the Year Dorothy Stratten, very
bright spring afternoon when he goofed on promises. Love fades, but the passion doesn’t.
deeply. So deeply, in fact, that he couldn’t
my pussy-whipped uncles. “Theresa won’t When his gloved hand muffles your screams as
bear to share her with the rest of the world.
even fuck Arnie unless he mows the lawn,” he squirts his gunk up your bleeding asshole,
He made Dorothy a celebrity, but the
he grumbled as we rolled through suburban try to remember the good times. ■
ungrateful little bitch tried to divorce him. On
August 18, 1980, surrounded in his apart-
ment by naked photos of Dorothy, he raped
her in the cunt and ass, blew her face off with
a 12-gauge shotgun, and then blasted
himself, making sure he’d find her in heaven.
How’s that for love?
Dennis Patrick Murphy’s wife Judith wasn’t
nearly as famous as Dorothy Stratten, but he
loved her anyway. Even so, the fucking whore
left him after only nine months of marriage
and focused her affection on a mixed-breed
pit bull puppy named Boozer. So on April 29,
1985, Dennis forced his way into Judith’s
apartment and waited for her to get home
from work. When she did, he whacked her in
the head with a baseball bat. Then he tied
her up, smeared her body with Crisco oil,
and forced her to blow Boozer. He then
stepped up to the plate and fucked her with
the baseball bat.
Donald Brown of Columbus, Ohio, was
another Mickey Mantle of marital violence,
swinging at his wife Jacquelynn with a
Louisville Slugger, beating her almost every
day over a thirteen-year marriage, making
her face swell so badly that she once had
trouble drinking a glass of water. Like Paul
Snider, Donald hated to be separated from
his wife. There was a week-long stretch in the
late eighties when he kept her as a prisoner

ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE 81
 ABUSE OF POWER POWER CORRUPTS. IT ALSO PERVERTS.
A list of all my accomplishments, times one hundred, pales before
the only real accomplishment: I survived incest.
—Marilyn Van Derbur Atler, 1957’s Miss America

H e waits for those special moments when mommy’s not around.

He brings you balloons and Snickers and ice cream. Then he
pushes your face into the pillow and pulls down your silky-soft panties.
NO! NO! You close your eyes and hold your breath and try to count
sheep. When you finally open your eyes again, a black silhouette of
a nude daddy runs out of the room, his sticky “ding ding” bouncing
up and down. You grab a handful of tissues to wipe away all the
white “candy water.”
Suck down on the ultimate betrayal. Once your daddy shampoos
your hair with his cum, can you ever trust anybody again? He crushed
your little mind as if it were a chocolate Easter bunny. Dirty girl. How
dare you parade that cute, bite-sized ass past him like that?
You spent your formative years riding daddy’s cock like a hobby-
horse. His prick molded your personality. He stretched you out pretty
good. Ruined you for everyone else. Each boy you kiss will remind
you of daddy’s hot, pickled tongue down your mouth. While your
husband fucks you, you’re thinking about the time daddy had you
pinned to the dining-room table, grimy work pants at his ankles,
shoving himself inside you before mommy got home. You’ll remember
the smell of vegetable soup on his breath. His beer farts and loud
commands. He pissed on you after he was done and told you to
shower. You showered and showered and showered, but you could
still feel daddy’s tadpoles wriggling inside you. That night, tears
dripped down onto your math homework.
You’ll never recover from this, so don’t kid yourself. You think the
nightmares and bed-wetting are bad—wait until you get older. You’ll
probably die young, some self-mutilating junkie go-go girl unable to
find love. You’ll be frigid. Bulimic. You’ll count all the pills you own.
You’ll stand in front of the mirror, slapping yourself in the face. You’ll
tear out your hair and carve daddy’s name into your skin with a
penknife. And you will HATE men.
Robert Ira Moody, who resembled an obese Jesus, was a man
worth hating. According to a judge, he was also “a man who could
use some killing…a man the planet can rotate without quite nicely.”
The depraved mechanic from La Puente, California, forced his wife to
become a hooker so he could have some surplus spending dough.
Moody once cracked his son Bruce in the head with a wrench and
then forbade him from getting hospital treatment. (Bruce wound up in
a mental hospital.) Moody’s oldest daughter Roberta ran away from
home when she could no longer endure dad’s stinking embraces.
Moody’s second daughter, Linda, claimed to have been fucked sev-
eral times by daddy, beginning at age fourteen. When Moody tired

INCEST of raping Linda, he turned to his third daughter, an eleven-year-old.

My father…he made me put my hand on his ding ding and made
me go up and down…he humped me.
—Unnamed schoolgirl quoted in a Boston Globe article entitled
“Child Sexual Abuse: The Crime of the ’80s”
You just don’t expect that from kin.
—Mother of a three-year-old girl who was raped by an uncle in plain view of
rush-hour motorists along Manhattan’s FDR Drive in 1991
Robert Ira Moody sure was moody.
He thought his youngest son, Robert Lee Moody, was a little
peculiar, especially since Junior had become a born-again Christian.
He encouraged Robert Lee to dump Jesus in favor of drugs and porno.
(Moody frequently treated the entire family to screenings from his vast
adult-film collection.) On the morning of March 18, 1983, the
younger Robert was torn from his sleep by the sound of his father
smashing his mother’s head into a microwave oven. Robert Jr.
grabbed a shotgun and sprayed three clouds of buckshot into his
father’s smelly body, killing him. “I thought God wanted me to do it,”
he said. He was sentenced to probation plus “two years of
missionary work.” Thank you, Jesus.

82 ANSWER Me !

It takes a man of valor to rape his daugh-
ters and pimp his wife as Robert Ira Moody
did. And only a world-class gentleman would
offer his daughter’s pussy to a friend. Stanley
Hurd fit that description the same way he fit a
Coke bottle up his little pumpkin’s twat. When
Hurd’s fifteen-year-old princess left her mother
and came to live with daddy in the mid-sixties,
he balled her in what seemed like every shit-
wad motel in Orange County, California. He
once pumped his cheese up her danish four
times in four hours, which may be a father-
daughter land-speed record. What a dad.
After a while, Hurd began bringing his
drunken buddy along to get sloppy seconds
off his little pookie.
Men are such pigs, turning out their wives
and daughters as whores. Women are
incapable of such evil.
Tell that to the daughter of Chicago’s
Patricia Brown. In 1993, her mommy sublet
the eleven-year-old girl’s snatch for fifty bucks,
a chunk of crack, and a pair of Bo Jackson
sneakers. Tell it to the daughter of Detroit’s
Susan Barbier, who paid off a crack debt by
letting a friend take a crack at her thirteen-
year-old girl. Tell it to the SIX-year-old
daughter of the Bronx’s Shelly Carter, who
was paid in cash and crack to hold down the
girl’s head while men raped and buttfucked
her on three separate occasions. So although
most incest swivels around the father-daughter
axis, mothers can be kid-fuckers, too. And if
she stuffs your face between those wineskins
she calls tits and buries your nose between
her pungent legs, is that so strange? You’re
eating the pussy which popped you out. You
should be used to the smell.
ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE
Kodzo Dobosu’s Harlem
brownstone was said to smell
strongly of urine, but if you
sniffed around, you may have
caught a whiff of the Tabasco
sauce he squirted up a
daughter’s gash or the scalding
hot tea he poured on his son’s
African jewels. Although he
plea-bargained his way out of a
sex-abuse trial, some of
Dobosu’s seventeen adoptees
told police that he fucked both
his sons and daughters. That he
encouraged his older children to
fuck the younger ones. And that
when somebody didn’t feel like
fucking, he’d beat the fuck out of
them. All this from a man the
National Father’s Day Com-
mittee once voted “Father of
the Year.”
Applying such specious rea-
soning, Herman McMillan must
be Father of the Century. He and
his wife Frances lived with at
least nine children in a one-bed-
room South Bronx apartment.
No one seems sure how many
kids were born in the apartment, nor how
many dead babies McMillan buried along a
nearby expressway. McMillan said there
were two. The police suspected three. One
of McMillan’s kids said there may have
been four.
Inside his maggoty apartment, McMillan
ruled with an iron cock for nearly three years
before his arrest in 1989. To keep out the
daylight, he nailed plywood boards over
some of his windows and covered the rest
with cloth. There were no light bulbs nor elec-
tricity inside. If you strained your eyes, you
may have seen rust and steel and belts and
rags and dust and headless chickens. You’d
also see children strapped down to beds or
handcuffed to metal bars. McMillan bruised
them with angry fists and blunt objects. He
fed them a diet of protein powder. He butt-
raped the boys and cunt-fucked the girls. If
they resisted, he’d beat them or hold their
heads under water until they surrendered.
For a while, McMillan was able to keep a
lid on his private kingdom. Neighbors had
seen him coming and going, but they didn’t
even know he had kids, much less nine of
them, until a fire temporarily forced
McMillan’s litter of children outside. After the
fire, the neighbors began to keep an eye on
McMillan. One woman whose window faced
the McMillans’ claimed she often saw candle-
bearing phantoms dancing behind the cloth
drapes and blurry shadows sacrificing what
appeared to be live chickens. Another neigh-
bor says she once peeped outside her win-
dow at midnight in winter to see McMillan, a
fan of Libya’s Col. Muammar el-Qaddafi,
shouting, “TEN-hut!” and leading his tattered
crew in single-file military formation over the
dirty Bronx snow.
Since no one was permitted to leave the
apartment, none of the children went to
school. By the time they were rescued,
McMillan’s brood had been so thoroughly
insulated from the outside world, they were
virtual wolf-children. They were terrified to
hear a dog barking for the first time. They
didn’t know what baseball was. And since
they had subsisted on protein powder, they
were mystified by their first trip to
McDonald’s. “I remember one of the girls
staring at this open hamburger,” said a social
worker, “with the tomato on one side and
the burger on the other, and not knowing
what to do with it.”
Herman McMillan fucked up and got
careless. If he hadn’t fallen more than four
grand behind in his rent, city officials
wouldn’t have been sent out to investigate.
He’d still be beating, screwing, and killing his
babies. And leading them on midnight
marches through the snow, a proud father in
a small, lightless world.
Incest is always an option. When your wife
zeroes in on menopause, her face leathery
like a wart hog’s, her ass and tits yanked
earthward by gravity, your little girl suddenly
looks a whole lot better. So write a note to her
teacher, saying she’s too sick to come to
school today. You’re the only tutor she’ll ever
need. Children learn by being bruised.
Treat her like a mule. Club her into obedience
with that monster cock of yours. Make her
cower as you approach, ten-and-a-half inches
behind Mr. Smiley. Let her feel daddy in all his
fullness. It hurts you more than it hurts her,
but she has to learn. ■
DAY-CARE
WORKERS
I know precisely what happened. My two
children were sexually abused, used as
participants in ritualistic ceremonies, taken
into cemeteries, and forced to touch dead
bodies.…What jury is going to believe
nursery-school children were taken to a
church where they were surrounded by
black-robed, moaning figures and forced to
witness a baby being sacrificed?…They knew
if the molesters made it weird enough,
nobody would believe it.
—Unidentified father of alleged child victims in the
McMartin Pre-School case
It’s all my fault.…I can’t get her out of my
head. I keep thinking about how it was when
she touched me. It felt so yucky.
—Hannah Crowley, a nine-year-old girl molested by
teacher Kelly Michaels at Maplewood, New Jersey’s
Wee Care Nursery
83
It hurted.
—A five-year-old former student at North Carolina’s
Little Rascals Day Care Center, describing an incident
in which owner Robert “Mr. Bob” Kelly inserted a knife
into his rectum
cock. We’re teaching you one rudimentary
factoid: There’s no escape once you’ve been
jabbed with the righteous harpoon of power.
It’s finger-painting time, children. Now stick
your hands between your legs and rub that
bright red blood around. Draw a pretty

T he day-care center provides one-stop

shopping to meet the discriminating
pedophile’s needs: a controlled environment,
a position of authority, a captive supply of
gullible young minds, the implicit trust of
parents and the community…fuck, it’s almost
perfect. When you’re getting paid to do
something you love, you almost hate to call
it work.
Penetration of preschoolers seems almost
incomprehensible. Anal sex seems incom-
patible with belief in the tooth fairy. And
besides, how the hell does it fit ?
Here at the day-care center, you’ll find
coloring books and building blocks and
stuffed animals and ruptured hymen. Orange
juice and chocolate-chip cookies and anal
fissures. Hide-and-seek. Show-and-tell.
Grope-and-suck. Everything is corrupted.
We’ve drained the souls out of all your
heroes. The Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers
fuck you in the ass and mouth. Little Red
Riding Hood tests positive for herpes and
chlamydia. Kermit the Frog has a bleeding
rectum. Winnie the Pooh swallows jit. Speed
Racer molests Chim-Chim. Bart Simpson has
bruises around his groin. Charlie Brown
gets rimmed. Super Mario Brothers felch
the janitor.
Here in this cozy setting, amid the shag
carpeting and potted plants and throw
pillows, is where you’ll learn what makes the
world spin. This is where we plant the seeds.
You’ll learn to spell and subtract and read,
how to crouch down and grab your ankles
and take it in all the way.
This is your primary education. A quick and
painful lesson, one you aren’t likely to forget.
Now bend over and recite your ABC’s.
Asshole…Blow job…Cunt. One, two, three,
four, five, six, seven, eight—can you count
how many inches? See Spot run. Suck Spot’s
picture of how the teacher stole your
childhood on that cot during nap time.
Noticed something strange lately, Mom
and Dad? All of a sudden, your little girl
begins wetting her bed and shoving a tooth-
brush up her pussy. She starts crying when
you help her get undressed. Won’t eat. Curls
up in a corner. Can’t sleep without the ceiling
lights. Has nightmares featuring devils and
dinosaurs and dancing naked monsters.
You begin to piece it together—the hidden
tunnels, the rabbit mutilations, and the nude
bubble baths. The missing Polaroids. The
genital penetration with fingernails and
pencils. The Satanic sacrifices. The sex
games such as “Horsy” and “Naked Movie
Star.” What you say is what you are—
you’re a naked movie star! All you have to
do is pretend.
The McMartin Pre-School molestation case
was either an immense miscarriage of justice
or a classic specimen of sex-paranoid
parental lunacy. Two costly, exhaustive trials
concluded that Ray Buckey and his mom
Peggy McMartin Buckey were not child
molesters. But they sure as fuck looked the
part, especially Ray. He had a soft voice,
weak chin, and slit eyes. Ray was a virgin
until his mid-twenties, when he met a girl at a
UFO convention where he’d been selling
pyramids he called “Raydomes.” He eloped
with her to Nevada’s Pyramid Lake, where
they were baptized in-the-nude by a silver-
miner/preacher. Ray admitted he was a
loner. He even copped to having preschool
children sit on his lap while he wore shorts
without underwear, his balls lolling around
beneath all those young asses. But according
to the jury, he wasn’t a baby-fucker. In 1990,
after languishing in jail for almost seven
years, Ray Buckey was cleared of all ninety-
nine charges originally filed against him and
his old hen of a mother.
Two years later, on the opposite coast, and
facing even freakier allegations than the
McMartins, day-care center owner Robert
Kelly was convicted of his own set of ninety-
nine charges. Maybe the only difference was
a gullible backwoods jury, but Kelly, head
muckety-muck at Edenton, N.C.’s Little Rascals
Day Care Center, was found guilty despite
some obviously implausible kiddie testimony.
Former Rascals told the court they had seen
houses walking. They testified that Kelly kept
elephants in the back of his plumbing van.
Even amid yarns about Ninja warriors, deer
blood, pirates, and little girls being baked
alive in microwave ovens—and surviving
without even a sunburn—Kelly was given
twelve life sentences.
More convincing than their Saturday-
morning-cartoon fantasies, though, were the
Rascals’ specific statements about sexual
abuse at the center. There was multiple cor-
roboration of nap-time sodomy. Seven-year-
old girls talked about ass-fucking and “ugly
movies” and death threats. Two five-year-old
boys said they were force-fed mouthfuls of
shit. A baby-sitter testified about a three-year-
old Rascal boy who tried to tongue-kiss
her and said, “Let’s play boyfriend-girl-
friend.…You take your clothes off and you
kiss.…You do it with Mr. Bob.” And jurors
cringed when they pondered the shattered
innocence implicit in this brave little boy’s
statement: “He stuck his finger in my bottom.”
The bottoms always seem to get the worst
of it. A rank, stocky rhino of a woman named
Kelly Michaels shoved knives, forks, spoons,
and thermometers up the behinds of an esti-
mated fifty-one wee tots at New Jersey’s Wee
Care Nursery. She was also found guilty of
encouraging lovemaking between the chil-
dren and of having a wee bit of sex with them
herself. And she stuffed a wee bit of shit in
their mouths. Even after her arrest, one of her

84 ANSWER Me !
female victims feared that Michaels would
one day leap out of a light bulb and start
torturing her again. In 1988, Kelly Michaels
had a forty-seven-year prison sentence
shoved up her ass.
There have been so many day-care
convictions, you almost get over your
disappointment that the McMartin clan may
not have been guilty. Daniel and Frances
Keller, a betrothed Austin day-care couple,
were shut down and shipped up the river after
a 1991 kiddie “beer-and-sex party.”
Maryland day-care owner Sandra Craig was
found guilty in 1987 of using a stick to poke
a six-year-old girl’s genitals with such vigor
that it caused internal scarring. Gerald
“Tooky” Amirault from a Massachusetts
day-care dungeon took at least three boys
and six girls to a “magic room” where naked
adults dressed like clowns and fucked them.
For those who prefer their day-care
molestation with a dash of curry, look no
further than Kenneth Capoferri, a Krishna
devotee who molested at least four of the mini-
Krishnas charged to his care at a West L.A.
ashram. Hare Rama! Even Michael Reagan,
hapless adopted son of former President
Ronnie, claimed he was fondled and
photographed nude at age seven by a
day-camp worker. Thirty-four years after it
happened, Michael finally told his famous
dad, who said he was “sorry.” About what?
That he didn’t get to see the pictures?
In 1988, a girl was found strangled to
death with bruises around her vulva at the
Lomita, California, day-care home of Robert
and Linda Zieger. The Ziegers’ day-care
operation was unlicensed. The dead girl was
only sixteen months old.
Undoubtedly, part of the problem is poor
governmental monitoring of the day-care
industry. Clearly, day care needs cleaning up.
Establish industry-wide standards. Screen all
applicants. If they show signs of being child
molesters, fire them.
Maybe that’s not such a good idea.
Gregory Scott Smith was a hostile day-care
supervisor at Northridge, California’s Darby
Avenue Elementary School. Smith had been
especially mean in his dealings with eight- training, and they believed you. There’s
year-old Paul Bailly. Bobby, whose dick you’d like to tie into a
Smith’s zealous disci- square knot. There’s also Tommy, whose
plining of the child squirrel-cheek ass makes you want to
resulted in his dis- practice anal archery. And Raheem’s
missal in early 1990. precocious love-timber hangs lower than a
Two weeks after he neckerchief. So young. So tight. So fast.
was fired, Smith You’re a lot older and a little slower, lagging
returned to the school five or six paces behind them. Their parents,
grounds. He kidnapped
though, are a hundred and fifteen miles
Bailly, handcuffed him, taped
away. You’re gonna fuck a Boy Scout tonight!
his mouth shut, and drove him to
As you’re roasting marshmallows alone
a remote canyon area, where he
sexually assaulted the child. with your favorite scout, tell him about the
At some point during the hallowed American custom of campfire circle
tortures, Bailly vomited. Since jerks. Infuse your ghost stories with man-boy
his mouth was taped shut, he erotica. Squeeze his nuts and remind him
inhaled his own chunks and about his obligation to God and country.
choked to death. Before working at When you’re drilling him deep, it’s your scout-
Bailly’s school, Smith had been fired from master’s duty to tell him about this great
another day-care job after forcing two boys nation, how we killed the Indians and slaves,
to wipe up another child’s vomit. Smith about the Manifest Destiny which allows you
reportedly collected news clippings of other to traverse his stinky little Continental Divide.
child-abuse cases. ‘’He loved kids and a lot of Good thing you packed that first-aid kit,
them loved him,’’ said a former employer. because he may need some cotton to absorb
Day care. Sexually sadistic clown charac- the blood flow.
ters. Anally invasive Ninjas. Milk, cookies, To my knowledge, the Boy Scouts of
and gagging to death on puke. It almost America do not yet offer a merit badge for
makes you want to be a kid again. ■ sodomy. But it may be worth considering.
There is an undeniable

SCOUTMASTERS
Without the rules, some scouting
organizations would become a sex camp
[sic] within two years. Even with the rules
it will probably happen.
—Internet posting in “rec.scouting”
Be prepared.
—Boy Scout motto
homoerotic component
to the concept of men
and boys “enjoying
nature” together. And
the scouting argot is laced with double enten-
dres: Tent-pitching. Rubbing sticks to start
fires. Explorer Posts. The “Arrow of Light” cer-
emony. Backpacking. Weenie roasts.
According to one lawyer’s estimate,
approximately eighteen hundred scout coun-
selors were dismissed between 1971 and
1991 on suspicion of “camping out” beneath

