gnovel Chapter 36 The Poisoned Apple of Sleepy Hollow
Chapter 36 The Poisoned Apple of Sleepy Hollow
On the north bank of the A River, there is a valley called Duantou Valley.
Guderian thought Arthur was dead.
Strunzsky wished Arthur were dead.
But Arthur not only didn't die, he was actually preparing an even bigger "return gift" for the two confident German officers in this place with such an ominous-sounding name.
This is a crack that God cleaved in the earth with an axe.
On both sides are steep cliffs, thirty meters high, with exposed black granite, and in the middle is a gravel road that can only accommodate two cars side by side. The cold mountain wind whistles through the valley, making a low sound like the howl of wolves.
This is the only passage to Berg, and also a death trap in the eyes of military strategists.
In ancient times, this place would have been suitable for burying three hundred Spartan warriors; in 1940, it would have been suitable for burying an armored vanguard.
As the chilling shriek faded into the distance, the twelve Stuka bombers finally disappeared into the depths of the clouds.
"Thank God, those blind vultures have flown away!"
McTavish was the first to crawl out of the bushes. He hastily brushed the dirt and grass off his clothes, painfully checking the half-empty bottle of cognac in his pocket, while yelling at the soldiers lying on the ground:
"Alright! Stop lying there like a bunch of dead frogs! Get up! Get back in the car!"
"Before the German planes return, we must floor the accelerator! As soon as the engines are running, we can reach Dunkirk before dinner!"
The soldiers emerged from their hiding places, preparing to climb back onto the truck. In their simple understanding, four wheels, or tracks, would always be faster than two legs.
"No. Don't touch those trucks."
An untimely voice rang out, extinguishing everyone's enthusiasm like a bucket of ice water.
If any recruit dared to spout such nonsense at this point, McTavish would have already given that guy a free facial plastic surgery using the wooden pistol of a Thompson submachine gun.
But to his dismay, the one giving the orders was Arthur.
Arthur leaned against the side skirt of the Verdun's tracks, stained with dried blood and black oil, slowly wiping the corner of his eye with a clean white linen handkerchief. This gave McTavish the illusion that his young master was not standing in a pile of dead bodies, but taking a walk in a park.
Arthur ignored the soldiers around him who were trying to crawl into the truck like startled cockroaches. His deep pupils bypassed the noisy reality and focused intently on a point in the void that only a madman—or God—could see.
"Sir?" McTavish was stunned. "We have to keep going! On foot to Dunkirk? That would take at least several days!"
"Will you be gone for several days?"
It seems that even a seasoned veteran like McTavish, who has rolled in the mud of the Somme, can sometimes get confused—perhaps the Stuka bomber's shrieking was too frequent just now, or perhaps his brain was damaged by the bombing?
But none of that matters anymore. Serving under Arthur, as long as he's obedient, whether he's smart or not is irrelevant.
He turned around and gracefully raised his right hand.
In his hand lay a cane, an object completely out of place on this battlefield filled with smoke, oil, and blood.
The unfortunate ex whose soul he had replaced was a complete spendthrift.
In the chaotic westward retreat of the British Expeditionary Force, this young master not only carelessly discarded all his specially supplied Havana cigars and drank the last bottle of vintage wine, but also abandoned the main infantry battalion of the Coldstream Guards, the crown jewel of the British Empire, along with its equipment and hundreds of men, in the mud behind him like trash.
However, after abandoning all the armed forces that a soldier relied on for survival, he clung to this wooden stick until his death—a stick that, apart from being used to show off in St. James's Park, couldn't even kill a stray dog.
It was as if, as long as he held it, he would still be the noble second son of the Earl of Stirling, instead of a lone commander who had abandoned his troops.
That was by no means some kind of commander's scepter issued by the army—if any logistics quartermaster dared to put such a luxury item, which clearly belonged to a gentlemen's club in London's West End, on the supply list, he would definitely be sent straight to a military court.
It was a heavy, jet-black East African ebony cane, straight and without any superfluous decorations, except for a heavy pure silver lion head inlaid at the top, engraved with the Sterling family's ancient Latin inscription.
This was given to him by the old Earl Stirling on the day he left London for France. In the eyes of that old-fashioned nobleman, even if the world was on fire, the men of the Stirling family had to hold onto something to maintain their damned dignity.
