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An orange. Standing. Not rolling. On a plate. Both colour and an object.

ve and noun. Same shit. Just orange. I sit up in my reclinable chair and try to
concentrate. 'Ok, fucking think you cunt, fucking orange....emmmmmm?'. I stare i
t down. My eyes hurt and glaze over. Vision and mind become one as I daze passed
the orange to the wall behind it. I break through the wall and the physical wal
l of this dimension then go astral on a bitch, Fuckin blastin out of it...astral
. Into a dimension where all I can see is a flying object out of context of the
tangible world. This much I know. The flying object still escapes me. Not square
by any means and definitely not yellow and definitely not red but pretty close
to both. What is orange? Food? Colour? Respected icon of impending threat in Fra
ncis Ford Coppola's The Godfather and the despised colour of shirt worn by the u
ber-obnoxi. 'Ok! OK!'s a fucking orange like! But why? What the fuck
is wrong with me?'.
BAM! It hits me like one of the dozen concussions I've suffered in my 7 score an
d 2 years of fighting crime.
'Yes! That's it!', I exclaim, praying it's not too late. 'Commisioner! The Riddl
er is going to rob the Gotham Orange Grove. Send your men west of the juicing fa
cility and I'll follow suite.' I hold the phone away from my ear as I hear him f
aintly ask a follow-up question which by now he must know I will never answer. I
hang up.
A man dressed in white approaches. He is a friend. He smiles. 'What are you up t
o Mr.Brady?'. Out of character; I smile. 'Just making this city safe and free of
the scum that made me what I am. Just being the beacon of light this city needs
to protect and punish those who lay in the darkness. Just...' 'Well good for yo
oouuu. Dr. Moylan says you need to keep busy, but you haven't even touched your
lunch you need me to peel it for you?'. 'Please do Ciaran...I fear my
bat-nail clippers may have done TOO good a job this morning.