grocery stores are in ruins. fruit salads are but a whisper in the past. nobody's had normal vitamin levels in years. nobody dares partake of fruit lest they pick a side and create enemies. children scream. a lone tear runs down my face. when will the fruit wars end.
a hand, in the dark. it grips your sleeve. you whip around, the knife already ready in your palm.
“back off,” you hiss. “I’ve cored three apples today. I don’t give a fuck.”
the hand releases your sleeve, and a figure steps out of the shadows, hands raised.
“i’m just a seller,” they whisper. you relax.
“what have you got?”
“pills. vitamin b6, potassium.”
you narrow your eyes.
“what do you take me for - someone who doesn’t eat bananas?” you demand.
they shake their head violently, but you’ve already moved - stabbing viciously at their chest. they gasp as liquid starts to spread over their clothes. you don’t lose eye contact with them as you reach into their coat - and remove a single mango, dripping its juice out of the stab wound you just created.
you throw the mango to the floor, and spit on it.
“tell the mango-eaters that we’re not done,” you say, throwing the words over your shoulder as you disappear into the dark. “tell them we’ll fight to the end.”