I looked out the window...

Image via WikipediaThere was a figure coming down the path, towards my front door. A familiar figure, hidden under a giant sombrero and poncho, cutting a zig-zag path to my house. Stumbling to the door, Max reached out and feebly tried to claw the door-handle.

 I opened the door and looked at him in silence.

 "Señorita !" He yelled, "It is I! El Drunko, the Mexican drunk!"

 I continued to look on impassively. After a few moments, a group of banditos arrived and started to shoot at Max. I went back into the house and boiled the kettle. I was thirsty, and wanted some tea.

As I stood at the British Embassy, waiting for the latest news on Max (he'd created a diplomatic incident while on holiday. Again.) it dawned on me I had no idea what happened to those kids who claimed to be mine. Further still, I had no idea what happened to that Mexican family. I'm not really very good at noticing things, I suppose, but it was worrying me that the dragon might have eaten them. Really, it had been foolish of me not to call the council the second I found a dragon living in my backyard anyway. Now, of course, if I was to report it had been there some time and I hadn't told anyone - coupled with the fact it ate a Mexican family and some orphans - I may be going back to jail.
 I can't go back to jail, not after the showers.
 You see, I prefer a bath myself.

Once again, it's been a few days...

I must apologise for my lack of contact. I'm sorry if anyone got worried and went to look for me in the desert again, but I've been right here all along. Not right here, obviously. This is a box I'm typing in on the Internet, and it doesn't really have a location. Anyway, I've been caught up in the excitement of the General Election. Not only has it been, like all politics, exciting and bear-filled, but I've had my work cut out in other ways. Primarily, explaining the British electoral system to the Mexicans, who still seem to be living with me. Max has had several days of fun regarding the fact we have a hung parliament as well. I am yet to hear one good joke on the subject, I must admit...
 While the overall result was something of a victory for the moderate right, it was nice to see Britain's far right parties get totally demolished. Of particular delight was the BNP's complete failure to gain a seat, and the subsequent loss of all of their local government places. To my foreign readers, I'm hoping the British National Party lack the influence to be know to you. Let's just say they're Nazis, led by a vile little man that looks like a frog poured into a suit.
 In other news, I still have many, many oranges. Would anyone like one?

It's ok, I'm getting out of the bloody desert today.

That was something of a lie, I'll admit. There is little blood in the desert... Except for the Mexicans: the customer killed and ate them all. Nah, not really. Everyone's doing fine, we even found a copy of Hungry Hungry Hippos to play of an evening.
 The helicopter, that's where we were. I can't really be bothered re-reading my last post, so I'll hope for the best. The helicopter's landed now. Did I mention that? Oh well, here goes.
 I approached the helicopter. With any luck, this wouldn't just contain deer like the last three airborne vehicles I'd seen. Who'd have guessed deer loved oranges so much? Anyhow, as I approached, the pilot hopped out, accompanied by the familiar figure in the passenger seat: Max! Twice in as many decades, I felt pleased to see him.
 "Max! What're you doing here?" I yelled happily, rushing to greet him and offer an orange.
 "Nuclear war!" He yelled "The sky burned, the oceans boiled, the fish cooked! Britain's full of zombies, from Aberdeen to Zurich!"
 Disregarding the location of Zurich, Max continued:
 "Civilization has collapsed. Armies of nuclear choirs roam the countryside, and the mutant-zombies have seized control of the electricity supplies. We have to rebuild civilization! Here! With Mexicans!"
 "Really?" I asked. Frankly, it was all a lot to take in.
 "Nah." Max replied. "I just thought I should find you. I broke your toaster."
We packed up the oranges, and all flew home. Sometimes, there's a simple solution to problems. One minute, evil British aristocrats kidnap you and make you man an orange stall in the desert, the next minute, you get in a helicopter and go home.
 Actually, you're right, this is deus ex machina really. Not a satisfying conclusion at all. I'm very sorry.

The sun had once again risen...

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.

Yes, I'm still in the desert. Why is no-one sending help?

Dawn broke, rising over the horizon like some sort of unbroken light thing. Stretching, awoken by the light, I scratched myself and rose from my orange-sack bedding. Nearby, the Mexicans began to stir, too warm under their ponchos in the morning heat.
 Walking from the storage room we now called home, into the store front, I prepared for another busy day. I pulled the lever on the wall, raising the metal grating covering the service window. Moving around lazily, I found some trousers and put them on. Toying with the idea of pretending two oranges were over-sized testicles, I noticed the customer.
 He was a rather shocking sight, considering we were in the middle of the desert, and I had only half a pair of trousers on. Hanging around a few feet from the shop front, he looked nervous, hesitantly taking steps towards the shop, then stopping and backing off. After a moment, I flicked another switch, activating the neon "open" sign on the front of the shop. Delight flickered across his face, and the customer approached the window.
 "Ah, good morning!" He hullowed me cheerily. "I've been lost in this damn desert for damn near 3 weeks! What news of the war? Has the Kaiser fallen yet?"
 I sighed to myself. The man was clearly no more than 30, although dishevelled and ripped of clothing. However, he looked rather well-fed and watered. Suspicion rose in my head: probably, he was a test customer, sent by my kidnapper/employer.
 "How can I help you sir?"
 "Ah, young man. I wonder, do you have any... pears?"
I closed the window. This was a test, a very stupid test. Turning the neon sign off, I went back to my sacking bed. As I closed my eyes, I could hear the Paco opening the window and trying to serve the man. Paco spoke excellent English, but to his credit, he had taken to his role brilliantly. Even now, I could hear him haggling with the man in broken English, offering his services as a day labourer.