At this moment, this expensive walking stick, which should have been tapping on the cobblestones in a London park, is coldly pointing at a French road sign on the roadside, twisted into a pretzel by the shockwave of an aerial bomb, riddled with bullet holes and rust.
The paint has peeled off, but you can still vaguely make out the arrows pointing in different directions and the kilometer numbers.
"This geography lesson is free, Sergeant Major, so listen carefully."
Without a second thought, Arthur described their current geographical situation.
"Heading north, Dunkirk is less than 40 kilometers away. On the beaches there, you'll find Royal Navy destroyers, cruisers, and those battleships you're all familiar with, with hot tea and tickets to take us home. It really only takes an hour by car."
His cane turned, pointing towards the gloomy southern sky:
"To the south, Paris is about 280 kilometers away. There you'll find fallen leaves on the Champs-Élysées, the finest wines, and, of course, a large group of Frenchmen preparing to surrender to the Germans."
At this point, Arthur shrugged, his tone becoming almost gloating, clearly full of malice.
"Of course, in order to welcome their new masters, those people are probably practicing their 'hand salute' in front of the mirror and preparing to kneel and offer their loyalty to the Germans."
If this statement had been made at the very beginning of the war, the Sterling family's reputation would have been enough to trigger a diplomatic dispute between the two countries, and even cause a clash between the Cold Creek Guards and the French 1st Armored Division.
But now, it's just a load of bullshit that everyone in the world knows.
Upon hearing this, Lieutenant Jeanne, who was standing to the side, rolled her eyes without any attempt to hide it.
As a French officer still fighting, she longed to shove the map in her hand into the mouth of this arrogant Englishman, but sadly, she found herself unable to find any reason to refute him.
Arthur paused, then pointed east, the place where the sun rises—a place that should be the source of hope, but for them, it was the direction from which destruction was surging.
"To the east, Berlin is over 900 kilometers away. That's where all this madness started. Although I'd love to drive a tank into the Chancellery right now and give that little mustache a good kick in the ass, unfortunately, we don't have enough fuel, enough bullets, and we don't have enough manpower."
Arthur withdrew his cane, his gaze passing over McTavish's shoulder, fixed on the direction of the canyon entrance.
In his mind, the tremors of the earth seemed to have transformed into a roar that could be heard with the naked ear.
"These numbers sound tempting, don't they? But they mean nothing at this moment."
Arthur suddenly approached McTavish, his handsome face, now restored to its former glory after the system photoshopped away his scars, exuding a suffocating sense of oppression.
"Because in this damn world, there's only one distance that truly determines your life or death."
He held up five fingers and waved them in front of the old sergeant major, whose face was covered in oil and sweat:
5 kilometers.
"Guderian's vanguard may be less than 5 kilometers from our rear. And that number is getting shorter."
"Now tell me, Sergeant Major. Is your beat-up truck full of German sausages faster, or those little Prussian tanks?"
"Let's do a math problem, gentlemen."
"Our B1 bis tank is designed to have a top speed of only 28 km/h, and that's downhill with a tailwind and while praying that the damn radiator doesn't explode. And those fully loaded trucks can't even reach 30 km/h on this steep mountain road."
Arthur thought for about two seconds:
"And chasing after us were Guderian's Panzer III tanks and half-track reconnaissance vehicles. Their off-road speeds could easily reach over 40 kilometers per hour, and their road speeds exceeded 50 kilometers per hour."
"This is a simple pursuit-encounter problem."
Arthur glanced at the military watch on his wrist:
"With all this baggage on the road, we'll be caught in twenty minutes and then get hit in the back with a 37mm shell. Then you can slowly savor these spoils in the German POW camp—if you're still alive by then."
McTavish looked at the mountains of supply crates, his face trembling with heartache.
That's three whole truckloads of "hard currency"!
Those were crates of Player's Navy Cut cigarettes. Although they were a British brand, they had been abandoned in Dunkirk, then seized by the Germans, and now they had been taken back – what an ironic cycle.
In addition, there were cans of corned beef wrapped in oil paper, cases of rye whiskey, and chocolate from Bonn, Germany.
In this era of scarcity and devastation, these three cartloads of goods were enough for him to buy half a farm in the Scottish Highlands on the black market.
"Sir...are we really going to throw all of this away?" The old sergeant was getting anxious; his voice was almost pleading. "Even keeping just one truckload would be fine..."
