You roll the melon carefully but to your dismay it wobbles off the sidewalk and into the gutter. Your pursuers are quickly upon you, and they knock you to the pavement. The
fruit vendor starts beating you on the head with a bunch of unripe bananas, while the rest of your pursuers begin to pelt you with rotten oranges.
"This is horrible, they're beating me to a pulp!" you say to yourself, but you can't help chuckling at the thought as you wipe the mashed bananas and orange pulp from your face.
Suddenly, a little girl of about six or seven steps out from the crowd and begins pulling on the shirt sleeve of the fruit vendor. " Stop mister! Please! You're hurting him!" She pleads.
The fruit vendor looks over at the little girl. She has big sad-looking brown eyes, the kind you see on those kitschy black velvet paintings of kittens or puppy dogs that they sell in the cheap souvenir shops down in Tijuana. Nevertheless, her sad face melts the heart of the fruit vendor, and he mutters a hasty apology to you in broken English and walks away with his head hung low.
The girl looks out accusingly at the rest of your pursuers and they quickly drop the oranges they were throwing and hurry away, ashamed of themselves for their part in the attack.
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