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Larry jabbed Bob's side. "Wake up, we're almost here!"
Bob jolted upright, quickly scanning his surroundings. The two of them were on a dusty old bus; they were the only passengers, apart from an elderly, pickled driver. He glared out the window, taking in the hot, dry landscape. His eyes looked as if they were going to pop out of his head and his jaw was loose. Rocky mountains dominated the earth. Every so often, a cactus leisurely passed by.
"This isn't Washington!" he squeaked. Rubbing his eyes, he stared out the window, making absolutely sure it was real. "This is, like, the opposite of Washington! How... How the-" The tomato, in his panic, stuttered some incomprehensible sentences before continuing, "How long was I asleep?"
With hesitation, Larry admitted, "Three or four hours."
"Three or four-" the tomato took a deep breath. "We were supposed to be in Seattle in two!"
He was about to continue his panicked griping, when he was overcome with a wave of drowsiness. He rubbed his face and slapped himself a few times, but nothing could get rid of his lingering tiredness.
"I feel like I'm drugged."
Larry nervously coughed.
"But- but, Larry, where in the heck are we?"
He swallowed, his eyes darting back and forth. "I, uh, I dunno!" He gulped, blabbering, "Maybe California? It looks like a western movie out there."
Bob, shuffling from his window seat, stood in the margin of the seats. He was about to give the driver a piece of his mind, but the old woman gave him such an intense glare that he quickly sat back down.
It took a handful of minutes before something appeared on the dusty horizon. Lonely skyscrapers whistled into view.
yeah then they go to Beantown and get kicked out by the weird bus driver. they're like 'well shit' and they go explore
The vegetables hopped down an eerie street, buildings extending in all directions like an infinite algorithm. The harsh sun, in the middle of the sky, beat down upon them; there was no sliver of shade on the long, hot, concrete path. They walked in solemn silence. It seemed as if there was nothing but barren skyscrapers in the mysterious city until they spotted two luxurious cars. They quickened their steps, gaining hope every time their spherical bodies touched the ground. Peeking in a window, they found three oddly clothed beans. Bob gave his partner a confused look; all Larry could offer was a shrug. With hope and worry, they stepped inside the bar.
A small bell chimed above them, signaling the members of the bar to leer at the newcomers. Bob gulped, frantically glancing at the customers who were armed to the lips. The pair crammed themselves next to the window. Their oblong bodies were not meant for chairs; they had no butts.
The barkeep, frowning, barked, "What do you want?"
Larry enthusiastically chimed, "We're lost!"
Detective Cromwell gave the cucumber the elevator eye. "Are you tourists? Why did you come here?"
"Well," he declared, his pupils surveying the ceiling, "Some old lady bus driver abandoned us here, uh, in this town."
detective cromwell, the alpha bean, interrogates Larry because fuck you the plot needs it to happen
"Okay, fine," Larry sputtered, wilting under their gazes, "I want to assassinate you, Bob."
"Why?!"
A hint of sorrow shimmered in the cucumber's eyes. "You support Israel."
The tomato stifled a chuckle. Like a burst balloon, he doubled over laughing, seizing manically. His guttural guffaws left the bar awkward and tense.
Cromwell whispered to Jack, "What is Israel?"
"Bad."
Pulling himself together, Bob mocked, "You really think murdering someone based on their opinions on Israel is a good idea?"
"I do, and I'm tired of pretending it's not!"
The cucumber jabbed a glock onto Bob's nose.
"Oh my god!" Bob squealed. "Uh, I d-don't even know much about it! All I know is Donald Trump says to support it, a-and..."
Larry screamed, "Trump sucks!"
The shopkeeper, quivering with rage, pulled out a shotgun. "I hate politics!" he screamed.
Detective Cromwell coolly remarked to the agent bean next to him, "Politics can be cool sometimes. Like China and all the weird stuff they've done."
Killer Bean nonchalantly stated, "Communists don't deserve rights."
"Speaking of rights, over there, Muslims are put into education camps."
"Good."
Cromwell croaked in annoyance, rolling his eyes. "Do you like any minority groups?"
Killer Bean took a moment to think before proudly declaring, "Women don't deserve rights, blacks don't-"
"Jack?"
"Yeah?"
"Shut the fuck up, wouldya?"
Tensions were becoming worse on the other side of the bar.
"You stupid Americans bring politics into everything! I hate it. It brings bad rep to my shop!"
Bob meekly offered, "To be fair, yours looks like it's in the ghetto."
The shopkeeper screamed, "Shut up! I've been working my ass off 24/7 to keep this place open! Rent is off the charts here. I can barely afford to feed my husband and kids.
"Husband? Is homosexuality allowed in Mexico?" the tomato asked.
He growled, "Beans don't have genders, dumbass."
Larry countered, "That doesn't make any sense.
"And what doesn't make any sense is you, Larry!" Bob screamed.
"It doesn't take any braincells to know Israel isn't based-"
With a thunderclap, Larry's life was taken from him. The shotgun smoked; the room was covered in green chunks.
Bob, suppressing a brewing rage, commented, "Even if 'based' is being appropriated by normies, you didn't have to shoot him."
"He was trying to kill you, neocon."
Bob's chest swelled, tomato body growing redder. "I am not a neocon! I'm a centrist!"
"That's worse," quipped Killer Bean.