You wake up lying in the street in a heap of broken wooden crates and smashed fresh fruit, the remains of a vendor’s push-cart. You vaguely remember jumping through a window, but you can’t remember why. For that matter, you’re not even sure who you are or what city you’re in.
A heavy-set man in a stained white apron is standing above you, shouting angrily
in a foreign language. You stagger to your feet, dusting yourself off. Stalling for time while you regain your balance you politely inquire: "Parlez vous
Francais?"
"Oui!" he responds gruffly.
"Well, I sure as hell don't!" you reply, quickly grabbing a small seedless
watermelon and running away.
"Halte! Halte! Ravisseur!" The fruit vendor calls out, and several citizens join in
the chase after you.
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