Arthur walked up to him and reached out to straighten the old soldier's crooked collar.
"Greed has weight, McTavish."
Arthur's eyes held a clear, insightful understanding of the world.
"In physics, greed will cause your truck's shock absorbers to break and your engine to overheat. In the science of warfare, greed will turn you into a corpse filled with embalming agents."
"We can't run fast. If we don't abandon this baggage, we'll all die."
After saying that, Arthur turned around and looked again at this perfect dead spot that God had casually cleaved out.
On both sides are towering black granite cliffs, and in the middle is a narrow S-shaped bend that can only accommodate death.
All of this looked so familiar; the ambush circle that Stransky had carefully selected half an hour earlier had been copied and pasted here exactly as it was.
The only difference is that this time, the person standing on the high place with the gun is Arthur, and the unlucky ones who are about to crash into this coffin are those impatient and arrogant Germans.
The stage backdrop wasn't changed; only the actors turned around.
Since we can't take them with us, let them make the most of their last moments.
"Of course I didn't say we should just throw them away; that would be such a waste."
"Since we can't take them with us, let's turn them into poison."
"Sappers! Miller!" Arthur's voice suddenly rose, startling Miller. "Execute Operation Poison Pill. Turn this place into a pressure cooker!"
With a command given, a mine-laying operation, full of violent aesthetics, began.
Of course, this is not simply about planting a few landmines; it's a civil engineering project, a large-scale undertaking.
The three Opel Lightning trucks, which were considered valuable assets, were deliberately driven erratically by the drivers, one after the other, blocking the narrowest bend in the valley.
The first vehicle crashed hard into the rock wall, its water tank ruptured and steam was still hissing; the second vehicle was lying across the middle of the road with its door wide open and a military boot hanging on the running board; the third vehicle overturned into a drainage ditch, its canned goods spilling all over the ground.
At first glance, it looks exactly like a British transport convoy that has been thrown into chaos and routed after being bombed by the Stuka.
"Hurry up, Miller! Don't dawdle like a nun embroidering for the Duchess!"
Urged on by Arthur, the tall mechanic from Yorkshire was now crawling around like a clumsy bear, lying under the oil-stained car.
If an engineer instructor were here and saw Miller's technique, he would definitely have a heart attack on the spot.
This brute, who had once been helpless against the French precision hydraulic transmission and ultimately chose to "persuade with physical means" under Arthur's guidance, did not display any amazing micro-management skills at this moment.
His large hands, as thick as a bundle of carrots and covered in calluses and machine oil, were struggling with several thin wires.
He clearly didn't have the patience to look for wire strippers.
He chose the most direct method—his teeth. With a "crack," he bit through the insulation of the wire, spat out the plastic fragments in his mouth, and then roughly wrapped the detonator wire around the TNT explosive block like twisting barbed wire. Finally, he haphazardly wrapped it with a wad of black insulating tape.
This is his "Art of Breeze".
There was no elegance in "flying like playing the piano," it was all Yorkshire folklore, "I figured this would make a sound."
As a seasoned private who had spent ten years in the logistics department, Miller didn't understand the sophisticated French electronic components on the B1 tank, but he had an almost obsessive intuition about "how to completely break an internal combustion engine".
After all, "repairing" an engine might require understanding thermodynamics and mechanical principles, as well as reading that damn French manual; but "blowing up" an engine?
All you have to do is stuff the explosives into that hole that looks the most expensive and complicated.
He is a genius in this field.
What Miller was holding was not one of those cheap yellow TNT bricks used on construction sites to blow up fishponds or mines.
That was a special product developed by the Royal Ordnance Office of the British Empire specifically for sabotage operations—Explosive No. 808 plastic explosive.
This reddish-brown, gelatinous substance, wrapped in greaseproof paper and emitting a nauseatingly bitter almond smell (the smell comes from nitrobenzene, which acts as a stabilizer), looks like a piece of spoiled toffee or some kind of wonderfully textured putty.
But don't be fooled by its candy-like appearance.
Because its active ingredient is over 60% nitroglycerin mixed with collodion. In the science of explosions, if TNT is a drunkard who only knows how to push people with brute force, then Type 808 explosive is a sharp scalpel.
