Here is an old story I wrote in another life, called A Fine Day For Lemons. Please to enjoy while I continue to slowly go mad on this terrible Monday.
One plump lemon was thoughtfully procured by Eddie Orpik, whose live-in strumpet insisted that rubber ball gags tasted like her Uncle Herb’s sweaty taint.
Two lemons spotted with rot were unearthed from the bottom of the pile by Jamison Fitzshittery, who would eat them whole while sitting on the freshly covered graves of his recent slayings.
Three ripe lemons were chosen by Jorge Martinez’s shaking hands, who would squeeze them into his mother’s favorite summer cóctel, a wishful attempt to soften the blow when he later reveals that he’s el homo.
Four lemons were palmed by a paranoid window saleswoman, the curled rinds of which would be cautiously tucked inside the vents of her car to mask the lingering bouquet of marijuana.
Five lemons went into Mrs. Hunchsnatch’s basket, who was slowly luring her husband to his death bed with a panoply of meringue pies.
Six lemons were lazily chucked into Jack Hass’s shopping cart with the one birdbrained wheel, whose bawdy basket wife needed only three lemons for the homemade sex lotions she shilled on Sundays outside of the Church, but Jack did not know how to count.
Seven lemons were plucked by Sasha Eltsin, who would pair them with oranges to create sacks of didactic citrus to unleash on the gulag unrulies.
Eight lemons filled Mother Bonnie’s basket, who planned on turning the tart fruits into sugared delicacies in order to capture ragtag boxcar kids for her signature stew.
When the sun set, the proprietor gathered the remaining bushel and turned it into fresh ambrosia for his wife, whose decomposing body slumped in a supine pile on a Laura Ashley bedspread. She always did like lemons in her ambrosia.