Fruit

Herb Bitter blinked. Veins pulsated in the Overlord’s bald head as he spoke. But the words came from a shiny box on his chest.

“You need to go to Mackinac Island to hear the Revelation. Bring offerings of fresh fruit. The Ancient have slept for millennia and will be hungry.”

“Apples? Everyone likes Michigan apples.”

No answer came. The Overlord was slowly dissipating, from lavender cape to white goatee—which hung in the air a second before evaporating.

Herb threw a sack of oranges and some DelMonte snack-packs into his Chevelle and headed upstate. That afternoon, he liberated a fruit bowl from the ferry snack-bar. Dusk found him overlooking Lake Huron as a great ship arose from its depths.

He pointed a banana at it.

A voice boomed in his head. “After eons dormant, we awake to—what pathetic offering is that!? Can’t get a melon slice or something?!  Sheesh!”