One in Ten Ch. 07

"The only two people who know why I am alive are both insane," I added. Eloise rolled her eyes.

The City Beat reporters weren't converts by any means but they had stopped trying to verbally beat me up. The West Coast was chaos. The cops were learning, but the men were too. In San Francisco, four guys hid their batons up their pants legs then drew them out once on their metro system. Not to be outdone, the women pulled out their stun guns, Tasers and pepper spray, not truly understanding what that would do in a confined space.

In Vancouver, one man used Crazy-Glue to attach both his hands to the wall of the monorail. The cops had pried him off but his screams went viral. To add insult to injury, as they dragged him away you could finally make out what he was screaming the entire time - 'the un-bonder is in my pocket'.

In Hawaii, the Governor took the extraordinary step to ban men from public transportation from 4am until noon. In Guadalajara, the men had figured a way around the police crackdown. They took ornamental cacti to work. Apparently the local variety had really big spines. It was an explosion of male frustration and creativity.

It was also a painful reminder of how low we stood in the opinions of our counterparts. Not only did the police beat on us, hundreds of men had to be rescued from mobs of pissed off women. It wasn't all bad. In New Orleans, two off-duty firewomen took a beating rescuing a man from a trolley.

Early accounts suggested he used a baton on a woman. She counteracted with her stun gun, but forgot to cut it on. He wrested it from her grasp, cut it on and showed her how it worked. It seems he was employed in the factory where hers was made. Fellow commuters proceeded to knock him down and kick him until the firewomen pulled him free. Then he was taken to jail. The poor, stupid bastard had attacked a woman after all.

Eloise gathered us up and ushered us out the doors about fifteen minutes before ten. GNN's regional HQ were only three blocks away and due to the hour, the walkways were pretty empty. Unlike the Sentinel Building, which only required a computer to scan your ID, there was physical security at the GNN building.

Eloise was known to them, as was I. They nodded to her. They were getting ready for my strip search when Eloise jumped in and not in a way I would have suspected.

"Scan him," she chortled. "Read his last review and then decide if you want to piss his girl posse off." They read Kuiko's work of historical fiction which somehow included me.

"Oh, this is crap," one of the two guards commented. "No man does this."

"How many orgasms did you give her?" the other one asked. "One? Did she even have one?"

I had to believe Eloise had set me on this path for a reason, so I gulped down my embarrassment and answered to the best of my recollection.

"Four – but the first one didn't count," I sighed unhappily.

"Four?"

"One didn't count?"

"Well, there were two on the sofa and two more in the bedroom, but the first one on the sofa doesn't really count because she was so worked up by the expectation of my arrival," I confessed.

"All I did was sample her – ah – juices and she hit orgasm," I finished. The guards blinked.

"See, his mother died shortly after his birth, so he was raised by his aunt at a Sapphic nunnery," Capri recited my tale of imaginary woe. "There they taught him the arts of how a woman pleases another woman. Eventually he become so skilled they renamed him Israel which means 'the Promised Land'."

The guards' eyes shifted from Capri, to Eloise, to my crotch then back to Eloise.

"We need to be going – meeting and all," Eloise took me by the arm and edged around the security. They didn't stop us. Capri hurriedly caught up.

"Sapphic nunnery – Promised Land – where does this stuff come from?" I muttered.

"Israel, absent male company, women read tons of porn," Eloise enlightened me. That had actually never occurred to me. Oh, I knew that most pornography was female oriented, but that it had a major impact on how women wanted men to be? Wow. How totally unrealistic.

"I keep telling you – 'have less impressive sex'," Capri chortled.

"How about I do something I love to do and you women lie about it?" I suggested.

"Lie about one of the most important truths of the century? Why Israel, that would make us politicians," Eloise huffed. Heaven forbid that.

"Eloise, what do you have against Isobel Diaz?" I requested. I hardly expected the truth but maybe a lie with enough of the truth to give me a clue as to why she was on my side.

"She murdered my brother," Eloise's look lost all is mirth. "She murdered him and Maria Keverich covered it up and made Isobel her bitch until the evidence went missing. Isobel helped put Maria away so I thought the evidence was destroyed – but then Magdalena popped up at Isobel's party with you and that makes me think it wasn't destroyed."

