Scavenger Hunt (Unhinged Version)

"Voices like him don't deserve to be heard" she said, 

her larynx quivering, her epiglottis choking on blank air

and yet somehow, her voice, firmly unwavered, domineering. 

You'd think, that sounds fascist for someone who writes liberal as their middle name, all capital letters

but is it even a revolution worth its salt, if a revolutionary can't even sell out, these days?

It's a capitalist world overdue on inflation, 

and rebellions can't get a good night's sleep with bile gurgling in empty stomachs.

It's really paradoxical, the life a woman who ushers onto her shoulders, the searing gravity of championing for feminist causes.

And so, here she was, her fingers nibbling for vengeance 

from a man who she had put on trial, months ago

because "guilty or not" isn't acceptable plausibility when you're out for blood, 

and you can't stop short of a bloodbath, when a man dares to come by with questions. 

I mean, how dare he? 

He has a penis, and that should be enough to shame him out of his existence for as long he breathes, 

but apparently some men do not take empty words for verdicts.

But vengeance knows better;

shame them until they crumble and cave in, like vermins caught in a landslide.

Shame doesn't need logic, reason, grammar or math;

shame is parasitic: it creeps in unnoticed and by the time you realise a shadow existence, it's in your hypothalamus

You are still you, 

only in skin and bone though.

Gather enough of them, and you're looking at a graveyard, 

and what better than the sight of death for eyes that have grown contempt for eyelashes, 

put on some black mascara,

call it redemption, call it reclamation, call it as you please, 

and dare they question your appetite for words, shame them until they don't.

Death is food for vultures. 

And vultures gather in flocks;

you don't move long enough, 

and they peck their crooked beaks into your straightened arteries.

Vultures often mistake indifference for surrender.

But then, every once in a while comes along a man, unperturbed

his ashen face reluctant to be stained in sin or shame,

his spine too uptight to be food for scavengers.

The man on trial now, was one of them. 

Trial not by fire, not by justice, not by combat; it's trial by humiliation.

She gathers her sisters, for folklores need plurality, to be mistaken for facts

and it's facts that make a revolution walk, facts misconceived, but facts nevertheless.

They walk from door to door, telling tales of his grave injustice, 

tales of his disobedience, of his disrespect, 

tales of a deeply misogynistic man, 

because, what do you mean misogyny refers to an inherent hatred or contempt for women, 

misogyny is anything and everything male that doesn't agree to anything and everything female speaks of all of female and of male, and even the in-betweens, 

for male privilege requires mouths to be sewn shut and ears to be the sole functional sense organ, until it's a head nodding in agreement, 

and dare you question the grammar, you're a misogynist too. 

And misogyny is a crime far more horrendous than women slaughtering man and child;

in the land of the lawless, it's often the loudest wails that sit atop the throne of convenient morality, 

and wailing vultures are often louder than howling wolves.

"I will avenge my sisters" she hisses, 

as their dead skins droop from between her teeth fangs. 

It is important for the suffering to continue suffering

so cooked up rebels can serve martyrdom on silverware.

Corruption can sell cannibalism for culinary choice.