Valencia or bust...

The bears are hard taskmasters. Within minutes of our van departure, a truck appeared in the distance. Snaking across the desert, it arrived in front of us, stopping in the midday sun. A fat man in a vest got out of the driver's seat, rushing to the back, and pressing some buttons on a panel.
 The side of the truck opened, sliding up onto the roof. Inside, a tropical paradise revealed itself. A man in safari outfit sat behind a camp table, in the middle of a lush jungle that seemed to stretch for miles, even though it was about 20-foot deep. Exotic birds flew from the jungle, exploring the desert and exploding into flames occasionally. The man, around 6-foot and with a small blond moustache, rose from his seat and offered a white gloved hand.
 "Sir Nigel Farnsworth-Holmes." He stated. I assumed it was his name, as gloves generally don't have doubled-barreled surnames.
 "And you must be the, ah ha, willing building crew!"
I looked around. This, even for me, was rather strange.
 "Gentlemen" - and here he addressed the bears - "You've brought the supplies?"
 The first bear nodded the affirmative, taking some sort of device from his pocket, and pressing a button. It was then I noticed a second truck had arrived silently behind us. As the bear pressed the button, the back of the truck opened, and teams of workmen began to bring building materials onto the sand.
 We watched for a few minutes. They brought out bricks, wooden trusses, cement, even paint.
 "You have your materials," Sir Nigel began, "And your unskilled day-labourers"
 I looked at the Mexican family. The father mouthed to me that he had a doctorate in Sociology.
 "So you can begin work immediately. I will return in one week, and expect to be able to buy fresh oranges at my convenience"
 With that, the truck closed up and departed. The bears and the supply truck did likewise. Approaching the building materials, I found a case full of papers. Amongst them, I found blueprints for a small building, and a pamphlet entitled "How to build and run your own Orange Empire - In the DESERT!"
 Resigning myself to my fate, I set the Mexicans to work. Prising open a crate, we found many oranges, and did eat heartily. Afterwords, we built the orange shop, and waited for customers. It was not long before they began to, I lie, flood in.

Eternal sunlight on the spotless bear.

The van doors opened. In fact, they opened in a fashion far more dramatic way than I can convey with words. But I'll try anyway:
 Springing open like caged rabbits eager for fresh lettuce, the metal doors of our confinement stood at attention. Sunlight bathed us like the care-worker of an elderly man, stroking itself softly across my wrinkled, fully clothed genitals. Terrified, we recoiled, fear snaking around our hearts, as if our very entrails would crush the life from us. Fearful, the Mexicans recoiled, mumbling and crying out in a manner cliched enough to be called racist.
 Outside, the bears. Now we were away from civilisation and their need for disguises, they were dressed in leathers. Leather biker coats, leather caps and large sunglasses. They looked a little like that one member of the village people, but without moustaches. Also, they were giant killing machines. The first one held the keys for the van, the second appeared to be clutching a submachine gun. Modified for his bear-fingers, of course.
 Gesturing sharply, the first bear ordered us out of the van. Stepping onto the desert outside, I felt like the first human to set foot on Mars. Although hopefully, that achievement won't be overshadowed by bear kidnap. The Mexican family followed me out, huddling together near the van. I stretched and looked around. Nothing for miles, red sand stretching to the horizons, and no signs of life beyond the trail from the van stretching towards the sunset.
 This probably wasn't good. Still, it's my birthday in October, and maybe someone's planning an elaborate surprise. One should never give up hope...

With a shudder...

...the van stopped. Shudderingly.
 The back, where I was held captive, was deceptively large. At first it had been to dark to see, but I'd quickly adjusted and grown accustomed to my surroundings. I was not in a small van, as I first thought: actually, it was a large van. Not huge, but a decent size. In the front corner - that which was nearest van's driver, presumably - huddled a Mexican family. I could tell they were Mexican from their costumes: stereotypes on the verge of being offensive, with large sombreros and ponchos over paunches. What I assumed to be the father stood uneasily, his chins shaking under his moustache, and offered me his hand.
 "Greeting Senior" He began. Addressing me in broken English, he told me that two days ago, two bears came to his house disguised as his aunt. Knocking him out, then his family, they had bundled them into this van and headed for wherever.
 So we return to present. The van, shudderingly, had shuddered to a stop. I can hear the bears coming towards the door. I don't know what horrors await me outside, but I sure wish I'd fashioned a shiv out of something... Those Mexicans look pretty pointy...