And so had we. Myself, the Mexicans, and now the customer from yesterday - who had inexplicably joined our workforce - we milling around the storefront, bored. We'd already rearranged the pyramid of oranges, and drawn little faces on some of the bigger oranges, and done other things to oranges. Now, I wanted out of the desert. This had gone, like most of my life, beyond a joke.
Outside, a desert snake prowled restlessly. I didn't worry about it, all the snakes 'round here seemed to do was steal the oranges. Everything revolves around oranges in the desert, it would seem.
Crafting a gun from oranges, I set out into the desert. I'd seen a rock nearby, and thought it might be a nice place to shoot myself. Or drown myself in orange juice. Or get a nice view, whatever. Settling on the boiling rock surface in the blistering sun, I threw one cursory last glance at the sun. It looked like a giant orange, and I was so very angry.
My internal monologue broke: Something, fast approaching from the sky. Helicopter! Coloured fecking orange, but you can't have everything. An eternity passed in a moment, and the mechanical, bladed seagull descended to the sand, near the orange stall.
I approached, not getting my hopes up. Most likely, it wasn't a rescue, but another orange-hungry passer-by.
We have bloody good oranges, you see.
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