It had been forty long years since Emperor Hugo had retrieved a piece of Hawaiian pizza from his precarious perch on the adorned throne, proclaimed it rubbish, and thrown it to the scowling faces of the surly crowd below. Freddie mother still said it might not have meant anything.
"He was a dreadful ruler, Hugo," she told her son. "Kept making the people do stuff they didn't want to. Had no sense of government. His ego got to him. He was probably mad at the crowd for booing him."
"No, Mum," said Freddie, in the hollowly exasperated voice he often acquired when discussing this issue. "He started the Revolution. He is and should be treated with the utmost respect. I admire him."
"He was a lousy little brat. I never liked him," said Freddie's mother, and it sounded quite like she was talking about an old high school friend.
Freddie had enlisted to serve in the Purist army three years ago. The thought of fighting for the cause, of pairing his pugnacious nature with his absolute despise for pineapple pizza, had enthralled him, and he had decided to devote his life to this dangerous cause rather than getting the doctorate degree his mother so desired for him. Now she stood here, in his tent, shaking her head at him and trying to win back her dream son.
"Freddie, listen, there's no point---"
But she was interrupted by Joel, who came strolling through the front flap. "C'mon, Freddie. We need you over here." And Freddie ran after his mate.
After many passed tests and a lot of hard work, Freddie had got himself into the latest invasion. The Purist army was to attack the Pineappleatarians on the third of March, the eighty-fifth birthday of retired Emperor Hugo. The path ahead would not be easy. A few soldiers had been shot simply patrolling the borders.
The first attack was bloody. Freddie was grazed in the elbow, and several of his companions were wounded almost mortally. He marched into the fray nevertheless, then stopped short.
Ahead of him was a masked soldier, gun poised. Freddie could barely see the slits where their eyes would be. The body suggested they were male. They had dirty black boots, both emblazoned with a sleek yellow pineapple.
Freddie let his mouth drop open, for he knew, at once, that this was the end. He heard a bang, and suddenly pain was everywhere. The bullet drove right through his guts, and he gasped. The pain was white-hot; it licked the sight from his eyes, the beat from his heart. His soul itself was screaming. He could not hear... he could not think. His brain was processing the events that had just took place, the day that was about to be his last. They happened almost in slow motion, as dying thoughts often did. He had eaten breakfast... he was so excited that he hadn't minded the dirt in his eggs. Preparing. Throwing his gun over his shoulder. A heightened feeling of nervousness. Now he was down.
It had all happened too fast, he realized. Everything. His pounding head glimpsed the flashing pineapples again, and he shuddered.
"FREDDIE! OI! JOHNSON!"
Voices were surrounding him. Someone was shaking him. Someone was sobbing. It was all amid the ruckus---someone was dragging him, someone was pouring water onto his flaming chest.
"He's down!" cried a voice. "Oh, Freddie..."
"Keep moving, guys," hollered someone in the background. "Keep moving... you can't save him now..."
"Joel..." Freddie gasped. "Joel... please... I need to..."
But the ground was sliding away from him as he was dragged, hastily, by a medic. "I can't... I need to..." Suddenly he rolled over and vomited onto the uneven ground. "I need to find him," he managed. "'Need to... tell 'em something."
"Through here," said the gruff voice of the medic. "It's okay, son. You'll be okay."
"I won't," mumbled Freddie. "Joel..."
His stomach couldn't take it any longer. In seconds, he had passed out.
Suddenly a light was everywhere. Beaming rays poured from a sky ahead. Freddie blinked, momentarily blinded, and at once his mother's face surfaced from the dark spaces in his eyelids.
"Oh, Freddie," she sighed.
"Am I dead?" he said at once.
"Of course you are," she said. "And I am nothing."
Freddie sat up, at once. He was in a hospital, pristine and neatly decorated. Faceless workers were surrounding him, operating shrill machinery. Ceiling fans waved.
Freddie started, then looked his mother straight in the eye. Suddenly he remembered what was most important to him.
"Mum. We have to win this war."
Mrs. Johnson opened her mouth.
"No, we have to do. You've never... understood, what it is. It's so unnatural. Have you ever... tasted pineapple on pizza. The clash of flavors... anyone who's got an artistic sense would know..." He sank, distraught, into his mother's arms.
"Oh my son," she whispered.
"You have to tell them," he muttered to her. "You have to tell them it's wrong. You have to. Go back and tell them."
"My son, I am nothing but a figment of your imagination," she told him, and her voice was kind.
A single, glistening tear fell onto her warm lap. "Just tell them."
This is an AMAZING prompt created by Kahasai. Find it here. I urge you guys to contribute. Write a fictional story about this, find your voice... stop the pineapple on pizza!