The Feminist Empire of Popess Lucretia: The Persecution of Unarmed Men in the War of the Sexes

By Romeo Monrose

A funny contribution to solve the gruesome War of the Sexes.

All wars have a beginning and an end.
The War of the Sexes has begun in Eden, and it will never end.
In this memorial written by a male survivor of the feminist dictatorship, the events of the bloodiest phase of the endless war are recounted.
It all begins with the election of the Popess Lucretia Prima, founder of the Feminist Empire or Tulipan Regime.
Men are purged from society and rendered useless, thanks to the new reproduction techniques of the human species. The fierce persecution against the “Machos” will bring the narrator, Romeo Monrose, to experience a flurry of misadventures, the worst of which is his selection as a breeding prisoner.
After suffering heaven and hell, Romeo Monrose takes part in the partisan struggle under the codename “Homer”, and as a terrorist, he executes the attack on the Popess, missing the target because he is in love with her.
From Palace Counsellor to Consort of the Popess–Empress, Romeo serves the Tulipan power with a zeal that makes him hated by the integral feminists as well as his fellow Machos. With the birth of the “Little Pope” to the reigning couple, a glimmer of peace lights up in the sky.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Mar 19, 2020
• ISBN: 9781662900181

Book preview

fairytale

In that year of the Lord, whose memory still raises the hair on my head, I Romeo Monrose fell prisoner to satanic women.

Macabre omens had warned me.

Rico, a frail and faltering male, was killed by Lola who, with her mighty beak, attacked him with relentless charges of pecking on his neck. The vigorous female beast—satiated by the food seized from her companion and emboldened by her crime—uprooted the nail of my little finger.

The cat of my neighbour, a pensioner, had given birth to five kittens, including two males. The following day, the good man noticed that only three kittens were still groping around in the basket. I found the two males myself on the mat in front of my door. Decapitated.

I was still not alarmed when I read the following headline of a newspaper article: Male Salmon in Scottish Waters Changing Sex, Producing Eggs Instead of Sperm!

However, when I learned from the television that in seven out of the ten adult specimens of the Florida Leopard the testicles had not descended yet, my apprehensions began to rise.

Mid-January, the publisher Harmonici was found hanging in the basement of the typography department. He had jumped from a pile of copies of my latest novel, Two Hearts for a Nest, in which I, under the pseudonym of Desirée Lamour, had recounted the repentance of Sheila, an official of the Tax Authority.

After ruining all the male entrepreneurs of Baltimore, Sheila had fallen in love with the charming architect Madison, renounced her career and completely devoted herself to the care of her love nest.

Nothing was more difficult and dangerous than love in those days. I received a letter from my publisher two days after his suicide. The poor man explained to me that the agents of the Literary Feminist Gestapo had seized the copies that were ready for distribution and affixed the seals of the rotary presses.

He warned me against revealing my identity as a romantic author and advised me to dedicate myself to a more honourable and less perilous profession, or at least to turn to the only literary genre still tolerated by the Regime: History, but according to the Tulipan feminist interpretation.

Such were the signs of that unfortunate age.

Those were the premonitions of a sordid turn in history.

In April, Sixtus VI expired after atrocious contortions in the kitchens of the monastery of the Little Sisters of Blessed Virginia Da Castro. The Conclave, in which eighteen old he-Cardinals and seven hundred and thirty-nine young she-Cardinals participated, had let out white smoke at the second session: Delìzia Dominanòva rose to the papal throne with the name of Lucretia Prima.

With the encyclical De Foeminarum Eminentia, the Popess immediately laid the foundations for the definitive female supremacy in the religious and secular fields. A visionary of a celestial society articulated around robust revolutionary principles, this great-granddaughter of a red tyrant from the middle of the last century promoted the formation of a superior race of warriors, establishing a chosen body of military police, the Tulipan Brigades.

The cadets were subjected to gruelling training for a year, at the end of which the so-called Tulipans were armed against every torment of the heart, and their spartan fibre ignored all restlessness of the senses. Shaved heads, arrogant eye, these descendants of a former fair sex patrolled the cities in search of a decrepit macho to bludgeon.

For us unhappy males, the persecution had not begun with the infamous Tulipans. In recent decades, feminist science had put into effect that imperceptible purge of the male gender, which would have led to extermination, a real mass machocide.

OESTROGENS, female hormones—this was the deceitful weapon with which we arrived at universal feminization. Massively placed in industrial foods of all sorts, oestrogens in the long run caused the rarefaction of testosterones, male hormones, as well as the atrophy of the testicles and the decline of sperm production in human males.

