Walter Greatshell - Apocalypticon

In considering why the collapse of civilization occurred with such astonishing speed, we must acknowledge the role of sexism: In almost every recorded instance, men failed to respond with appropriate caution to female attackers. This has been called the Sadie Hawkins Effect, in which radical reversal of traditional sex roles conflicted with assumed male supremacy and clouded the ordinary instinct for self-preservation. Overnight, a world in which women were the "weaker sex"-where they frequently dared not walk alone for fear of sexual assault-was transformed into a world where wholesale violation and murder were being committed upon men by women, where men were suddenly the objects of violent lust, and where the toughest of tough guys dared not go out in the open for fear of his life and his wife. This was not a condition that most men could readily grasp, to their abrupt misfortune. By trying to retain their perceived sexual hegemony-by leaping in to "take charge"-the males of our species surrendered in droves to the annihilating passion of the Maenads. -The Maenad Project Marcus Washington, aka Voodooman, sat at the card table and tried to gauge his opponents' blank expressions. You weren't allowed to turn or take your eyes off the game; you weren't allowed to show fear. It was a matter of honor that you had to sit still and play for real in the shadow of death.

Marcus knew these men better than he knew his own family. They were the Dead Presidents Posse, the four of them seated at the cardinal points of the compass:

Righteous Weeks faced north, with the best view; Little Rock faced west; 50 Cal east; and Voodooman himself in the blind position, for which they drew straws before the game-all very cool customers who were not easily spooked. But they were nervous now, all right. The question was, were they nervous enough?

Marcus could hear the dancing clown at his shoulder and the expectant buzz from the stands-he sensed the bull's-eye on his back, knew he had better choose his next move carefully, or it could be his last. Seeing Calvin's frozen grin, he thought, Boy looks like a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs. Maybe this would be a good time to bluff.

Righteous had just raised two dollars and the others had matched it, so Marcus said, "I'll see your two dollars and raise you five more." He threw his chips in.

The tension swelled like steam in a teakettle-oh, it was going to be close.

Little Rock and Calvin folded, shaking their heads. Righteous disgustedly tossed in the chips and said, "I call, you son of a bitch. Show your hand."

Marcus had no hand to show; it was pure trash. He felt naked in the crazed glare of the stadium lights. If nothing happened in the next instant to prevent it, he was going to have to show his cards, losing gambler cred as well as the nineteen dollars in the pot. Then the skin on his shaved scalp tingled-Oh damn-

Something happened.

The other three leaped backward in unison, and Voodooman barely had time to dodge as a ton of pissed-off Black Angus Hereford came barreling through the game like a horned locomotive, causing the cards, the chips, the table itself, as well as the players and their chairs, to explode in every direction.

The audience exploded, too, into gales of laughter-convict poker was the prison rodeo's most popular event. The last event of the evening, and in this instance, the last rodeo event of the year, for this was New Year's Ropin' Eve.

"Shit, man, that was close," said Righteous Weeks, helping Voodooman to his feet and handing him his hat. "You one crazy nigger. Motherfucker got eyes in the back of his head."

"Just remember it's my hand-last one seated. Cattle call."

"You earned it, brother-straight bull flush. Were you really holding?"

"Nope."

Weeks laughed, dusting himself off. "I didn't think so. Shee-it. A'ight, let's put this puppy to bed."

It was almost 10 P.M., an hour before lockdown. Now the animals would be returned to their pens and the weary and battered inmates to their cells-those who weren't already at the prison infirmary or being ambulanced to the state hospital. Now the hootenanny would begin: Bands would play, free men and women would dance and drink until midnight on the red dirt of the arena, then it would all be over but for the fireworks. No inmates invited.

Voodooman was helping corral the bull when the first screams started in the stands.

He looked up in astonishment to see rioting among the spectators: men and women grappling with one another, and the prison guards and trusties rushing to intervene. At first he thought it was a joke, some kind of mass prank: Several hundred women were straddling men-bodily pinning them down-and smothering them with what looked to be passionate kisses. But clearly there was nothing funny about it-some folks were just angry, telling their children not to look, but the ones nearest the trouble were plainly scared about something. Other audience members were frantically trying to pull the pairs apart and shouting for help.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN," said the announcer, "I'M AFRAID I HAVE TO ASK YOU TO REFRAIN FROM CAUSING A DISTURBANCE. I KNOW IT'S NEW YEAR'S EVE, AND WE'VE ALL HAD A FEW DRINKS, BUT REMEMBER THAT WE ARE ON THE GROUNDS OF A PENITENTIARY AND MUST ACT IN FULL ACCORDANCE WITH THE RULES-IT'S FOR YOUR OWN SAFETY. THIS IS A FAMILY SHOW. WE'RE ALL HERE TO HAVE FUN, BUT ROWDINESS WILL NOT BE TOLERATED."

Marcus watched as five people, two of them state troopers, managed to wrestle one of the women off, fighting for all they were worth to get her into a headlock and cuffs. Other men were interfering with the woman's arrest, offended by the rough treatment she was receiving. They were trying to be gallant. Meanwhile, the man she had been kissing looked like a broken doll, sprawled on the bench.

Holy shit, Marcus thought, that man's dead.

The woman looked strange. Wet with pepper spray, her face was twisted into a mask of black rage-or was it pleasure-her mouth a gaping pit and eyes almost popping out of her head. She was wearing a sexy cowgirl outfit with buckskin fringes, all torn and disheveled now. They were all like that, all fighting like wildcats to get at the men; Marcus could see the tendons standing out in their necks. Their blue necks, he noted. All the women seemed to have blue skin.

Suddenly, the dead man burst to life, leaping up and seizing another man who had been checking his pulse. The attacker's face was puffy and purple from strangulation, his tongue black, but his near-death experience didn't slow him down any. Onlookers shouted in surprise, scrambling backward as the two men thrashed between the benches, then tumbled out of sight below the bleachers.

Marcus wasn't sure whether to laugh or scream-this was the damnedest thing he'd ever seen. It had to be some kind of stunt-had to be.

A shotgun was fired into the air, and an officer yelled, "Everyone stay seated! That's an order!"

The announcer came on again:

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WE ASK YOU TO PLEASE REMAIN IN YOUR SEATS AND COOPERATE WITH THE AUTHORITIES. DO NOT LET YOURSELVES GET DRAWN INTO THIS BRAWL. THE FOLKS RESPONSIBLE WILL BE DEALT WITH SHORTLY IF YOU'LL ALL JUST REMAIN IN YOUR SEATS AND REFRAIN FROM ADDING TO THE CONFUSION. ALL RODEO PERSONNEL AND TRUSTIES ARE INSTRUCTED TO RETURN AT ONCE TO THE STAGING AREA. EVERYONE REMAIN CALM-THE SITUATION IS UNDER CONTROL. WE APOLOGIZE FOR ANY INCONVENIENCE."

The rodeo performers and trusties weren't listening. They had all stopped what they were doing and were calling to their wives and sweethearts in the stands, or just watching dumbfounded as chaos broke out above them. The animals were getting jumpy from the noise.

Reining in one of the ponies, Righteous Weeks called out, "What in hell's going on? Somebody makin' a break I don't know about?"