Meloncholy
“Magnifique,” Marvin murmured to himself. He exhaled slowly and opened one eyelid, and then the other. His beady eyes glinted as he gazed upon his creation, his perfect patch of melons. This had been a long time coming and it had nearly killed him. Marvin had once been the most prominent melon grower in Europe. Grower – he was more like a melon artiste. He famously grew his melons at his château in Cavaillon, where people made long pilgrimages just to look upon his melons. But for the past two years, Marvin had shut his gates. He had locked himself away in his château, away from prying eyes whilst he cultivated and refined the perfect melon. He had suffered a nervous breakdown, along with other ailments, in the process, but it was well worth it.
“Parfait,” he muttered and shuffled in his seat. Perfection, no less, was what Marvin demanded of himself, and perfection was what he had created. He leaned back in his chair and his mind wandered, back to that fateful day all those years ago, the final day of the Féria du Melon. He was the headlining melon grower that year. It should have been the crowning glory of his extensive and illustrious career. It was intended that he would receive the coveted Melon d’Or, but instead, his dignity was taken from him.
He could still hear the voices. The laughter, the gasps, the cries of ridicule. Oh, how they had haunted him these past years. These were his colleagues, his contemporaries and some were even his friends. But after that day, he had started to loathe them. For a time, he even loathed melons. But more than anything, he loathed Donkava. Marvin’s left eye twitched at the thought of Donkava.
“Bâtard,” he snarled and spat into the dirt. Who was Donkava? To put it plainly, Donkava was Marvin’s nemesis and a son of bitch. It was well-known amongst the melon fraternity that he engaged in unconventional growing methods. He hated Marvin, for Marvin’s melons were far superior. On more than one occasion, Marvin had invited Donkava to his château, but Donkava had always refused.
On that fateful day, at the Féria du Melon, Donkava and Marvin crossed paths.
“Well, Donkava,” Marvin said, gesturing towards his melon showcase. “How do you like these melons?
Donkava stood motionless and stared at Marvin. Confused, Marvin stared back. Finally, after a long standoff, Donkava spoke.
“C’est la fin.”
“Fin?” replied Marvin, even more confused
Suddenly, Donkava grabbed Marvin by the scruff off the neck and smashed a melon over his head. The juice and pulp slid down his face, blinding him.
“The end!” exclaimed Donkava. Pressing his forearm across Marvin’s chest, Donkava picked up a melon and shoved it down the front of Marvin’s trousers. Marvin swung his arms wildly in a vain attempt to protect himself.
“How do you like these melons?” shouted Donkava, and he kicked Marvin’s groin, shattering the melon.
Marvin jerked up in his seat. He looked around and saw that he was alone. He was confident that after his prolonged absence not even Donkava could stop him. Marvin smiled and licked his lips.
“La vengeance est à moi,” he said to himself. He took a lingering look at his melons and, satisfied, drifted off into a deep and dreamless sleep.
