Goodbye To Comics #3: The Broken Vagina Monologues Part Three

Goodbye To Comics #3:
The Broken Vagina Monologues Part Three

The “Rape Agenda” limited series by DC Comics -- buy them all! In each collector's-item issue a different female character gets sexually assaulted or mutiliated! The line-up is as follows:

Rape Agenda #1: Supergirl. Writer & Artist Frank Miller brings to life what it would be like if Supergirl was brutally sexually assaulted by Braniac and then had her hand fed to Krypto. A brave and affecting story about life, love, death, rape, redemption, death, taxes, racism, and the Iraqi war. Guest-starring Turner D. Century.

Rape Agenda #2: Batgirl. Writer Alan Moore returns to the Batgirl-mutilation genre with Melinda Gebbie in tow with an early story of Batgirl, long before she donned the cape and cowl (we’re talking like when she was 12 and shit). A lyrical story of sexual awakening and fisting. Guest-starring Air-Wave.

Rape Agenda #3: Sue Dibny. We dig up the corpse of Sue Dibny and have her anally fucked by Solomon Grundy, who can’t tell the difference. Both Brad Meltzer & Rags Morales actually refused to work on this story, can you believe it? So we had to hire some ex-Image dudes who draw like Liefeld on quaaludes. But you bought the first two issues of this abortion, so you’re fucked because you’re all OCD and need “a full set.” Ha! Gotcha suckers! Guest-starring Angle Man.

Rape Agenda #4: Tori Amos. Fucking uppity bitch! Me takum crayons and make story about fucking bitch who deserved to get fucked! Stupid bitch! Me draw story and put Carrie Fisher in slave outfit in it. Carrie & Tori fuck like randy whores and then they get killed by Doomsday! Me draw with crayons and I put the letters in there too so it like comic book. And fuck Nancy Pelosi too. Guest starring Granny Goodness.

Of course, DC Comics never put out a comic called “The Rape Agenda.” This is just me being all wacky like Bill Maher, all irreverent, spilling naughty keywords like “rape” and “superheroine” so I can keep getting “hits” by net surfers from here to Rangoon who are looking for dead superchick porn.

I was merely making a theoretical jump.

Here’s another jump, me from my gurney to the examining table after getting my “vergina broked.” A Margaret Cho sketch about how her kidneys failed from her eating disorder played back in my mind, giving me comfort that some other woman has gone through something so fucked up as this. Though of course, thousands upon thousands of women have. I wasn’t special. I wasn’t even totally there anymore, as I continued to bleed and as Donovan Paul, my hapless date and accidental "vergina broker," sat by my side, stroked my sweaty brow, and continued to think up ways how there was a silver lining to what had just happened.

No, I wasn’t all there...there was something...almost past the line of my vision...a person...standing there, watching the whole thing...was it...could it be...THE BLESSED VIRGIN MARY?!

No. It was me. I saw myself standing next to me, viewing the whole friggin’ mess, calm as a cucumber, as calculating as a computer.

Oh, crap.

I needed to get me back inside me, but I was too weak. By this point I had several boxes of gauze shoved up my snatch in a vain attempt to stem the tide of the blood flow. Doctors, nurses, janitors, and I think New York City Mayor Bloomberg all filled the room at various times, some presumably necessary to the case at hand, some merely curious.

I winced as the gauze was pulled out and different tools were shoved in, my head turned away from the action and staring at the “sexual assault” laminated informational sign to my left. By this time Donovan Paul was apparently asked to wait outside.

“Honey, did this man force himself on you?”

“No.”

“You can tell me if he did.”

“He didn’t.”

“Look...I’ve only seen this injury on sexual assault cases.”

“I heard of a porn star once who had this happen during a shoot. And this woman who slept with Dennis Rodman. His dick was too big.”

“So you’re saying his dick was too big? That this is how it happened?”

“He’s huge.”

“Did he use any...foreign instruments?”

“No.”

“Anything brakeable? Any knives?”

“No. He’s got just a really big dick. He’s a really nice man, so totally calm and everything. He saved my life.”

“Okay...it’s just that I have to ask these questions.”

“I understand. Oh, doctor?”

“Yes?”

“Am I going to die?”

By the time I was placed on the gurney for the operating room, I had shed so much blood that I felt myself lose consciousness.

But I had been through so much over the last four years that I didn’t care as much as I should have. I wasn’t upset. I was just tired. I looked up at Donovan as he said goodbye to me, I took a mental polaroid of his face and built a whole sleepy, comforting narrative around it. I barely knew him, but I was satisfied. I was satisfied with everything.

Back at the house, I had a computer file entitled, “read this first” on the desktop, written a year ago. I had instructed a couple of good friends to access this file and email it to certain people just in case I ever died. It was all very Bob Woodwardsy. I am outwardly a very soft-spoken, passive individual but I am Joe Pesci on a PMS tear at the keys of a computer. My ability to write has, for the most part, been my only true means of defense, like nunchuks or katanas. As I type these words I have an autographed picture of David Carradine as “Bill” tacked to my wall, next to an autographed picture of Margot Kidder as Lois Lane.

What does this all have to do with comics, you may ask?

By now in the narrative, the gas mask gets pulled over my nose and mouth. The part of me that escaped, this inscrutable mute presence that has never left my side, betrays no emotion. But I know that bitch is going to write about this.