Its detonation velocity reaches 7600 meters per second, possessing extremely high intensity. It doesn't "push" objects away, but rather uses extremely high-frequency shock waves to directly "shear" crystal structures.
Miller clearly didn't understand the principles of chemical bond breaking, but he knew this thing felt amazing.
He hummed an unknown tune, using his large, oil-covered hands to knead the deadly gelatinous substance into strips like dough. This supple nature allowed it to adhere tightly to any irregular surface—such as the rough cast-iron cylinder block of a truck engine.
Snapped.
Miller roughly slammed a kneaded piece of 808 explosive onto the driveshaft connection of the Opel truck, then grabbed a large piece and smeared it firmly onto the bottom of the fuel tank.
For this type of explosive, it doesn't take much to destroy a truck. Just a small piece, with its terrifying cutting force released in an instant, can shatter the hard cast iron engine block into thousands of high-speed shrapnel fragments—equivalent to turning the engine into a giant hand grenade weighing hundreds of kilograms.
"This is the real good stuff."
Miller patted the residue off his hands with satisfaction, looked at the piece of deadly sludge stuck to the engine like chewing gum, and revealed a simple, honest smile:
"Even the steel heads of the Germans can't withstand a 'slap' from this thing."
"Sir, what kind of fuse are we using?" Miller asked loudly.
"Don't use pressure fuses, those are for fools."
Arthur stood to the side, pointing and gesturing like a supervisor:
"Use the pull-type fuse to connect them. Set the tripwire there."
He was referring to the "spoils" scattered on the ground: a box of cigarettes that looked perfectly intact, or a carelessly discarded Luger pistol.
"We're not betting on the sensitivity of the fuse, Miller. We're betting on the Germans' 'hamster instinct'."
"Hamster instinct?" Miller scratched his head, not quite understanding.
Arthur gently tapped the box with the tripwire attached with his cane.
"When that group of disciplined German Hans saw this pile of supplies falling from the sky, the meticulous area of their brains responsible for 'mine clearance' would temporarily short-circuit, and instead, their instincts for 'moving' and 'warehousing' would take over."
"Even if that shrewd German commander could smell the trap—after all, that nobleman had a fox-like intuition—it would be meaningless."
"Because the army is made up of mostly mediocre people. Among the few hundred men under his command, you can always find that 'inevitable fool'."
"That idiot might want a smoke, might want some chocolate, or might just be itching to grab it. If even one thirsty private or corporal reached for that box of cigarettes, even if it moved it just an inch..."
"...will trigger the first stage of detonation."
Miller grinned knowingly.
His expression was both innocent and cruel, like a child who had finally figured out how to stuff firecrackers into a septic tank:
"I understand, sir. It's like in a pub in Yorkshire, if you put a free beer on the table, there's always some fool who'll reach for it even if it means getting hit on the head with a bottle."
"Exactly." Arthur smiled and nodded, then shrugged, clearly aware of how terrifying some teammates could be when they started messing things up. "Never underestimate the power of stupidity, Miller. It's more reliable than dynamite, because some people, when they get stupid, have no limits."
But that's not enough to stop Guderian's vanguard from speeding so recklessly.
Destroying a few trucks with explosives would only hold Guderian back for five minutes at most. The German engineers were no pushovers either; bulldozers arrived and cleared everything out.
Arthur didn't want roadblocks, he wanted damage.
"Unload all the ammunition from those four Panzer III tanks," Arthur said, pointing behind him. "Especially those 37mm high-explosive shells."
"And the dozens of 88mm anti-aircraft shells that we still have on our vehicle."
This is a crazy decision.
The soldiers, panting, carried the heavy cylinders of death into the truck bed and crammed them into the wooden crates filled with canned beef and blankets.
Even more insidious, Arthur had the area around these shells filled with sharp pebbles, rusty nails, discarded metal parts, and even tableware collected from the roadside.
The 88mm high-explosive grenade (Sprgr. L/4.5) weighs 9 kg and is filled with 0.9 kg of high-energy TNT/Amato explosive.
These dozens of shells had their fuses removed, turning them into extremely unstable sources of explosion.
This is equivalent to creating three extremely powerful improvised explosive devices (IEDs).
Once the 808 explosives under the chassis detonate the fuel tank, the high temperature and shock wave generated by the instantaneous combustion of several tons of fuel will trigger the secondary explosion of these dozens of shells.
