A little vignette for those of you too lazy to read the slightly longer zombie stuff.  I wonder how long I can keep this up?

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Sergeant Haul was never much good at cleaning up a crime scene. Perhaps that’s why they always made him do it, because they knew he’d be sat there for hours willing the mess to clean itself up.

Forensics had been through and bagged up quite a lot of the pulp, but anything they didn’t want was left to the clean up crew. In the old days that had been an actual crew, professional cleaners with overalls and vacuums and sponges. Nowadays they had to make do with Haul and his moustache comb.

He scooped up a loose bit of pulp and dropped it in a nearby bin. Poor guy, an orange in the face. People got killed all the time and others would say things like ‘what a shame,’ or ‘man, that’s not fair. He had kids at home’. That didn’t carry over to people who get oranges in the face. They’d be a laughing stock. People would actually laugh at this man’s death and, he had to admit, he would probably be one of them.

He’d seen a book once, on another crime scene, Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit. He’d not read it, he wasn’t one for reading, but the title had struck him as odd. In fact, the first thing that had occurred to him after seeing this crime scene was that book, it’s title slightly altered.

Oranges Are The Only Fruit That Kills.

That was a book he’d gladly read.