E vening is creeping up. Only a few

beams of light snake through the thick
woods as you and the troop run breathless-
ly naked. You told them it was part of their
the olive-drab shorts of their young wards.
Scouting’s patriarch, Lord Baden-Powell,
was said to get his jollies from watching
young boys skinny-dipping. Although he

ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE 85
spoke contemptuously of female nakedness,
he reputedly enjoyed photos of nude men.
Over several years of his adult life, Baden-
Powell “bunked” with a man named Kenneth
McClaren. The Father of Scouting apparently
dug being surrounded by the shaved-anus
aroma of unrefined maleness.
But if modern-day scouting is, as one vic-
tim’s lawyer put it, “a magnet for pedophiles,”
you can’t blame the organization. It’s just the
Now I know where Ol’ Golden Snatch gets
her ideas—in 1987, nearly four years before
she debuted her film of the same name, a
scout-maestro named Craig Mathias was
playing a game called “Truth or Dare” with lit-
tle boys during slumber parties at his
California home. Whereas the Stinky Diva
deep-throated a soft-drink bottle in that unfor-
gettably tender filmic moment, Mathias
encouraged his troop members to wrap their
It’s a selfless man who volunteers as a boy’s
companion. Apparently, it isn’t only food
which tastes better in the great outdoors—
semen does, too. So back to Eden: a
symphony of crickets, a sky full of stars, and
some eleven-year-old munching on your
bone as if it were a sparerib. A boy’s life is a
happy life. Scout’s honor. ■

COPS
nature of the biz: Soliciting adult volunteers to lips around his scoutwurst.
lead adolescent males on wilderness treks is As stated before, you can’t fault the Boy
only a step shy of providing free amyl nitrite Scouts of America. Any time you seek to pair
and ass-jelly. How odd—queer, even—that adult men with male youngsters of the
busloads of adolescent males in military uni- nocturnal-emission age, some boy-lover is just You’re a pretty girl. You don’t belong [in
forms would appeal to the pedophilic mental- waiting to fill the slot. Other boy-positive jail].…I have a suggestion, but you might
organizations besides Scouting USA have not agree with me because I’m a naughty
ity. It’s like asking a heroin addict to baby-sit
had similar woes. David B. Harrington, a for- boy.
your poppy field. Simply put, joining the Boy
mer “Big Brother of the Year,” was found —Statement allegedly made by Florida police officer
Scouts is a wonderful way to scout for boys.
guilty in 1987 of tweaking six Little Brothers’ James Chesson in 1991 before raping
You’re the master. Happy scouting.
frankfurters. Richard Ausch was a Boys Club a woman he’d arrested
Scoutmasters serve as surrogate fathers, volunteer who was convicted of raping a nine-
teaching young men the things a dad usually year-old he’d taken to Universal Studios. In his He dropped his gun. He dropped his belt. He
does. Proper grooming habits. Clean defense, Ausch offered one of the best alibis dropped his pants and crawled in and raped
thoughts. Serving the community. Maintaining of any sex offender ever: “I have never her.
high ethical standards in your personal and sodomized a boy in my life…not even in —Mother of a woman raped in the back of a police
professional dealings. Taking a dick in the Las Vegas.” van in 1992 by Akron officer Hassan Sharif
mouth without complaining.
Although sexually abusive scoutmasters
constitute a statistical minority, it is neverthe-
less a creative one. Dave Aiken, former fear-
less leader of Troop 21 in Coconut Grove,
Florida, used to juggle scout-nuts while
demonstrating first-aid “pressure points.”
Aiken also lovingly applied blobs of jock-itch
ointment to countless boys’ itchless groins.
Having successfully dissuaded parents and
other adults from getting involved in Troop
21’s activities, Aiken was able to frolic
through the weenie-fields virtually unsuper-
vised. He established something he called the
“Pacesetter Awards,” where he’d choose a
lucky winning scout and whisk him away to
national and international destinations. Safe
in a hotel room, Aiken would then show the
lad the full northward slant of his Boy Scout
compass. Over a sixteen-year scouting
career, it’s impossible to determine how many
rectums Aiken left achin’.
Through nineteen years as a scout leader,
East Los Angeleno Joel Lachica excelled at the
art of child-rearing. His idea of “rearing”
consisted of dispensing unneeded enemas to
thirteen-year-old boys and watching the
loosened shit-crust splurt out in foamy brown
fountains, but who’s to question authority?
Certainly not the eleven-year-old Sea Scout
who in 1989 was strung up and padlocked
in a “groin-and-torso harness” designed
by Northern California scout-masturbator
Charles Stenger, Jr. Aroused by the sight of
little boys wearing genital-constricting
accouterments, Stenger had been bridling
kids’ testicles as far back as 1971, when
police investigating molestation charges
against him discovered several groin
harnesses—as well as at least one leopard-skin
jockstrap—in his home.
Groin harnesses and leopard-skin athletic
supporters—sounds like a Madonna video.

86 ANSWER Me !
We’ll change that.
—San Diego police officer and “beach rapist” Henry
Hubbard, Jr., responding to a fourteen-year-old victim’s
claim of virginity
You have a firm butt. Do you work out?
—Remark allegedly made in 1991 by St. Paul, MN,
officer Michael Kveene to a female co-worker before
Kveene reportedly pinched her ass
You know, I can get in a lot of trouble for
this. I could lose my job, my wife, and I could
go to jail for a long time.…I got what I
wanted. You got what you wanted.…Can’t
nobody know about this. Nobody. Not your
best friend. You better not tell anybody.
Deal?
—Statement allegedly made by Florida police officer
James Chesson in 1991 after raping
a woman he’d arrested
P olice are given more power than any
human being deserves. I must admit that
I’m jealous. A license to kill must pack quite a
buzz. It must feel divine to split someone’s
skull open in the name of the common good.
No high like it, ma’am.
I’ve been driving alone in this squad car for
too many nights. A 9mm Beretta in my holster.
A shotgun by my side. A tumor in my brain.
A new set of handcuffs. I know every dirt road
and empty warehouse in this squalid precinct.
I’m well-trained. Believe me when I say I know
how to torture you. How to plant evidence.
How to frame your brother for murder.
I learned a lot in sixteen years on the force.
So you can go along easy. Or I can club you
so hard you won’t be able to put a sentence
together again.
I’m sick of busting you pale, low-grade,
plebeian cunts. You’re worthy only of getting
your jaw crushed under my sour leather boot.
You do what I say, understand? Get down on
the ground. DOWN! Put your hands out
where I can see them. DO IT! Alright, keep
still. Do so much as wrinkle your nose, and
I’ll blast.
It’s your word against a cop’s, lady. I can
be very nice if you cooperate. If you don’t, I
can be one real mean somfabitch. I can write
you up a citation, or you can suck it out of me.
You can go to jail, or you can ride my rail.
Frankly, I’m pretty good at sex, so I think
you’ll enjoy it. But if you won’t spread ‘em for
me, I’m sure there’s some prison guard who’ll
split you apart like a chicken wing. If you
don’t like the smell of these balls, wait until
you’ve tongued the scrotal cheese of your
twelfth or thirteenth jail guard. So suck now or
suck later. I don’t really care. I’ll get some
other roach-bitten whore to do it. There’s
thirty or forty dirty girls like you walking this
hotel strip, and you’re all guilty of something.
Your mouths all feel the same, too.
I put in forty hours a week of violent
delirium. It’s like crashing into a brick wall
over and over again. Bullets. Wads. It’s the
ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE
same kind of release. Your libido gets
sharpened by the constant threat of death.
All the people begging you for favors. And all
the temptation. Filthy heaps of money and
crack and bullets and pussy. You get to see
how things really work, and it leaves no room
for idealism. I had a partner who stole eight
hundred grand and fled to Malaysia. Another
one who has three houses and four boats.
So in the grand scheme of things, some
runaway speed freak with a father complex
isn’t worth much. Take it and break it. Then
throw it away.
When California Highway Patrol officer
George Gwaltney was sentenced to ninety
years in federal prison, it was said that he
had “betrayed his badge,” although you
could argue he’d merely taken full advantage
of it. On a January night in 1982, in the
haunted Mojave Desert north of Barstow, he
pulled a car over for speeding. Its driver was
Robin Bishop, twenty-three. She was driving
on her way back home to Vegas, where she
was hoping to make it as a dancer. She
wouldn’t make it. Gwaltney, a father of five,
handcuffed Bishop and drove her to a rarely
traveled strip of California 91. There was
nothing for miles besides Gwaltney, Bishop,
and cactus silhouettes. The desert is beautiful
at night. One man, one law. Handcuffed and
squirming, Bishop felt Gwaltney’s long “arm”
plunge deep inside of her. She then felt a
.357 Magnum bullet exploding into the back
of her head, the last thing she ever felt.
Police departments across the nation are
only now beginning to appreciate the breadth
and severity of violence toward women in our
culture. As head of the domestic-violence unit
for the Medford, Massachusetts, police
department, Lieutenant Robert “Buster” Longo
had seen the dark side of love, heartbreak
mixed with blood. When a dispirited Catholic
woman, a mother of five, came to Longo seek-
ing a restraining order against her battering
husband, Longo could feel her pain. He
began dropping by her house to check if she
was OK. Over coffee, he started rubbing
his dick and instructing her to play with
herself. Then came the obscene phone calls.
Then, on a July night in 1992, he kidnapped
her as she was carrying groceries and forced
a rubber ball into her mouth so she’d keep
quiet. He drove to a forested area and raped
her several times. While fucking her, Longo
alternated between making death threats and
pledging eternal love.
Highly decorated San Diego “supercop”
Henry Hubbard, Jr., was another one who
liked to talk while he raped. “Why don’t you
get into it a little bit?” he urged a thirteen-year-
old girl while sticking it to her on a dark,
unsupervised beach. Her girlfriend, fourteen,
had also been raped. Hubbard had com-
manded the girls to tie up their male
companion, who watched helplessly while
his girlfriends got fucked in the cold sand.
Wearing a ski mask and clad entirely in
black, Hubbard had leapt out of the blackness
and caught the trio unawares. That was
Hubbard’s pattern during a series of at least
seven nocturnal rapes along unlit beaches in
the summer of ‘91. He pounced on unsus-
pecting couples or trios who were taking
moonlit strolls. Barking out military-style
commands to the girls, Hubbard forced them
at gunpoint to bind the males hand-and-foot
with duct tape. He’d then fuck them in full
view of their lovers.
“It escalated in each case,” said a
detective who investigated Hubbard’s crimes.
“Each one was a little kinkier. He would push
a little harder, take a little more risk.…It did
not appear that he was being satisfied.
Especially near the end.” If Hubbard hadn’t
been caught, theorized the detective, he
would have started murdering his victims.
Think of all those beautiful California beaches
stained with blood.
Debbie and I have always dreamed of
being cops, cruising the urban anus in our
squad car together, beating up people
indiscriminately. We’d thrash them merely
for asking us directions. Officers Jim and
Debbie Doberman. An interesting sub-genre
of police-as-rapists is the husband-and-wife
tag team. Don and Pat Dube were a married
pair of swingin’ Massachusetts law-enforcers.
For two years ending in 1984, they’d drive
their sexy police cruisers to the home of two
girls, aged eleven and twelve. They’d enter
the girls’ house wearing full uniforms. But that
starchy blue material can be so constricting.
So the Dubes got nude. Pat Dube showed her
boobs. Don Dube lubed his tube. The Dubes
were convicted of raping the two girls, both of
them pre-pube.
There’s a dusky little ghetto flower, can’t be
bigger than four-foot-ten, eighty or ninety
pounds, laying unconscious with a syringe
sticking out of her arm. She’s still breathing,
though. Wet puke chips slide off her face.
Who would know if I took her right here and
now? Who would care? Who would even
believe it? Nobody. Certainly not a jury of my
peers. That’s what I love about being a cop—
the pay ain’t so good, but you can’t beat
the benefits. ■
87

DOCTORS
His typical method was to anesthetize
a female patient about to undergo
surgery, and then, while the patient was
unconscious and with other doctors and
nurses present, [Dr. William Eugene]
Miofsky would insert his penis into the
patient’s mouth and manipulate it so as to
masturbate himself until he ejaculated into
her mouth. —California Sex Crimes
He pushed in one more time and tears
rolled down my face.…He left and I got
dressed. When I was getting dressed, I took
the paper sheet and wiped so much crap
from between my legs, it wasn’t funny.
I looked at it, felt it, [and] let some dry on
my fingers. It looked just like, felt just like,
and dried just like male discharge that I’d
wipe from myself after having intercourse
with my husband.
—Victim of Wyoming physician John Story, quoted in
“Doc”:The Rape of the Town of Lovell
She was attractive, and again that old
fantasy sort of hit. The opportunity was
right there, and it just takes a split-second
to get aroused.
—Dr. Kenneth Ake, an Anchorage physician who
pleaded guilty to raping five of his patients, including a
woman who was eight-and-a-half months pregnant
Sex is the best exercise. If you were having
good sex, you wouldn’t need diet pills.
—Indiana family physician Young Soo Koo
as quoted by a female patient
88
N o one would respect human life if they’d
seen as many nude bodies as you have.
The meat and bones and hair and fluids blur
into each other. You notice the similarities
in configuration. The interchangeability.
The low, low price. Sure, they have feelings
and dreams, but those things die as soon as
the body does.
And it always does. You’ve seen long-dis-
tance runners deteriorate into cancer-plagued
shit-bags. You’ve tickled ten thousand prostate
glands in your time. You’ve done even more
pelvic exams, most of them unnecessary. It’s
one bovine hysterectomy candidate after the
next. A grinding treadmill of dying bodies.
Racks and racks of meat flying past you like
suits at a dry cleaner’s. Not much impresses
you after a while. They all look the same
under anesthesia.
A spike of morphine in the ass to get her
“drunk.” Disposable paper curtain for
“modesty.” The snapping sound of latex and
a squirt of petroleum jelly. She’s strapped in
and waiting. Her pussy is just…hovering
there, begging for your personal vaccination.
This is standard procedure, my dear. Just
probing for lumps. Tell me if this hurts.…How
about this? Take a deep breath.…UNNH!
How about that? Did that hurt? It did? Good,
now we’re making progress.
You, the patient, lie back and stare at
the ceiling. You came in complaining of a
head cold and wound up getting a Pap
smear. But shouldn’t the speculum feel cold?
He must know your body better than you do.
It isn’t wise to question the doctor. There’s a
drugstore at his fingertips. He can render you
incontinent or a drooling retardate with only a
pinprick. And it’s hard to fight when you’re
hanging in these stirrups.
His eyes get foggy and he throws back his
head. You peel open the curtain and see his
“speculum,” with the girth of a soda can and
sheathed sausagelike in a condom, shoveling
its way inside you. You hear him gasp and
see his balls constrict with each spurt of
his medical waste. He steps back and
unrolls the “evidence” before disappearing
into another room.
You’d sue him if you didn’t depend on him
for birth-control pills. And if he hadn’t hooked
you on codeine. And if he wasn’t able to tell
your parents about those two abortions. And
if you could afford the type of lawyers he can.
But none of these conditions apply. So you’ll
see him next week.
In 1992, at least one hundred and twenty
errant M.D.s in the U.S. were censured for
fondling and fucking their patients. In a poll
which assured anonymity, almost one in ten
physicians ‘fessed up to taking sexual liberties
with their patients’ bodies. It isn’t hard to see
why. The medical practitioner’s physical
advantages—white lights, table straps, and a
BIG needle—allow him easy access to the
pootie. Pass out and make love to me.
It was such mastery over the human body
which permitted California gynecologist
Glenn C. Millar to sew his wife’s vagina shut
“so you’ll never screw around on me again.”
It was this cold fusion of knowledge and
scalpel which allowed Dayton gyne-terrorist
James Burt to perform his unsolicited “Surgery
of Love” on an estimated hundred and
seventy cunts over fifteen years. Promising
women that his unique surgical technique
would enhance their sex lives and make them
“horny as mice”—or, in some cases, not even
notifying them about the procedure—Burt tore
open rectal muscles, circumcised clitorises,
realigned urethras as if they were Habitrail
tubes, and snipped away at internal vaginal
tissue. “This love surgery will make you feel
like a sixteen-year-old virgin,” he told one
of his love hamsters. “If it doesn’t, there’s
something wrong with you psychologically.”
ANSWER Me !