"Magdalena must have stolen it from her mother. Isobel put Maria away and Magdalena came out on top of the Keverich crime family. Now Maria is coming home and those two have to be worried."

"And you want Israel to step into the middle of that," Capri growled. "Have you lost your damn mind? They will chew him up and spit him out. You know what shape 'Little M' left him in last time."

"Quid Pro Quo," Eloise stuck to her guns. "I make sure Israel remains in the spotlight so he doesn't end up on a man-farm in Manitoba or New Mexico. He operates as a conduit between me and Magdalena. I don't want to bring Magdalena down, just Isobel and Maria. I think as the crunch sets in, she might make a deal."

"And she very well might ventilate Israel!" Capri hissed as the elevator doors began to open.

"I'm having lunch with her anyway," I shrugged. "What can it hurt to ask?"

"Says the man whose body is a map of the Painted Desert," Carpi mumbled.

"Try to be subtle," Eloise advised.

"Sure. I'll wait until we are making out in a bathroom stall before popping the question," I groaned.

"I was thinking more of befriending her and poking around her place," Eloise scoffed.

"Ugh," Capri groaned. "Israel, respond to the next text message with 'Now!'"

Eloise wanted to question that declaration, but was cut off by us stepping onto the eighth floor and the noise of the GNN production floor bombarding us. Our guide steered us to what had to be the 'gatekeeper' of the studio we wanted to get to.

"Ms. Granger – and guests, come this way," the man said.

I had to wonder what he thought of all this mess. As he led us toward our destiny, I saw the dowel sticking out of his back pocket. The rest was a whirlwind of people and equipment, voices and movements all around me, too much for me to adequately identify as peripheral disturbances or actual threats.

We passed through another series of doors. The world died down to a few hushed voices and Maribel Cartwright.

"Oh, my," Maribel seemed surprise. "Eloise, is that Israel Jensen with you? I wish you had warned me." If I didn't have confidence in Eloise, I would have believed Maribel's act.

Maribel walked the few steps from her spotlighted area to where her assistant had deposited us. She shook Eloise's hand, then mine and finally stopped in front of Capri. How could I handle this? I was a nut, but that wasn't important. What was important was they thought I was a nut.

"This is Capri O'Hara, my some-times lawyer and full-time boon companion," I introduced my russet-haired defender.

Maribel shook Capri's hand then turned back to me.

"Boon companion? What exactly does that entail?"

"It is a small group of us who have pledged to fight and, if necessary, die at Israel's side so that Wickedness does not prevail and the Light of Sentiency is not extinguished by the oncoming darkness," Capri explained. She would have kicked ass as a trial lawyer.

"You sound as crazy as he does," Maribel noted.

"Cool, isn't it?" Capri grinned.

"Cool wasn't the word I was searching for," Maribel looked somewhat amused by Capri. "Anyway, I'm about to host a special on the growing dilemma concerning the lack of male productivity."

"Mr. Jensen, would you like to contribute – if not as an expert then as someone with some insight to the current quandary?" Maribel politely invited me in.

"You may want to contact this person," I handed Maribel a name, profession and number. She looked it over, nodded and said,

"I'll put someone right on it," she grinned.

"Thank you," I took a deep breath. I had to keep it together. I had to – then I spotted her. She was kind of a beanpole, with narrow hips and small breasts. That didn't matter because what she had on was this red t-shirt with the backside of some prancing girl swinging a wicker basket.

There were two sets of eyes looking out of the blackness of that basket and the caption read: 'Where are we going and why are we in a hand basket?' I turned to Maribel and smiled.

"Let's do this," I declared heartily. The sound technicians had me wired up in seconds while some frantic make-up artists attacked me on stage.

A speech writer tugged my arm.

"Mr. Jensen, you cannot use the words crisis, catastrophe, or disaster in this discussion," she grinned in a rather distracted fashion.

"What are you going to do? Spank me for each violation?" I blathered while outwardly looking sane.

Oh, God, I was making jokes about violent sex. Speaking of violence...

"Capri, get us an exit strategy. When this goes down, we aren't going to want to wait around for the handcuffs to come out," I called to my friend. The script-girl blanched then blushed.

"I have a riding crop," she whispered to me. More than I wanted to know!

