Apples

Anton SavorAnton Savor, Promo

Do you know what I hate most about apples, Captain?

Not the sour ones. Not the worm-riddled ones. Not even the bruised and battered—those at least wear their wounds with honesty. 

No, I detest the perfect ones. Glossed skins, unblemished color, stacked high in a market stall like symbols of health and virtue. 

They’re the ones people reach for first. The ones that promise sweetness, safety, sustenance.

And they’re the ones that rot from the inside out.

That’s you, isn’t it?

Captain Arcadia. Shining skin. Patriotic hue. Hero of the people. The man in the mask with fists full of justice.

But what happens when the bite is taken?

When the people finally sink their teeth into the promise you’ve sold them, only to taste bitterness? Decay? Wormwood truth?

You were never built to feed Arcadia, Cap. You were built to feed off it.

You claim you’re a protector, but you only show up when it serves your narrative. You don’t patrol the streets. You don’t hear the cries. You don’t lift the broken off the ground. 

You appear when it’s personal. When you’re wounded. When your ghosts whisper your name.

And that’s not heroism. That’s indulgence.

I walked through the Agora last week and watched a thief snatch a purse in plain daylight. You weren’t there. You didn’t stop him. 

But the moment I waved that paper in your face—ahh, that’s when the mask started to slip. Your fist clenched. Your ego flared. You bled for your own pride while the people kept bleeding for their survival.

That’s what happens when a fruit goes bad from the core. It looks whole until pressure reveals the truth. Your temper cracked, your fists flew, and in that instant the audience saw it too.

The core is soft, Cap.

Mushy with guilt. Spoiled with grief. Worms of loss burrowed so deep you can’t even swing without splattering someone else with the fallout.

Chavito found that out, didn’t he?

Poor lad took your tantrum to the chin, then the ribs, then the skull—because I knew all it would take was a nudge. A reminder. That your friends, your real priorities, are long gone. 

And the living? They’re just collateral. They’re not worth your control.

So here we are.

You, the rotten apple, puffing out your chest hoping no one notices the stench beneath the skin.

And me?

I’m the knife, Captain.

I don’t need to peel back your layers. I’ve already exposed the rot. Now I’ll carve it out.

Because Arcadia deserves to know what’s feeding them. They deserve to know that their beacon of hope is hollowed by time, ego, and unchecked grief.

They need to know that their Captain, like any spoiled fruit, can’t be saved. Can’t be stewed, can’t be baked, can’t be served up pretty with a glaze of redemption.

He belongs in the bin.

And when they see you discarded—bruised and beaten—they won’t mourn.

They’ll thank me.

Because I won’t just show them what you are.

I’ll feed them something better.

No more polished skin. No more false sweetness.

Just truth, peeled and plated.

And Captain?

It tastes divine.