So this French girl followed me home last night. I don’t know why. At first I was amused, but when we got round to my door I was overwhelmed with the why of the matter. A half-block from where I was supposed to be, I turned back to and spat, “Why are you following me, Froggy twat?” She wasn’t the least bit offended. She stared and garbled back to me in fractured English, “In Paree I am allowed to vollow any boy I veel like. I teeck you are very pretty indeed.” This worried me because I despise people stranger than me and I had no recollection of how I came to be in France. Then she showed me her teeth. They were crooked and yellow. Just then I felt like being a little rude so I told her she wasn’t a Froggy twat, but a toad-whore instead. Who goes about tailing every boy they think is pretty? Americans and sane people certainly don’t mess about in tomfoolery of that kind, that’s for sure. Again she wasn’t disturbed by being meshed together with slimy reptiles and the French people so of course I became very frightened. Under normal circumstances I would be very flattered by being shadowed all the way to my doorstep, even by French girls or bums, but this was just a bit too shameless. She just stood there showing me her crooked yellowed teeth, calling me pretty, and hadn’t even offered me a kiss or blowjob or compensation of any kind. There was something very dangerous going on here. Just then I came around to a solution. There is of course only one way to dispense with a beast of this particular nature. You must shatter them at their own game.
Now since I was just coming to the realization that I was in fact in a foreign country and really had no I idea where I was heading, I found it a good stratagem to make for the nearest alley way or dark corner. If you’re going to kill someone, this really is the most soldiery means – I’ve seen it done this way in all the movies and books and such. Traditions don’t lie and life imitates art and all that. I found a cozy little nook right near a neglected dumpster. The light was all busted out and it was just discreet enough that the smell wouldn’t reach the street for days. She hadn’t put her teeth away. I’ll smash them first, I thought, or maybe last. Fine experiences should be enjoyed first or last, never in between. Nobody likes being in the middle of the thing. I pointed to something on the ground, “ What is that? I’m not from around here. Tell me what that is.” She is stupid. She’ll ever see it coming so there’s no need to rush. I started looking around on the ground for some sort of decent bludgeoning material. A rock? A bottle? No boards or planks around. There should always be boards and planks lying about in alleys! It’s gospel! How else are supposed to vanquish silly frog-stalkers, my God! Ah, sweet relief… Some vagrant has disassembled a shopping cart. The steel byproducts will do quite nicely. Thank God for all the bums and low-life transients. Without them, the underbelly of mankind’s aims could not progress. They’re like angels.
“I don zink I zee anyzing dere. Are ou chure zou zaw zomzing?” She is very stupid indeed. Staring at the same spec of bricked wall I pointed out earlier, tailing headlong into a gag that most second graders wouldn’t even smile at. I take care plucking the bar from the pavement. The slightest tang of the steel dragging along the asphalt will put her on guard. Even a Mongoloid of her disposition can hear impending doom long before she can sense it. Now comes the reign on the thing. You have to grip an object of dispatch properly. Hold it too loose and you risk an unjust blow. This can result in shrieks and necessitate further swings, which, in themselves, result in more noise. Everybody knows that attention of any kind in matters of this nature is very bad. Grasp the battering tool too tightly and risk folly of different kind. I once fractured my wrist in several places while smiting a Stockbroker of ill repute. He had done me a very great misdealing and needed some guidance in furthering my finances. I had been a bit careless and carried away. Purest incense always makes the muscles tense. Never grip too tightly, you’ll be carried away and break something.
Aiming is the tricky bit. Guide the blow too high and you risk nothing more than a nasty cut. Doctors can use the hair to amend this type of misstep. Strike too low and you may only break the neck. It’s not pleasant, but people nearly always survive a broken neck. It’s a shame. Tragedy must be dealt at the exact center behind the eyes. It’s that soft spot that takes years to develop into something hard, the place with all the cracks you see on skeletons and lab rats and old folk. With the proper amount of applied force, this particular region caves like a Halloween pumpkin striking pavement: a bit messy sure, but fatal nonetheless. The grip is right. The aim is decided. All that’s left is the wheeling and dealing, so I reared on back and threw my body behind it.