As you know, I have been a member of the Saratoga-based, Vietnamese gang called "The Bitch Killers." I am pleased to say that things are going very well for our organization; it is not safe to drive down Fruitvale unless you are in a white or gray SUV.

Life's a Bitch tattooBut what impels me to compose this message is not the rapid growth of this Vietnamese gang, nor our recent acquisition of street weapons, including at least one gun. Rather, it is a subject much dearer to my heart. I think it is best to simply state what is vexing me so: your grandfather failed to recognize.

Now, let me first say that your grandfather and I go back a long way. I remember the $18 in cash he gave me when I was bar-mitzvah. You and me used to go swimming in his pool every summer, when we were kids. Remember how he used to bring out slices of watermelon?

Second, let me make the following point: when you are in a gang, 90% of what you are concerned with is recognition. Now, I would have been willing to let it pass when your grandfather didn't recognize me the first time. But then it happened again, in front of my friends. He said, "Did we meet before?," looking genuinely surprised. Man, he cold let me down. I was standing there like a complete square. My friends from the Bitch Killers were laughing and talking in Vietnamese. The embarrassment was more than I could endure…

It is possible that your grandfather has joined a rival faction—maybe the Cupertino-based Lucky Dragon Boys, or the Polynesian gang "Dynasty." If either is the case, then at least I would have an answer for his behavior. But I would not be happy to call him my enemy.

Please convey the situation to your grandfather, and impress upon him the importance of recognizing my gang, whoever he is with.


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