R

Ruffians, hoodlums, gangsters, drug addicts — whatever the PC term you prefer for yourselves these days, I know what you did last Saturday. Did he seem like an easy target? Sweet, perhaps naive, not paying attention. Just a boy. So you hurt him and stole everything he had. No one else will say it, but I will — slavery is too good for you. Jail is too good for you. Life is too good for you.

This atrocity happened because you don’t know your place. Your entire existence isn’t worth a glance from a decent human being. You never learned your manners. I’m here to teach you. I will hunt you all the days of my life, and I will eviscerate you with a dull knife. Or even better, I’ll drag you, a rope around your neck, screaming through the streets and gathering a leering crowd. We’ll hang you from a tree and watch your eyes and tongue bulge from your head. Maybe the symphony will perform in the background and someone will sell popcorn and peanuts. Perhaps I will crush your teeth and skull into a curb with such a satisfying crunch under my foot. Will your brain dribble a bit and filthy up the concrete? Oh, I didn’t know you had one…

Perhaps all those words are too big for you to understand, you actual shit stain. Let me say it in words of one syllable so you have a chance of getting it*:

You do not fuck with my friends. I will kill you.

*Ah, but you’re probably illiterate too, aren’t you?

(Disclaimer: This is part of the letter series)

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