Napo 4/30/24 Johnny Appleseed at the Apple Orchard

The final prompt for this year's Napowrimo. As always, it's been fun. Thanks for reading along with me.

We made a mistake posting our weekend plans

to our digital footprint. It was only a matter of 
time that Johnny Appleseed himself, who my husband
met and endured at a local plant enthusiast meet-up,
saw we were headed to the local orchard.

"am total-e interested in their stock! see u their [sic]."

Johnny knew apples. Johnny came rolling up in
his honey-crisp-colored Camry. He hugged me, he
hugged our friends, he hugged the person who sold us
tickets--even though he was unhappy that it cost money to
commune with the apples and the trees.

"A tree for you/A tree for me/every tree is free/ho-wheeee"

he sang, though I could tell that his merry tone was judging
the capitalist endeavor he was now paying for, in nickels. 

He refused to take the tractor.
"My feet are mine/the earth is warm/and so I go in Earthen form/dooo-orm!"

I just assumed he was out of nickels, but I should have known
this was a sign, a red moon, that 
things were heading south with alarming speed.

We watched as he ran from person to person, accosting them as they casually took a bite of 
an apple and cast the rest aside. I'll admit, that did seem wasteful, but we could hear Johnny's shrieks over the hum of the tractor, the jangling bumps, the scratching sounds of hay against us.

"waste not/want not/mother tree/I save thee/who-freeeeee!"

And then he started thwacking people with his traveling stick, but not with ill intent, more like a gentle "hey stop that, no I'm serious, I'll do it again" sort of thing. He took the apples cast aside and, with a loving gesture, putting them in his rucksack, skipping from person to person and repeating these actions.

The orchard sent their champion, a hulk of a man with dirt on his hands and an adequate mustache, to apprehend Johnny. There they dueled, Johnny swinging his traveling stick like a frothing mad raccoon, the champion slammed his fists together, yelling profanities at Johnny. Children covered their faces. Our baser instincts took over and people began to take bets. I put 15 nickels and a bag of Honeycrisp on the orchard's champion.

Johnny came in quick. Blows rained down on the champion. I am told his name was Phil. Phil took a nasty shot to the head and lurched backward. 

"The voice of the apples/ the bringer of justice/I return you to the dirt/now grow an orchid!"

Johnny was losing his rhythm, his ability to rhyme
as he tackled Phil and beat him about the head.

"I think he's actually going to kill him." said my husband. Johnny screamed something incoherent at Phil's unmoving form and struck him again. and again. and again.

The police arrived and subdued Johnny with rubber bullets and at least 2 tasings. Phil was good and dead at this point and his body looked the part. We watched from the now-stalled tractor, Johnny was escorted away, a look of triumph on his face, the one and true champion of the apples.