MAD DOG MARY

Yeah, I'm mad. Mad Mary Krull. Mad Mary jumping up down with a face that's been smashed in one too many times by the man with the golden gun. Mary getting dragged off to the copshop again. A scowling young man under a headline, whoops, it's just some dyke, my mistake, ha, ha. Down with the man! Hey lookie here, it's some bacon! Coo-ee! 'Scuse me officer, got a sandwich? Down with all the men! Womyns rights!

That's the thing. People think you don't know. They look at you and they smile right down in the corner of the mouth where you think you aren't going to see it, and there it is, right in front of your eyes, fool, fraud, sugar, ain't you too old for this now?

They think you can't know, because otherwise why the hell would you do it? Why be that ugly little screaming woman, why make yourself John fucking Wayne, why be a frank and open asshole? Why make a cartoon of yourself?

The reflection in her spit-shined boots bares her teeth. Mary Krull gives her a blurred sneer that dies into a snarl, screw it, and she looks up, ready, whodo you think I am officer, stand up straight and lecture him down, she's got the manifesto at her fingertips, been here, done that, when he cuts her off with his fingers tip-tapping on his billyclub and says,

"Sugar, aren't you a bit too old for all this now?"

And her hands are rammed in her pockets, little knotty bunches, fists straining against the fabric, and there's a split second when she feels like a teenage boy (no, teenage girl, wearing the dress because she hadn't worn it once since her birthday and yes mom yes I'll wear it today I'll clean up nicely and be normal be a good little girl and put away my G.I Joes, no combat boots before marriage, you stupid old bitch).

"Fuck you, officer."

That's who I'm meant to be, isn't it?

Well, fuck your cartoon.

Lemmie ask you something.

Who's seeing the caricature? Who's seeing that damn picture? Who's hearing at the back of their head those same old mantras they've been drilling in, TV, radio, books, papers? Dress to impress, dress to pass? Men have short hair, women have long. Old ladies should be seen and not heard, but preferably not seen, especially not naked, god no, covered at all times if you please, no sex, we're from the Good Ol' US of A thank you very much and we don't hold with any of that there filth, look children here's a diagram of the reproductive act, mothers and fathers, grandmas and grandpas, yes, little Timmy, that's right, grammy got knocked up once and maybe she even wanted it, these little black lines and long science words all tailing off into a big old OOOOOOOOOOOOOO now go wash your hands, you dirty little boy.

If you enjoy it, you're a slut. If you don't, you're a dyke. Oh god, the circus is here, and now ladies and gentlemen put your hands together for the bearded lady, Mad Mary Krull, let's all put our hands together and by the grace of god our sins will be cleansed, avert your eyes, ladies and gentlemen, because here comes the braless lady, Mad Mary Krull, and put your fingers in your ears because men have long hair women have short and old ladies should be heard and seen and god knows what else.

Tv, radio, magazines. Who's seeing the caricature?

It's not me, so I think we know whose goddamn problem it is now, don't we?

Rollies, she hates rollies, but you take what you can get. She sucks down on the cigarette and gets a lovely mouthful of ash and tar, mmmm, taste those carcinogens, she used to be straight edge once upon a time but gave it up for lent, ha, ha.

Mary Krull winces in the watery sun, sky the colour of lemony piss, and thinks shit, but I need to stop getting up this early, what's the point?

The point is about fifteen minutes late, and Mary's grinding glass under her heels, slumped against a wall, smoking her second roll-up, but at least she's pleased with the boots (plasticky, vegan, what else?). Julia was pretty good at shopping after all. It got right on her tits, things like that, but Julia just smiled and said something like shall we go? and she didn't go soft on nobody, not ever, a fighter not a lover, but something about her hello and goodbyes, her shall we, it all seems to link in with the soft ssssss of her back, rolling curves of her ass the perfect fit for a palm, shall we go, Mary? Let's. and it's suddenly….fine.

