Cranberry, Apple, Kiwi, Melon, Table Dance

"Lucifer!' He shouted, exposing his last Ace to the crowd of gilded duck swatches.  He stood up, backing away from the table. 

"Everyone here is a loser!  I am not a sportsman, and you most certainly are not sports, men.  I can't even begin to think of how terrible you all must really be."  He trampled back to the ladies, hoping they would cheer him up.  

"At least they have juice," he mumbled to himself, "at least they have juice."

................

A few months later he found a Danish lump on his left breast.  Doctors told him to get out and enjoy the last few seasons of his life.  One such scalpel jockey informed him rather impolitely, "The finale is going to be as boring and tasteless as the pilot.  Pray for a spin-off, even though that will undoubtedly be as shitty, if not shittier."

This created many illusions inside of his upper brain deck, and spilled even more juices into his eyes.  Juices. 

"Juices?"

Thinking back to his fortieth anniversary of being alive, he recalled drinking large quantities of health juice.  Flavors:  cranberry, apple, kiwi, and melon.  Ladies were flocking to him, giving him 7 numbers at a time, some 9 if they lived further than he could count.  Their dances were like safety wine, playing delicate casio-tones and radio-notes on his purple and red dancing mouth worm.  

He had sworn before the night began that he'd never reach outward with his grabbers, but the juice and ladies were too much.  He found himself grabbing at anything he could - juice, breasts, more juice, fleshy underthings, brown parts and down parts, silky peaches and mostly juicy sacks of love want.  The ladies should have been thirteen kinds of mad, but the juice had fooled even the smartest of the damsels.

"I can touch everything as long as I have my juice!"  It was clear to him now that he would live forever.  A crackle of thunder rung in his ears as shards of dangerously invisible sex lightening slid from betwixt the closest ladies, promising him that he couldn't be any closer to wrong.  Still he drank on, ignoring the signs, ignoring how to drink politely in a room full of dancing mothers and sisters.

Juice was everywhere.  Cranberry, apple, kiwi, and melon.