AND NOW FOR ANOTHER PEEK INTO THE INTRIGUE AND NITRATES BURBLING IN THE HEART OF HOT DOG COURT

On the outskirts of town, the Chien Chaud family gathered for their evening meal. 

“Papa,” whimpered Pierre, only seven days old, “today at school, zee uzzah keeds, zey… zey said I was not a real ‘ot dog… because of zee croissant blanket zat I wear.”

“ZISS IS AN OUTRAGE,” roared Henri. “WE PAY OUR TAXES HERE, LIKE EVERYONE ELSE. WE CONTREEEBUTE TO ZEE MONTHLY RELISH-STOMPING DUTIES, LIKE EVERYONE ELSE IN ZIS TOWN.”

His rage gave rise to a blistering silence. Quiet chewing. A napkin dabbed at the corner of Pierre’s mouth.

Claudine drew her son into the crook of her shoulder. “Shhh, ma chere,” she whispered. “Your fazzah, he ees just so scarred from zee ethnic ostracism. You know, zat ees how he lost hees own muzzah.”

“I know,” said Pierre. “I just weesh zere was some way zose leetle pieces of crap who torment me… I weesh they could get theirs.”

“What!? Don’t be seeely. You are but a child. Do not theeenk such theeengs.” Claudine had no idea, of course, that Pierre was already the leader of an adolescent motorcycle gang and extremely sexually active.

The rage cloud lingered in its awkwardness and threat.

Henri had lost his appetite, and clamoured up the stairs to brood over his stamp collection.

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