In this narrow, tubular canyon terrain, the shockwave cannot spread; it can only be ejected like a piston along both ends of the canyon. The rubble and nails will turn into a metal storm flying at 800 meters per second, turning everything in the canyon—whether it be soldiers in gray-green uniforms or armored vehicles with hardened surface armor—into sieves.
"This is a crime, sir."
Miller finished connecting the last wire, wiped the cold sweat from his brow, and looked at the seemingly harmless trap that was about to devour countless lives. He couldn't help but sigh:
"This violates all war treaties. In Geneva, this thing could land us in jail for a hundred years."
"Geneva?"
Arthur raised an eyebrow, his tone dismissive:
"Geneva is in Switzerland, Private Miller. And we are here. In war, the only crime is defeat."
The trap has been set.
The scene was disguised flawlessly.
To enhance realism, Arthur even had two spare British uniforms torn up, smeared with red paint, and thrown near the driver's cab door. He also left a broken Lee-Enfield rifle and several bullet-pierced helmets on the ground.
All the details conveyed the same message to the pursuers: the British convoy had been attacked by Stukas and had completely collapsed and scattered.
This is a psychological trap.
When a highly stressed pursuit force suddenly discovers a pile of readily available supplies and unsuspecting wreckage around a corner, their vigilance will instantly drop to zero.
"Alright, everyone retreat."
Arthur waved his hand. "Besides the tanks and half-tracks, which should retreat to the exit first, snipers and observation posts, take detonators and climb up the trees above the cliffs on both sides."
The soldiers began climbing up the rock face like monkeys.
In the end, only Arthur was left standing in the middle of the road.
Looking at this "masterpiece," he felt that something was still missing.
"Too straightforward." Arthur stroked his chin. "It lacks a bit... a sense of ritual."
Arthur walked slowly to the very end of the caravan—the most conspicuous spot.
What was parked there wasn't some dilapidated Opel truck, but rather a broken-down Sd.Kfz. 251/6 half-track armored command vehicle painted in iron-gray camouflage and with a transmitter hanging from its antenna.
That was Gu Bushuai's "private car".
Miller did not stuff explosives into the car.
Because it doesn't need to. Its very existence is the biggest and most insidious bait for the 19th Army.
How will the shock of the soldiers of the 1st Armored Division turn into irrational chaos when they see their supreme commander's lost vehicle parked so casually in the middle of the road?
Arthur opened the heavy rear armored vehicle door and picked out a surviving bottle of 1928 Bordeaux from the exquisite, mahogany-inlaid private field wine cabinet that belonged exclusively to General Guderian inside the vehicle.
That position is now not only suitable for observing the battle situation on the front lines, but also for Arthur to give the Germans the middle finger.
"We'll return the item to its rightful owner, but we'll still have to charge a storage fee."
He gently placed the expensive bottle of red wine on the still-warm hood of the half-track. Against the backdrop of the iron-gray armor plating, the deep red bottle resembled a tempting poisoned apple, reflecting a faint light in the dark canyon.
Two exquisite crystal goblets were placed next to it, and even a bottle opener was thoughtfully provided.
Finally, he took out a pen from his shirt pocket and tore off a note.
He didn't write any vicious curses or draw any insulting graffiti.
He simply wrote a line in the elegant, fluent cursive German he had honed at Eton:
To General Heinz Wilhelm Guderian:
Your Stuka's aim is a bit off, but the wine should taste good. — British Expeditionary Force, AS, a ghost that should have been blown up.
He pressed the note under the bottle.
This is extreme arrogance.
This is a mockery of the living by the "dead".
Arthur was certain that when Guderian or Sstránsky saw the note, their sanity would be completely consumed by rage. And anger is often the perfect spark to ignite a trap.
Fifteen minutes later.
Headless Valley returned to a deathly silence.
Even the birdsong had vanished, leaving only the whistling of the wind as it swept through the canyon, like a requiem played in advance for the people who were about to arrive.
On the highway, only the seemingly chaotic "abandoned convoy" loaded with supplies remained, silently blocking the middle of the road.
Cigarettes and canned goods peeking out from the carriage exuded an enticing aroma in the dim light. The bottle of 1928 Margaux wine, like a silent invitation, quietly awaited its connoisseur.
And on the towering cliffs on both sides, behind dense bushes and rocks.
