It was, as a matter of fact, worse. It is a truly, truly awful– like drinking cat vomit. As I took the first sip of the grimy liquid, I could feel the rejection from every single cell in my body. But Fred could drink the juice; Fred could always drink the juice. Fred was the juice. He was born in the juice, raised in the juice, knew nothing but the juice. You is the garlic.
So now we are at an impasse. I drink the juice, Fred is the juice, and you is the garlic. Yes, you is the garlic, Fred is the juice, and we am the potato. All these components floating around in the plastic carton are what made the garlic flavored grape juice so repulsive. Fred’s family watched on in fear as person after person drank their son. It was very sad.
You sat in the juice, a sad, singular clove of garlic: alone, crying, and afraid; you didn’t want to die here, in the murky liquid swirling with grape pulp and a single, dead fruit fly. The end was inevitable; everyone who drank the juice would die. As long as they were one of those very picky earthlings... sigh.