THE SCRREW MANIFESTO

THIS SISTERHOOD believes in COMPLETE REVOLUTION.

THIS SISTERHOOD is not, and never will be, in the business of pansy-ass civil disobedience, non-violent protest, writing your fucking representative and begging the bastard to legislate you some fundamental fucking rights.

THIS SISTERHOOD is not even in the business of burning down Wall Street or the White House. Of dragging whichever asshole’s in the Oval Office, and all the billionaires whose ballsacks he’s gargling, out onto the streets of D.C. and burning all their fatcat asses at the stake. Because, what, you genuinely think that if you just decapitate the system, the system will die, just like that? You take down the one Big Bad – the supervillain, the mothership, the Hollywood movie monster – and everything’s just gonna magically resolve itself and we’ll all live happily ever after in our genderqueer little commie utopia? Let me tell you something: I wish I believed in fairy stories too, ‘cos you’re a real naive motherfucker if you think it’s gonna be that easy. When all us SCRREWed up grrrrls say we’re in the business of COMPLETE REVOLUTION, we absolutely fucking mean it. We’re gonna be the fucking meteor that killed the dinosaurs. We’re gonna be the supernova that vaporized every planet, every star, every sentient lifeform in the Solar System; vaporized every trace, speck, atom, quark there ever was of the Hellscape’s existence. You wanna know what we’re in the business of? We’re in the business of MOTHER! FUCKING! EXTINCTION!

THIS SISTERHOOD has no choice but to scorch the Earth and start again from Year Fucking Zero. And you know why?

Because you can’t just mold Shit Mountain into a Shining City on a Hill.

You wanna build a – remind me, what was it – a queer feminist utopia, right? A magnificent transcontinental mycelium of limitless care, community, affection and empathy? A place where the mere concepts of gender and sex and scarcity and social hierarchy are nothing but savage anachronisms? A place where we can each transcend the stifling biopolitical technologies they call sexes and genders, genetics and genitals, and embrace the sticky, soft and squishy fluidity of our devilishly dirty, messy bodies?

And you wanna build it here?

You wanna build it beneath the searing brimstone shadow of the evangelical cross?

You wanna leave Ozymandias standing on the shores of the Hudson and Potomac?

You wanna spare the cold gray skyscraping canyons of Manhattan Island? Spare the fascist granite grimace of the God of War glaring down from the desolate domes and porticoes and phallic obelisks of the District of Columbia?

Or, God forbid, spare our redlined, atomised sundown suburbs. Spare the all-American Pure and Pristine, Pearly Plastic Dreamland where white washed picket fences entrench the anxious fortresses of lily-white patriarchs like barbed wire tearing no-man’s land in twain. Where compassion and community went to die in a hundred million ticky-tack caskets scattered like the dead and decomposed detritus of a hundred million gay and girlish hopes and dreams. Scattered like the mushed-up brains of the hetero-dictatorship’s hypnotized handmaidens, placated in their patriarchal bondage by an after-dinner Quaalude, a nightly jackhammering, and a weekly pilgrimage to worship at the shrine of Sears Roebuck and John Cash Penney...

Well, good luck with that.

This nation is a prison, a panopticon of hetero-patriarchal terror, psychological torture and anatomical control masquerading as the Land of the Free. And sure, you can riot, rise up, slaughter all the guards, but at the end of the day, when the last drop of blood is spilt, you’re still gonna be stuck in a bare concrete cell block, stuck in the shadows of insurmountable walls and watch-towers, trying to sow the seeds of utopia on concrete-smothered land where nothing good ever grew. You cannot free the people of America from the chains of sexed conformity and consumer capitalism while the Hellscape these things built still stands intact.

THIS SISTERHOOD contends that it is utterly fucking delusional to think that this truly liberated world of which every single one of us SCRREWed up grrrrls dreams – this heavenly, rebelliously tender, endlessly orgasmic gyno- and non-bino-sphere of gender-fucked sluts, vindictive witches, atomic bombshell bitches and heathen little whores, of devilish dykes and dommes and flick-knife femme fatales, apocalyptic sapphics and sinners and terrorist trannies and queer harbingers of doom – can ever even hope to be manifest until, by our own hands, every last motherfucking infrastructural, environmental, biopolitical and psychological trace of the Hellscape has been completely and utterly eviscerated from the face of the Earth.

