DROP TWENTY-TWO
Cherry kicked Pickle’s leg. Ouch! It was the augmented one, damn! That hurt, a lot.
“This was clearly made by people who hate pickles!” Pickle argued, far too passionately — if Cherry might add — for the lame topic under discussion.
“No, you see…” Mr Pappas, the company’s flavourist, managed to squeeze in before getting interrupted again.
“It’s an insult and an act of betrayal!” Pickle kept on screaming.
Cherry elbowed her hard. Ouch, poutana. Forgot about her exoskeleton, damn! Tingling, tingling all over her hand, ants, all over. Ow. Ow. Ow.
“You had the potential to convince people to incorporate more pickles into their lives, but no… You chose a sweet taste!” Pickle kept ranting on. She slashed her palm with her other hand. “Basic stuff. Pickles should be sour or
