“They sprayed something on me!’ Ilhan said, distressed, changing her hijab.
“What was it?” Sandy asked.
“Does that really matter?” Rashida replied, helping Ilhan adjust her performative headwear.
“I’ve had a lot of stuff sprayed on me, “ Sandy said brightly, “and some of it was delicious.”
“You basic-ass cracker-ass cracker,” Jasmine said. “You might as well be White trash.”
“Some of it smelled pretty bad,” Sandy said, the vacant look of memory on her face. “Like bleach and mushrooms.”
“I ain’t let no man jizz all over me,” Jasmine huffed. “Sticky nasty shit ruin my weave. You know how much dis shit cost?” She fluffed her hair carefully. A thick clump fell to the floor of The Squad’s secret lair, safe from the untamed press faction under a Vietnamese nail salon.
“You don’t have to talk like that in here,” Rashida said.
“I know that,” Jasmine said, code-switching to normal English and then back, “but I gots to keep it real for my peoples.”
“W-w-w-what are we going to do about Minneapolis?” Tim asked from his cage.
“You need to shut up, bitch,” Jasmine growled, “or Ima going to spray nail polish remover in yo eyes again.”
“We have Minneapolis in hand,” Rashida told Tim. “We already have two martyrs, and we’ll have a few more soon enough.”
“I was trying to whip up more of them,” Ilhan said, wiping down her sweater, “and I got sprayed.”
Sandy came over and sniffed her all over, like some disgusting dog. “Well, it isn’t man batter, I know that much.”
Ilhan pushed her away, muttering “dhillo” under her breath.
“The next time someone is going to spray you, I suggest getting them to eat a bunch of pineapple first,” Sandy said. “Makes it all sweet and yummy.”
“I gots plenty of nail polish remover,” Jasmine said. “I spray you too, you stupid bitch.”
“Would you please stop talking like that?” Ilhan asked Jasmine while pushing Sandy away.
“No one tells Sandy to stop talking like an idiot,” Jasmine said.
“You know she can’t help that,” Rashida said.
“More martyrs!” Jasmine said. “Let’s try and stay on topic.”
“We’ll send more of the useful idiots out,” Illhan said. “We’ll tell them about how important it is to try to intervene in an arrest. That will get more of them killed.”
“We need to get a dead Black,” Jasmine said. “That’s how you get a real riot season. Find some crackhead with long arrest record to rob a store while armed. Nothing a White mob loves more than a dead life-long criminal.”
“What about a Mexican?” Sandy asked. “We could get a Mexican shot!”
“That does fit with the theme of the overt action groups,” Rashida said.
“Where are we going to find a Mexican dumb enough to attack an ICE officer?” Ilhan asked. “Only White people think they have that level of privilege.”
“I’ll do it,” Sandy said. “I’m sort of Mexican.”
“No, no, we’ll save you for the midterms, maybe stage an attack in mid-October.” Jasmine said.
“We keep sending the protesters out armed, there will be plenty more killed,” Ilhan said, “and it keeps our hands clean.”
“Clean as a new tampon!” Tim said.
“I will spray you,” Jasmine said, hopping off the barrel of acetone she had been sitting on, advancing on Tim.
“But I am sort of Mexican,” Sandy insisted. “Puerto Rico is right beside Mexico!”
