It was a small room inside a three-story building. There were only five people, and their money wasn’t enough for a room on the third floor as they had first intended; instead, they rented a tiny room with no windows in the basement. However, nobody complained, they only needed five chairs and hatred.
Their meeting was a pure work of fate, for they were always in the same refectory line and avoided the same type of food. A camaraderie was soon born among them, the five who hated orange foods. In the beginning, it was just an acknowledgment nod, then a smile, and finally verbal communication.
Soon they were sitting together at the table, discussing their disgust with every food that contained beta-carotene. Most brotherhoods are born of mutual hatred, and theirs was no different. One thing led to another, and soon they were meeting after work for a pint.
They found out beta-carotene was not the only thing they hated. They hated yellow lights and dog poop on the streets too. But meeting in a bar turned out to be a waste of money because not only were pints expensive, but the beer whetted their appetites, and soon they were consuming the overpriced pub food that was below average at best.
So they tried meeting in a restaurant, but in such a small city, the options did not please everybody. Nadia came up with the idea of renting a space for bi-weekly meetings. She was the leader, and although they had not appointed anyone to the role, she filled it like a small hand in a tiny glove.
Nadia browsed the internet for a great deal once they agreed on a neighborhood. Hate and rebellion needed an address and fixed meetings. They realized the basement room would cost a third of the price of the third floor with two south-facing windows. But they did not need south-facing windows because they would meet after work when the sun was down. As they liked to say, if the sun was orange, they didn’t like it.
The sun, as they saw it, was a privilege of upper management. Line workers like them were meant to be inside a warehouse with tiny windows, making screws and nails that would secure buildings they would never be allowed to enter. This did not bother them as much as orange pumpkins.
Equipped with a broom and a mop, the five haters cleaned their tiny room and then brought in five chairs and a small air circulator—not ventilator, circulator. Ordering a pizza and buying beer at the minimart on the first floor of the building was cheaper than the dirty pub where they used to meet.
They sat on the floor, which had just been cleaned, and with the beer and pizza boxes in the center of the circle they formed, Nadia took a piece of paper from her bag and showed it to the other four members. It was written in orange: ‘Orange Food Hater Club’.
‘Glue it to the door!’ Milton shouted, and the rest agreed.
When Nadia was seated again, eating another slice, Milton opened their minutes notebook and read the next topic of discussion:
‘How do we feel about mangoes? The discussion shall focus on three main topics: the texture, the flavor, and the color.’
‘Mangoes are difficult for me, their fibrous texture is appalling; although they aren’t always orange, they smell like beta-carotene and the aftertaste is noticeable. Orange jail!’
‘You can eat them unripe with salt. In that case, I’d say mangoes would be a pass, their yellow color is just a disguise for their pungent orange taste they have.’
‘I hate mangoes and I hate people who eat mangoes, especially the ones who pull the skin off with their teeth, spit it out, and then suck the mango out of the small hole. This behavior is typical of ticks. I can’t stand it.’
‘Some of us feel strongly about mangoes,’ Milton laughed, and Nadia agreed. ‘Personally, in the hall of fruits, mangoes are the most forgettable ones. My petty hate lies in pumpkins and persimmons.’
As Milton named persimmons, the small crowd booed the fruit. The group contorted their faces and pretended to throw up, before bursting into laughter.
‘If we find more people, the rent goes down.’
It was an idea they could not refute. Milton and Nadia prepared small pamphlets about their hate club. The next Wednesday, the first five were met by a dozen people by the old building’s door, each holding a piece of the pamphlet in their hands. The more the merrier, the five original members thought. They bought plenty of beer and food, and Nadia introduced herself and the others to the crowd.
‘We are here to share our hatred for orange foods! Welcome to our little club. We have meetings on Wednesdays and Saturdays. We kindly ask for contributions towards the expenses of renting and cleaning our space! Milton, what’s the topic of today’s meeting?’
Milton cleared his throat and looked at the fairly small crowd chewing on sausage rolls and chugging them down with beer. ‘Uh… the topic… uh… today is… are we giving a pass to purple carrots?’
As they did not have chairs for everyone, the five chairs were folded and placed in the back of the room. They all sat on the floor passing around food and alcohol. Someone tried to light a cigarette, but the others were quick to discourage the new member.
Nadia pointed at someone with a raised hand, giving them the turn to speak.
‘Purple carrots are not even the norm; how many times have we eaten a purple carrot? Let’s talk about squash. Who, in this room, despises squash?’
The room erupted in applause and shouting. The original members looked at each other in understanding. While they had covered butternut squash during their first sessions in the refectory, the new members were still unfamiliar with the hatred. The members would have to backtrack and take small steps until every new member was caught up on all the fruits and vegetables.
The topic of hidden beta-carotene menaces would have to wait because they would have to cover all the obvious orange foods first. Nadia and Milton did not mind, but the other three were mildly annoyed until the first rent was due: then, they changed their minds. However, the small room suddenly became cramped as they gained even more members.
The room with two south-facing windows was finally affordable, and to celebrate the upgrade, the Orange Food Haters had different orange foods displayed on a table covered in plastic. Each member stabbed, smashed, and kicked the food. And among laughter and alcohol, they stained their clothes.
It was an ordinary day when a new OFH member saw a coworker eating squash spaghetti. The hate he felt for the orange food boiled over, and he slapped the dish, sending it flying across the room, scaring his coworkers. The hatred did not stop with the squash spread all over the small refectory. It escalated when he laid a hand on her.
The five original members were taken aback. It was supposed to be a silly club, an excuse to drink with friends and trash-talk food they hated, but the OFH had slipped out of their hands and became something bigger and criminal. They tried to disband the club, but the movement grew beyond them. The radical members of OFH vandalized supermarkets and farmers’ market stalls.
People were harassed and assaulted over pumpkins, persimmons, carrots, and any other orange food. And then someone died at the hands of an OFH member. The police raided their club and the first to be interrogated were Nadia and Milton, since both were on the lease for their headquarters.
The Orange Food Hater Club was closed, the news said. The members were investigated and each of them had to wear an ankle monitor. The police department had to request more from neighboring towns because they did not have enough.
But it was too late; the more the media publicized their actions, the more angry citizens learned about their cause and the OFH spread like a disease. Trucks bringing orange produce were burned just outside the city on the motorway.
The original members were demonized and killed for betraying their own movement. The radical members took control and their midsized town turned into an orange food free zone.
The only exception was Halloween, when the OFH party members stabbed and destroyed pumpkins. It was their holiday. Instead of carving them, they had competitions to smash the pumpkins with their feet, throw them from great heights, or blow them up with TNT.
However, the highly anticipated event of the biggest holiday was The Feeding. The local stadium was filled with the most passionate members of their society. On the field, traitors knelt with their hands tied behind their backs and their eyes covered.
That year they had even fewer traitors, only twenty, who were caught eating or promoting the consumption of orange food. They were lined up before a selection of the worst kinds of orange foods. Meanwhile, the party’s most brilliant members were chosen as feeders. The stars of the party, however, had the best task of all: wielding whips to encourage the traitors.
In the end, it wasn’t necessary; the traitors died mostly from overeating and the whips barely touched their flanks. The Halloween hate festival ended with renewed energy and reaffirmed their belief in the hatred of orange foods. The traitors were dying proof of it.
People could not believe how they had endangered their health before the rise of the OFH party.
