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“It’s not the defacement of my property I mind,” says Mackenzie, “it’s that she really has no talent.”

“She’s three,” says Zenya.

“She’s a hack,” sighs Mackenzie, surveying the blue-scrawled stucco. A gigantic figure stalks from a rickety charnel house; it grins in rictus, eyes empty holes.

“You could get her those markers that only color on the special paper.”

“I’m a critic, not a fucking fascist. I am also cheap.”

“Then time-out chair and scrubbing sponge must suffice.”

“Can’t I eviscerate her in print? Just a little?”

“Sure,” says Zenya, “but the public loves a martyr with tantrums.”