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Ninja Dog, by Thaddeus Couldron

Ninja Dog, by Thaddeus Couldron


Dear You, Whom We Want to Attack

by Margaret Wappler

We are seven French girls living in Los Angeles and we want to kill you boys or maim you or push you into a cyclone of indefinite pain. We were born on the cobblestones of the sexiest, most brutal arrondissement. A member of the Gendarmerie yelled at all seven of our mothers for staining the street with placenta but it was an encouraging sight for the citizens, who danced around us with loaves of bread, images of Jim Morrison baked into their crusts. At our home here in crack-selling Hollywood, we spray-painted the word ‘Paris’ on our Astroturf lawn. We drink Champagne from chipped, stained mugs. We make up dance routines inspired by Catherine Deneuve. We sing sad cabaret songs on a broken piano from a New Orleans gutter bar. Sister blood is the Eiffel Tower. Language is Rimbaud’s grave. Nous sommes des chats du feu d'enfer! When you boys ride your bikes around our neighborhood, taunting us, heckling us, throwing brown liquor on our tap shoes and mocking us with scarves in your hair, red lipstick on and your high choirboy voices in full effect, we dream of severing your Gastrocnemius muscle from your Achilles tendon which would wreak havoc on your swagger style. True, you’ve scared us before with your Winchester guns, held long at your sides while you pump furiously on touring bicycles. But oh, we have weapons too. Knives that we hide between our breasts or in our stockings or in hot pink quilted clutches mailed out from Chanel, only to beautiful French babies now living in the States. Consider this our calling card of war, a perfumed initiation of violence, our pink-mouthed banshee wail. So, what time for battle?


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