It began with an egg and a sperm. The singular cell split, creating monozygotic twins. But in this world, it is survival of the fittest, and only one child would be birthed from that womb in that year. One absorbed the other and developed superhuman abilities from its nutrients. Then came birth. A baby boy was born, delivered from his Mother’s womb directly into the hands of his own Father. As the newborn analysed his surroundings, he assesses his parentals and watches his Mother’s teeth sink into the umbilical cord that connects them, severing their only tie and separating them for life.

Born at 13 lbs 5 oz, I, Lance Danger Fruit, entered the world. The sheer mass of myself rendered my Mother incapable of walking for three months prior to my birthing.

At the age of one, my gift to myself was my own circumcision by my very own hand, under the watchful eye of my two great uncles, four uncles, paternal grandfather, father and 48 male cousins; All the while, the female relatives crocheted the 8 foot long noose that would one day be my death sentence.

Being the youngest child present in the family at that time, it was my soul responsibility to raise all other children, spending many hours of the next 41 years of my life feeding, calming, teaching and weaning the family children.

From the age of four until my sixth birthday, I was shunned by the more established members of my family for forgetting to save the excess oil from a can of tuna. Through these years I harnessed my skills as a parental figure and perfected my long range shot. I am now, not only a skilled sniper, but also an avid believer in the phrase “waste not, want not”. Especially when it comes to canned goods.

I lost my Grade School spelling bee to an illegal immigrant by the name of Raj Patel. I misspelled the word “failure” in front of the entire school... This was the lowest point in my whole entire life.

Things began picking up in seventh grade when, the school production of Oklahoma!, I was honoured with the role of “Mutey the Mailman”, a character invented specifically for myself as there were not enough roles to go around for everybody.

My Father played a large role in my childhood. Me and my Father often took the time to “bond” during hunting trips, often spending days at a time in the same position, unmoving, untalking and unblinking. Not once in my life did my Father beat me fair and square at any which game, rather, the old man would always cheat to win. Sometimes, he took me and my brothers down to the old swimming hole on a hot Summer’s day. We would play and bask in the cool waters until precisely 10:00 AM, then we would work in the beet fields until well after midnight while our Father watched us from the rocking chair on the patio. He was a hard man, but it was a necessity as he battled demons every day of his life, struggling with obesity, high blood pressure and high cholesterol.

My Mother, a very beautiful and very tall woman, passed away on my 40th birthday. She took a swim in the lake very late one night and was eaten by alligators. My Father ran toward the screams and tried to save her, but her lower half had already been consumed by the time he’d arrived. My Mother was buried in our farm, Fruit Farms, at the East field.

After this tragedy, I was to fly to Argentina to inform my Grandfather Manheim of the news. The elderly German war hero who had recently celebrated his 103rd birthday, was deprived of hearing the news by the Shoah Foundation when they protested my travel.

My paternal Grandparents had already passed, buried by the Western barn. In respect, me and my cousin Mose took the liberty of digging the bodies up informing them of the passing of their daughter in law, before reburying them within two old oil drums and throwing them into the lake where my mother was eaten alive. Of course, without any use for it, I have now taken my grandfather’s best tuxedo to be my own and found that it did not hold the smell of rotting flesh for more than a week.

I come from a long line of intelligent men, and men far beyond their time. In fact, my great-uncle Helmuth was locally renowned for building a makeshift flying machine in four years, but was promptly killed when said machine landed on a small girl. The people of the world were simply not ready for Helmuth’s innovation yet.

When I turned 32 and lost my ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ to the local town prostitute, as per the Fruit family tradition, I was rewarded for having intercourse with a woman with my very first bag of wild oats left on my doorstep. Of course, the tradition is usually carried out by a man’s parents, however, in their absence, my young cousin, Mose, carried on the tradition.

I live in a nine-bedroom, one-bathroom (which is located under the porch), farmhouse on my family’s 60-acre beet farm, alongside Mose, selling beets to local stores, restaurants and roadside beet stands. I use a part of my farm to grow hemp, which is highly sought after by local juvenile delinquents.

The farm has been converted into a luxurious Bed and Breakfast with a long waiting list. Make your booking today! The rooms feature three themes: “America”, “Irrigation” and “Night-time”. Fruit farms also plays host to many events, such as weddings, birthdays and funerals!