RED SQUARE – SUNRISE
Witnessed from a White Gravenor bush with a pair of binoculars and a battle bucket, the following events are 100% true.
Kenny Hasbro (CAS ‘30), horny beyond his years, approaching the H*yas for Choice table, reaches for a classic blue Trojan. In the corner of his eye, he catches the glint of a more golden contraceptive. “After all, why shouldn’t I?”
The H*ya tabling eggs him on: “Magnum then for today, sir. Wonderful choice.”
Kenny, wondering if choking his chicken feels better with Magnum than the coterie of condoms he’s already tried, pumps his fist. Nice. What Kenny, a shooter at heart, can’t possibly know is that when he’s accomplished his mission, he’ll be met with a surprise, like all over his face. Because glaring from across the square is a Right to Life tabler with an eerie grin and a thumbtack tucked between his fingers. When he sets out a whole box of them, making sure his rival tabler is looking, it’s war.
Lollipop sticks litter the square by midday. Right to Life’s “free lollipop if you go poke a hole in one of their latex baby killers with one of these thumbtacks” scheme is running rampant. If there’s anything Georgetown students love more than using birth control, it’s candy. But not for long. Discreetly, a H*ya for Choice goon spikes the Right to Life coffees from MUG with laxatives. Expertly done. They won’t suspect a thing. MUG’ll do that to you anyway.
Fat and satisfied, the baby slayer sits down. But nothing gets past Right to Life. They’re like TSA: not rash, but calculated and clever, so they’ll wait until sunrise to strike.
The next morning, a H*ya sits down in her usual chair and is blown to smithereens. The culprit: a well-hidden claymore landmine beneath the tablecloth. Wicked. Fast moving on from the visceral death of a woman is a H*ya with such vigor and intensity you’d think she was about to turn into the Hulk (or some sort of female version, called Her-Hulk or something). Show us something. Gonna be tough to beat a claymore.
A quick trip to the local ACME was all she needed. Suspended by a pulley a hundred feet above the Right to Life table is a grand piano. That’s more like it. With an ugly tritone, two Right to Lifers are squashed. The table withstood the blast. Some ideologies can’t be simply crushed by a piano.
So Right to Life, intricately intertwined with GUSI, cashes in a favor. Less than an hour later, a green laser from the moon vaporizes a certain Micro professor on his way to lecture. Oops! Maybe people will finally shut the fuck up about him. Luckily GUSI won’t hesitate to spend another quarter of Georgetown’s endowment on another blast. Three H*yas for Choice are obliterated. Their table goes with them. Her-Hulk is all that’s left. She’s turning … purple? I peeked out of my bush for an escape route. If there’s anything scarier than an orbital death beam pointed just twenty yards from me, it’s a woman—but everyone knows that already.
“I’LL TELL YOU SOMETHING, MAGGOT,” Her-Hulk growls in an Elizabeth Holmes-esque baritone. “CRIMINALIZING ABORTION DOESN’T STOP ABORTIONS. IT MAKES WOMEN UNSAFE EVERYWHERE.”
Right to Lifers scurry away like Darnallians in a rainstorm. Thunderous strikes bellow from the center of the square. Ol’ Stone John Carroll dares not look. One Lifer is slingshotted like a thong in my direction, the fear of God, who is a woman, in his eyes. He lands with his ass up. I laugh, but only for a moment. I wonder how Kenny’s doing. I whip my head around, removing the binoculars for the first time; the scene in front of me requires my own eyes. A river of blood flows across the brick. The square is so … red. Say that again?
Her-Hulk stands, knees bent, rage dwindling. The claymore kid, a boy no older than Kenny, lays contorted beneath her, thumbtacks plunged into his skull like Hellraiser. The stream pushes an XL ultra-ribbed toward her, the coup de grâce imminent. She cracks open the gratis condom and finds the tip side—she’s done this before. With a final howl, she stretches it around the poor soul, cocooning him in a spermicidal chrysalis. He begins whimpering like a therian.
Her-Hulk saunters off proud. The stance, the raw exhibition of power, aura emanating away: at any moment she could take a bite out of the moon. Yet, she doesn’t, solemnly shrinking back to normalcy. There are no winners today, only lessons.
A curse on both these houses. Some shall be pardoned. Some shall be punishèd. For never was there a story of more sulk, than this of Kenny, the claymore kid, and Her-Hulk.
