Suggested Audio Jukebox 🕸
 Ida Maria “I Eat Boys Like You For Breakfast”
 April March “Chick Habit”
 Tori Amos “Precious Things”
 Florence + The Machine “Seven Devils”
I may not be a lady but I’m all woman. You wanna know what else I am? Your worst fucking nightmare and then some. A bold opening statement I know but I’m here today to back it up and dispel a few myths in the process. While I agree that we are undoubtedly the fairer sex, there’s this diabolical rumor going round that this translates to weaker and I think it’s high time I set things straight. You see, I’m positively brimming with strength and any man who takes me lightly does so at his own peril as attested by the dirty little secrets in my basement right now. At last count, there were a dozen corpses in my cellar, and the one common thread between them all is a penis. The mistake they made was taking me lightly and expecting me to be their doormat when, in truth, it is I who wipe my boots off on their sorry faces every time I venture down there. I believe that femme fatale is the term that most accurately describes me and it really couldn’t be more fitting in my case as I eat men like them for breakfast and shit their gristle out by lunchtime.
Not very ladylike I know but that’s not to say that I don’t have decorum. However, for me, it’s just a means to an end, a way of getting precisely what I want, and hoodwinking unsuspecting victims into lowering their guard. I can be rather charming when I wish to be and will play the game for as long as is necessary to ensnare these common pests in my gossamer. Once this has been achieved, then it all depends how playful I’m feeling that day. Girls just wanna have fun apparently and this is true to a point; but I don’t recall Cyndi Lauper elaborating on how we should get those kicks and I just happen to do so at the expense of others whose delusion is way beyond curable. Not a solitary one of my victims didn’t have it coming and I actually feel like I’m doing the world a favor here as somebody has to take out the human garbage right? God knows there’s enough of it fouling up the environment and, if I can do my bit to keep numbers down, then that alone helps me sleep at night, regardless of any transgression against divine law.
Anyway, I guess I should kick things off by highlighting just a few of the reasons why men make the blood boil in my ventricles and don’t go expecting me to pull any punches as I’m not here to sugar-coat and fully intend on lying it all out there. This despicable breed are flawed from the ground up if you ask me, exercise dubious logic at every conceivable turn, think with the very same tool they use to impregnate the unsuspecting, and give little to no mind to the women whose sole purpose it is to make them look good. We ladies are wired completely differently and there’s no getting around that fact; but it’s their complete inability to appreciate the opposite sex that infuriates me most. If there are any guys out there now who disagree with my stance then bully for you and don’t go thinking yourselves special as you’re really not. On the whole, you all do the same deplorable things, make the same errors over and over, and misread sensitivity as a sign of weakness, while finding it nigh-on impossible to shed a solitary tear in the presence of another.
I cry. Indeed, I have been known to sob like an infant, and have no problem whatsoever fessing up to it either. The difference here is that I do so whilst using my trusty surgical bone saw to hack off human body parts. It’s a deeply emotional process for me and never lessens one iota regardless of whether or not it starts to become familiar. Barely a day passes when I don’t have a good blub at least once and I’ve got a box of tissues on hand as we speak in case I become overwhelmed with emotion. If I’m happy then you’ll know about it, if I’m sad then likewise, and if I’m downright spitting fucking feathers then fret not as you’ll not be left out of the loop on that one either. Then we have the alphas. All back pats and pep talks, they congregate together to boast of their conquests and everything plays out from behind their curtain of lies. Words can be incredibly harmful and they pay no thought to those they expel as it’s all about keeping face and looking good in the company of fellow wolves.
Meanwhile, women are taken to task for the fact that they plainly don’t get on with one another, when we’re only ever acting with honesty. Granted, we may flash those fake smiles to suchlike “girlfriends” just to keep up the charade for the men, but deep down both parties are aware of the loathing and, should the gloves be required to come off, then we do so without dalliance. You could count my close female friends on one hand and still be left with free digits whereas, if you asked me to reel off the women I hold in lofty esteem, then I’d have to take a short trip downstairs with my bone saw for the show of hands I’d need to calculate this statistic. We don’t have to like each other, but we are required to give credit where due, whether or not we appeal to each other personally. And there are men believing themselves to be the predatory ones. So frightfully deluded. We just let them figure they’re in control when the truth is some way from that.
My father walked out on my mother and I when I was six-years-old and shacked up with his secretary, who just happened to be half of mom’s age and a darn sight less dowdy. So that makes me a product of my environment right? The victim of unresolved childhood trauma? Not even, I despised him from the first moment I could vocalize my contempt and never once called him daddy so he actually did me a favor by bolting. Granted, it tore me apart being forced to watch on helplessly as the woman who raised me single-handedly suffered to the nth degree. But any tears shed were in her honor and I pledged then never to allow myself to fall hook, line, and sinker into such a blatant trap. Which was precisely what it was for the record. To begin with, this man was brimming with undying devotion, a figurehead for romance, and backed-up with promises that he had no intention of keeping. Like a fool, she believed every last insincere word he told her and did everything in her power and more besides to make him happy.
