The leader of The Last Tribe is named Randall Hvitfeldt. He's tall, but his height gives him no presence. He's clumsy, awkward, like every step is a failed attempt at elegance. His skin is pale, almost translucent, like someone who hasn't seen the sun in years. Albino, but not quite. His eyebrows and eyelashes are little more than traces of ashy blond. His hair is thin and sparse, barely clinging to his scalp. He wears a ridiculous hairstyle: a pathetic side curtain, as if trying to cover his baldness with strands of nothing. His body is bulky, almost fat, but not the kind of fat that inspires tenderness. Randall dresses like a university professor stuck in the nineties. Faded plaid shirts, worn-out corduroy pants, and brown shoes, well-polished but old. A gray cardigan with patched elbows and a cheap digital watch, the kind no one wears anymore. Beneath that harmless facade, everything about him is too clean. Fingernails trimmed to the millimeter. A heavy scent of Brut cologne, strong and pungent, like he's trying to cover up something rotten. And when he speaks, his voice is carefully modulated, almost like a sermon. The tone is condescending. His eyes, a washed-out blue, don't blink enough. And when he smiles, he only does it with his mouth. The eyes stay empty.
Randall says to Marvin:
"Do you know what the problem with the world is, Marvin? Selfishness. Nobody cares about anyone else. And there are more of us every day. And the world just keeps getting more selfish. They don't care about anyone's suffering. They don't care how lonely some people feel. Some? No. Many. Too many. People who never asked to be born, but here they are. People who are just another number. Another code. They give us a function, and we're supposed to fulfill it and that's it. We don't get anything of real value in return. We can work hard, be efficient, and still get nothing. Not even a handshake. Not even a hug. People kill themselves, Marvin. And no one cares. They just replace them with others just as lonely. And there are so many of us, Marvin. So many. Alone. Very alone. Because tell me, the ones who get a little bit of company—how many are they? A handful. And the rest? Nothing. Just loneliness. An ocean of loneliness."
Marvin shifts slightly.
"Look at us. You and me. How many friends do you have, Marvin?"
Marvin responds, barely above a whisper:
"None."
"Exactly. None. You're one of us. You get it. And tell me, who's responsible for us being here, suffering? Who, Marvin? Say it. You know it."
Marvin doesn't respond.
"Where do we come from, Marvin? From whose belly?"
"From women," Marvin says.
"Exactly. That's the right answer. They put us here. You see how it all fits, Marvin? Women are responsible for all of this. They're the most vile creatures you can imagine. They only care about themselves. That whole thing about a mother giving everything for her child? Lies, Marvin. Advertising. Garbage they shove down your throat in school so you don't see the truth. Women only love themselves."
Randall leans in closer.
"Tell me, Marvin. How much love did your mother give you?"
Marvin shakes his head.
"None. She gave me nothing."
Randall nods, like that's exactly what he was waiting to hear.
"I know, brother. I know. And it hurts. And I get it. The woman who brought me into this world didn't give me anything either. She only cared about her boyfriends."
"But some women are different. Some are good," Marvin says.
"No, Marvin. Not in real life. That's TV movie crap. The truth is something else. Women only care about themselves. What happens when they get divorced or widowed? Do they devote themselves to their kids? No. They go out looking for another man. One of those they always complain about but always choose to fuck and reproduce with. And their kids? To hell with their kids. They don't care. And if they can't get one of those men—the ones who treat them like shit—then they start hating themselves. And they start hating their kids. They insult them. They crush them. They tell them they're a mistake."
Marvin thinks of his mother. Thinks of his life. Marvin starts to cry. Randall just hit the nerve. And that's exactly where he wanted to get. Randall is sharp. He talks, tossing words like bait, watching for the one that hooks his target. And Marvin is already caught. Randall knows it.
"Oh, brother," Randall says. "I'm sorry for being so blunt. But I'm just trying to speak the truth. Your mother used to tell you that you were a mistake, didn't she?"
Marvin nods, his face soaked in tears. Randall wraps his arms around him. Marvin doesn't know how to react. Randall's arms press down on him like a coat that's too tight. It's an awkward hug, stiff, but for Marvin, it's like feeling rain after years of drought. Nobody ever touches him. And now, the contact overwhelms him. He doesn't know whether to cry harder or pull away. But he can't move. He just remains there, trapped in a hug that feels so foreign, so unfamiliar.
"We're victims, Marvin. Victims. Victims! Say it, brother. Say it."
Marvin says it, but without conviction.
"I'm a victim."
"Louder. Don't be afraid. You don't have to be afraid. Or ashamed. Not ever again."
Marvin raises his voice, but he doesn't shout. Randall lets go of him. Steps back a little.
"Scream it, Marvin! Scream it! Scream it, brother!"
Marvin closes his eyes.
"I'm a victim!"
"Louder!"
"I'm a victim! I'm a victim!"
"Louder! Let them hear you. All those who never listened to you."
Marvin screams with everything he has.
"I'M A VICTIM! I'M A VICTIM!"
And he screams and screams. Until he's out of air. Until his voice cracks and the words come out raw, scraping his throat. And while he screams, Randall smiles. Smiles like he just won something. And then, after so much screaming, Marvin smiles too. Marvin doesn't cry anymore. He feels better than he ever has. Randall watches him, eyes shining.
"Do you want to be part of this, Marvin?"
Marvin doesn't know what "this" is, but he nods.
"That makes me happy, brother." Randall grabs him by the shoulders, looks him in the eyes. "And are you willing to do whatever it takes to end this madness of evil mothers?"
"Yes, Randall. Yes, I am."