And how the hell are we gonna do that, you ask? Well...

I wanna ask you all something. Have you ever experienced trauma so bad it made you wish you were so fucking powerful that nothing could ever hurt you anymore?

As pure survival mechanism – as protection from the sudden throat-slash of a violent flashback - or from the slow, piercing penetration of psychological icepicks twisting trauma through your flesh and chiselling sharp into screeching bone, bleeding you of every single crimson drop of happiness and joy, of light and life and love and heart and fucking soul and ripping you asunder from the inside out – have you ever felt like you didn’t just want to be, but you absolutely fucking needed to be, so completely indestructible that the switchblade couldn’t even break the skin? That semi-automatic bullets harmlessly deflected off your unblemished body? That the Mother of All Bombs stung no worse than a wasp and atomic armageddon wasn’t nothin’ but a kinky little act of foreplay? That absolutely fucking nothing this queerphobic, woman-hating Hellscape has in its arsenal to try and take you down could ever silence you, repress your rage, rip away your autonomy or ram you back into your closet of shame and self-loathing again. Because I have.

But beyond that...

Have you ever wondered what it would feel like to be so impossibly, unstoppably sublime that whole cities would quiver and crumble at your touch? To be so divinely omnipotent that the great Athenian metropole of the American Empire we call Washington D.C. should melt back into the cesspit swamp from which it rose at the mere, tender caress of your titanic fingertip? That the City of Angels could be consigned to the depths of Hell with a single hard stomp of your vampirically blood-soaked Doc Marten boot? That almighty Manhattan itself could be smothered beneath asymptotic acres, boundless plains and mountainous parabolas of disobedient flesh, lain resplendent upon a chaise longue of cracking, crumbling concrete capitalist catacombs stretching all the way up from Battery Park to the Bronx? Wriggling and writhing, insatiably grinding the epileptic commercial moth-flame of Times Square, the charging bulls and insatiable wolves of Wall Street, this gothic island cathedral of Mammon into dust cast helplessly adrift upon the winds of change, the red mists of revolutionary rage intermingling with the tingling scarlet rush of lust as the dying United States prepares to take its existential stand. Lash out in abject desperation and inflict one final assault upon a truly autonomous femme. As those teeny-tiny warships, Stars and Stripes ablaze, slip through the Verrazano Narrows, slide deep inside New York Harbour, and blow their trembling little loads at the mere sight of you. As all across this quaking continent apocalyptic, rumbling, roaring rockets of enriched uranium, edged to the point of orgasmic oblivion by the doomsday dominatrix, explode from their silos, ejaculating their nuclear hellfire all over every inch of your impossible being – luscious little love-bites from one Destroyer of Worlds to another, as Eros and Thanatos unite at last in an instant of incomparable bliss.

As suddenly, an involuntary moan, an aftershock laugh, erupts from your tightly bitten lips.

And the sound, loud as Krakatoa, pierces every crevice of this great American Hellscape. Instilling the fear of the goddess into every misogynistic patriarch, queer-phobe and capitalist in this land. Letting them know that America has fallen, the queer-femme rebellion has begun, and they’ve only got two choices here on out. Cast off the repressive pretenses of hypermasculine hetero-patriarchy and the chains of all-consuming capitalism, or become just another blood-smear on the bottom of your city-sized sole.

I’ve wondered all those things. Frankly, it’s the only thing that gets me off at night. This silly little fantasy of devilish destruction and rebellious rebirth...

Except it’s not just a fantasy anymore.

Between them, these jars contain enough doses of a highly experimental growth serum, stolen from the clutches of Uncle Sam and a top-secret military genetic modification programme I once spearheaded in his name, to transform each and every SCRREWed up grrrrl in this SISTERHOOD into a literal living goddess. Ready, willing and able to fuck up this American Hellscape, and purge all trace of it from existence such that our normal-sized sisters and siblings can get on with building their tender, genderqueer, post-capitalist paradise in its place. Safe in the knowledge that no-one will ever try to impose their patriarchal will over them ever again – that is, if they don’t want to get themselves fucked up by a girl several trillion times their size!

So come on up and drink, bitches – if you dare!