The oestrogens boxed the testosterones. K.O. The de-masculinization of man triumphed.

Becoming less and less fertile on the one hand, men had begun to produce more and more females on the other. The few young males still in circulation, however, presented remarkably feminine characteristics, and proved to not be very suitable and prone to reproduction. They were looking for ephemeral coupling with effeminate fellows.

Many Nobel-winning Tulipan scientists had set off the alarm and demonstrated that the sperm reserves deposited in the banks of the feminist realm were polluted with large amounts of nonophenol, a substance that produces the infamous feminizing oestrogens. Put simply, the feminist society was enriched by excellent females, but it lacked the renewal of fertile males, while the vaunted bank reserves had now been written down.

In my personal case, the predilection for the cassava fritter and obsession with the fig tree flower had protected me from oestrogens. To me, Romeo Monrose (I say this in all modesty), thanks to those natural nourishments, the faculties that had tragically diminished in other males were extraordinarily improved.

I will explain in detail in this memorial, with what performances I could (indeed I had to) contribute to solving the unfortunate demographic situation of the Feminist Empire of Her Angelic Grace, Popess Lucretia.

As a prolific author of pale-pink novels, I had decided to go into hiding, and found refuge in the palace of Monsignor di Rocca Brava, protector of males fleeing from women and eager to put on a little theatre with different roles, costumes and … accents.

I, now Romea, had dressed in camisoles and knickers and forced myself into a bust of whale sticks with laces and weaves and cages and bell-shaped, Roman-domed skirts and corsets jackets and a collar of Flemish lace.

Juliux, as an exquisite gentleman, had lent himself to be my servant cavalier, and he was wearing droll-crumpled zouave shorts, a trans-Siberian shirt and an orange bodice. And during the minuet, he planted his paw with the graceful extension of a flamingo’s crowfoot.

It was sultry in the dance hall. Because of the curfew, we had blocked the doors and windows. Don Arcimboldo strummed the cembalo; dreamy, big pepper, sweat dripping from the wisps of the parson’s wig. It was the last party in a world falling on us. Stuccoes were already crumbling from the ceilings. Under the bombard blows, colonnades and staircases trembled.

The frivolous noblemen and the pompous poorly shaved ladies waved Sevilla fans. With us, those trapped in the siege of the ferocious Tulipan feminists, were two Lombard scribes—rats frequenting dusty archives, sniffers of white flour.

Little remained indeed of the waste papers, moth-eaten bookitsch, after cisalpine rodents, neopopolitan poets, Turcoman scribblers had plundered treaties, panama files, memoirs, intimate monastic journals, reports by clerics, registers by burgomasters, notes by notaries.

Commendable intent spurred the emeritus novelists to recycle the museum’s rubbish as a metaphor of our time, an allegory of contemporary life, to entrust ill-harnessed characters’ goodness to express the existential anxiety to every poor devil of today.

I wanted to inquire about the fate of the beloved letters to the two messengers in these uncertain times, but the corset was too tight around me. My humble breast would have liked some fresh air, unlike my bulging belly, of which the air wanted free itself.

Your eyes, Marchioness Romea, are the mirrors of my torment ...

But My Lord, what matters to me? I am promised to the most powerful of sovereigns. Odalisque, I will finish, behind the grates of the harem of Divine Love, like lily of chastity to smell sweet in the cloister of the Favourite Sisters.

Will I ever be able to kiss the demure tips of your fingers?

If my fingers could but confide, your Lordship, you would turn purple like a cock close to a choke.

And we revolved like graceful figurines of a Neufchastel’s carillon, in front of the imposing fresco of martyrdom of Saint Narcissus. I didn’t know if the turmoil of my innards was due to the impudent harassing of Juliux or the infected onion soup that had been served to us in silverware for weeks. So much so, I became an expert in the art of making myself coy, and often I wanted to escape to the balconies, to unfasten the bodice and exhale that mephitic breeze that had swelled me to three atmospheres.

The umpteenth bow of the couples seemed devoid of loving compliment and sociable malignity. The ear lingered in alarm at the music of bombardments and mortars, in vain adorned with the licentious arpeggios of the spinet.

Romea, the smug dandy told me, skimming like a butterfly up my little finger, for that sacred moon up there, which dresses silver the tops of the ash trees of this garden, I swear to you … I raised a prosaic eye to the ceiling.