Mary spits, a quivering gobbet, and slams her boot down on it. Splat. Take that.

Then she looks up, sees a bobbing head, smooth, a little yellow in the light, jerks her head at her and then sees the girl's her face, feels something tighten in her gut.

"Hey."

"Hello," (goddamn it), "Mary."

Mary jerks her head again. Jeans today, shallower pockets. She hold onto her cigarette with one hand instead.

"How're you?"

"Fine."

"You sure?"

"Mmmm."

Mary considers.

"Bullshit."

Julia looks up at her sharply. Her big eyes get darker. Mary holds onto her smoke, smirks up at her, then runs a hand over her stubbly head, suddenly a little moist.

But Julia laughs.

"Yeah. Bullshit."

"Sup?"

She laughs again. That pisses Mary off. It's a Clarissa laugh. Everything about that woman is dishonest.

Then she suddenly sobers and looks Mary straight in the eye.

"Sorry."

It's fine, Mary wants to say, it's more than fine.

"My mother…." She stops, looks up at Mary, and then says, "….one of Clarissa's, friends killed himself yesterday."

"Fuck."

"Yeah. He was really ill, but…" she shrugs, opens her mouth, reconsiders, then looks up at Mary will something almost pleading.

"You okay?"

"Yes. No."

Mary detatches herself from the wall, slings an arm round her shoulder, says nothing.

Their faces are close. Julia looks up at her for a minute, lips half-parted, and Mary knows, right then, that she can, there's permission in those lips, moist, half-open, she can see it, and oh, she wants to, this is the girl she would do anything for, anything to possess, and Mad Mary Krull is about as subtle as a sledgehammer, and frank and open asshole, John fucking Wayne, it wouldn't matter, shit, sorry, heat of the moment, no, laugh it off, yes, she can, all it takes is to lean in.

"Sorry."

And the words slide out of her and that's the chance fucked, because Julia looks up at her, smiles all of a sudden as if she knows, lips closed now, moment lost.

But her arm slides around Mary's ribs, she puts her face to her shoulder, and then (maybe not, maybe just her imagination, but) she feels her cool mouth on her skin.

They slide apart instantly, understanding.

A kid. You're just a kid.

But you're kind.

"Shall we go?" Julia says.

"Yeah."

They turn away from the wall. It's a bit brighter now. Might even be a nice day.

I'd do anything for you, Mary thinks, anything.

AndI can't. But you're kind.

I won't tell you whether or not that's a cartoon.

That's the thing. Fuck what they see. Fuck being a cartoon. People always hate martyrs, don't they? They've got to be a bit pathetic somehow. They have to take it too far and be ridiculous, or be lying to themselves, stupid, or have some nasty dirty little secret that screws the whole thing up, invalidates it.

You know why?

It makes them feel bad.

People like Clarissa, who can't even stand within five meters of a motorbike, or god forbid, a butch dyke. Safe queers. Make it look all normal and hetero and then it's fine. No one holds the glass-ceiling over your head and you get to live in your nice cosy world with your yellow roses and wring your hands when your daughter shaves her hair off (yes, mother, yes, I will wear it today, I'll clean up, shall I, and be normal, a good little bourgeoisie, just like you wanted to be).

So Mad Mary Krull has to be crazy, has to be going too far, has to be an ugly little woman, has to be a rabble-rouser, because otherwise….what does that make everyone else?

Well.

I'll let you decide, shall I?

(A/N: Hey kids. Firstly, if you're here, congratulations, because I have no idea how in fuck's name you managed to find this. Anyhoo. It's based on a book called The Hours which is based on a book called Mrs Dalloway which one of Virginia Woolf's zomg Mary Sue self-insert slashfics only we don't call it that cos loads of clever people like it and shit.

Yeah, I totally wrote this as a uni assignment, so it has no soul. Sozard. :(

Hope you enjoyed it anyway, you mysterious creature, you. Do feel free to leave an incomprehensible flame or something so I can feel uber-edgy and stuff.)