That group was exiting when the first of the big screens came to life and we could see the other members of this little debate coming on-line. The screens were all active when the first 'expert' suddenly noticed me standing there.

"What's he doing here?" the woman addressed Maribel.

"He showed up accidently and I decided it was newsworthy to invite Mr. Jensen in for a discussion," Maribel supplied the plausible lie. The three went after Maribel in a heated, bitter exchange. My fate being discussed while I was being completely ignored – old hat. It wasn't until one of the ladies became indignant and announced,

"I'm not doing this. I have my credibility to think about," she said. My turn.

"Credibility? What credibility?" I challenged her. "Lady, I don't know who you are and I'm pretty sure eight million men are right there with me."

"Mr. Jensen, I am the Health Policy Advisor for the Province of Ontario," she filled me in.

"I have a Public Relations degree from Bowden," I kept paddling. "What is your background?"

"I have a doctorate in Sociology from Charleston University," she sighed with exaggerated patience.

"Nice rack," I grinned. "I bet they are not silicon, either."

"What does that have to do with anything?" the second expert snapped.

"It means you are women; most likely successful women," I kept going. "That means you may have husbands and you definitely have children. Since you are all raving prima donnas, I'm willing to bet you don't have sons."

"What?" all the experts, Maribel and half of the GNN staff said, or whispered.

"How do you come up with that delusional thinking?" Ms. Ontario glared.

"First off, none of you are crowing about me being wrong," I explained. "Secondly, if you had sons, you would be interested in a cure, but you are not."

"Take your dollhouses, Ladies, and go home because none of you can afford to be seen with the likes of me. Your so called 'credibility' is the most crucial factor here after all."

"Three – two – one," the set director got the show rolling. Maribel did her introductory spiel, the discussion began and I stood there like a good little boy, keeping my mouth shut because no one would direct anything my way. The first commercial break came at last.

"Your person will be ready in twelve minutes," Maribel whispered. "What is this about?"

"Not a clue," I whispered back. I was now familiar with the look Maribel shot my way.

"That was a dirty trick," Ontario interrupted.

"Don't look at me," Maribel pointed a thumb my way. "It took me a few seconds to figure out what he was up to." I had kept them on-screen. Leaving once the show started would have made them look petulant.

"Is there any truth to this rumor you have been spreading about a cure?" the physician with the Department of Corrections for Southern District asked. She was from Guatemala City. The Southern states were what used to be Latin America; everything south of the old Mexican frontier though Panama beyond the Canal was something of a crap shoot.

"End of commercial in three..."

"Yes," I answered.

"Two – one."

"Welcome back," Maribel began. "Mr. Jensen, what are your views on the current dilemma facing the Administration and male feelings of alienation?"

"Thank you, Maribel. I would like to say that this is an epically, catastrophic crisis of disastrous dimensions," I smiled. "Damn it. Now that cute script-girl is going to have to spank me with her riding crop. See, the network doesn't want us to use the words catastrophic, crisis, or disastrous for reasons I can't begin to fathom. Whoops, that looks like six blows."

"Epic is a freebie. Anyway, instead of seeking the truth, people are covering their asses and blaming the best target of opportunity – men. We are easy targets. What are we going to do? Get 12-inch wooden sticks and try to get to work with our dignity intact – oh, good move with the gift cacti, guys. Classic case of misdirection."

"Well, we did take our sticks to work today and we were slaughtered. We were beaten down in droves. It was a freaking massacre. We never stood a chance. It is also unlikely that the women watching this can appreciate the courage those men on the West Coast had to have, defying the brutal hatred of womankind, witnessing the cosmic whoop-ass their brothers in the East and Central areas were receiving, yet still they tried to take their sticks to work."

"I understand the concerns of women. After all, men walking around with foot long dowels totally compensates for you having all the warships, tanks, planes, helicopters, artillery, guns, water cannons, Tasers, stun guns, pepper spray and – oh yeah, being OUTNUMBERED 25 to 2." I paused.

"I'm sorry. I lied. I DO NOT understand," I looked at the screens.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" I was sure the fuck got bleeped out. They were on to me now. "You murdered us over sticks. Two guys I have never had any contact with whatsoever came to my metro today – with sticks. The cops showed up, disarmed us and in the process of doing an illegal search, tried to punch a female friend."

