Although she was not shocked when Pinky answered her knock clad totally in several shades of soft red, she was curious to know, “Are you gonna wear nothing but pink for the rest of your days?”

“I actually hate pink, so I’ll probably get sick of it pretty quickly,” Pinky answered. “But I am determined to start a movement, and that’s gonna require Gandhian steadfastness from me. I think the simplest solution is for me to dye my hair pink. That way, I only have to see it when I look at myself in the mirror, and that’s something I have never been in the habit of.”

“Oh, I like that. The kids will be all about it. Pink hair everywhere. Up and down, carpets and drapes. Instant conversion therapy. When the bigot boys start seeing all the pink haired babes flouncing around with pink haired boys, they’ll burn their Klan robes, and sign on. Hell, those pink haired boys, the early adopters, at least, are gonna be getting it from girls of every colour.”

Nodding his agreement, Pinky said, “That’s funny! I hadn’t thought of it, but you’re rigt. If you take it a step further, and the girls start a campaign in which they will only fuck boys with pink hair, we may even be able to dodge this race war that’s been knock knock knocking on the door, forevermore.”

“Boys and girls,” Kitty was quick to point out. “We are in the earliest embryonic stage of pansexualism. Pre-embryonic perhaps. And I’m not so sure about forevermore, but if we can forestall it for a few weeks, until someone comes up with another strategy, it’s worth a shot.”

Before Pinky could mull that over and give a retort, Kitty cautioned, “I can see problems. Incels dying their hair and still not getting any, so they go ballistic. The Boogaloo boy bros and Freedom Fries Fighters fucktards getting even more insecure and confused, and having to assert their manliness with some good old fashioned violence.”

“Yeah, all possible, of course. Maybe worse things, too. Lynchings. But, if the haters go around beating and killing other whites, it will just prove that none of it has anything to do with race, anyway; it’s just hate. You don’t just hate blacks, and Asians, and Hispanics, and Indians, you just hate. You’re nothing but hate. Nasty little balls of flaming hate.”

“I see little pink houses. Little pink trailers.”

“Yeah? You see fire. Little pink houses? Burn them to the ground! Little pink trailers? Burn the fuckers down! I see home insurance premiums going way up on such dwellings, in certain parts of the country.”

“Fair enough,” admitted Kitty. “But I see pink hats.”

“Pink hats?”

“Yeah. MAGA, but in Pink. Divide and conquer. Not all Trump voters are bigots. Just because you wanna drain the swamp, doesn’t mean you wanna burn a cross. The problem with politicians is you have to buy the whole pizza. You want sun dried tomatoes, but the cook throws bacon and pepperoni on it. And you can’t just pick the meat off.”

“Bacon, pepperoni, and eye of newt and tongue of bat,” said Pinky. “I like the hat idea. Could we force trump to wear one? Would he dare not to? Seriously, could he not do a photo op wearing a pink MAGA hat? If he refuses to, he’s flat out saying, ‘You’re rigt, I’m a racist.’ But, if he wears one, he pisses on the white supremacists who love him. Pink MAGA hats!  Nice one, Super Kitty!”

“I’m just riffing off your brilliance, Pinky. Maybe we can get Jack Ma in on this.”

“Jack fucking Ma. Quite the move. Make America Go Away. It’s brilliant. But I wonder if it’s really him doing it. Might be a clone, for all we know.”

Looking at the clock, Kitty said, “We have to go. Maybe your boy Gotcha will know something about Jack Ma.”




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