More than a hundred pairs of eyes were holding their breath and staring intently at this deadly trap through scopes and binoculars.
Arthur lay prone in the grass at the front, a waterproof sheet beneath him. He gripped tightly the modified detonator handle, which was connected to hundreds of meters of wire.
On his retina, the RTS interface was fully open.
[WARNING: Enemy vanguard enters contact range]
The red dot of light had reached the mouth of the valley.
The earth tremors grew more and more violent.
First came a deep, rhythmic engine roar, and then the first German Sd.Kfz. 232 (8-Rad) eight-wheeled heavy reconnaissance vehicle rounded the bend, cautiously poking out its head topped with a huge frame-like antenna.
This was also the first time Arthur had actually seen that thing in person. It was truly a remarkable industrial work of art, full of Germanic obsessive aesthetics.
Unlike the Sd.Kfz. 251 half-track vehicle that resembled a tractor with only half a track and made a clanging noise when it ran, this eight-wheeled reconnaissance vehicle was like an elegant yet dangerous giant beetle.
It boasts eight massive off-road tires, with each pair of wheels having its own independent suspension and steering mechanism. This means that this 8.3-ton steel behemoth, despite its armored exterior, possesses a level of agility that would put most sedans to shame.
Beneath its sloping, armored hood lies a powerful Büssing-NAG L8V eight-cylinder gasoline engine, capable of unleashing a staggering 155 horsepower, propelling it to a top speed of 85 km/h on the road—a full 30 km/h faster than a half-track.
But that's not the most bizarre part.
In order to enable it to escape from certain death, German designers devised an extremely complex "two-way driving system" for it.
At the rear of the vehicle, with its back to the turret, sat a driver who was positioned facing backwards.
Once the vehicle encounters overwhelming firepower ahead—such as a concealed anti-tank gun—the commander doesn't need to waste precious time turning around. He only needs to shout, and the driver in the back seat can immediately take control, engage reverse gear, and use the vehicle's unique all-wheel steering technology to drive the vehicle out of the danger zone at an equally astonishing speed.
In contrast, the half-track is like a farmer who can only do rough work. Although it has good mobility, is durable, and can still climb even if a track is broken, in reconnaissance missions that require speed and reaction, the Sd.Kfz. 232 is the noble assassin in a tailcoat and holding a rapier.
At this moment, the expensive Assassin was slowly turning its small turret, which was equipped with a 20mm KwK 30 autocannon. The coaxial MG34 machine gun, like a dog sniffing out scents, vigilantly scanned the suspicious pile of supplies in the middle of the road.
Its commander was clearly cautious; the massive "bed frame" antenna (Rahmenantenne) trembled slightly in the dark canyon, as if it were reporting the situation to the main force behind them via radio.
Following closely behind were two Opel trucks fully loaded with infantry, and a Panzer III tank providing cover.
When the German soldiers saw the "abandoned" convoy ahead and the supplies scattered on the ground, Arthur could clearly see the changes in their facial expressions through his binoculars.
From vigilance to doubt, and then to ecstasy.
"Look! It's a British supply truck!"
"They ran away! Those cowards!"
Several German soldiers jumped off the vehicle, excitedly kicking aside the debris on the ground, and ran towards the trucks loaded with cans. Such scenes had been commonplace for the past week and were nothing unusual. The commander of the Panzer III also leaned out, greedily eyeing the half-track command vehicle.
At the very back of the column, Arthur spotted a familiar half-track command vehicle.
Although the people inside were not clearly visible through the telescope, the markings on the RTS clearly indicated that Stransky was there.
The prey has taken the bait.
No one checked under the car. Because in their subconscious, a group of defeated soldiers who had been blown up by the Stukas had neither the time nor the inclination to set up such elaborate booby traps.
That is the composure of the strong, not the cowardice of the runaway.
This is a blind spot in thinking.
Arthur watched the scene unfold, seeing the German soldier's hand touch the box of cigarettes connected by a tripwire, and seeing another officer walk toward the bottle of red wine.
A cruel yet elegant smile curled at the corners of his mouth.
He gently closed his eyes, softly humming an old Scottish lullaby called "The Last Sip of Wine," his slender fingers lightly resting on the red button of the detonator:
"Come quickly, Baron."
"The apple is ripe, it's just waiting for you to open your mouth."
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