It swoops down on us! Damsels and Gallants lifted the anxious look. The chandelier was vibrant with a thousand and one twinkling, tinkled with its hundred and ten thousand crystalline pieces of a glockenspiel. And then our beautiful society enlarged as a daisy, with mad swarm. With the hiss of a meteor, the chandelier fell from the bluish vault, tore up the banner MACHO IS BEAUTIFUL in the passage, and crashed onto the mythological mosaics over the Carrara marbles.

At the same time, great roars were heard, thunders at the doors of the palace, screams of pandemonium, horrendous threats of emasculation, and the awful hymn of the castrators of swine.

Ineffable Romea, I will drink the fatal cup with you … the trembling Juliux could only mumble.

Fuck you! I slink off!

Ientered the ladder of valets to reach the kitchens, the basements, and from there, the dungeons and the sewers. While passing through the kitchens, I had grabbed a pair of shears, a candle, and a lighter.

Panting, I finally unfastened—without any fear of disrespect to the hypogeal places—my corsage and girdle. At worst, the faltering flame could trigger a firedamp, what else? I took off my wig, chopped off a couple of centuries from my hair, and pulled the ribbons off. Then I got rid of the triple bamboo scaffolding and whale bones and tore off half a meter of the last petticoat. Thus, I could pass for a pussy doll or a Japanese Lolita, cross the enemy lines and find myself in the liberated territories, in Franciacorta or Valgrande, with my fellow soldiers, los Machos de la Sierra.

But woe to me if I fell into the clutches of the heinous Tulipan guards! I could try to bribe them with the necklace of bottle bottoms—perhaps emerald—of which I had lightened the dummy of Countess Berenice of Roccafiera in the showcase of mummies.

Up there, in the palace-fortress in twenty-two machos, we were barricaded in the moment assault broke out in the village. To kill time and while away boredom, we went from one dance in costume to another, exchanging roles in a stage where the sexes were alluded to and the illusions very cheap.

Leaning against the slimy wall of the sewer, with the shears in my hand, I reflected upon what I could still shorten to seem more feminine. I didn’t know if it was day or night outside. Until I managed to lift a manhole cover like a sombrero, and having found the road deserted and dim, I ran off and ventured into the alleys. And then, escaping towards the gloomy countryside of high silhouettes of poplars, I sought refuge in the looming darkness.

The next day, filthy, my chin bleeding from the frustrated self-inflicted torture with the razor shears, I took shelter in bushes near a hill. The hill saw the passing of supply trucks, to which I made timid signs of begging for a ride. A truck of koka-kolas, bebsy and mineral water stopped.

The truck driver pulled a crate of beer off the seat and made room for me. She grabbed a bottle and pushed the capsule into a slot on the dashboard; a stream of foam bathed my already filthy dress.

I like to see how it sprays, the beer, she said. You pussycat, the bad machos have never done it to you, such a service?

No ... companion, I said with a pheasant-like accent.

A greasy hand rummaged under my petticoat. I clutched my knees desperately.

Can we make a little stop, puppy-guppy? The long reptilian tongue supported the proposal. I vehemently shook my head, made a desolate face, chewed my lips, ready to weep. I signalled that the hour was late, and some tragic family reason was calling me far away through the war-torn country. She slapped me on the delicate shoulders and intoned a truckolent lullaby to raise me some spirit.

After twenty Tulipan miles, at a curve, we ran into the checkpoint of the paratroopers. I was trapped. The she-Sergeant approached, a pulpy black woman, in legionary fashion pants. Well planted on her boots, through the lowered window, she tickled our nostrils with the sight of the Kalashnikov. She eyed the crates of beer and asked for documents. After consulting those of the trucker, she stretched out her arm in my direction. I shrugged, extremely despondent. I had lost them.

Come down! There you go! I climbed out.

Raise the paws, baby! She felt the little breasts, flattened Pampa against her gigantic Andes. Countess Berenice’s necklace caught her interest as well as a bracelet. We can negotiate, I thought, why not.

Beautiful jewels for a jerk. Where did you snatch them?

Aunt Berenice gave them to me … for my Communion. Her eye narrowed insidiously, reflecting the start of a suspicion.

Face to the wall! Come on! With the barrel of the Kalashnikov, she made me spread apart my feet. Then she put her hand into my panties.

And these, she barked, did Uncle Gustav give them to you? For the Confirmation?

And she began to maltreat my dearest jewels.

Upon my arrival at a concentration camp, I think that from a certain epoch onwards, there is little to laugh about.

However, our