A lot of his patients apparently had
psychological problems, for an estimated
half of them were unable to have intercourse
again. Most of those who were still able to
fuck reported screeching pain during and
after the act. Others experienced repeated
infections and couldn’t piss without spraying
everything like a lawn sprinkler.
Since rape’s likelihood increases propor-
tionally with one’s ability to incapacitate the
victim, it shouldn’t be surprising that anesthe-
siologists are well-represented among doctors
who rape. And for sheer nerve, Sacramento’s
William Eugene Miofsky’s dick juts high
above the rest. Not only would he shove his
limp pee-pee into the mouths of patients he’d
recently anesthetized, thrusting and shimmy-
ing until he got hard and blew his gob, he’d
do it while stunned nurses stood around
watching him. Medical assistants tried to
report Miofsky more than once, but their story
seemed so far-fetched that no one believed
them. Miofsky was finally arrested after one
patient’s mouth scrapings revealed healthy
schools of sperm swimming downstream.
Do you masturbate? How often do you
have sexual intercourse with your husband?
Do you reach orgasm while doing so? What
sort of positions do you and your husband use
while making love? I can see you’re very
tight, so we’re going to have to dilate you.
Ummm…THERE. I realize that it hurts, but
once you get past the pain, you’ll be able
to have satisfying sex with your husband.
Oh, darn, it fell out again—could you use
your hand to guide it in? That’s my finger on
your clitoris—does that feel good? OK, never
mind. It’s time for a tonsil exam. I want you to
close your eyes while I place this instrument in
your mouth. Now suck hard, as if you were
sucking on a baby bottle. You remember
being a baby, don’t you?
ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE
And so went the
questions for over
twenty years as Dr.
John Story raped
female Mormon pa-
tients in the isolated
shit-kicker town of
Lovell, Wyoming. First
came the probing
questions. Then the
probing fingers. Then
the probing cock,
which by all accounts
was a big, brown,
King of the Rodeo-style
longhorn. Countless
warm, hot doctor-wads
spurted between the
bleeding legs of
Mormettes. “Tonsil tests”
were performed on
twelve-year-olds. It last-
ed until 1984, when
the Brigham Young of
medical rape was sent
away to jail, possibly
to receive his own
“dilations.”
At least Dr. Young Soo Koo was sly enough
to dope ‘em up before he fucked them.
Beginning in 1982 until his conviction ten
years later, the Hammond, Indiana, family
physician received complaints of sexual
assault from at least seven women, one of
whom alleged more than fifty pelvic exams
which devolved into rape. (It really begs the
question—why did you keep going back,
lady?) Koo usually shot up his victims with
megadoses of tranquilizers and waited until
they were sprawled out helpless on the
examination table before fiercely inserting his
economy-sized “speculum.”
There’s a slight sting from the needle’s tip,
then a warm, flowing feeling, and then you’re
out cold. Then he places red shoes on your
feet. Then he fucks you and snaps a few
blackmail photos of you unconscious and
spread-eagled. You wake up, sign your insur-
ance forms, and leave. A year or two later,
police show you the pictures. An angry red
knot, as red as the shoes he propped on your
feet, tightens in your stomach. You didn’t even
realize you had been raped. Police found
fifty-six photographs of unconscious, red-shoe-
wearing women in the possession of Chicago
internist William Dishuk, who tap-danced his
way up the river in 1987.
California gynecologist Ivan Namihas
wasn’t nearly so methodical. In fact, he
seemed to have little patience for anything.
While one of his patients was going through
labor contractions, he allegedly fucked his
nurse in the broom closet. And rather than
waiting for nature’s rhythms to take their
course, he reportedly performed an
unnecessary Caesarean section on a woman
so he wouldn’t be late for a skiing vacation.
At least one hundred and forty patients
complained of Ivan the Gynecological’s
sexual intrusions. Instead of lingering around
for the boring, interminable legal proceedings
against him, Namihas reportedly fled the
country in 1992.
If you ever wondered what goes on in your
doctor’s mind as he examines your shivering
nakedness, wonder no more—it’s obscene.
So bring a friend, a gun, and a videocam to
your next gyno exam, ladies. Cover your
gushy ass, because the rhetorical question,
“What’s up, Doc?” was never meant to be
answered with, “My DICK.” ■
HOLY MEN
I was a very sick man while I was a Roman
Catholic priest in the 1960s. As a result of
my illness, I sexually abused a number of
children.…There could have been quite a few.
If it was one, ten, or a hundred, whatever it
was, it happened.…What led me to do the
things that I did is still somewhere in me.
Every time I look into the mirror, my mind
makes me see the monster that I was.
My conduct will stain my life until I die.
—The former Rev. James R. Porter, suspected
of molesting as many as three hundred children
He said no one would believe me because he
was a priest and I was a thirteen-year-old
druggie.
—William Wood, who was repeatedly fondled
by Massachusetts priest John R. Hanlon
I believe God has a twisted sense of humor,
and he uses me for his amusement.
—Unidentified victim of molestation by friars at
St. Anthony’s Seminary, Santa Barbara, California
I could see worms inside of her, demons
inside of her, so I knew she was a
prostitute.…I felt like I was performing a
mission for God, to search and find
prostitutes and help get them off the
streets and come back to God.…I wanted
them to remember me as the one who
helped them.
—Joseph Brian Socha, self-declared “St. Peter,
Messenger of the Lord,” convicted of raping and
torturing five godless harlots in Long Beach, California
But Jesus said, Suffer little children, and
forbid them not, to come unto me: for of
such is the kingdom of heaven.
—Matthew 19:14
A lthough never buggered by a priest, I was
an altar boy when I was around ten or
eleven. My main duty, apart from wearing an
ankle-length gown, was to ensure that the
flesh and blood of our Lord Jesus Christ
wouldn’t fall on the floor and get soiled.
89
Pretty heavy job. Catholics are weird about
the sacred, delicious body of Christ. Their
doctrine of transubstantiation maintains that
after a priest consecrates bread and wine dur-
ing Mass, it ceases to be Christ’s metaphoric
flesh and blood and becomes his actual body
tissue. When the wafer is placed on your
tongue and you sip from the chalice, the
church claims that you are literally cannibal-
izing Jesus. They really believe that, although
they don’t explain why the wafer still tastes
like a rice cake, the wine like monkey piss.
So, since it would be sacrilegious to drop
some Christ Flakes onto the ground, my mis-
sion was to hold a copper plate with a large
handle like a lollipop under the throats of
churchgoers as they received Holy Com-
munion. If even a crumb fell to the ground
and I stepped on it, I might as well have been
kicking Jesus in the face. So I was quiet and
careful. The priest and I would work from left
to right along a wall-to-wall row of kneeling
papist drones.
“The body of Christ,” said the priest to each
celebrant as he held a thin white wafer six
inches in front of their schnozzola.
Hands folded and eyes closed, the
worshiper would be kneeling.
“Amen,” he’d say, sticking out his
tongue, his tobacco-stained taste
buds standing on end waiting for
the pathetic white bingo chip.
He was eager to have
the body of Jesus
placed in his
mouth.
90
There was usually a meekness in the
communicant’s demeanor, whether male or
female, which made me want to crucify them
right then and there. Kneeling obediently, with
their eyelids fluttering and their mouths open
like yawning mine shafts, they looked as if
they were sucking off truckers through
roadside glory holes.
But why blow a trucker when there are so
many priests? Ain’t no bigger dick than
God’s. The Lord could choke the earth with
that hammer of his. He’s God. He invented
dicks. He can do whatever he pleases. So on
the seventh day, he rested.
On the eighth, he went trolling for
little boys.
Jesus was a chicken hawk. If he turned
water into wine, I can turn you into a punk.
The flesh is weak. Priests have needs, too,
you know. You see, the Lord made all the
beasts of the field and every fish in the sea.
He counts every hair on your head and every
vein in this cock which I’m slowly sliding all
the way inside you. Jesus shed
a lot of blood to save us.
Heaven knows there’s nothing
sinful about you giving up
a little blood, too.
It’s my flesh, your
blood. You can really
learn a lot from me
as I skewer your ass
like the spear which
was thrust into Christ’s
side. It’s the apostolic
tradition: the blood of the
Lamb, chalicefuls of blood
from all the martyrs, and all
those red stains in the back
of altar boys’ underwear.
To tell you the truth, I don’t know Jesus.
I turned to religion by default. I’m just a
lonely middle-aged man in this Catholic
convention hotel room. And here you are, so
soft and young, stretched-out naked on the
bed watching cartoons. You’re the best I can
do. So we’ll watch TV for a little while.
We’ll even order room service. But I’m going
to make you bleed tonight.
James R. Porter was a holy man who
wormed his way into many holes. Porter
violated at least a hundred victims during the
mid-sixties in Massachusetts, where he was
shuffled between three parishes, raping his
way through each like a scythe cutting
through wheat. When the church realized
they had a chronic sexual predator on their
hands, they sent him to a facility for “troubled
priests” in New Mexico. In 1969, with Porter
“rehabilitated,” he was reassigned to a
church in Truth or Consequences, New
Mexico, where the consequences were less
than pleasant for several boys. Porter was
again quietly moved to a church in
Minnesota, where at least a dozen more
young Catholic men received his spermy
anointing. At this writing, Porter is considered
the most prolific pedophile priest in church
history. “He’s a rare bird,” said a psychiatrist
specializing in clergy abuse.
After leaving countless wrecked souls and
bloody assholes in his wake, Porter left the
priesthood in 1974. He married shortly there-
after and fathered four children. In the late
1980s, not knowing when to call it quits, he
molested his children’s baby-sitter.
Around the same time, memories of Father
Porter began flooding Frank Fitzpatrick’s
mind. He remembered a game—hockey or
basketball—at Boston Garden back in 1962.
Fitzpatrick was around twelve at the time.
Father Porter had promised to take Fitzpatrick
and another boy to the game, but they got
sidetracked. After dinner, Porter offered Frank
some mincemeat pie. Disliking the taste,
Frank stopped eating it after a nibble or
two. “EAT IT,” Porter snarled, and
Fitzpatrick obeyed. You don’t disobey a
priest. The next thing Fitzpatrick remembers
is waking up with his ass a little wider and
Porter’s sweaty face perched over him.
Suspicious that he hadn’t been Porter’s
only victim, Fitzpatrick placed ads in
Boston newspapers requesting corrobora-
tion from other injured parties. Responses
flew in like a plague of anal locusts.
ANSWER Me !
 There were stories of Over a thirty-year career of Bible-thumping, Leyva is thought
Porter removing his to have thumped at least eight hundred young soldiers of Jesus.
clerical collar “so God Super Christian, indeed.
couldn’t see him” while Entitlement. That’s all it takes. The calling. The ordination. The bless-
he finger-fucked little ing. The cosmic excuse to rape.
girls. Tales of Porter While he was hacking off their hair and slicing upside-down cross-
getting sucked off in es on their backs, Joseph Brian Socha called himself “St. Peter,
cars. Slipping his hand Messenger of the Lord.” The self-proclaimed “vigilante for God” tooled
down boys’ swimsuits through the SoCal provinces of Long Beach and San Pedro (that’s
at the beach. Squirting “St. Peter” en español) in a brown Volvo with smoked windows, prey-
his cum on bare asses in ing on the prostitutes he hated. The prostitutes he would threaten and
the church basement. rape and cut and buttfuck and dump on the streets naked. The prosti-
Covering his victims’ tutes whose souls he sought to save.
mouths while fucking He had to fuck them, he explained, because the cunt “was the
them so no one could hardest part to cleanse. That’s the part of the body they used most.
hear the screams. Receiv- That was the dirtiest.” When he forced his cock up a jailbait hooker’s
ing a hand job in a little ass like a battering ram breaking down a crack-house door, he was
boy’s bedroom while teaching her to walk the straight-and-narrow. When he made some
the child’s parents sat trollop blow him at knifepoint, he was hinting that she should clean up
unsuspecting in the her act. When he commanded her to bite down on his knife and
kitchen. And indulging threatened to cut her smile open from ear-to-ear, he was merely trying
his favorite perversion, to save her from the streets.
Socha was a former Catholic altar boy who at age seven was
“doggy humping,” in
notified by an angel that he had the heart of St. Peter. (How St. Peter
which Porter would
continued to function without his heart wasn’t made clear.) Socha had
encourage groups of
converted to Mormonism before launching on his mission of rape/
boys to wrestle while he stood watching in a corner, pumping his rod.
terror/purification. He purified at least five street tarts before his arrest
Schooled in papal infallibility, Porter’s victims were taught to blame
in 1990. His lawyers, who couldn’t save him from the benediction of
themselves for what happened to them. Many of them showed the
a hundred-and-seventeen-year prison sentence, were hard pressed to
clichéd marks of sexual abuse: failed marriages, dope dependency,
explain his actions. “He intended their salvation,” rationalized a shrink
suicide attempts, nightmares, distrust of authority, sexual dysfunction, hired for the defense. ‘’He could not form intent to commit a crime.
institutionalization, and the ardent hatred which results from being vio- He did these things out of goodwill.’’
lated. Facing a virtual churchful of angry accusers, Porter bargained It’s good to be God. I want you to kneel down. Close your eyes.
for an eighteen-year prison sentence. Open your mouth.
Like Jesus, Porter was a sensitive guy. Almost as sensitive as The body of Christ.
Massachusetts priest John Hanlon, who plied boys with beer, strutted Amen. ■
them around at a nude beach, and once molested a thirteen-year-old
boy as the lad reclined in a hospital bed, recuperating from testicular
surgery.
At this point in time, the term “pedophile priest” comes close to
being a redundancy. Clerical gadfly Father Andrew Greeley has
reckoned that in the last two decades, two-and-a-half thousand priests
have “said Mass” between the legs of a hundred thousand young
believers. According to author Jason Berry, the Catholic church shelled
out nearly a half-billion dollars in sex-related settlement and hush
money from 1984 to 1992.
During the 1930s, the Nazis launched a large-scale prosecution of
ped-priests. Within four years of Hitler’s power-grab, an estimated
three-and-a-half thousand priests and monks were convicted of crimes
against the state, many of them sexual in nature. Voelkischer
Beobachter, a Nazi Party newspaper, asserted that “the Roman
masculine league” consisted of “sexual criminals in priestly robes”
who oversaw monasteries which had devolved into “breeding
places of homosexuality.”
With an eye on America’s current glut of clerical sex offenders, it’s
difficult to dismiss the Nazi campaign as mere anti-church prop-
aganda. But as sordid as the situation is in this century, imagine the
abuses which occurred during the Middle Ages, when the Pope had a
chicken-choke grip on most of Europe. Think of all the torture racks
and hot molten lead and seminarians’ screams silenced by tall
monastery walls.
Of course, you don’t need to be Catholic to rape in God’s name; all
you need, really, is God’s name. Sleazy tent-show evangelist Mario
“Tony” Leyva would whisper into the ears of boys at his revival
meetings, hinting at acts for which he’d be stoned to death back in
biblical times. Known for wearing a Superman costume and calling
himself “Super Christian,” the sweaty Elvoid pedophile was
convicted in 1988 of interstate transportation of boys for prostitution.

ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE 91
 PREDATORS
A HARD DICK IS A BLUNT INSTRUMENT.
AIDS TERRORISTS
I think he should die now. He took my life
away from me for no reason. I’ll probably die
within a year, and I’ll never get married, and
I’ll never be able to have children, and I’ll
never be a doctor.
—Woman infected with HIV by Detroit burglar/rapist
Dwayne Lamont Peterson
They gave it to me. I’m going to give it back
to them.
—“Uncle” Adam Brown, HIV-positive
Marine/Satanist/child molester
92
ou were so careful to practice safe sex.
Y But how do you practice safe rape? It was
a dry fuck. Happened so fast, you didn’t even
have time to get wet. He shoved it in, anyway.
Bloody dick, torn vaginal lining. But that
wasn’t just some ordinary wad he shot inside
you. No, that opalescent blob of white glue
carried a little something extra, and at no
additional charge. Somewhere amid all the
blood and sperm and mucus and ripped
membrane, there was a heapin’ helpin’ of
human immunodeficiency virus. It’s already
snuggling inside your bloodstream. Your heart
pumps death into every cell. Infection is
irreversible. No way to get it out. You can’t
drink enough bleach to kill it.
And you’re going to die a lot sooner than
you’d been planning. It was bad enough that
he pissed on a sock and stuffed it in your
mouth. And that he stole your wedding ring
and your bronzed souvenir baby shoes. No,
this was a lot worse, because he fucked you
out of existence. His sperm dissolved your
future. I’d forget about going to graduate
school if I were you.
The physical trauma of rape is tiddlywinks
compared to what lies ahead when your
infection gets—cough, cough—“full-blown.”
Let’s face it—you just won’t be you when the
lesions cover your face like pepperoni slices.
Look forward to night sweats. Open sores.
Skin sagging off your bones. Wheelchairs
and spinal taps and chemo-nausea. Brain rot
and lung cysts and foul, rust-colored vomit.
You shit all over yourself. The sight goes. The
hearing fades. The brain melts. But you linger
like a very bad joke, swallowing more pain
and indignity than you ever imagined existed.
How helpless you are. It must hurt you
deeply to weigh eighty-five pounds and have
clear plastic tubes jammed up every hole in
your body. He really fucked you up, didn’t
he? I mean, I’d tell you to get over it, but
it’s too late for that. You’re dead. I’m sorry.
I’m so sorry.…
Somewhere in Edward “Fast Eddie”
Savitz’s Philadelphia high-rise apartment—
that is, somewhere beneath the pizza boxes
containing human shit, the trash bags filled
with turd-encrusted underwear, and the
Polaroids of two-and-a-half thousand different
Philly boys in various stages of undress and
degradation—there were medical bills for
blood tests. And the test results were clear—
Savitz had been exposed to the virus which
causes AIDS. Savitz knew it. And he kept the
boys comin’.
If you were a teenaged Philadelphia male
who lived in the honky slum called Grays
Ferry, you most likely knew about Fast Eddie.
He was a virtual ATM machine for cash-
starved young men in the City of Brotherly
Love. If it was Friday night and you were a
few bucks short of that six-pack or dime bag,
all it took was a call to Eddie. He usually paid
five bucks for your dirty socks. Ten for your
shit-stained underwear. Fifteen if you’d let
him blow you. When you referred a new
client to him, you got a twenty spot. Payment
for other acts—such as stuffing shit into
Eddie’s mouth, slamming a door on his dick,
or letting him fuck you in your shit-smeared
ass—was negotiable.
ANSWER Me !
 AIDS sucked the life out of Eddie Savitz shortly after his arrest in
1992. To this date, no one has proven that he infected any of his
shit-suppliers. But the sheer magnitude of his business roster doesn’t
make it out of the question. It was known that Savitz had been
exchanging cash for turds-’n’-sex since at least 1979. On an average
JUVENILE
day, he received a hundred and twenty phone calls, most of them from
his fecal confreres. Three hundred and twelve plastic bags filled with
poop and poop-stained laundry were recovered from his apartment
OFFENDERS
and various storage rooms he had rented. One of Eddie’s boys
claimed to have indulged in actual fluid-swapping sex with Savitz at No one will ever
least seventy times. Extrapolating physical evidence with personal tes- know the depth of
timony, some have estimated that at least ten thousand pain I personally
customers passed through Eddie’s shit-stained portals. It isn’t experienced when I
unreasonable to assume that somewhere in Philly, a young man rots saw the bruised
away in his bedroom, a dried-out fruit-gourd infected by Fast Eddie’s
welts and flesh
wounds covering my
shit-streaked Dick of Death.
sons’ buttocks,
Savitz knew he had AIDS. The question is sticky: Was he mali-
thighs, and arms
cious…or merely horny? And which is more disturbing? Is it worse to and felt the
die because you were hated…or simply used? Recently in California, egg-sized knot on
an AIDS-carrier named Frank Bridges raped his new stepdaughter my son’s head and
during his own wedding reception and infected her with HIV. When heard how his body
the girl starts developing purple blotches all over her face, will it went stiff after the
soothe her to know that her new stepdad only wanted to get his rocks blow and he could
off? What about the twenty-five-year-old Detroit woman who lost her not move. No one
virginity but gained a death sentence via the AIDS-dripping cock of can know the ripping
Dwayne Lamont Peterson? Will it flatter her to know that Peterson was of my heart when I
primarily a burglar who only raped women that he found attractive? saw the pain on my Robert Thompson: A sweet
With Adam Brown, a repressed Christian homosexual from eldest son’s face little ten-year-old boy…
Roseburg, Oregon, you didn’t have to wonder about motive. He and heard his voice
intended harm. A positive AIDS diagnosis was the only excuse he crumble as he
needed. Before separating from his wife, he told her he was gay. And relived in his mind the sexual assault and rape.
that he liked to fuck little boys. And that he was going to die from AIDS. —Mother of two Michigan boys beaten and raped by two brothers,
ages fourteen and ten
And that he wanted revenge. Nude and drunk, he once cut his chest
open and proclaimed to his spouse that he had sold his soul to Satan. He was the perfect child, and now he’s a little terrorist.
After his wife left him, Brown began preying on Roseburg’s children —Mother of “Martin” (a pseudonym), a nine-year-old Washington-state boy
in earnest. Over the summer of 1992, he was believed to have fon- suspected of raping eight little girls and boys at knifepoint
dled or fucked at least nine kiddies he’d lured to his home. There were I did kill him.…What about his mum? Will you tell her I’m sorry?
tales of liquor, dope, and porno tapes. Of oral and anal sex. One kid —Jon Venables, age ten, who along with ten-year-old Robert Thompson
claimed that “Uncle Adam” torched a Bible and threatened that Satan sexually assaulted and murdered two-year-old James Bulger
would harm little children who didn’t bend to his wishes. Most per-
I don’t know why I did it.
turbing to residents of the tiny loggin’ town was the story of the five- —Lloyd J. Edwards, nine, when asked in 1945 to explain why he bashed in a
year-old boy who had a scratch on his arm. According to the boy, three-year-old girl’s skull with rocks after failing to complete a rape attempt
Brown took a handful of “the white stuff that came from his weenie”
and rubbed it deep into his scratch. Brown, who was sentenced to
sixteen years, will die in jail. The children of Roseburg keep getting
tested for AIDS and blow out birthday candles hoping that they’ll
A
re children sexual
beings? Let’s see—
what was I into when
outlast Uncle Adam. I was eleven? For
To me, the existence of an Adam Brown isn’t nearly as surprising as starters, I wanted to
the fact that there aren’t more people like him. I’ve often wondered fuck the green vomit
why any AIDS-carrier would worry about decency and propriety. If my out of Linda Blair’s
life was rapidly shrinking away, I certainly wouldn’t care about the mouth. Smack myself
sanctity of anyone else’s. I’d want to take some people down with me. in the face with Sally
Sort of like the eighteen HIV-positive boy prostitutes in London who in Struthers’s perfectly
1986 were identified by government authorities as intentionally
globular tits. Suck
infecting their tricks. The boys explained that they were trying to get
Raquel Welch’s cop-
revenge for their lost, bruised childhoods. If I knew I was going to die
per-tone, pointy love-
soon, I’d make some grand gesture along the lines of what Terry
cones for about an
Boatwright did. In 1992, the AIDS-infected Florida parolee kidnapped
hour-and-a-half.
his former girlfriend, raped her, and used a syringe to inject her with
I was but a boy. My
his blood. Before shooting himself, Boatwright told his girlfriend he
Jon Venables: His sweet crotch was still fallow
wanted her to know how it felt to live with an incurable illness.
little ten-year-old friend… ground for pubic
You contracted AIDS when you were raped. That’s a gift that keeps
on giving. Revenge is impossible. It’s all downhill from here. You could hair. My testicles
shoot yourself and get it over with. You could hunt down the rapist and hadn’t even descended yet. But I was mesmerized by pornography. I’d
shoot him. Or you could just walk outside right now and shoot the seen a little of it—mostly older relatives’ Playboys, but also a tattered,
first ten people you see. But you won’t shoot anybody. You just waterlogged, B/W hardcore rag a friend and I found in an aban-
swallow the bitter medicine as you wither amid the shadows. I’ll never doned house. Those stark photos of huge, bumpy-as-a-pickle cocks and
understand you. ■ dry, weedy bushes had an undeniable power. I daydreamed about the

ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE 93

…James Bulger: The sweet little TWO-year-old boy who was
kidnapped, sexually assaulted, and beaten to death
by Thompson and Venables.
unbelievably exotic pleasures which lay beyond my reach. I’d
desperately scan the Philadelphia Bulletin’s movie section, looking for
the X-rated ads. And the triple-XXX ones—they were three times as
fascinating. I would have killed to see those seventy-foot adult bodies
cavorting up there on the screen. I even had X-rated dreams at night.
Most disturbingly of all, one of them involved Barbra Streisand.
Satan and disease and death and the unmentionable. Those were
my interests. At eleven years old, I told my female teacher to blow me.
Out loud. In the middle of class. I told every adult I met to go fuck
themselves. I thought about running away to some faraway bus
terminal and trying drugs. I wanted to inhale every drug in existence.
My tastes weren’t bad for an eleven-year-old.
I was by no means the toughest kid in class, just the most patho-
logically violent. I found that I enjoyed cracking the heads of other
children. His name was Vince, and he was innocently walking home
from school. I tackled him around the knees, dragged him down a
rocky hill, and punched his face like I was trying to push a hole
through it. Vince ran away from me bleeding. I had nothing against
him. But I enjoyed overpowering him. Humiliating him. And telling
everyone at school what I’d done.
Other kids’ parents hated me. Looked at me, shook their heads,
and mumbled that I was sick. Even Potsie’s mother hated me, and they
were the trashiest family in school. Potsie’s older brother Wally, from
what I recall, was sent to prison in his late teens. Potsie eventually
became a part-time member of the Warlocks biker gang and a full-
time garbage man. And his mother thought I was a bad influence.
Potsie had stood there watching while I smashed Vince’s jaw. We
were braver in each other’s presence than we were individually. We’d
go to carnivals together and beat the shit out of kids we didn’t like.
We’d talk about sex and violence with equal enthusiasm. He told me
about this girl, a friend’s cousin, who was thirteen or fourteen. She’d
let you take her into the woods and strip her naked and run your
hands all over her. That sounded like paradise to me. I imagined this
raven-haired, black-bushed Venus on a Half Shell standing perfectly
still in the forest as I groped every inch of her.
We settled for an eleven-year-old girl I’ll call Sabrina. Eerily, she
was the younger sister of Dennis, whom you may remember from
94
page 74. She had the rustically lesbian looks of TV newscaster Linda
Ellerbee. Potsie had been fucking her regularly and one day asked if
I could cum along. Sabrina agreed. So we brought her down to the
woods and took turns. Stuck my pre-pubescent cock inside her lightly
tufted snatch and just lay on top of her as if she were a mattress.
No cum to shoot. Too young. But yeesh, what a smell from Sabrina.
Like six trout swimming in a piss-filled toilet.
Haven’t seen Potsie since the late seventies. After I heard of James
Bulger’s murder, I thought of him for the first time in years. Bulger’s
killers, Robert Thompson and Jon Venables, were a pair of ten-year-
old British boys who tasted the full meaning of “too much, too young.”
Nasty, incorrigible boys. As they formed a friendship based on mutu-
al truancy, adult observers noted their morbid, corrupting influence on
each other.
On February 12, 1993, the boys graduated to something much
stronger than juvenile delinquency. At the Strand Shopping Centre in
Liverpool, little Jimmy Bulger wandered away from his mother.
Naturally curious and friendly, he befriended Thompson and
Venables. At least twelve mall security cameras captured grainy
images of the two boys dragging James Bulger away to his death,
a strip of videotape which would be broadcast worldwide.
Thompson and Venables shoved, smacked, carried, and kicked
Bulger along for two-and-a-half miles toward a dreary stretch of
railroad tracks. Twenty-seven people reported seeing the three boys,
with Bulger visibly distressed, walking the route from the mall to the
railroad. One witness reported that Bulger seemed weak, as if his
legs had given way beneath him. At least five separate adults tried to
help, only to meet forceful resistance from Thompson and Venables,
who yanked Bulger onward. GO, you little bastard!
The tortures lasted for an hour and fifteen minutes. They kicked him
in the jaw. Removed his shoes, socks, pants, and underwear. Fiddled
with his penis. Jammed batteries into his mouth and possibly up his
ass. Thompson threw blue paint from a can onto Bulger’s round
little face. Then he hurled a brick at his head, knocking the tot to
the ground. Little James struggled to his tiny feet, only to be knocked
over by another brick. And another one. And a twenty-two-pound
metal bar. And more rocks and bricks until James couldn’t struggle
anymore. Until the bricks just bounced off his small body. Until
he was dead. Forty-two separate injuries sustained on a two-year-old
corpse lying over a lonely rail line. Until a passing train chopped him
in half.
A court found that Thompson and Venables had performed “acts of
unparalleled evil and barbarity” and commanded that they be held in
state custody for “very, very many years.”
A preponderance of evidence pointed to the fact that Bulger
had been sexually attacked. Injuries to his mouth, foreskin, and
little asshole were consistent with those common in sexual abuse.
Stool samples—a possible sign of anal penetration—were found on
the train tracks amid the blood and rocks.
Mischief. Horseplay. Delinquency’s savage rush. Studies indicate
that adult sex offenders begin to cultivate their preferences at
about twelve years old. FBI statistics from 1987 found that nearly half
of all violent crimes in America are committed by persons aged
ten to twenty-four. The warrior phase. Young, strong, and without
a conscience.
Kids. What the heck’s the matter with kids today? There’s the
thirteen-year-old male baby-sitter in Washington state who raped and
beat a three-year-old girl so badly that she’s permanently confined to
a wheelchair. And another Washington boy, this one nine, who tore
off a two-year-old’s diaper and molested him at knifepoint. And a pair
of seven-year-old boys at Indianapolis Public School 89 who raped a
six-year-old girl in a public bathroom. Some health-care professionals
have reported sexual abuse perpetrated by children as young as four.
You have to keep an eye on the little ones. Children can be so cruel.
Can’t cum. Can’t vote. Can’t drive a car. But they can rape. First
haircut. First day at school. First rape. They learn young these days. ■
ANSWER Me !
 Statistically, jocks are four times more likely

JOCKS to rape than non-jocks. On my college

campus, the jocks used to huddle together in
the recreation areas. They’d grunt, nod, and
I think that if rape is inevitable, relax and occasionally point at things. I’m sure that if I
enjoy it. gave them a bag of rocks to play with, they
—Indiana basketball coach Bobby Knight would have spent hours beating the rocks
together and arranging them in small piles. It
It’s so addictive. I often get scared. Often. didn’t take much to keep them amused. That’s
It’s a matter of pushing the limits. If you’re because most of their brain matter resides in
doing the same thing for years and years, their pants, much like Volkswagens store their
you get used to it and become accustomed engine in the trunk.
to it, but me and my peers are always Not all jocks are dumb—famous
pushing the limits, going higher, strap-snappers such as Reggie Jackson and
faster, longer, and that’s what Bill Bradley are equally at ease in the locker
gives you your excitement— room or at Mensa Scrabble tournaments—
the fear factor. but most athletes tend to be less
—Skateboarder Mark “Gator” intelligent than the tobacco juice they
Anthony, convicted of raping and spit onto the Astroturf.
killing girlfriend Jessica Bergsten, In the Land of the
talking about the thrill
Jocks, though, brains
of skateboarding
are more than
counterbalanced
Don’t fight it, I’m the
with brawn.
champ.
—Allegedly said by Mike Bone-snapping
Tyson to Desiree physical power is
Washington while the jock’s tactical
he was raping her advantage in rape.
A smattering of
he sexual metaphors cultural entitlement may
T should be transparent,
even to a dopey jock: Balls.
egg him on if he’s a
famous jock, but famous
Goals. Penetration. Scores. The violinists and world-renowned
slam-dunk. The touchdown. The physicists don’t pile up the
home run. The soccer ball spurting rape stats like jocks do.
on a projectile toward the yielding, Rape is a physical act.
womblike net. Sports are filthy. The body is important.
The superstar athlete’s career follows You’re seven-foot-two, she’s
a familiar linear pattern. It begins with five-one. You could rip her
training. Then comes competition. neck off like it’s a beer-can
Championship. Champagne. tab. Even with consent, you
Cocaine. Titty bars. Paternity suits.
couldn’t get half your dick
Rehab. Sneaker commercials.
inside her before she’d
Beer commercials. Cancer. Toss
howl in agony. You’re very
in a little rape, and you’re set.
strong and very stupid.

ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE 95
 You can’t sign
your own
name. You can’t
read your
driver’s license.
You can’t even
spell the word “rape,” but
that isn’t necessary. You’re
a jock. You’re the biggest
jock on the block. And you
have a cock. It’s a jock’s cock,
as hard as a rock.
Back in the caves and
jungles, these big galoots were
the warrior kings, the ass-kickers
and harem-owners whose physical
prowess made them desirable hubbies.
Good killers were good providers.
These were the guys who excelled at
slaughter. Sure, they may work as
bouncers for five bucks an hour now, but
back then they had status.
Of all modern athletes, no one has
more Cro-Magnetism than the boxer,
whose ability to injure other males
bespeaks a panty-staining level of virility.
And we’ve never seen a boxer
quite like “Iron” Mike Tyson. A pit
bull with a lisp. Mike Tython. His
Gerber-baby, kewpie-doll peep of a
voice. And he could pummel any man in the solar system into a small
mound of shaving cream. He was invincible, both superhuman and
subhuman, Mighty Joe Young with a high-top fade and a gold tooth.
Tyson hammered his way through an electrifyingly violent string of
unbeaten fights in the mid-eighties, his ferocity level more that of a
spree killer than an athlete. It seemed only a matter of time before he
murdered someone in the ring.
Unfortunately, it never happened. Mike’s dick got in the way of his
fists. When a bald, overweight bulldog named Buster Douglas beat
Tyson in Japan, everyone knew Mike’s heart wasn’t in the fight. It
was somewhere elth. He wath having problemth with girtlh.
Mike Tyson had emerged from the shit-covered streets of
Brownsville, New York, where he’d been a member of a gang called
the Jolly Stompers, to become the world heavyweight champion. A
chocolate-coated troll doll named Don King saw it as a typical
American rags-to-riches saga: “Mike Tyson has come around 180°,
and that’s the triangle of American life,” said the world’s wealthiest
murderer-cum-Buckwheat-impersonator.
Soon after Tyson became champ, King became his manager and
witnessed him circling the rest of the triangle. And it was a model
American success story, replete with mansions, race cars, sexual
harassment, and forced intercourse. Manifesting the jock rapist’s
inability to distinguish between “scoring” in and out of the sports
arena, Tyson rhapsodized about treating his lovers as if they were
boxing opponents: “I like to hurt women when I make love to them,”
he said. “I like to hear them scream.…It gives me pleasure.” He also
claimed that the best punch he ever threw was the one which
sent eyebrow-plucked actress and disposable wife Robin Givens
into a wall.
By 1991, Tyson had foisted his toothy fireplug bulk on so many
unwilling women, he’d earned a reputation as a “serial buttocks
fondler.” At the Miss Black America pageant in Indianapolis, Mike
was observed groping asses from Alabama to Wyoming. He
focused his evil leer on Miss Rhode Island, eighteen-year-old Desiree
Washington. At a hundred and five pounds, Desiree weighed less
96
than half as much as Iron Mike. A Sunday-school teacher and Big
Sister volunteer, Desiree was apparently the only woman on earth
naive enough not to expect sex after being invited to Mike Tyson’s
hotel suite. So when Tyson’s chitchat abruptly switched from
community service and pet pigeons to “You’re turning me on,” she
was surprised.
Laughing, Tyson pinned her to the bed. He forced his thick tongue
down her throat, giving her a taste of the champ’s legendary
halitosis. She tried to resist, “but it was like hitting a wall.” Tyson kept
coming. “Don’t fight me, mommy,” he told her. When he finally
penetrated her, the pain “was just excruciating,” Desiree recalled.
After popping off, Tyson asked, “Don’t you love me now?” She
didn’t. She was sobbing. “You’re just a crybaby,” Tyson said. “You’re
just crying because I’m big.”
Yes, the triangle had come full-circle since 1986, when Tyson
knocked out Trevor Berbick to become the youngest heavyweight
champ ever. He had gone from criminal to hero, and back to
Palookaville again. Less than a month after Tyson’s conviction, his
vanquished foe Berbick received a four-year sentence for raping a
baby-sitter. Boxers are so sexy.
But they don’t own exclusive rights to the jock-rape fiefdom.
A slight sniff of the sports pages will yield the piercing liniment smell
of rapist linebackers. And rapist point guards. And rapist shortstops.
In fact, most rapist jocks tend to participate in team sports. Solo
practitioners of nonviolent sports are statistically less likely to rape.
That isn’t to say you won’t find the occasional track-star rapist.
Or rapist bowler. Even skateboarders can get caught up in the
drive to win.
When Mark Rogowski decided his real name didn’t have the
proper competitive ring to it, he changed it to Mark “Gator”
Anthony. An alligator. A predator. He told reporters that skate-
boarding was “a real productive way of venting some way-harsh
aggressions. Instead of breaking a bottle and slashing somebody’s
face, you’re throwing yourself at a wall with sweat dripping in your
eyes.” It was this borderline-psychotic drive which propelled Gator
into skateboarding’s elite, with all the kneepad endorsements and
eager beach bunnies such status implies.
It was that same testosterone-sparked drive which led Gator to
sneak behind his girlfriend Jessica Bergsten and clunk her brutally in
the skull with The Club™ steering-wheel lock. As the blood saturated
Jessica’s hair and clothes, Gator cuffed her and hauled her up to his
bedroom. While Jessica screamed, Gator handcuffed her to the bed,
stripped her naked, and fucked her for at least two hours. Still, the
bitch wouldn’t admit defeat. Gator crammed her inside a surfboard
cover and choked her to death with his hands. A few hours later, he
buried her nude body in the desert sand. Having wasted years
scraping his kneecaps against empty swimming pools, Gator had
finally pushed the limits. The score: Gator-1, Jessica-0.
Women. Money. Power. Rape. The breakfast of champions. ■
ANSWER Me !
 Go for it! Go for it!
—Reportedly chanted by onlookers at Big Dan’s Tavern,
New Bedford, MA, in 1983 as a woman was being
gang-raped on a pool table

Save some for me.

—Statement attributed to Corando Perez,
the second-in-line of eleven men charged with
gang-raping a woman outside a 1988 Texas cockfight

Oh, the boys never meant any harm against

the girls. They only wanted to rape them.
—Joyce Kithira, deputy principal of Kenya’s St. Kizito
Secondary School, after seventy-one girls were raped
and nineteen killed in a schoolboy panty raid

Y ou spin around and see nothing but male

faces. Eight or ten of them. And they’re
laughing. At you. At what they’re going to do
to you. And how they’re going to stuff a
barbell up your ass. They’ll sing funny songs,
too. This is truly the funniest thing they’ve
ever seen.
See all the orbs of white fluid sailing through
the air? Hitting you on the cheek, on the thigh,
in your mouth, and—OOPS!—right in the eye?
The men are laughing even louder now. Why
can’t you laugh with them? Don’t you have a
sense of humor? You’re really uptight. Can’t you
see how you excite them? Enjoy the attention
while you’re young, honey.
They’re just being boys, and you’d be happier if
you just acted like a girl—close your eyes, shut your
mouth, and loosen up down there, ‘cause we got a
great big convoy comin’ through.
Fat dicks. Dicks which taper at the end like
carrots. Mushroom-cap dicks. Dicks that veer to the
left and right. Uncircumcised burrito dicks with the
enchanting fragrance of smegma. Dicks both
veiny and smooth, dry and slimy. Brown dicks.
Pink dicks. Purple dicks. Yellow dicks. And only
one waitress to serve the whole coffee shop.
Crowds think differently than individuals do.
See the swarthy little guy in the corner there, with
the four-inch snub-nosed prick and the wild
smile? He was the fourth—and the
eleventh—one to fuck you
tonight. He’s very shy out in the
real world. Opens doors for
ladies. His boss and wife

THE
scream at him. Visits his mother
every Sunday. Without his buddies around, he wouldn’t have slapped
you like that. He wouldn’t have called you dirty names or pissed in

GANGBANG
There has never been a single case, in all the gang rapes we’ve seen,
where one man tried to stop it.
—Gail Arbanel, director of Santa Monica (CA) Hospital’s Rape Treatment Center
Violence! If you’re not going to do it, don’t come.
—Allegedly shouted by one of thirty-three “wilding” youths as they entered
Central Park on April 19, 1989
your hair. And the skinny man over near the window—I think he was
number seven or eight—didn’t fuck you at all. Too nervous to get hard,
too frightened to let his friends know. So he just did push-ups between
your legs for two-and-a-half minutes, pretending to rape you.
But your cunt was so swollen after a while, none of them were able
to fuck you anyway. Having sucked out all the pulp, they’ll toss you
to the ground like a used melon skin. And they’ll still be laughing as
they walk away together.
It’s the buddy system. Woof, woof. Pump your fist. Gimme five.
Gang rape has more to do with the gang than with the rape. It’s more
male-bonding than female-bashing. If they weren’t flaying your pussy
into bloody strips, they’d be playing football. Or going to war. Or
drag-racing. The significant point is that they’re doing it together.
Running in a pack, big dogs and little dogs, leaders and followers.

ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE 97

Halloween
night, 1990. Eight
teenaged boys dressed in masks
and black clothes. The Franklin Field Pistons. A
Boston gang looking for a crack whore
to fuck, rob, and kill. They’d been
planning it all day. They found
Kimberly Rae Harbour, one of those
tragic girls with a good mind and
bad luck. Fucked and fucked and
fucked her. Beat her with a tree limb
until it broke in half. Smashed a
forty-ounce malt liquor bottle in her
face. Started jabbing her flesh with
the jagged glass edges. Stomped down
on her chest, cracking her ribs. Left a
hundred and thirty-two stab wounds. “Look
how her skin cuts,” one of the gang leaders kept
muttering. Eight boys kicked and fucked Kimberly’s
naked body as she pleaded for mercy. As a crowning touch, the
ringleader stepped down on her neck as Kimberly jerked with
involuntary agony. She eventually bled to death. When her body was
found, it contained only two ounces of blood.
Back in the projects, the Pistons boasted of what they’d done.
Laughed about the dollar they’d stolen from her. When they were
arrested and tried for murder, they seemed surprised about all the
fuss. It was merely a diversion for some boys who’d grown bored with
drinking beer all day. ‘’There was nothing to do,” explained one
Piston, “and so, I guess, we had the impression of going out to the
field and kill [sic] somebody.’’
Different city, different dogs. You can hear them breathing behind
the bushes. A dozen or so teenagers from the north side of Central
Park. The dark, poor, forgotten side of Central Park. They’ve decided
to be wild tonight. Wild steam rises from those bushes. And you, a
rich white investment-banker bitch jogger, bob up and down this
lonely roadway. They pull you by your hundred-dollar tennis shoes
down a hill and into the woods. Gag your mouth and tie your hands
with strips from your designer sweat shirt. Slap your little Sandy
Duncan titties around. Then comes a LEAD PIPE. A brick, too, and a
big old rock. And a knife. And twelve hard dicks. They’ll kick your
ribs and stab your face and CRACK your fucking skull. With your
arms pinned to the ground, another SMACK with that rock. They’re
all spinning around on top of your head, and they’re laughing. A loud
buzz…a soft buzz…and you’re out.
Forty minutes of fucking. You’ll forget the worst of it. You’ll forget all
of it. You’ll be too brain-damaged to remember. Just so you know, at
least four of them got inside of you, either the pussy or ass. Doctors
scraped about a half-teaspoon of cum out of your snatch, which ain’t
no great shakes. But you weren’t able to identify anybody. That rock
made you permanently stupid.
98
Three-
quarters of your
blood leaked out before
someone found you flapping around in the
cold April mud. There was a two-hundred-and-twenty-five-
foot trail of red drops which led from where you started bleeding to
where you lay near death. Your body temperature had dipped to a
cool 80°, a bruised, bashed, spermy popsicle. Every bone around
your left eye was pulverized to white dust. A paramedic said the back
of your head was “mushy” to the touch.
Your face was beaten so badly, your former roommate stared for
eleven minutes before he could identify you, and then only when he
spotted your pinkie ring. For thirteen days, you floated through a
coma. A 106° fever. Amnesia. Savage hallucinations. Double vision.
You lost your sense of smell. Shaky hands. Can’t walk straight
anymore. It’ll take a lot of operations. You’ll have more metal plates
in your body than a ‘58 Olds. With intensive therapy, maybe one day
you’ll be able to scrawl your name legibly. Wow. A raped vegetable.
Since I’ve never met you, it’s hard for me to gauge how badly they
bashed in your brain. For all I know, you could be zapping flies with
your tongue like a frog. Perhaps it’s better that way. Because if you
had half a brain, it would hurt you to know that they weren’t sorry.
They laughed while attacking you. They laughed while in custody.
“It was fun,” they told police. “It was something to do.”
Even crueler, they found no shortage of supporters. You were called
a whore, a liar, and a dope fiend. They said you hadn’t been raped
at all, that you were merely an actress hired as part of a government
frame-up. They wouldn’t even let you have your pain.
Gang rape can be frustrating that way. Men who rape in groups
always seem to find more community sympathy than their victims. In
1983, a small, curly-headed canary of a woman named Cheryl
Araujo was repeatedly raped by four men on a pool table at Big
Dan’s Tavern in New Bedford, Massachusetts. The barflies who
watched the rape reportedly “kept cheering like it was a baseball
game.” After Araujo escaped half-naked into the street, the boys all
laughed and ordered a round of drinks. They joked about how they
stuffed a bottle between her legs and tickled her ass with a straw.
The heavily Portuguese community of New Bedford acted with
predictable outrage. It was predictable because it followed the
pattern—they blamed the victim. And the media. But not the boys. All
of the accused were Portuguese. So was Cheryl Araujo, but she was
lost in a swell of nationalism. The fact that “the boys” were accused
of rape seemed more of a threat to ethnic pride than the fact that
one of their own women had been raped. Angry glares and
verbal intimidation drove Cheryl out of New Bedford. In 1986, she
crashed into a utility pole in Florida and died. No one in New
Bedford seemed to care. It was as if she had been the criminal.
The same attitude dogged Linda Gaitan, who was raped by at least
eleven males, many of them childhood friends, outside a cockfight in
the chicken-shack town of San Diego, Texas. During what was at least
a four-hour train-fuck, townsfolk urged each other to take turns. After
most of the older men had blown their salsa, someone brought in two
boys, aged fourteen and nine, to view the disaster site. “This is what
you can look forward to,” somebody told the nine-year-old before
tossing him atop Gaitan’s bleeding lap. You’d think that this brutal
attack on a local woman would have angered the community, and it
did. They were angry with the local woman. Gaitan and her family
left San Diego after being systematically ostracized from town life.
ANSWER Me !
 This propensity to defend the wolf pack
was perhaps never illustrated on a grander
scale than in 1991 in Kenya, land of female
circumcision. It happened at a boarding
school. A group of at least forty boys in their
mid-teens staged a late-night rape blitzkrieg
of female dormitories. In the frantic, Who-
concertlike push to escape, nineteen girls
suffocated to death. At least seventy-one other
girls were taken into nearby fields and raped.
Most school officials were incensed. Why did
the girls resist? If they hadn’t tried to run, they
wouldn’t have died. The boys only wanted to
rape them.
And the boys care much more about
impressing each other than whether you live
through this. Here’s someone to hold your
arms. Another to pin down your legs. And
this one falls straight down on top of you,
blocking the ceiling light. They cheer when
you scream.
Tonight they have the numbers, and thus the
strength. You don’t matter at all. You’re simply
this evening’s entertainment. They pass you
around as if you were a joint. So just inhale
deeply, relax your muscles down there, and
keep taking it, no matter how many are stand-
ing in line. Go, baby, go! There’s no sense in
fighting, because they don’t want to hurt you.
They only want to rape you. After a while, you
won’t feel anything. It’s nothing against you. In
fact, don’t flatter yourself. This has nothing to
do with you. The boys just wanna have fun. ■
ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE
THE SERIAL
RAPIST
After your first victim, you want to get
another one. Maybe she’s better-looking or
something like that—the way she walks,
the way she smiles and talks or something.
It gets easier after the first time. Not only
easier, it gets more violent. The second, the
third, the fourth, the fifth—if I wouldn’t
have stopped when I got caught, I probably
would have killed one of them.
—“Ray,” quoted in The Rapist File
All of a sudden that evil urge, almost like
adrenaline, kicked in.…I was scared. My
heart was beating fast. Adrenaline was
pumping through my body. I was sexually
aroused because I liked this girl and she
was intimidated by me.…It was a weird
feeling of passion or thrill—that’s the word
I’m looking for. It was a thrill knowing I was
going to get what I desired.
—Gregory Calvin Smith, suspected of raping at least
twenty women, describing the 1989 rape-slaying
of Ai Toyoshima
For heaven’s sake catch me before I kill
more…I cannot control myself.
—Chicago sex psycho William Heirens, written in
lipstick on the apartment wall of
his second murder victim
But what can I do? I know I am sex-crazy.
—Brooklyn auto wrecker Eugene Levine, who in 1942
admitted to assaults on at least eighty-eight
women over a four-month run
ress down on the flesh. Squeeze it with
P your thumb—you can feel the difference.
You can measure it. Stroke it. A stiff prick tells
no lies. Your cock gets much harder when the
other person struggles. Their helplessness
excites you. At this stage of the game, you
need them to say no. It’s in the eyes, the
liquid terror in their eyes. The blood rushes to
your groin when you see their furry-rabbit
fear. Your urges are dangerous. And you’ll try
to suppress them for a while. But a hard dick
eventually gets what it wants.
99

