This one is proving easier to write, frankly.
It wasn’t the worst day of Gregor’s life. He had long since decided that the worst day would be his last day; and while he might have been wet, muddy, and still out of breath, he wasn’t about to die. But it had been a truly rotten day. The kind of rotten that hides under the skin of the fruit, just waiting for you to take a bite.
That damned village had looked so inviting. It was full of farmers and crafters with fat cheeks and fatter pouches, there for market day and just begging to be fleeced. And there was nobody else to work the crowd! Forget other mountebanks; there wasn’t even a dipper or a snatcher to be seen. It would have been a crime not to pick a few apples from that particular civic tree. So he had pulled out his trusty belt pouch (filled with coins that might have even passed muster in such a hick place), and went looking for a suitable mark to help him ‘find’ it.
How was he supposed to know somebody had played that game a month ago, and used it to fleece half the town? The least they could have done was put up a sign! …Gregor had said exactly that to the four burly farmers carrying him, one limb per customer, and a part of him was gratified to see that at least the line got a laugh before they swung him until he was dizzy, then threw him into the local millpond.