A Plea at the Gates

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.

Had she not turned around I would be enjoying a French breakfast right now. Oh I cracked the skull to be sure, I’ll take the oath and get on the stand if need be, but I’m still not sure if she made it to a hospital. She could be could following the other boys she thinks are pretty right now for all I know, can’t be too sure. I suppose it was a sort of beauty, the looks we shared at that moment. Me with my learned clubbing method and her with that rusty shank of hers. It was like a pair of seasoned artists, perhaps a writer and a painter, each sharing a sorted appreciation for their crafts. There weren’t smiles or back clapping or hand wagging or any ballyhoo of that sort, but there was a certain appreciation for one another that transpired there. She, with her little froggy face all bludgeoned and bleeding, and me with my midsection all splayed open and pouring out into the darkened alley the way it did. I called her stupid and I hold fast to it. She was quite stupid, but her skill with a blade is nothing to be laughed at. I imagine she acquired the trade in some seedy Indochina prison or bar. People of proper requite with a blade always seem to come from places of that sort, you know. Of course I’ll never know for sure, it’s not like we had a conversation.So you see, Pete, this whole mess is really just a misunderstanding. Sure, I meant to kill that rotten little pixie, but she got me first. Fair’s fair and all that, but there seems to be a real party going on in there, and everybody hates being left out of things so why not let me go on through. It’s all fine and well if you don’t think I’m the sort you like hanging round at your little suare, but don’t leave me sitting out here like a spectator. That’s just plain rude. You could send me back down for another go round with that little minx. I’m sure this time I’ll have her. Loosing once is all fine and well – especially when you don’t know you’ve entered a tangle with a proper villain – you just can’t make a habit of it, that’s all. Give me another shot at the thing, and I promise I’ll have that little slag right-wise. I’ll choke her off in her sleep or hit with her with a speeding motored gadget or poison her coffee or something else really clever. I won’t shoot her though. Shooting people who don’t expect it is so cowardly, don’t you think? I can’t abide nonsense like that. Anyway, let me into the shindig or send me back for a bit of righteousness, I don’t care either way. But really, Petie old boy, the alternative you presented is just a hair on the sadistic side, no?

A Plea at the Gates

Campion Windisch

Hollywood, United States

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Artist's Description

fairly offensive

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