The first time was a mistake. Wasn’t even a rape. It was a one-
night stand with some Middle Eastern club slut. You were stunned by
how loudly she howled when you jammed it inside of her. Your
surprise quickly melted into pleasure. You hurt her, big boy! And you
enjoyed her screams. Got hard as a surfboard. Buh-goinngggg!
When you finally blew your stack, the cream kept gushing for a full
minute. You shook like a freezing infant. Numb for an hour after-
wards. You felt as if someone had vacuumed all the tension out of
you. Incredible. A whole new level. Like the difference between
snorting it and mainlining.
You were immediately faced with two new problems, both of them
strategic. Your first obstacle was figuring out how to get another
taste. And quick. The second problem was the law. But once you get
hooked on the taste, you won’t worry so much about the law. You’ll
be careful for a while, until you lose count.
The dirtiest little secret about rape is that rapists enjoy what they
do. They come back hundreds of times to do it. They’ll surrender
everything—family, job, freedom—in order to keep raping. If you
were to believe all the PR about rapists being “sick,” you’d think they
must be in a great deal of pain while raping, as if they were fucking
themselves in the ass. It just isn’t so. They LOVE what they do.
In all senses of the word, the first time is the hardest. You build a
tolerance. Kicks don’t come easy. The thrill doesn’t last forever.
There’s an ebb and flow, a buildup and release, just like anger, just
like “regular” sex. You swore it was the last time, but you know that
the feeling is going to seep back into your balls.
It’s a level of hunger that’s hard to manage. You can’t sleep, so you
drive your rust bucket out into the pelting rain. This night’s no differ-
ent than any other. You scope out places where women are stupid
enough to walk alone. You take note of her hair color, skin texture,
the subtle swishing of her ass, and what she’d look like wiggling on
the end of your fishing rod. It’s hard to breathe with all the steam.
The fogged-up windows make it difficult to see. But you rub a small
patch clear with your elbow, and she appears like a genie. Not the
first or last, merely the latest.
Behind every successful man stands a good woman. And behind
every successful rape stands a hard cock. A rocket in the pocket.
A fistful of desire. People can rationalize the violence. But they don’t
like to think about all that pleasure. ■
1 00
THE
LUST
KILLER
I likes to see blood; I might have done more if I had
seen enough blood. Then I feel great—I feel like I
could tear up anything. I likes women and when I
am drunk it makes me worse. I once was in a place
where there was a shooting and a police officer
was shot and there was blood all over the place.
I wanted to go over and wet my shoes and walk
in the blood. I likes blood.
—From an interview with an unnamed lust killer,
The Sexual Criminal
If I killed them, you know, they couldn’t reject me
as a man. I was more or less making a doll out of
a human being…and carrying out my fantasies
with a doll, a living human doll.
—Unidentified sex killer quoted by
LAPD psychologist Martin Reiser
There is no happiness without death. Beware! I am
about to scare you.
—Polish lust murderer Lucian Staniak
ere’s where all the jokes stop. Even in your laughingstock of
H a life, there comes a point when it isn’t funny anymore. When it
isn’t cute or hip or postmodern or “shock art.” Your pitiable efforts
to distance yourself from the subject matter are somehow falling
short tonight. Beneath the serial-killer cards and Gacy paintings and
rapid-fire knowledge of true-crime ephemera, you really have
wondered about it. About actually doing it. It’s four-thirty-three a.m.,
and you’re the only person awake on your street. And you’re think-
ing. About killing someone. Not about the body count, or the press
coverage, or the letters from groupies, or whether your paintings
will be worth more than Manson’s, but about the FEELING. You
wonder how it would feel to kill someone.
But you fall asleep and forget all about it. You’re one of the “death
pussies.” A true-crime fan who desperately needs to be victimized by
some true crime. You love to hear about violence, hate to commit it.
Hate even more to be on the receiving end. Fundamentally, you’re
frightened. You’ve measured the blood in gallons and tallied the bod-
ies with a pocket calculator, but somehow the thought of one REAL
drop of blood petrifies every fiber in your spine. But it also excites
you. And although you love to draw lines, you can’t draw a line
between where the fear ends and the excitement begins.
You’ve fetishized what happens on the other side. You’ve made it
almost too exciting. Tempting. You’d better be careful. Every volume
in your bookcase is about murder. I’ll admit you can rattle off statis-
tics and cross-reference crime facts better than I can. You’re a pro at
it. But it amazes me that in all the years of gleaning information, all
the trees which died in order to whet your appetites, you’ve never
stopped for a second to consider WHY you’re into all of this.
Thousands of hours of reading, and not a moment of quiet reflection.
Strange.
There is a reason, you know. There’s a motive which runs deeper
than a mere collector’s interest. And there will come a time, like it or
not, when the peephole will shut on you. You’ll find it impossible to
ANSWER Me !
continue being a spectator. And you’ll be
faced with two choices, each one involving
surrender. You’ll either say what you’ve
always said—that cunt-mutilation and baby-
rape are horrible things—but since you final-
ly realize that they’re also very real things,
beyond mere consumerist Generation X brain-
freeze, you’ll have to pack it in and go back
to rock ‘n’ roll, where it’s safe. On the other
hand, you might accept that violence is one of
your hungers, different from food and sex
only in the risks entailed. The risks are astro-
nomically greater. But you can’t help wonder-
ing—is the pleasure that much greater, too?
As with food and sex, reading about it is
never as much fun as doing it.…
Only one way to stop her from screaming.
Most often, you’ll want to choke her. That’s
usually how it goes. You’re touching her. Your
fingers can feel the tautness, the struggle in
her neck muscles. You can watch her every
facial tic as she goes down…down. You
wouldn’t believe the thrill. Just the look on her
dead face will have you gumming up your
undies. It’s as easy as cracking your knuckles.
Thumbs down on her windpipe. Will she die
first, or will you cum first? Hey—it’s a photo
finish! Your thick ox-cock spurts Cremora just
as her face turns blue. You hear the familiar
crunch of a collapsing larynx right at the
moment you shoot applesauce all over her
belly. You’re satisfied. So is she. Her face
looks so pretty. Like a sculpture. Tension-free.
ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE
The angel inside her has flown away. She’s so
fucking relaxed, she shit herself.
Now it’s time for arts and crafts. She was
dead after you choked her, so the hundred
and sixty-three knife thrusts which followed
were gravy. You carved graffiti into her skin:
CUNT…WASH ME…WAVE BYE-BYE. You
pounded her face into bloody slush. Mashed
her cunt into hamburger with a pair of
scissors. Bit and chewed her ears. Fucked her
headless body. Fucked her head. Fucked the
hole where her head used to be. Scooped out
her intestines and strung them around the
room like Christmas decorations. By the time
you left, she looked like a Jackson Pollock
canvas. The poor guy at the funeral home is
gonna charge extra for this one.
All you have to do is make a wish.
Gregory Dale Donaldson, a short-order
cook from Orange Park, Florida, collected
skanky porn and read about all the famous
serial killers. After a while, he found the
words and pictures too impersonal.
Unsatisfying. He started writing poems and
short stories about his fantasies, which veered
toward the brutal end of the spectrum. He did
etchings of headless women, one of which
he called “Lust-Murder.” He wanted to do
everything to his victims—fuck, torture, kill,
eat, and drink them.
But the fantasies only went so far, so
Donaldson sketched out a plan of action. He
compiled a “top-ten list” of women he wanted
to kill. Kept notes about an estimated fifteen
to twenty ladies he was tracking. Mapped
out a blueprint of how he’d murder someone.
Wrote a three-page laundry list of the
materials he’d need to do the job right—
cleaning fluids, shovels, gloves, etc. While
Donaldson was shopping for these items,
police working on a tip arrested him in 1993.
He never got a chance to rape or kill
anyone. One day, maybe you’ll be luckier
than he was. And don’t tell me you haven’t
thought about it.
People who say rape is worse than murder
have never been murdered. The act of
murder, like the act of rape, is propelled by
libidinal energy. Murder is essentially sexual,
whether or not any literal sex occurred during
the act.
But you, a death pussy, draw a line
between murder and rape. Murder’s cool,
rape isn’t. Why? Because you don’t want to
offend that bitch you call a girlfriend?
Because the body of a raped woman is more
sacred than that of a murdered man? WHY?
Tell me—I’d really like to know. I don’t think
you can answer me.
You may not always have a gun nearby,
but that dick will never desert you. You can
kill someone anonymously, but you can’t
fuck them anonymously. You were born with
the weapon. You just haven’t used it yet.
But every time a rape occurs, you are subtly
implicated. It’s guilt by association. Rape is
more human than murder. More immediate.
As close as your scrotum. ■
101
 PREY
WEAKNESS MAKES IT SO MUCH EASIER.
DEAD
GIRLS
When I learn that someone has raped a fourteen-year-old girl, I’m
envious, truly. I know that this may not sit well with some people,
but I say what I think. To me, rape seems a good thing from eight
to fourteen.
—Chumy Chumez, Spanish cartoonist, quoted in a Barcelona newspaper
in the early 1970s
It is generally simple to determine if rape has been committed
when the victim is below the age of 12 years. If there has been a
forcible entrance of the penis into the vagina, tears of the vaginal
opening accompanied by bruising and bleeding will be evident.
—Homicide Investigation
102
I lost my innocence at age eight, so I
decided to do the same to as many young
girls as I could.…I like the girls in Ecuador.
They are more gentle and trusting, more
innocent. They are not as suspicious of
strangers as Colombian girls.
—Pedro “Monster of the Andes” Lopez, who raped and
slaughtered at least fifty young females
T o put it kindly, you aren’t a ladies’ man.
Women have laughed at you since junior
high. You’re a twenty-six-year-old security
guard. You smell like tomato paste. You live
with your grandmother and think that
wrestling is real. You hang out in pawnshops,
comic-book stores, and public parks. You
drink beer, watch game shows, and fuck little
girls. You collect knives, razors, guns, and
cherry bombs, but you’ve never slept with
an adult woman. You’re immobilized by
shyness. And even if you weren’t shy, you’re
still homely.
So it’s down to the minor leagues for you.
The endless years of ugly rejection have
altered your strategy. By default, your tastes
lean more toward Brownie campfires and
ballerina classes and pajama parties and
training bras. And two hairy fingers digging
inside her swee’pea. No real tits to speak of,
just two dime-sized nipples on a flat rack o’
ribs. Nude mini-vulva like a coral-colored
crab claw. How you’d love to stuff an
extension cord in her stuck-up little ass and
pull it out through her mouth.
This baby girl’s just so healthy, happy, and
oblivious, you want to smash her head into a
mirror. Make her feel a level of discomfort that
no number of birthday parties and prom
nights and baby showers could counteract.
Turn her inside-out, from a little girl to a bitch.
That ballerina on her music box has a ten-inch
dick between its legs now.
There’s nothing precious about this four-foot slice of bald-eagle cunt-
flesh. She’s worth less than the fart you just blew in her face.
Loathsome. Your prick in her baby-tooth mouth isn’t going to change
things one way or another. Long before you came into her life, she
was destined to grow up into a bowling-alley waitress with six
boyfriends and nine kids. She’ll drop out of community college and
get gang-raped by bikers. Her genes are programmed into a spin-
cycle of unemployment offices, dope-shooting lovers, and dirty kitty
litter. You think she’ll really be any worse off if she blows you for three
hours at this Motel 6 near the freeway?
If anything, you’re her tutor. Teach her how to treat a man. Show
her how to curl that little tongue around the ridge where the head
ends and the shaft begins. Your dick looks so big and hairy,
especially stuffed in her embryonic mouth. Make her balance your
elephant balls in her small hands. She’s so easy to hold and lift and
bend and move and manipulate. Better than a Barbie doll. And when
ANSWER Me !
you finally explode like a steam whistle, do it right in that dumb, FIVE. Anmorian Or was an undefiled Cambodian chrysanthemum
moon-pie face of hers. Command her not to wipe it off until it dries. who attended kindergarten in Revere, Massachusetts. In 1990,
If she picks at it or plays with it or tries to rub it off, smack her onto a maintenance worker from her building took her to an empty
the carpet. Pick her up and smack her down again. Drag her back apartment and demanded that she give him money to buy crack.
and forth on the bitter-smelling brown motel carpet. Scrub her face When she refused, he beat the fuck out of her, fucked the shit out
into that abrasive rug. Her brush burns will mix with the pubic hairs of her, and tried to choke her to death. Anmorian died a few days
and dried fluids of ten thousand motel dates. She must submit. later while hooked up to a life-support system.…
She has to learn respect for her elders. Teach her everything about life FOUR. We’re getting young here. “When she spoke, she spoke
that her parents are too dumb or terrified to tell her. with her eyes,” said the aunt of Edith Kiecorius, who couldn’t believe
someone had raped and beaten the New York girl into nonexistence.
You know, she’s got some fucking nerve trying to rub the cum off
It was 1961, and such things didn’t happen. Yet there lay Edith, a tiny
her face like that. She’s a spunky one. Probably has a big fucking
blonde cream puff of joy, mangled and lifeless on the bed of a
mouth. You don’t need this kind of trouble. No, not right after
dilapidated Chelsea boarding room. Surrounded by cigarette butts.
orgasm—you’re supposed to relax. Just FIX her right here. RIP the Beer cans. A whisky bottle that had been guzzled dry. Moldy, rotting
green plastic shower curtain off the hooks and wrap it around her hunks of pizza. And near the bed, a photo of President Kennedy
baby-bird throat. She’ll be found in a picnic cooler two weeks from which had been clipped from a magazine by Edith’s killer. In the
now. You’ll be on the other side of the country by then. picture, JFK posed with his daughter Caroline. At the time, Caroline
Can’t breathe? GOOD. Shouldn’t take long. As you go limp, I want was four years old, just like Edith.…
you to think about all the other little girls you’re going to meet in THREE. Courtroom testimony described “a lifeless child...a gaping
heaven. God has an extra-special place reserved for girls like you. anus, a distended stomach.” A hundred and twenty-nine “bright red
Close your eyes and count backwards.… and blue” bruises on her body. In January, 1993, a three-year-old
THIRTEEN. Melissa Benoit was thirteen when she died. Henry Ohio girl named Sheila Marie Evans was buttfucked by her mother’s
Meinholz, Jr., the bookkeeper and church deacon who raped and live-in boyfriend. She died. While being buttfucked.…
killed her, was forty years older than her. Melissa lived next door to TWO. It’s so sad what happened to Latifah Logan. Another Ohio
Henry in Kingston, Massachusetts. “Melissa was attracted to me,” girl murdered by her mother’s boyfriend. Mom was busy doing
Henry said during his trial. Yeah, she thought he was Robert Goulet. laundry. Latifah died from brain swelling which resulted from a
That’s why she tried to run out of his garage when he lunged for her cracked skull. There were also injuries to her back. Liver. Diaphragm.
fledgling boobs that night in September, 1990. Melissa didn’t get far, Pancreas. Chest. And, yes, her two-year-old pussy took a dick inside
though. Henry fucked her. And threw a pink blanket over her head. it. All, according to her assailant, because she had wet her bed.…
And forced her face into a pan of water, holding it down until the ONE. A year? Fuck that, how about four MONTHS? How about
some cunt which is fresh out of the wrapper? A little Virginus Maximus
bubbles disappeared.…
for you? Something you could literally fuck the brains out of? Then
TWELVE. Indiana resident Shanda Sharer, twelve, was sodomized
Jerri Ann Richard, raped and clubbed to death in a Rhode Island
with everything but the kitchen sink by a pack of young girls in 1992.
alleyway in 1984, is your girl.…
They burned her alive while she cried for her mother.… Now be quiet and die like a good little woman. Nobody can take
ELEVEN. The age of a girl named Wendy, who lived in a big, bad you away from me now. That’s because there’s no longer any “you”
town called Compton, California. A big, bad man shoved a paper left. I’ve taken it all. First your virginity, then your life. That pussy will
bag in her mouth to keep her quiet. Then he undressed her. Then he get you into trouble every time. ■
shoved his big, bad cock inside her until he emptied his sac. He
dressed her again. Grabbed a gun and blew a hole through her inno-
cent girlish heart.…
TEN. Genevieve Connolly loved chocolate and bubble gum. Her
skin was milky-white, her hair curly and red. In 1940, a Manhattan
janitor named Frank Conroy molested her. He panicked. Feared she’d
tell her parents. So he crushed her throat and tossed her ten-year-old
body into a furnace.…
NINE. Nadia Puente didn’t even make it to ten. Homeless people
found her corpse while picking through a trash can in L.A.’s Griffith
Park. Nadia had been moseying home from school on March 20,
1989, when a baldheaded, bug-eyed, fast-food worker named
Richard Lucio DeHoyos pulled her into his car. Actually, DeHoyos was
a former fast-food worker, because he had been fired earlier that
same day. He snapped. Drove her to a motel. Fucked that little
nine-year-old girl. While trying to drown her in the motel bathtub, he
pushed down so hard on her chest that he crushed it.…
EIGHT and SEVEN. The respective ages of Helen Lynch and her
younger sister Margaret. They ate licorice sticks the day they were
murdered in 1942. As night fell in the bucolic burg of Bedford
Village, New York, a professional grass-mower named Edward
Haight lured them into his station wagon with promises that they’d
play a game. He tied them up with awning cord, gagged their
mouths, and drove into the blackness. Fucked both of them. Tossed
Margaret out of his moving car while Helen watched. Haight later
placed Helen on a stretch of pavement and drove his station wagon
BACK and FORTH over her frail sparrow’s skull.…
SIX. Teresa Cervantes of Fresno, California, was just old enough
to start school. She was fucked, ass-fucked, choked to death,
splashed with a flammable liquid, and burned alive. It happened in a
schoolyard.…

ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE 1 03

BOYS
Most sex offenders I’ve treated were not cruel or indifferent toward
children. In fact, they were over-invested emotionally in the child and
tried to fulfill in that relationship all the attention, friendship,
affection, and power that was missing from their lives.
—Nicholas Groth, co-director of the sex-offender program at
Connecticut’s Somers State Prison
Things to do to an 11 or 12 year old boy this afternoon….1, choke
him; 2, undress him and myself; 3, take a shower with the boy;
4, stick long needles into his body, then draw them out slowly;
5, put my penis in the boy’s mouth and anus; 6, if he doesn’t bleed
to death from the needles, cover his face with a pillow, or kill him in
some other way.
—List compiled by an unidentified boy-torturer in a case study from
The Sexual Criminal; the list-maker found an eight-year-old and completed all
items except number six
The man put his finger in my bottom and pulled my dickey.
—Little “Brian,” quoted in Rape: Victims of Crisis
104
Ostensibly he would sit on the belly of his
victim and, in this fashion, masturbating,
come on the dying body.…And he displayed
to them the heads and members of the
said slaughtered children, asking them
which of these children had the most
beautiful member, the most beautiful face,
the most beautiful head; often he found
joy in kissing one or another of these
slaughtered children whose members
were being examined.
—Georges Bataille, The Trial of Gilles de Rais
I told him he was going to die and described
how I would kill him. I asked him if he had
any last words, and he said, “I love you,”
and then I strangled him.
—Boy-lover Arthur Frederick Goode III, describing the
murder of a nine-year-old Florida lad
Each time I entered treatment, I continued
to molest children. I liked molesting children
and did what I had to do to avoid jail so
I could continue molesting.…I must be
executed before I have an opportunity to
escape or kill someone else. If I do escape, I
promise you I will kill and rape again, and I
will enjoy every minute of it.
—Westley Allan Dodd, boy-killer three times over
L ittle boys are perfect. Spotless. Angels.
Their bodies are small, tight, and fat-free.
Hairless and sweet-smelling. They still have
that open look in their eyes, that trusting,
receptive gaze. Their eyes haven’t been
dimmed by the solar eclipse of evil which
blinds their elders. Little boys have a future.
They haven’t yet suffered irreparable
damage. They have hope.
Little boys are everything which pedophiles
aren’t.
The pedophile spends his life chasing after
innocence. And the more he chases, the less
innocent he becomes. The chicken hawk is somehow able to reconcile
his exaggerated, sentimentalized notions of incorruptible youth with the
fact that he’s slowly jabbing his grimy pole up some little seraph’s blood-
clotted rectum. Pedophiles worship innocence. Yet they also resent it, as
you resent something you want desperately but can never have.
But even though his mission is doomed, the boy-lover keeps trying.
Faced with a choice between the warm promise of boyhood and the
cold anal void which is his adult life, he’ll choose the boys every time.
Like the mosquito who dips his strawlike proboscis into a blood-
filled pipeline, the pedophile feeds on innocence. On paradise lost.
On perfection.
Therefore, he is likely to be meticulous. Driven. Obsessed. Neat.
Clean. Detailed. Eternally denied actual innocence, the pedophile will
settle for a souvenir. A memento. He has to capture and petrify the
memory, to keep it fresh by suspending it in a block of amber. He will
catalog and cross-reference his past conquests and future targets. He
needs the pictures and videotapes and diary entries and locks of hair.
When a soft-spoken Texan named Jimmy Ethridge was shot to death
by one of the boys he’d fondled, police searching his house discov-
ered computer files listing fifty-four boys whose innocence he’d wast-
ed. When police raided the house of Allen J. Kapusta, the Chicago
Board of Options’ former chief computer analyst, they seized printouts
which graphically described sex with a hundred and ten boys, all of
them under twelve. And when the Glendora, California, cops burst
ANSWER Me !

into the trailer home of a Roger Ebert
look-alike named Ed Scott, they claimed to
have found hundreds of photos and computer
BBS files depicting man-boy love. Chronic.
Incurable. Relentless. And dedicated.
Vancouver, Washington, is a wet, leaden
town, just over the Columbia River from
Portland, Oregon. The rain doesn’t stop.
Westley Allan Dodd was the city’s least-
favorite son, a human rodent with a squinty,
sniffling face. Weaselly Allan Dodd. Although
Westley denied it, his younger brother said
Wes was a “nerd” who had endured the con-
stant flaming arrows of mob cruelty while at
school. But Westley rejected the contention
that he became a boy-torturer because he’d
been tortured as a boy. He explained his acts
with a flat statement as depressing as the
Vancouver skyline: “I was raised in a family
without love.”
Dodd started flashing “Little Westley” to
other children at age thirteen. He soon
graduated to squeezing and pinching and
clutching and pumping little boys’ dicks. And
fucking their tight pink asses. He was in and
out of jail repeatedly for weenie-tampering,
never for more than a few months. Each time,
he received the stamp of approval from a
state-approved shrink and was set back loose
into the rain-slicked streets.
September, 1989. A public park in
Vancouver. Two brothers, ten and eleven,
riding on their bikes. Artless. Happy. Dodd
knocked them off those fucking bikes. Bound
them. Kidnapped them. Stabbed them both
full of holes—DEAD—and fucked one of
them. And the boys were only taking a short-
cut through the park to get home, where a
warm supper awaited them.
October, 1989. Itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny Lee
Iseli, four years old, stood youthfully ignorant
in a Portland playground. Westley promised
him fun and money. Two days of fun in
Westley’s apartment, where Westley fucked
him and fucked him and fucked him and fucked
him. Choked him to death. Fucked him again.
Wrapped a belt around his neck and hung him
in a closet.
November, 1989. Dodd is caught outside a
movie theater while trying to kidnap a six-
year-old. He admits to the three murders.
EAGERLY. With a detachment and attention
to minutiae that amazed the police. The
prosecuting attorneys really had no need to
compile and catalog evidence, because
Westley had already done it for them.
Stacks of photographs and endless diary logs
itemized his crimes with more elaboration
ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE
than most officials could stomach. Dodd’s
diaries contained ruminations about ass-
fucking and dead boys’ relaxed bowels.
Innocence and its destruction were as
carefully documented as a Smithsonian
exhibit. Crystallized and frozen. Perfect.
Innocence is a volatile concept which has a
way of backfiring. A Florida man named John
F. Gregorio stamped his organization with the
heroic moniker of Taxpaying Parents Against
Kiddie Smut. In 1981, he was sentenced to
jail for acting smutty with a seventeen-year-old
boy.…Terry Allen Harris, who as a reserve
police officer and Explorer Scout leader had
quite the sex-offender’s pedigree, called his
group Kids Against Crime. In 1986, a
Northern California court convicted him for
Crimes Against Kids.…As director of Search
Seven New York, David Robert Riggs
advertised himself as a bounty hunter who
conducted “aggressive investigations de-
signed to recover criminally abducted
children.” But nowhere did his description of
“aggressive investigations” mention offering
boys crumpled dollar bills to pose for snapshots
in bikini underwear.
But you, the boy-lover, don’t see any
contradictions. Saving the boys and spoiling
them is all the same to you. By slowly running
your finger pads over a small boy’s balls,
you’re reaching back to your own trauma-
tized childhood. Is that what you tell yourself?
You’re juggling his raspberry-sized testicles in
an effort to try and make sense of things.
Isn’t that right? By gently nuzzling your thumb
inside the boy’s sphincter and jacking him off
with your other hand, you’re achieving a sense
of closure. When you push your forearm
against the back of his neck, pinning him down
onto a carpenter’s bench and reaming his dry
ass, you’re making peace with your father.
Learn how to forgive, boy. Drop your pants
and lean over the bench. I’ll teach you a
sense of personal shame, one so deep and
hot you’ll want to jump out a window just to
make it stop. When you feel the warmth of my
meat just parked there deep inside you,
motionless as if it crawled up you and died,
you’ll feel a fire that will make you a good
person. A fire that will burn away your
insides. You’ll be a gutted-out husk of what
you once were.
See, your problem is that you don’t
appreciate your youth, and that’s why I’m
going to take it away. I need to set you
straight, and I know of nothing better to do
the job than eight fat inches which curve like
a boomerang. I’ll dig a hole through you like
I was coring an apple.
I love the way your shoulders heave up and
down, the way the tears roll out of both eyes,
when I’m fucking you. And I love the way you
squeal when I’m holding you like a bowling
ball, my middle finger up your ass past the
middle joint. You whimper as my dirty finger-
nail scratches your thin, smelly rectal lining.
You’re so beautiful and unsullied that I think I’ll
force you to wash my balls with your tongue.
Lick ‘em clean. Howzat sound? Because I love
you and I want you and I envy your
innocence, I’m going to piss in your eyes and
hair and mouth and ears. You’re going to
have to gag on the rancid sweat and smeared
feces and filmy cum from the last load I blew.
When I look at your poopie, which is
smeared all over my tinkler, I think of the
Crunch Berries and Ring Dings and candy
apples and Rolos you must have eaten. You’re
a growing boy. You won’t grow anymore. At
least not emotionally—I’ve already snuffed
any chances for growth in that department.
You’ve been stabbed in the ass with a dick.
When that happens to a boy, he tends to
grow up very, very angry. You’ll be surprised
how much a torn anus defines your entire
emotional perspective. Instead of the sun,
you’ll see a giant bleeding asshole setting
over the ocean. The scars may heal, but you’ll
grow from a little mess into a big mess. And
I’ll enjoy watching it happen. ■
1 05
 No use getting weepy over this Mongoloid ‘ho. If you think she’s so

THE RETARDED equal, why don’t you marry her? She’d make a great wife—she has
brain tumors and epilepsy and autism and can’t speak or hear or see
or think. She’s about as special as a bowl of manure. In fact—and I’m
not saying this to be cruel—I’ve taken shits that are cuter than her.
Leather straps keep her pinned to that sanitarium bed day and night.
HE WANTED HIS WOMEN DUMB & THIN What’s the moral distinction between fucking her and fucking an
—Philadelphia Daily News headline concerning torture-killer Gary Heidnik empty toilet-paper tube? Beyond a little vaginal wear and tear,

She is not the cause of her problems, other

than her own innocence and vulnerability.
—A Manhattan social worker describing the case
of a retarded teenage girl who ran away from the foster
parents who raped her, only to be raped at two different
child-care centers

She has dolls and she can point to a picture of

a baby in a book, but that’s as far as it goes.
—Dori Wooten, sister of pregnant rape victim Debra Lynn
Thomas, whose IQ was measured at 12

She thinks the same as an eight-year-old.

He brings her a stuffed toy, he says he loves
her after being with her for five minutes, and
she says yes.
—A Virginia police detective describing the case of a
twenty-year-old retarded woman who was raped
by a man she met through a telephone party line

I s it true that tards make better lovers? Their sex

drives are the stuff of lurid mythology.
Since they don’t exactly sparkle at conversation,
do they go that extra mile in the bedroom?
And is it true that they can lift automobiles when
they’re angry?
Besides some retrograde lust for ape-fucking,
the attraction is difficult to figger. With some
men—who knows? Maybe they’re suckered in
by the bucking-bronco force of unrefined tard
sexuality. Just a fat, smelly, retarded hole. No
mind at all to get in your way. Sex without
thought—the best kind.
Oh, my beautiful retarded maiden! My
australopithecine lover! I stare at your flat nose,
open mouth, and heavy eyelids. I love the way
you curl your lips around that cigarette, the way
your bra strap hangs lazily over your shoulder,
the way the late-afternoon sunlight hits your
bottles of seizure medicine sitting there on the
table. Your doughy gingerbread-girl body has
that distinctive tard smell, somewhat like crusty
boogers. I don’t have to worry about wasting
money on you, because you’re content with corn
dogs and a bottle of pop. And when it’s time for
your “special ed,” you just lay there and take it
like the orangutan’s cousin you are.
I’m so glad I found you, my lovely Mongoloid
queen! You’ll lick my ass and cluck like a
chicken and drink my piss and massage my feet.
It’s so much fun to toy with your suggestibility.
You’ll believe me when I tell you I’m Mr. Magoo
or Charles Barkley or Bob Saget. You may not be
able to solve calculus problems, but you’ll suck
me off until I get cramps in my toes. You may be
a little plump…and you may not know how to
trim that bush…and you aren’t much smarter
than tile grout…but you fuck like a mare in a
lightning storm.

106 ANSWER Me !
precisely how is she harmed by a three-minute
tard-hump? Tell her it’s medicine, and she
won’t know the difference.
I wonder if she’s ovulating. Can you imag-
ine the baby she’d have? Protruding frog eyes
and rubbery mouth. Draining our tax dollars;
drifting between institutions; shacking up with
sexually abusive landlords; and filling
Thorazine prescriptions. The stupid thing will
probably get hit by a car because it forgot
to look the other way. But I won’t be around
to worry about it.
If a retard was raped in the woods, would
anyone hear it? No one cares about her. This
roly-poly punching bag doesn’t understand
the meaning of consent. If she can’t even put
her panties on without help, she may have
some trouble with more abstract concepts of
sexual etiquette. Any lawyer with a mail-order
degree could rip her to pieces in court.
She’s had rocks and mud and bottles
thrown at her since she could walk. She’s
just happy I’m not pointing at her and
laughing. She loves the attention. She’s
exuberant, trusting, and loving. Unintelligent
people always are.
Will you still need me, will you still feed me,
when my IQ is 64? That was the whopping
intelligence quotient of a lonely retarded
Jersey girl who was just looking for friendship.
Cuddling. Acceptance. She trucked her
retarded ass around the upscale town of Glen
Ridge, unable to make change from a dollar
bill. Dumb as a lamppost.
In March, 1989, she was seventeen years
old but acted eight. Her body was far ahead
of her emotions. She liked to flirt with boys.
She’d lick her lips and flash that simian smile.
Her crotch would be sopping-wet. She
certainly was excited that day when she met
some boys at a local ball field. About thirteen
boys. Chiseled, iodine-colored, rich, subur-
People were making fun of her. “They say,
‘Oh, that’s you, the girl with the broomstick
and the bat,’” she griped. And her illiterate
heart felt the cold pinch of a love which could
never be. “I do feel bad,” the cretinous rape
victim admitted. “I know they don’t give a
hoot about me.…Those were my friends.
I thought I could trust them.”
Loads of Philly retard girls thought they
could trust Gary Heidnik, a highly intelligent
man with the scruffy good looks of an insane
nuclear scientist. His IQ was somewhere in
the vicinity of 150. One of the women he
dated scored around 50. Another girl scored
a 30. Real garden slugs. Philadelphia is a
retarded city in every sense of the word.
Even the accent sounds as if it were invented
by someone with a learning disability. They
don’t quite say, “retard”; it sounds more like
“ree-tart.” So these ree-tart chicks loved Gary
because he took them on picnics and bought
them candy. He drove them around in his sexy
van, which had Bugs Bunny painted on the
outside. He promised them money. He
fathered their children. He shackled them in
his fetid basement and raped them daily. He
force-fed them bread and dog biscuits.
Subjected them to electric shocks. Hit them
over the head with shovels and jabbed
screwdrivers into their ears. Killed two of
them. He cooked their body parts in a stew
pot. Made ground hamburger of their dead
retard meat in a food processor. And it was
all, according to Gary, part of his plan to sire
a master race of geniuses.
Why settle for a girl who merely giggles and
flutters her eyelashes? Get one who picks her
nose and can’t even feed herself! The retarded
woman is the ultimate grotesque extrapolation
of the “dumb blonde” principle. ■
I forgive you, for you know not what you do.
—Reportedly said to her murderers by Sister Anuarite
Nengapeta, a Zairian nun who in 1964 preferred being
murdered to surrendering her chastity
C ould Christianity’s sexual overtones be a
little more obvious? There’s the pain-
loving savior, the punishing God the Father,
themes of redemption, regeneration, the
“shedding” of bodily fluids—it’s true porno.
And nuns are merely frustrated consumers of
pornography. All the visions of blimp-sized
Blessed Virgins floating through the clouds, all
the tears spilled over unborn babies, all the
protracted rosary sessions which make their
fingers blister and their knees bleed, are
nothing more than sexual frenzy seeking an
acceptable outlet.
Are they called nuns because they don’t get
none? You should be suspicious of a gal
who’d rather wash a leper’s feet than suck a
man’s dick. They renounce sex. Alcohol.
Luxury. Spicy foods. Vows of silence. Vows of
poverty. Vows of chastity. Are these vows
merely selfless acts of spiritual transcendence
or the self-absorbed psychosexual maneuver-
ings of classic “bottom” personalities? And
what’s with those penguin hats?
Nun-twat is the ultimate forbidden fruit, the
only bush in the garden you can’t eat. Brides
of Christ. Saving themselves for Jesus. These
are women who think that the Holy Ghost
impregnated the Blessed Virgin with a beam
of light—they aren’t well schooled in matters
of the flesh. You could tell them your dick
is your Siamese twin, and they’d have no
reason to doubt you.

ban boys. They took a shine to her. Told her
that one of the cutest boys would be her extra-
special boyfriend if she followed them back
to his house. And down into the basement.
“We want to talk to you,” they had told her.
“We won’t hurt you.” Nice boys. Fun date.
Good time. Four of the boys went to work on
her. Eight or nine other boys stood there and
applauded. A length of wooden doweling
was shoved up her retarded snatch. And a
broomstick. And a baseball bat covered in
plastic and dipped in Vaseline. As she
stumbled around the basement with wooden
poles thrust in her like a wild boar who’d
been speared, she felt her true worth in the
boys’ eyes. They made her promise not to
tell anyone about her once-in-a-lifetime
dream date.
But word somehow got out, and the nice
boys were arrested. In court, no one denied
that the woman had the sex drive of a
medium-sized dinosaur. The defense attorney
portrayed the girl’s retarded charms as
irresistible. “Boys will be boys” was how he
explained it. When the bat-fucking victim
testified, she seemed more than a little hurt.
NUNS
Sin with me!
—Allegedly shouted by the attacker of St. Maria
Goretti, who protected her vagina with her hands and
was thus stabbed to death instead of raped
Every time I answered, they burned me with
a cigarette. I was crying and screaming with
pain.…I passed out again.…There were rats
all over me.
—Sister Diana Ortiz, describing some highlights
of being raped and tortured by
Guatemalan security forces
If he’d do it to a nun, who’s next?
—Lt. Joe Bosko of the Akron police department,
regarding an elderly nun’s assailant
It’s like a come-on, I guess, my kindness. I
wish I wasn’t so outgoing. I wish I could
change my nature.
—“Sister Dorothy” of Detroit, raped at age seventy-four
after inviting a stranger into her apartment for coffee

ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE 10 7
 Ever seen a pretty nun? I haven’t. I grew up
with a whole gaggle of the frigid bitches
during a twelve-year block of parochial edu-
cation, and not once did I meet a nun worthy
of my arousal. In fifth grade there was Sister
Brigid Mary, an onion-faced Irish cunt who
kept a closetful of yardsticks she’d broken
over the asses of ten-year-olds such as me.
Sister Perpetua Mary, or “Peppy” as we
called her, looked like Ronald Reagan and
108
had that involuntary grinding-jaw motion so
endearing in the elderly. Like Sister Brigid,
Peppy was a bitter, sadistic, tension-rattled
woman. If you handed her a vibrator, she’d
probably try to brush her teeth with it. I forget
the name of the nun who taught Spanish, but
she was the oldest living creature I’ve yet
encountered. Unlike the other nuns, she wore
this orthopedic chin-strap device which was
never fully explained to us. One day as she
was conjugating Spanish verbs, a fly buzzed
into her mouth. She didn’t even notice. I’m
sure her vaginal walls were so dry, they had
sealed together and were impenetrable by
anything short of a diamond cutter. Horrible.
All the nuns I knew looked like male Jaycees
from the Midwest. So don’t tell me there aren’t
sexual reasons which would impel a woman
to get herself to a nunnery. The reason is
clear—no one but Jesus wants them.
ANSWER Me !
 Naturally, inevitably, the lack of sex and
affection leads to violent sadism. The full, sick
story is finally starting to emerge about
Canada’s “Duplessis orphans” of the 1940s
0LD LADIES
and ‘50s. They were named after former
The next thing I remember is [that] I had a
Quebec Premier Maurice Duplessis, who was
little old lady in front of me and I didn’t
in office concurrently with most of the alleged
have any pants on.
abuse. He was also said to be in cahoots with —Bret Rossiter, nineteen, who claimed he had been
the Catholic church. The orphans in question drinking and popping pills when he raped
fell under the steel-cunted grip of Sisters of a ninety-four-year-old Ohio woman
Charity at a string of loony bins and govern-
ment-funded children’s homes throughout [She] was pounding at my door and
Quebec. Hundreds of adult survivors have sobbing, repeating, “I’ve been raped, I’ve
come forth with stories about nuns shoving been raped.” We cried together. It just isn’t
dead mice in their mouths. Of nuns literally fair. Is this the respect we get so late in
washing out their mouths with soap. Of
life? Do we live out our lives in fear?
—Neighbor of a woman, seventy-six, raped in a
unnecessary straitjackets. Of nuns doping them
Massachusetts elderly housing project
up with animal tranquilizers. Of nuns beating
them with chains and metal window cords. Of But it’s so unfair that it’s always the
nuns administering electric shocks. Of nuns oldest, sickest, saddest people who get hit
forcing them to bang their heads against walls by these nuts!
for hours. Of children losing eyes and suffering —“Alice,” an elderly woman quoted from an L.A.
broken bones due to beatings. Of one nun Times article on the West Side Rapist, who “hit” at
thrashing a girl so badly that she died while least thirty-three old ladies in the 1970s
strapped down to a bed. “I’m going to sleep
We report the death of an elderly woman
quietly,” the nun reportedly said to the children
who died as a result of extensive rectal
who watched, “and she’s going to die quietly.” lacerations and hemorrhage of the
And, of course, there were also stories of perirectal tissue caused by the insertion of
rampant rape and sexual abuse committed a hand and forearm into the rectum.… Her eyes opened and looked to heaven.
by those pent-up, crazy nuns. The [accused] stated that he escorted the It was a beautiful, sacred moment. The
When my sister was in first grade, the nuns victim to her door, and that was the last thought of an intruder and the possibility
gave her nightmares by telling her that they thing he remembered. The next thing he of anything occurring to her mortal remains
kept a secret room which was dark, damp, remembered was waking up partially is outrageous and horrifying.…She suffered
and filled with spiders and snakes. A room undressed lying next to the victim, who was from sexual abuse when she was younger,
where they sent all the bad little girls. nude. Both were lying in 6 in. of bloody and that was always the worst thing she
And Lord knows those Sisters of Mercy left water in the bathroom of her quarters.…He feared. That’s what makes this all the more
admitted that in a drunken state he had particularly ironic: It’s as if her life has
enough bruises on me. So it doesn’t break
forced his hand and forearm into the come full-circle.
my heart to hear that seventy-six-year-old
woman’s rectum and moved them in and out —Niece of an eighty-three-year-old San Jose, California,
Sister Tadea Benz screamed the Our Father
while opening and closing his fist. woman who in 1993 suffered necrophiliac rape and
while she was being raped and eventually — “Sexual Abuse and Death of an Elderly Lady by sodomy a mere eight hours after passing into the
strangled to death in Texas. I’m not especially ‘Fisting,’ ” from The American Journal of Forensic Great Beyond; the victim’s attacker, Archie Calvin
heartbroken that Sister Diana Ortiz in Medicine and Pathology Whitehurst, claimed the dead woman
Guatemala was lowered into a pit filled with consented to have sex with him
dead bodies, burned with cigarettes more When older women are raped, senile atrophy
than a hundred times, and fucked more
than she ever thought possible. And it doesn’t
ruin my evening to hear that in 1981, a nun
and accompanying friability of their geni-
talia results in extensive vaginal lacerations
and perineal trauma comparable to what is
S he’s had a long, happy life. He’s about to
change all that. She’s eighty-seven. He’s
twenty-one. She’s too blind to see him. Too
in Harlem had twenty-seven upside-down observed in child victims of sexual assault. fragile to fight him. Too senile to remember
crosses carved into her body while being —The Pathology of Homicide him. It’s wonderful.
raped by two assailants. Doesn’t faze me
at all.
I always felt that if the Catholic church
loosened up on the celibacy angle, or at least
provided a stable of itinerant stud priests to
periodically service entire convents at a time,
they wouldn’t be losing enrollment. Too many
schoolchildren were having their eyes black-
ened and their hair pulled out by middle-aged
women who’d never had an orgasm. So
there—I said it. If a nun gets raped, she
deserved it. Fuck her so hard that she speaks
Latin. And just to make it fun, tell her you’re a
Protestant. ■

ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE 10 9
 She dodders along on the pittance the government tosses in her
mouth. Survives on TV dinners and dog biscuits. Lives in a stucco-and-
palm-trees retirement Shangri-La where old men compare colostomy
bags. Where elderly women get tumors removed as often as they get
UNLUCKY WOMEN
their hair dyed blue. It’s nice around here. Bingo and yard sales.
Heart pills and cemetery plots.
She’s very weak.
And very alone. Tiny studio apartment that smells as if it’s been
dipped in formaldehyde. An embalmed existence. The whole place
is a still-life painting. As orderly as a fucking museum. But cleaner.
The only dust that’s been gathering is between her legs.
Mummified old bitch. She walks with a cane. Legally blind. Can’t
hear a word unless you SCREAM it.
Uhh, yes—MA’AM? I’m from the fire department.…I’m an
electrician.…I’m selling fresh cabbage door-to-door. Actually, I’m a
police officer, ma’am. There have been a series of residential
burglaries and rapes in your area. Some horrible, horrible animal
is on the loose. I’m here to remind you to keep your windows locked
at night. And make sure you remember to dial 911. And be very
cautious about strangers. You wouldn’t mind if I came in just to
check that you’re OK, would you?
Her little white poodle is yapping its head off. The TV is so loud that
it rattles the windows. He catches her in curlers and facial cream and
a nightgown and Vicks VapoRub. Forty pill bottles on the kitchen
counter, each of which will be stuffed up her “medicine cabinet”
before the night’s over. There’s no sound quite like the feeble little yip
she emits as he pushes her over the coffee table and onto the sofa.
Her eyes are white eggs, rolled all the way back in her head.
I felt like I was dead. I have the vague memory of being burned on
She’s breathing heavier and clenching her fists. He hopes that he lives my breast. It really hurt, but I couldn’t do anything about it.
to tell his grandchildren about the way her face looks right now. The next thing I recall is hitting the ground, feeling the ground
She’s so brittle and feeble, it’s hilarious. underneath me, and not being able to move or do anything.…
A nude widow. Where the hell are your kids, old lady? It was like I was gonna die. I just remember wanting to go back
He cuts the telephone wires. Tapes her wrinkled old mouth shut. home.…My arms and elbows were bruised and scratched-up.…
My breasts were burned on the nipples. The burning sensation has
And he looks at her cloudy, bloodshot eyes. And he s-l-o-w-l-y unzips
stayed for two years.
his pants. —Karen Schilt, describing her tryst with New Jersey sex-torturer Dick Cottingham
It’s a dick. How many years has it been? How long since Artie died
from cancer? How many monthly pension installments? How many We’ve done skin graft after skin graft just to create eyelids.…
weekly bus trips to your favorite restaurant for a lonely fish dinner? She really has no nose yet, but we’re making plans to do that.
—A plastic surgeon describing the case of Cheryl Bess, who was literally defaced
How many nights have you sat on this sofa and cried because no one when her attacker poured sulfuric acid over her head
cares about you anymore?
Keep twitchin’, honey. Yeah, keep shaking exactly the way you are [It] was an idea that came into my mind, just as an idea might
come into your mind, but I couldn’t put mine aside.
now. Give it everything you’ve got. Keep pleading with those blind —Winston Moseley, describing his inspiration for the 1964 murder and rape
old eyes. I’m here for you. Tell me where it hurts. I don’t care if you’re of Kitty Genovese, whose loud pleas for help were ignored by thirty-eight neighbors
dry. Nor about the deep wrinkles. Nor about the woman across
the hall who steals your morning newspaper. Nor the broken jaw.
Nor the black eye. Nor that ugly red swelling on your left hand.
Y ou just never know when he’s going to be in the mood. You only
know that he will be.
It starts with the feeling, that unmistakable glowing-ember sensation
Nor the loud SNAP of your rib. in his pants. The rest is limited only by his imagination. And he has
Old bitch had better pray she gets a heart attack tonight, because a vivid one. He could have jerked off, but he’s a different breed.
she won’t want to remember this little song and dance. One by one, He requires a touch of drama to complete the act. He’s a passionate
man. So passionate, you’ll soon be bleeding from every hole in your
her attacker will subtract each reason she has for living. He’ll steal her
body. Love can’t stop it. Hate can’t stop it. Laws won’t stop it.
wedding ring and birth certificate and baby pictures and everything All the legislation in the world can’t stop an angry erection.
else which keeps her from spinning down the wide black throat of Passion. Intensity. Rare commodities. For most individuals, the fear of
senility. He wants to make sure that she spends her remaining days retribution is the strongest feeling they’ll ever experience. Fear tames
rocking back and forth in the fetal position, thumb in her mouth, at them. And their willing submission to this fear is called morality.
some musty old-age home. They’ll pay one person to wipe her ass, The rapist wants you to feel something stronger than fear.
He wants you crawling around like a smashed insect.
another to stuff food in her mouth. Worse than an infant. No hope of He wants to see you dragging yourself across a city parking lot,
recovery. both arms broken and your panties wrapped around your throat.
As he walks out of the door, the TV’s still screaming. Help! I’ve been And, just as it happened to a Miami woman in 1974, he wants men
raped, and I can’t get up! ■ in suits to ignore your screams and continue walking. Can you feel

110 ANSWER Me !
the passion? He wants you to drip blood for a straight days in South-Central L.A. After He carved about ten new cunts all over
mile as you walk with a collapsed lung and a escaping, she flagged down a car containing your body tonight. You’ll be eulogized
knife sticking out of your neck, like that three men. They raped her. and buried and mourned for a week, then
jogger from Syracuse, New York, did in The arcade wheel clicks slowly and stops forgotten. No one will learn anything from
1990. He wants you bleeding like a sieve in at…you. When he finally finds you—and he
your pain. People will continue to rape and
the manner of a Colorado woman who was will—your feet will be glued to the floor as
stabbed over one hundred times but was bleed and die. Even in death, you’ll find
you try to run. He’s five…four…three steps
able to wriggle her plasmatic hulk into a behind you. You will be used. And you will be no justice, no peace.
convenience store and find help. destroyed. Complete depersonalization. The Savor those last blurry moments before the
Can you flap your wings, my little angel? ultimate object. Whittled down to a cunt. Your blackout, those final seconds of your life when
Maybe he’ll whack both your forearms off identity is being pilfered, your name erased you wish you’d never been born. Take a good
with an axe and let you flutter around like a one letter at a time. You’ll cry fat teardrops look. Yes, that’s YOUR blood all over the
hemorrhaging chicken. That’s how Larry which no one will ever see. walls, and that’s YOU dying in the hotel
Singleton expressed his feelings to a runaway Accept it as your fate. You weren’t chosen mirror. And…yes…his dick is hard. And he
hitchhiker in 1978. to be one of the winners. The rapist not only
won’t stop beating your head into the
But he can hurt you worse than that. widens your pussy a little, he also widens
bedpost. An ugly bald clown is dancing over
Rebecca Thompson Brown was raped in your horizons. He robs you of the white lies
1973 and thrown from a bridge onto the red your dying body. You’re going to croak all for
and gentle illusions which keep you sane. He
rocks along Wyoming’s North Platte River. lays bare the fact that all human interaction is the sake of some shit-encrusted old weasel’s
She suffered multiple fractures but survived. essentially a creaky old seesaw of strength wad. Your life in exchange for a teaspoon of
The memory of what had happened, though, and weakness, domination and submission, blood-flecked sperm.
was killing her. Nineteen years later, she winners and losers. He exposes verities about The curse of Eve. You had a cunt. You
threw herself from the same bridge. This time, life that you’d prefer not to ponder. asked for it. ■
she died.
He’ll erase you.
It was a Dali painting sprung to life. For
eight hours, Cheryl Bess wandered through
the Mojave Desert with her face melting. In
October, 1984, a maintenance man from her
housing project held a rusty screwdriver to her
throat and bullied her into his van. The man,
Jack Oscar King, drove her out to the depop-
ulated tundra and tried unsuccessfully to force-
feed his cactus to her. Paranoid that she’d rat
on him, he sat on her stomach and let a bot-
tle of sulfuric acid go glug-glug-glug on her
face and shoulders. When Cheryl feigned
death, King disappeared. Cheryl then started
walking, dazed, as her clothes disintegrated
and the flesh began dripping from her cheeks.
The more she rubbed, the more of her face
she erased. Clumps of her hair came out
in her hands. When Cheryl was finally
discovered by a motorist, the fourth-degree
burns had eaten most of her face down
to the bone.
There’s no escape.
After attending a Christmas show in 1988,
a London girl was captured by a gang of
men, one of whom force-fucked her. She was
set loose and ran sobbing into the streets. Two
men in a red car stopped to ask if she was
OK. They pulled her into the car and drove to
a wet old alley, where they took turns raping
her.
A woman in Norristown, Pennsylvania, a
city that consists of little more than a
methadone clinic and a mental hospital, was
carjacked and raped on a Sunday morning in
1993. After her attacker drove away with her
car, a good Samaritan ambled by and
offered her the use of his phone. After they
arrived at his house, he smoked some crack
and raped her at knifepoint.
The same unlucky fate befell a teenager
from Van Nuys, California, who in 1989 was
kidnapped and raped by two men for six

ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE 111

POLICEMEN
ARE
OUR
FRI ENDS FREEZE! Cops are
the only people standing

T he Lord God Almighty created policemen because he knew that

you had to be watched. The Man Upstairs is the Chief of Police, but he
couldn’t be everywhere at once. So he blessed us with policemen to
save us from ourselves, our soiled inner nature. No one personifies
innocence more than lawmen do. Their morals shine like their chrome
badges at high noon. Like Jesus, cops spill their blood for our sins. But
they dress better than Jesus did. Think of them as cherubim in blue.
They’re here to help you, but you have to want to be helped.
Take a peep at that group of cops standing over there. Gosh darn,
look at the shadows they throw. Those cops must be eight feet tall,
and they’re headed in our direction. Here come the police.
There’s hope for the world. Open your heart to a cop. Let him love you.
Let him beat you. It’s the same thing.
Policemen are society’s good eggs, yet they’re always being
poached. No one is more misunderstood than a cop. Give a flatfoot
a break, won’t you? He’s forced to baby-sit all the unwanted people.
He gets blamed for not educating them, for not finding them
employment, for denying them happy family environments. Imagine
a full-time job where you’re constantly taunted and spit on and
wrestled with and lied to.
Tons of stinking emotional
baggage zing by your head
daily. Just when you
thought it was time to
relax, a twelve-year-old
with an automatic pistol
snipes at you from atop a
light pole. Day after day
after day after day, you
drown in fathomless wells
of human guilt. You spend
your life amid the lower
octaves of the evolution-
ary scale. You crawl
through the worms and
pray for another day.
between you and them.
You’re too weakened by
civilization to defend
yourself. You want some-
one else to do your dirty
work, just as you expect
Ronald McDonald to
slaughter your cattle and
chicken before you eat
them. In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a lot of cheap, spoiled meat
on the streets these days. Does that statement make you defensive?
Perhaps I’m talking about you. Roll call: junkies, gangsters, killers,
rapists, animal-sodomists, dustheads, welfare-cheats, petty thieves,
wife-beaters, carjackers, pimps, strawberries, squatters, puke-smeared
drunks, crusty schizos, crack babies, AIDS-splattered shooting
galleries.…Had enough, Buster? Cops spend all week with their heads
dunked in the social toilet. They see all the oozing pus sores, the social
cancers, every predatory, bottom-feeding, crustacean character no
one else is able to handle. Could you endure the naked stench for
fifteen minutes? No, but you sit and criticize like the cowering, two-bit
punk you are.
Cops get squeezed in between criminals and the government.
Somehow, they get blamed for the sins of both. If you think the
government must be destroyed, don’t go after the police, because
they’re only the guard dogs. If “fight the power” is your dull battle cry,
don’t shoot the Doberman, shoot its owner. Don’t blame cops for social
problems. Go after their bosses. Save your anger for those who make
the laws, not their paid enforcers. But ascribe a smidgen of culpability
to the criminals, too. Cops are merely zoo-keepers who get blamed for
cleaning up the animals’ mess. But they don’t own the zoo.
Don’t call them pigs, you pig. If some cops are corrupt, it’s because
they’ve been dealing with people like you their whole lives. All you do
is piss and moan about cops. Why? Guilty of something? I hope Porky
the Pig is off eating donuts while you’re getting bum-rushed. I hope
he’s writing a jaywalking ticket as someone crawls in your bedroom
window and slices you up like lunch meat. I hope 911 is a joke when
you need it. I hope the police arrive too late to save you but just in time
to watch you die. I hope their spotlights blind you and their sirens
deafen you, a thousand of them swirling in the night as you hack up
your last breath.

