In Stephen King’s magnum opus, The Dark Tower, the main band of misfit gunslingers, the heroes of the story, happen upon a small farming village on the edge of the world. The town, Calla Bryn Sturgis, has lived for as long as its people can remember under the tyranny of the Wolves. To the east of the Calla lies Thunderclap, a land of eternal storms and darkness, and every few years, the Wolves ride into town to abduct one child from every set of twins. Unfortunately, almost every child born in the Calla is part of a pair of twins; it has become an extremely common gene there.
The nature of the Wolves is unknown to the townsfolk. But what they do know is that a few weeks after the children are taken, they are sent back. A phantom train with no conductor rolls back into town, and the children are all aboard. Except, now they are Roont.
It’s as if the children have had most of their brains scooped out. They are shells, capable of only the most basic functions, and highly erratic, emotional, and violent. They immediately begin growing at a rapid pace, becoming grotesque behemoths. The people of the town do their best to love them alongside their normal-twin counterparts, and give them jobs to do around the house and in the fields, but most die prematurely.
Many times when I am dealing with modern American women in my daily life, I cannot help but think of them as Roont. The word is basically a dialect-version of “ruined.”
When I am on a date with a woman who brags about how many men she has slept with, and then laughs with cockiness about how she’ll have plenty of marriage prospects well into her 40s, she is Roont.
When I see a woman wearing a pantsuit talking about the corporate merger and how she is going to really deliver some stellar Q3 profits, she is Roont.
When a girl goes out to clubs night after night, filling her life with endless “fun” until she finally decides to settle down in her 30s, she is Roont.
When a fat whale waddles down the street, marching in a slutwalk and calling me a misogynist for criticizing her “just because she doesn’t starve herself,” she is Roont.
The sad thing is, I believe once a girl is Roont, it can never be undone. That’s why the word is appropriate. She is truly a ruined woman, a walking example of failed opportunity. Someone who could have brought light and life into the world, but has instead been warped into something unnatural, which lives out its days in confusion and misery.
I don’t call women Roont out of spite or bitterness. It truly saddens me every time the thought comes into my head; every time I see another example of the toll our society’s direction has taken.
In the Calla, this curse is only reversed by fighting back and killing the Wolves, stopping the vicious cycle so they can raise the next generation in normalcy.
Changing the Roont back is an impossible task; all that can be done is to eliminate the darkness that turns them, and begin raising the next generation to live in a more natural state of harmony.
So it is with America. Arguing with aging, bitter feminists and fatties is a fool’s errand. Their egos are too invested in all their wasted years and poor decisions, and they will rationalize these choices until they die.
But if we can retake control of the conversation, begin to stand up for what is right, and show our children a better path, there is hope for us yet.