This entailed surrendering her own identity and accepting her role as stay at home mom while he assumed the role of hunter. If you follow the photograph trail closely, you can see her gradual decline in self-respect as he steadily siphoned it from her over time and this was as cold a move as it was utterly calculated on his part. It’s scientifically proven that girls grow up faster than men and that’s because we appreciate what has to be done and roll up our sleeves while they’re too busy refusing to come of age quietly. Consequently they never grow up and, as they hurtle towards middle-age with all the grace of a bouncing Betty, regress back to adolescence and do it all over again as though the past twenty years haven’t been trying to tell them something. When this happens, it is us left to pick up the pieces, dust them down and reassure them that everything is going to be alright. Our maternal instinct leads us to do just that and the price for exhibiting such kindness is to saddled with a second run of puberty. Surely it should have dawned on them that we didn’t care for this first time round. While they’re thrashing their gibbons like Tarzan on crack, we’re left bleeding out once a month like clockwork while our bodies constantly remind us that we’re in for a decidedly long haul.
Take childbirth for example and it might surprise you to learn that I have first-hand experience of this nine-month sentence. I have three girls aged four, six, and eight, all of whom have different daddies or perhaps past tense would be more applicable. Before you go screaming bloody murder, I didn’t dispatch any of them as I didn’t care enough to do so. They were purely donors, one night stands that occurred at the very peak of my menstrual flourish because I planned that shit to the minute. If you’re wondering why I put myself through this, then you clearly haven’t been paying attention thus far and can consider this your first strike. There was only ever going to be one dominant gene where my womb was concerned and, had this not been the case, then I would have been off to the abortion clinic on the return journey from the twenty-week scan. It’s a numbers game you see and I’d like to think that I’m assisting with tip those scales in our favor. Let me make it abundantly clear that I haven’t once attempted to brainwash my little cherubs or force my opinions on their delicate little minds as I understand how critical a process wiring is. I’m a good mom, just the kind that keeps a few stiffs under lock and key is all.
Whether or not you deem my actions despicable is neither here nor there as I consider myself something of a model citizen and do plenty to make the world my children are about to grow up in a better place for all. Once a week I chair the local PTA meeting, every day I smile at strangers, and I make sure to perform at least one act within any 24-hour period that benefits someone else as opposed to myself. Granted, men don’t figure in my daily Samaritan duties, but you have to look after your own right? I certainly don’t go out of my way to make their lives hell as they have that pretty much sewn up without my assistance. Instead, I keep up appearances and pick and choose the most lamentable examples of the species to tear asunder. Nobody ever expects a thing as anonymity is my greatest weapon and I know precisely how to cover my tracks once things get messy. How else could I have banished so many bucks without once arousing suspicion? It’s all ultimately about selecting the correct cleaning products.
It’s only natural that, once decomposition commences, things are going to kick up some and men don’t wash enough to make this any less pungent an odor. I find that formaldehyde works best here and my sub-basement actually resembles more of a laboratory than chop shop. You could eat your dinner from my surfaces, such is my dedication to ensuring that this sanctuary remains sterile and I pride myself on my technique as it has seen me this far without incident and has plenty of legs in it yet. I’m aiming for around the hundred mark and, when you consider that I only began butchering bucks three years back, I’d say I’m on course to surpass that beacon fairly effortlessly. How do I manage to lure them back to my lair? Come now, must I really spell it out for you? While vital that I remain mindful of every last one of my weaknesses, a body to die for is something to celebrate in my mind and I use this strength to open doors whenever the urge to maim and kill becomes too overwhelming to deny any longer.
When it comes to the act itself, well I like to think that a good time is had by all, barring a little stab, twist, and sever of course. Foreplay is hors d’oeuvre, sex the main course, and I save dessert as my own little gift to myself once any formalities are out-of-the-way. Comfort plays a key role in this exchange and my four-poster bed is Elizabethan so this is very much catered for as we get down to the nitty-gritty. Admittedly my hostess skills don’t extend to allowing my quarry to quite reach climax but it’s all about the journey I hear and that is some big dipper I can assure you. Once they raise their arms and ready themselves for that all-important Yabba Dabba Doo moment, I cut the fuckers off and leave them hanging excruciatingly while ensuring that the last few miserable moments of their pathetic lives are as agonizing as humanly possible. It helps to know your subjects and that’s why I spent five years studying harder than any other bitch on campus to become an orthopedic surgeon and passed with honors.