1 18 ANSWER Me !
 Test after test has proven that people who hate cops suffer from low
self-esteem. Cops remind you of a power which will never be yours.
You don’t have what it takes to be a cop. Cops can sense this fact when
they pull you over for speeding. Policemen don’t like you because they
can smell your inferiority. You don’t like them because their physical
beauty reflects the shame of your own undesirability. You hate cops
because you’re too hideous and deformed to ever graduate from the
Police Academy. You avoid the ugly facts because you’re an ugly
person, and those facts remind you of yourself. You don’t like cops
because they kick your ass. That’s precisely why we like them—
because they kick your ass.
You call them “Amerikkkan pigs,” huh, mister? You can stuff that
kind of talk up Mr. Castro’s cigar, buddy. Go to “Cubbba,” “Thaillland,”
or “Mexxxico,” and see how you’re treated. They’ll shoot you dead in
the streets. And I hope they do, because you don’t appreciate freedom.
Only cops have enough compassion to hurt someone when they
deserve it. When he clonks you on the head with a nightstick, it’s
because he’s concerned about you. He’s only trying to smack a little
sense into your head, ya stupid kid. It hurts him more than it hurts
you. If a cop stops you on a lonely roadside and steals your money, it’s
because you’ve disappointed him. If he forces sex on you, take it as a
compliment. Maybe he finds you attractive. When he crushes your jaw
under his boot, grinding your cheeks into the gravel, say, “Thank you,
officer.” He’s just trying to help.
One cop, one gun, one heck of a good time. Cops have the skills,
training, and organization to accomplish what sloppy, psychosis-
addled serial killers never could. A well-trained squad of killer police is
our greatest bulwark against the menacing wave of overpopulation. All
hail the bullies in blue!
It’s very simple: More cops, fewer problems. Take away the cops,
lose everything. You’d all be buzzard meat without police. Erase the
thin blue line, and your brains will be soapsuds smeared all over the
streets. Because the “cream” which will rise to power under pure
anarchy will behave exactly like cops, only they won’t be muzzled by
law. If you think police brutality is bad, wait until mob brutality
replaces it. You’d better hope that cops start beating up more people,
and quickly. A police state is a peace state.
There are too many laws and not enough cops. Let’s simplify the
legal code. Break it down to only two prohibited items: stupidity and
unoriginality. Those are the main social problems, the ones from
which all others spring. The death penalty would be mandatory
in both cases. Stupid people would be euthanized. But unoriginal
people, since they represent insidious genetic stagnation, would
be tortured to death.
Stupidity and unoriginality.
Excise these life-threaten-
ing tumors and declare the
patient cured.
The only way to eliminate
social problems is to elimi-
nate society. Humanity’s
existence is a crime.
Punish it. Cops are the best
pesticide we have, antibodies to our viral culture. Our beautiful blue
earth is being eaten alive by the pests, the vermin, the arthropods, the
social termites. Give them all a withering, purifying squirt of bug
spray. If they can’t get up and lick their antennae clean, they deserve
to die. Watch the roaches scatter when the cops start doing drive-bys!
ISSUE 4 ❤ RAPE
Look at any magazine
from the fifties and see
how clean everything
was: clean skies, clean
cars, clean teeth, clean
hamburgers. Cops can
scrub it clean again, but
we have to unlock the
handcuffs from around
their beefy wrists. Then
we need to give them
the legal equivalent
of a Brillo pad. Under
current laws, police
aren’t much better
than moist towelettes on
society’s grubby fingers. Let them wash the whole body down.
Declare martial law. Give them one week to move in on the problem.
Just seven days to give society a good shower and shave.
A week of police-inflicted death, a couple of aspirins, and society
would be on the road toward bristling health. Give cops carte blanche
to kill. Don’t let them squander this precious opportunity. Let them
kill until there’s no one left to kill. Permit them to murder and
murder until cops are the only humans remaining. Then we won’t need
cops anymore.
A world full of cops would usher in a new millennium, a thousand-
year policemen’s ball. Therefore, we must subsidize law-enforcement’s
admirable destructive potential. To put it simply, we must liquidate
anyone who isn’t a cop. Revoke the constitutional prohibition against
cruel and unusual punishment. Let’s get creative! Do whatever it
takes. Let the police stir up enough terror to reestablish order.
And when the masses are finally lined up in neat rows, turn on the
killing machines.
Let’s spend our tax money on something sensible for a change. Let’s
give policemen the heavy artillery to do the job right. Let every corner
of this great nation be packed with sandbags and machine-gun turrets.
Give them space-age tanks to roll through your dirty neighborhood.
Give them more choppers, more guns, more bombs. Give them laser
beams and mustard gas. Give them parachutes and land mines. Give
them jet planes and smart bombs. Give them astronaut suits and
napalm. Give them nukes and fuel-air explosives. Give them night-
vision technology and bold Robocop monsters. Teach them karate.
Award them trophies.
Everyone should be a cop. Deputize yourself. Arrest your neighbors
and their children. Form citizens’ posses and round up everyone you
don’t like. Administer street justice.
We need more black cops. We need more Asian cops. We need more
Hispanic cops. We need more cops. Let them patrol our mountains and
beaches, our highways and byways, every nook and cranny of our cook-
ie-soft infrastructure. Give them macho assault trucks to plow through
crowds. The crowd is filled with lawbreakers. The crowd is the enemy.
Keep the crowd back. Keep it back. Push the crowd back. Beat them
back to the wall. Fire a warning flare. Then shoot to kill. ■
1 19
IT ’S THE
SEGREGATION
HIT PARADE!!!
A SHORT HISTORY OF RACIST COUNTRY & WESTERN MUSIC
It’s hotter than a broiled pecan down South. You can reach out and
grab a handful of that Southern heat, your hand cutting a swath
through the boiled mist. That heat will wring the brains out of you.
Salty rivers of perspiration trickle down your back and leak onto your
ass crack. Your armpit hairs become soaked, matted clumps. The big
orange sun turns your white skin red. Your feet blister on the baking
ground. You have to walk slowly through this steam bath, or it’ll kill
you. Everything’s in torpid slow motion. When the heat rolls down
Main Street like an H-bomb shock wave, it’s hard to distinguish reality
from a dad-blamed mirage.
In the mid-sixties—a very hot time by anyone’s standards—most
white Southerners found their reality slipping into the Mississippi mud.
Dixie had been subsumed by D.C., and not only was LBJ forcing inte-
gration, he required working white yokels to pay for it through higher
taxes. Johnson called it the Great Society. White bigots, whether you
consider them noble racial warriors or peanut-farming lummoxes,
thought their society was great the way it was, with its caste system and
julep-coated gentility. They saw blacks’ bold new Afro hairdos as
nothing more than welfare sponges. They looked wistfully back to an
antebellum era of PLACE, when everyone knew what theirs was. Pure
reactionaries, they yearned to rehang the thick burlap curtain of
Southern apartheid. And who can blame them? I’m told that those
WHITES-ONLY drinking fountains were pretty classy gizmos.…
Amid southern Louisiana’s bayous, a region which can’t decide
whether it’s land or water, a group of sunburnt white men decided to
take action. Like most of their contemporaries, their idea of “action”
didn’t consist of pulverizing their enemies’ skulls with bricks—it meant
writing protest songs. But instead of Bob Dylan’s nasal Talmudic
outrage or the Last Poets’ kill-whitey bongomania, these angry crack-
ers employed the full S&M bullwhip of big-balled Country & Western.
Most non-C&W fans would say it’s implicitly racist music. They’re
probably right. But these mid-sixties segregationist platters left no
room for argument. They were EXplicit. But I wouldn’t rate them
triple-X. It’s more like triple-K.
These hateful vinyl slabs could scorch a cotton plantation into
charcoal. I’m usually unflappable, especially when it comes to music,
but even my white-boy ears blushed when they first heard a singer
named “Johnny Rebel”:
Move them niggers north, move them niggers north/
If they don’t like our Southern ways, move them niggers north/
…They’re trying to start trouble by mixing up the races/
They’d be a whole lot better off by staying in their places.…
Well, burn my britches and wipe my ass with a corncob! This shit
sounded fouler than anything I’d ever heard, a thick, gummy choad

Johnny Rebel: Wally Cox with a Weight Problem
blast of honky venom. I immediately wanted to hear more. I always exult
in hearing the unspeakable being spoken, particularly if it’s unforgiv-
ably joyous in its expression. Finally, here was music that not only
would offend your parents, but most musicians, even those who consid-
ered themselves offensive. The raunchiest punk, the foulest rap, and the
bloodiest death-metal couldn’t hold a lynch-mob torch to this. Even
skinhead thrash sounded tame in comparison, because where the skins
pop their lungs trying to be angry, Johnny Rebel sounded happy.
Advocating a racial blood bath seems odious enough, but doing it with
a smile in your voice goes beyond the call of duty, Mabel!
The music itself was as lazily beautiful as the deep South, full of fluid
Delta rhythms and guitar melodies streaming like golden whisky into
shot glasses. Johnny Rebel’s voice had the nostril-humming twang of a
segregationist Hank Williams, a smooth drawl entirely divorced from
the lyrical matter. If you didn’t speak English, you might think he was
singing about his girlfriend. Instead, Johnny’s crooning about how the
white man’s ankles are sinking into the bayou. His words wield a
monstrous stick of white chalk with which to draw a color line around
the South.
In song after frighteningly catchy song, racial barbs fly from Johnny
Rebel’s thin pink lips like caramel-colored gobs of chawin’ terbacky.
His xenophobic honky-tonk has more rapid-fire utterances of
the “N” word than ten N.W.A albums combined: “Nigger, Nigger,”
“Nigger-Hatin’ Me,” “Some Niggers Never Die (They Just
Smell That Way),” and “Move Them Niggers North” are only a
few of the numbers along Johnny’s Tin Klan Alley. And those
aren’t even his nastiest ditties! That trophy would probably go
to either the tense, martial “Kajun Klu [sic] Klux Klan” (where
a black named “Levi Coon” is tortured by Klansmen after
demanding service in a white restaurant) or the disturbingly
jovial “Wop Wop Bam Bam” (which advocates the use of black
men as alligator bait).
Johnny Rebel also flings burbling malice toward Martin
Luther King, who by today’s standards seems about as
threatening as Urkel. But as much as Johnny seems to hate
blacks, they take a back seat (in the bus, if you insist) to the
tax-grubbing government. Rebel skewers the welfare state on
slow shufflers such as “In Coon Town,” “Looking for a
Handout” (plus its sequel, “Still Looking for a Handout”),
and through the corn-pone wisdom of “Federal Aid, Hell!
The Money Belongs to Us.”
Who was this coiled albino rattlesnake known as Johnny
Rebel, a man whose forked tongue was a racial flamethrower?
Was he a cocksure country rooster whose cracker swagger
could counteract black-male sexuality? Did he at least resemble
someone who could bust a bronco or two? No, he was a
pinched little crawfish of a man named Cliff “Pee Wee” Trahan,
a bespectacled simp who looked like Wally Cox with a weight
problem. Trahan was a mostly unknown Cajun musician who
had also recorded rockabilly tunes under the pseudonym
“Tommy Todd.”
Trahan waxed his racist sides beginning in 1966 for Jay
Miller’s Rebel Records in Crowley, Louisiana. Ironically, Miller
had established a reputation in the fifties by producing some of
that decade’s finest BLACK bluesmen, skinny shvartzes such
as Lightnin’ Slim and Slim Harpo. One of Miller’s first forays
into sonic segregation was a ’66 nonmusical “comedy” single
called “Flight NAACP 105,” credited to “Son of Mississippi”
(Joe Norris). It was a spoken Amos ’n’ Andy rip-off wherein a
white air-traffic controller named “Johnny Reb” hoodwinks a
black pilot into landing forty miles out of town. The record
ends with a plane-crash sound and, it is assumed, the
black pilot’s death. “Flight NAACP 105” sold nearly a quarter
of a million copies.
Another Rebel Records unit-pusher was “Dear Mr. President” by
Happy Fats (LeRoy LeBlanc). It was a spoken letter to LBJ, whom the
bigots seemed to hate even more than they despised MLK. Happy Fats
had a low yowl to his voice which sounded not unlike a bloodhound
whose balls had been caught in a lawn mower. “First, I’d like to know if
I’ll be permitted to plant white and black peas in separate rows of equal
length,” he asks the president, “or will I have to mix them together? My
white coon dog won’t hunt with my black bird dog. Could I get an
injunction to make them hunt together?” Happy Fats would later cut
such racialist chestnuts as “More Federal Guidelines,” “A Victim of the
Big Mess (Called the Great Society),” and “Vote Wallace in ’72.”
Rebel Records released only one LP, For Segregationists Only.
It united the race-baiting talents of Happy Fats, Son of Mississippi, and
Johnny Rebel. Sadly, Rebel artist James Crow didn’t appear on this
compilation. Liner notes claimed that songs such as “Looking for a
Handout” evoked “the feeling, anxiety, confusion, and problems during
the political transformation of our way of life.…Transformations that
have changed peace and tranquility to riots and demonstrations which
have produced mass destruction, confusion, bloodshed, and even loss
of life; transformations that have changed incentive for self-improve-
ment [in]to too much dependency on numerous federal ‘Give away’
programs, under the guise of building a ‘great society.’” Hostile,
xenophobic Cajuns. Blame it on the French.
 There were several other Negro-negating
musical labels besides Rebel Records. Many
mysterious vinyl scalawags plied the same
schtick to ear-scalding, paint-peeling,
industrial-solvent effect. These B-list
segro-rockers dredge up every swollen-lipped,
nappy-headed burlesque depiction of blacks
you’ve ever cringed at, spouting racial slurs
I thought I’d forgotten: “junglebunnies,”
“cannibals,” “kinky-tops,” “jigaboos,”
“darkies,” “coons,” “spooks,” “baboons,”
“apes,” and “burrheads” are all considered apt
synonyms for “African-Americans.” All the
popular myths are here in, um, spades: Black
people smell…they’re lazy…they drive
Cadillacs…they’re drunk, disorganized, and
allergic to work. According to The Lone
Honky’s “I Wish I was a Nigger,” they dine
on “…turnip greens…possum…watermelon,
chitlins, and…buttered beans.”
Hardly one ebony iota of the anti-black
catechism is ignored. James Crow’s “Cowboys
and Niggers” plods forward with there-goes-
the-neighborhood white-flight panic: “The
house next door to me’s been sold to
niggers.…Though I paid twenty thousand, I’ll
take two.…” David Allan Coe’s “Nigger-Lovin’
Whore” manifests Fear of a Black Penis: “To
think I’d ate the pussy where that big black
dick had been….” The Texas B.S. Band’s “She
Ran off With a Nigger Named Buck” shows
the same sort of licorice-stick envy. Forced
busing gets lynched in the Coon Hunters’
“We Don’t Want Niggers,” a frantic bluegrass
banjo-fest: “No, we don’t want niggers in
our schools, we’re not for integration/Keep
those niggers in their place, we’ll have a
better nation.”
Scariest of the lot is “Ship Those Niggers
Back” by Odis Cochran & The Three Bigots.
Crudely produced on Arlington, Virginia’s
Hatenanny label, this is the only song in the
whole segro-C&W canon which sounds as if it
were recorded after a race war. Its spartan
geetar-strummin’ is interspersed with spoken
segments where a black-accented male keeps
finding excuses not to board an Africa-bound
boat. He gets clubbed every time he opens his
mouth and finally drowns when his rickety
canoe springs a leak. I picture Odis and his
Bigots with short, greasy, Ross Perot haircuts.
I see them wearing buttoned-up, tucked-in,
red-and-white-checkered shirts. A length of
lynching rope holds up their saggy Levis,
which are cuffed at the ankles. They’re
barefoot, of course.
The most exuberant singer of all the segro-
vocalists I’ve heard is an anonymous, burly-
throated yahoo whose work was sent to me on
a cassette tape. No one I know seems to know
who he is, but his drunken diesel-horn voice
recalls that of trucker superstar Dave Dudley.
This mystery crooner covers Johnny Rebel’s
“Wop Wop Bam Bam” and “Nigger-Hatin’ Me”
with a bouncy abandon that makes Rebel’s
versions sound constipated. He belches racist
couplets like a pig-fucking blowhard, a
prejudiced version of “Cliff” from the IHOP
commercials. This unknown good ol’ boy also
belted out his own segro-core anthems such as
“Lyndon, Lyndon,” “Will There Be Any
Checks in His Mail?” and “The Segregation
Wagon.” He blurts out his lyrics with such
free-farting gusto, it’s almost impossible
not to laugh.
And, ultimately, laughter’s what it’s all
about. For Segregationists Only’s cover
described the album’s material as “Subtle,
rib-tickling satire concerning the problems of
integration and various political themes.…” If
this deep-battered loathing is subtle, I’d like to
see their idea of overkill. But I’d agree that it’s
“rib-tickling,” because it threatens the social Happy Fats: sung like a
order at its core. It isn’t inherently funny, bloodhound whose balls had
because the singers don’t come off like bon been caught in a lawn mower
vivants, but it’s hysterical in the scope of its
audacity. For it is in race war—and AIDS, child
abuse, and nuclear bombs, for that matter—
that we find the purest humor. Atrocities And I’m not advocating race-hatred, since I
demolish our desperate illusions of safety consider myself a dropout from the human
and order. race. I’m just trying to comprehend racism
Liberals pooh-pooh eugenic theories except without applying the superstitious, quasi-Xtian
in the case of rednecks—when it comes to po’
smoke screen of “evil.” Racism is commonly
white trash, bad breeding suddenly seems not
only a theoretical possibility, but an empirical seen as some Satanic mean streak endemic to
certainty. But although whitey may have “bad” people. It could rightfully be interpreted
perfected racism, he didn’t invent it. Tribalism, as evil by its victims. But it’s interesting that
as aesthetically displeasing as it may be, is as racism’s peddlers always offer a moral defense
deeply embedded in our genetic bar code as for it. Ethical excuses are useless, but biologi-
the sex instinct. Just as Christianity tried (and cal explanations might be helpful. Racism is a
failed) for two thousand years to deny that peo- component of the flock’s survival instinct. The
ple enjoy fucking, all the egalitarian bumper
fact that people shit, kill, and die isn’t pretty,
stickers in the world won’t change the fact that
human animals cleave to their own kind, either, but it’s no less real. I’m sorry to smash
whether the “kind” be racial or theoretical. A your papier-mâché beliefs, but racism’s as
harmonious, racially diverse nation is as much natural as breathing. And “fighting words” are
a pipe dream as a kingdom of celibate monks. always hilarious. ■
The

RAPE
Game
If you’re a loyal ANSWER Me! reader,
you’ve probably wanted to rape someone
at some point in your life.…

…Or perhaps you’ve wanted to BE raped.

But who needs the legal and/or

emotional hassles that can go
along with it?

The RAPE Game!

allows adult couples to enjoy the
rape experience in a supportive,
consensual environment.

It provides all the THRILL of rape

without any of the headaches!

Turn the page and

start rapin’!
 G AM E R U L E S
NUMBER OF PLAYERS
Since we’ve always felt that three’s a crowd,
this game is designed for TWO players only.
The RAPE Game! involves role-playing.
You must choose to play either PREDATOR
or PREY.
OBJECT OF GAME
The PREDATOR begins the game from a
CRACK DEN, situated five spaces behind
the ESPRESSO BAR, which is the PREY’s
point of departure. The PREDATOR,
however, always gets the first roll of the
dice. Along the way, both players will
meet obstacles which are explained on
the GAME ICONS page.
Both players advance through various
sectors of the urban jungle in a race to
reach the PREY’s high-security apartment
building on the other side of town. These
urban sectors are, in order: a dimly lit
waterfront area; a city park; a college
campus; a high-crime district; a fork in
the road which either goes directly over
a bridge or detours through a cemetery;
and a parking lot near the PREY’s
apartment complex.
Should the PREDATOR reach the apartment
first, he will lay in wait for his PREY and
commit a successful rape-murder. Should
the PREY arrive at the apartment first,
she’ll be able to lock her doors and safely
repel any attack. Therefore, whoever gets
to the apartment first is the WINNER.
The game usually ends more dramatically
if you require the players to reach the
apartment on an EXACT dice roll—for
instance, if you’re four spaces away from
the apartment, you’d have to throw an
exact roll of four to win.
SHOOTOUTS
B oth PREDATOR and PREY start the game
with SIX bullets. Players lose or gain bullets
depending upon which spaces they land on
(see GAME ICONS page). When players
land on the SAME SPACE, a SHOOTOUT
occurs. (The only exception to this rule is
when both players land on a SAFE SPOT.)
A SHOOTOUT works like this: If the
PREDATOR has more bullets than
the PREY, he overpowers her, rapes her,
and sends her back to the nearest hospital.
(If the PREY has not yet reached a hospital,
she must go all the way back to the espresso
bar to seek first aid.)
If the PREY has more bullets than her
PREDATOR, she wounds him in the
shootout and sends him back to the nearest
prison. (If the PREDATOR has not yet
reached a prison, he retreats all the way
back to the crack den.)
If both players have the same number of
bullets, nothing happens. They just eye each
other suspiciously.
The game proceeds more quickly if both
players retain their bullets after a shootout.
TOLLBOOTH
Almost three-quarters of the way toward
the apartment, you’ll encounter a large
space labeled TOLLBOOTH. The booth
itself, plus the “even rolls” and “odd rolls”
arrows, are all considered one big space. To
take the BRIDGE route, you must have
EXACT change, signified by an EVEN dice
roll. If you roll an ODD number to get past
the TOLLBOOTH space, you must take the
CEMETERY route, which is twice as long. If
you land exactly on the TOLLBOOTH spot,
wait until your next roll to determine
which route to take.
For example, if the TOLLBOOTH is six
spaces away and you roll a nine, you’d
advance three spaces into the CEMETERY.
OTHER RULES
There are none. If you’re unsure about any
specific points (such as whether to roll
again if you roll doubles), make up rules as
you go along. You’re supposed to
CONTROL and ENJOY this game, much
as you’d treat a rape victim.
GETTING
STA RTED
Using an instrument with a flat,
1. hard edge, PRY OPEN THE STAPLES to the left.
CAREFULLY lift the “board” game (glossy paper) and
the game “cards” (plain paper) free of the staples.
Once these are removed, FLATTEN DOWN THE
STAPLES to rebind the magazine.
Following the handy
dotted lines, cut the
“PREDATOR” and
“PREY” game-card
sheets into
individual cards. 2.

3.
You’ll need about twenty to thirty small, identical objects to
serve as BULLETS. Coins, matchsticks, and other household
items will do, although we prefer actual BULLETS. Keep them in
an ARSENAL, either on the middle of the board, in a cup, in an
ashtray, or store them in your mouth—we’re not picky.

4.
Get a pair of fuckin’ dice.

Find your own GAME PIECE. Buttons, paper clips, thimbles, your foreskin, and similarly small
5. items all work wonderfully. We’ve provided some suggestions for PREDATORS and PREY
below, should you care to photocopy them. DON’T CUT THESE OUT, or you’ll ruin the game
board. First make a copy—preferably onto card stock—and then cut them into dime-sized
playing chips.

PREDATORS

PREY
 GAME ICONS
BULLETS
The icon on the lef t means you take a bullet
from the arsenal.
The one on the right means you give a bullet
back to the arsenal.

If you don’t understand that, you should put a

bullet through your head.

GOOD GUY / BAD GUY

These spaces have different effects, depending on which role you’ve chosen. If
you’re the PREDATOR and you land on a GOOD GUY spot, it’s as if you’ve been
lynched by vigilantes. Retreat to the nearest prison (or all the way back to the DIRTY
OLD
crack den if you haven’t yet reached a prison). MAN
If you’re the PREY and you land on a BAD GUY spot, you get raped by a
complete stranger, with the same effect as if the PREDATOR had raped you—
i.e., back to the hospital with you. SWEET
OLD
When the PREDATOR lands on a BAD GUY spot, or if the PREY lands on a LADY
GOOD GUY spot, it has no effect. They’re only hanging out with friends.

HOSPITAL / PRISON
I f you land on either of these spaces as par t of your normal forward progress,
they have no effect.
HOSPITAL
However, you may be required to RETURN to these spaces under three conditions:
• If you lose a shootout with your opponent;
• If you’ve been zapped by the wrong “guy” (see GOOD GUY/BAD GUY, above);
• When a game card tells you to go there.

In all of these instances, you must go BACKWARDS to the nearest respective

space. The PREDATOR always returns to PRISON, the PREY to the HOSPITAL.
If you haven’t yet reached a prison or hospital, you must go all the way
back to your starting point.

SAFE SPOT
A demilitarized zone. Shootouts can’t occur on this space.

TAKE A CARD
Depending, of course, on your role.
PREDATORS take the PREDATOR cards.
PREY draw only from the PREY pile.

IDIOT BOXES
These should be self-explanatory, but
judging from what I’ve seen of some
of our readers, who knows?