Kalah Allen
I know you. You and your dumbass friends race up and down the quiet neighborhood streets in your tricked-out Geo Metros and platinum Ford Focuses, blaring sissy rap music out your Wal-Mart blue-light-special, gutter-bitch car stereos. I can't decide if you flunked out of the Hong Kong Driving School or not.

Last night you ran over my cherished cat of six years. IF you EVEN care, his name was Percy, a handsome hunter, a clever, humorous little guy. Also a very close companion to my lonely, elderly, acute liver-disease-inflicted mother!

That cat was too savvy to be run over by a slow vehicle, so I know it was you, you gargantuan piece of barrio trash, barreling down the street at 60 miles an hour! I wish you'd driven off a cliff instead.

What are you gonna do when you run over a neighborhood kid? Isn't it enough that you deal drugs to them? If you have the balls to walk down my block, you better run the other way. I have a custom hot-rod Saturn Coupe that'll mow you down like a machete in a sugar cane field.

Your neighbor,