Fruit Assassin

I never should have taken the money—but a man has to make a living somehow. I gritted my teeth, and pondered the path that had led me to become a Fruit Assassin.

She was a sweet little strawberry. She was a voluptuous piece of nature’s candy freed from the vine. I cringed, and considered roads not taken, and homework assignments uncompleted, and images of a raging father all hot like a bowl of steamed bananas.

Was it all about the cash? Or was it the thrill of the chase? The pursuit of the mighty squish? And then there she was—alone on the kitchen counter. Alone on the marble mausoleum of her death.

I crept closer with my heart pounding, and with blood pumping in my ears like sugary syrup through a firehose. One more step. One more long little instant—

SQUISH!

It was done.

I took a breath, and felt the tension drain away. I felt years of anger and sadness smearing together like a masterpiece painted in crimson-colored paste.

And I smiled because there was no money. There was no cash. There was only a feeling of euphoria born from the knowledge that this is the way it had to be. This is the way it would always be. This was better than the alternatives.

I grabbed a paper towel and started cleaning up the mess.