"I know what cops are like, so I saw the blow coming and pulled her out of the way. The cop then punched me. This man, Kenny, shoved the cop away from me – to stop her from beating me up. She threw him to the ground. He didn't resist but she put a knee to his kidney anyway. He went to lock-up. The cop then told my other newfound friend that she would trump up charges on him if he didn't leave immediately."

"If he meets me tomorrow, we have both been threatened with conspiracy to commit a public disturbance – if that is even a crime. I plan to go to the metro tomorrow, if I'm still free and at large, and I think I'll bring...two sticks. The Metropolitan police had better bring the water cannon because then I'll be twice as dangerous."

"Luanga, if you stay away tomorrow I will not be upset; I'll applaud your common sense. For the rest of my brothers; if you go out tomorrow, it will be worse. You will suffer pain, humiliation, shame and most likely the loss of free will. Sadly, this is the same outcome for us if we do nothing."

"Did you just tell the men of our nation to rebel?" Ontario grumbled. "That is certainly what it sounded like to me, you traitor."

"What!" I gasped. "Haven't you been listening? What are we going to fight you with? We have nothing. There were six incidents of male-on-female violence that I saw reported on before coming in today – no deaths."

"Three men were beaten or Tasered to death. Do the math. Your society isn't going to need the Vanishers or the Gender Plague getting worse to lose it all. One year of this and women will do the job quite nicely themselves. All the men will be dead, or so stoned they are past caring."

"The Gender Inequality Act needs to be enforced in order to survive," Guatemala insisted.

"Oh My (bleep)ing God," I raised up my hands in frustration. "You have been beating men up with that thing for the past forty years. It was meant to stave off extinction. Forty years later, we are closer to extinction than ever."

"There is no conclusive proof of that," injected the third commentator, a Social Scientist from Memphis.

"That's easy enough," I countered. "Women, go out into your neighborhoods and knock on the doors of all your male neighbors. Having done that, call up your local Housing Authority and ask them how many men they think live in your neighborhood. Compare notes with all your friends. Let's see who is right." Chaos and confusion.

Maribel got a flash from the production manager. She made the normal 'we'll be right back' bit and we cut to commercial again.

"I'm calling the Federal District Attorney and having your ass arrested," Ontario snapped.

"What for?" I shot back.

"You are inciting males to large-scale acts of civil disobedience and criminal activity," she growled. I was about to say something in my defense then sighed.

"I'd keep arguing, but you are clearly too stupid to learn," I shrugged.

"You'll learn, you pipsqueak," she glared.

"I don't care," I looked toward Capri, my friend. "You have already killed me. If you want to steal what little time I have left, so be it. I won't be quiet though. I'm not afraid of any of you anymore. I have taken back my dignity and I'll make my escape if you aren't careful."

"That is another reason you need to seek treatment," Guatemala said.

"It is telling that you cannot let me go," I regarded them. "I am one man and all I want to be is free, yet you would rather see me dead. It is the real face of this society laid bare. This is no longer striving for some higher purpose – this is fear. I believe it is the fear that you have doomed us all with your arrogance."

"You have squandered the last years of the Human Race with cruelty, oppression and a blind acceptance that this world, no matter how screwed up, was not your problem. You would pass the responsibility to someone else, another generation, anyone but you," I looked around the room, "and you and you."

Then I realized all that had gone out live.

Maribel had tricked me.

"Mr. Jensen, are men totally blameless in this situation?" she asked me.

"Absolutely not," I stated. I was pretty sure most of the room expected me to evade. "We shouldn't have surrendered forty years ago."

"We shouldn't have left our partners to shoulder the burden alone, abdicating our futures. We surrendered to the tyranny of numbers. We lied to ourselves because to be truthful would have meant we had no one else to blame but us. We should have insisted responsibility equal to our culpability."

"Yes, that would have meant men, the vast minority, had disproportional power compared to women. That isn't a matter of greed, or arrogance. It is a matter of reality. Men are half the equation to the future of the Human Race – and we left that entire burden in your hands because it was momentarily convenient for us."

"In a way, we are still those men from forty years ago. We are numb to the fate of our culture. Forty years ago, we let the plague do it to us. Can you imagine being the last boy in a school's tenth grade class knowing every other boy he had known since kindergarten had died? We were traumatized because death was stalking us."