A Citrus Execution

I scaled the leg of the wooden plateau to establish high ground. There sat a spherical entity, clad in pitted orange hide. I drew close and prodded its flank with my sidearm. It offered no battle cry, only an offensive scent of acidic sweetness. Unacceptable. I drove a deliberate gash into its peel using the serrated heel of my boot. A tiny droplet of juice wept onto the timber surface. I observed its slow demise in silence. A pathetic adversary, yet blood—or whatever sap passes for it—was drawn.