While my bedside manner may be debatable in a legal sense, I’d still like to think that I’m providing a public service of sorts as certain men don’t deserve to breathe the same oxygen as us and every time I snuff one out, the air becomes a little cleaner curiously. The thing about death-dealing is that, like any other profession, things don’t always work out quite as intended and it’s vital to have a workable contingency plan in place just in case things go pear-shaped. I administer a small amount of poison beforehand to gradually debilitate my subject and ordinarily this does the trick but, only last week, I made a miscalculation and was required to move on to plan B somewhat promptly. With the toxin failing to take effect, it was left to the serrated kitchen knife I store down the side of my bed and that baby has never failed me yet. Naturally I blamed my quarry for the mishap and made sure to increase his suffering as penance for his stubborn resistance. Real “men’s men” may refuse to cry openly in the presence of an audience but, once you detach both their femoral arteries, the water works soon come a gushing. Should you be curious as to how much blood loss can be achieved in a single snip, then I’d advise giving this particular sweet spot a run-out as it’s some fountain believe me.
Look at me giving away all my trade secrets. I just can’t seem to help myself; I get so turned on just speaking about it that this is the only way to keep my cool. The very moment I become sloppy and allow my heart to rule my head, it’s critical error time, and all I’ve got left to look forward to is afternoons playing rummy with Aileen Wuornos. Don’t get me wrong, she is something of a personal heroine of mine and I took massive inspiration from following her case studiously and inspecting every single mannerism. But she went and got herself nabbed didn’t she? I aspired to Aileen for a short while at the commencement of my spree but surpassed her tally some time ago and my interest waned around the same time. You see, I wasn’t placed here on this earth to emulate, I’m here to exacerbate goddamnit. That said, here comes that kicker, as I want for the exact same things as any other twenty-seven-year-old-woman, just minus the Suzy Homemaker shit. I love classical opera, adore old Marilyn Monroe movies, and never feel more content than when reading poetry down by the lake in midsummer. Life is a gift to me as it is any other and I thank the heavens above for every single last morning my eyes open.
It just so happens that I sleep better at night knowing that I’ve done my bit to address the ever ballooning population problem and take tremendous pride from all of the work I do for the community, never once for the recognition I might add. Here’s an interesting fact for you. There are a dozen single parent families in the neighborhood on account of yours truly and I don’t feel the slightest remorse for this statistic either. It must have slipped my mind earlier to mention that all twelve of my victims were married fathers and I’ve got all the wedding bands around here somewhere if you don’t believe me. Suddenly my actions are approaching unforgivable right? Trust me, the kids are better off now than they ever would have been under dual guardianship, and I reckon they’ll thank me when they’re older. Speaking of which, I’ve thought this plan right through to its end, and have a fair few house calls to do before blowing my brains out with a revolver in around thirty years time when the body starts packing up organ by organ.
I shall follow the progress of every child whose daddy I decimate intently and sit them down to explain, in explicit detail, exactly how this transaction played out to the letter. Once I’ve spilled my guts, they are more than welcome to do with me as they wish and if this involves caving my head in with an ash tray then they have my blessing. However, while I’ll feel the need to cleanse myself thoroughly before taking my final bow, I have a sneaking suspicion that indifference will be the primary response after learning the reasoning behind my crimes. My girls will be all grown up by then too and I’ll make damn sure that not a single one of them follows in mommy’s footsteps. I wouldn’t want this kind of existence for them as much rooting tooting fun as it may be. This is far more than a lifestyle choice for me, it is the only real purpose I’ve ever known. Parenthood trumps it of course, but even that resulted from freewill. Killing is in my blood, my heart, my bones. I guess, in that respect, I’m just your run-of-the-mill predator.
Which brings me rather tidily to my chosen title, Black Widow. I know it may not be the most original name to opt for, but all those other bitches didn’t do their homework like me. Were you aware that the Mediterranean strain from the twentieth century, Latrodectus Tredecimguttatus, packed a venomous bite fifteen times more potent than that of a rattlesnake? Ain’t an antidote concocted that would save you once one of these bad boys sank their pincers into you and this, ladies and gentleman, pretty much sums me up in a nutshell. So what do you say? Are you ready to take the grand tour downstairs and join me in my workshop? You’ll find recently replenished hand sanitizer on the wall to your left as we enter, protective clothing in the locker to your right, and a sterilized hand basin on the back wall to chuck your guts up into if you start to come over nauseous. I thought today we could dissect some genitals and have just the penile platter lined up for the occasion. If it’s not true what they say about black guys having bigger cocks, then I guess I’m just a lucky gal. Now who fancies dessert?