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as my name and affiliation are left intact.  If you can, send me the
issue.  Previous Porsching columns are available at
http://www.cs.vassar.edu/faculty/welty/porsching

PORSCHING  by Chris Welty
Hudson-Valley Region, PCA

Blood Orange, Part II

"Can I speak to Oliver Stone, please?" I asked into the phone.

"Speaking."

I explained my story and was treated with silence in response.  After
a very long pause (I knew he was still on the line since I could hear
The Doors playing in the background), he said, "Jesus." 

"Ah, no, actually this is Chris.    What should I do?"

"This sounds serious.  I want you to go to Washington, check out the
congressional archives.  Find out all you can about these oranges.  I
will check with some contacts I have in the fruit industry.  Call me
from Washington on my cellular phone when you have anything."  He
paused.  "And Chris?" 

"Yes?"

"Don't mention this to ANYone.  Especially not the virtual reality world."

"The virtual reality whaaaaaa?  Oh you mean...aha....riiiiight.  Mum's
the word." 

I proceeded to Washington and began my research.  The congressional
archives held a paper trail dating back to 1963, where it ended in
several references to the results of a federal commission.  The
documents were coded "docket 901".  I went to the archivist and
requested it. 

The archivist punched something into the computer, then looked at me
with an expression so bland it could only have come from a
congressional archivist. "Those documents are sealed in a federal
vault and are not to be opened until the year 2063." 

"Sealed?  Vault?"  My momentary confusion was broken by the sounds of
footsteps.  The kind of sounds of footsteps that can only be generated
by men wearing suits and dark glasses inside.  My ninja-type sixth
sense told me to get out of there fast. I lept through nearby window.
Thankfully bullshit is abundant in Washington.  Even more thankfully,
this pile was covered.  I landed softly and odorlessly.  
 
Now a fugitive, I found a nearby payphone and called Oliver's cellular
number.  His voiced sounded emotionally strained. 

"Chris.  You and I are going to Chile.  Meet me at Joe Rabi Airport in
Miami at 5." 

The plane trip was long, and Oliver would not reveal the specifics of
our destination.  I attempted to make him feel better by mentioning
that "Wild Palms" was technically feasible, but largely misunderstood.
I think I used the word "imagery" over a thousand times.  He cheered
up a little, but still seemed disturbed.  He assured me I would
understand soon enough, but didn't want to get me so depressed that I
wouldn't appreciate the in-flight movie, "Platoon".   

After arriving in Santiago and meeting in alleys with various people
of questionable ethical and hygenic origins, we were taken on a car
ride with a very frightened guide.  After travelling for two hours
into the heart of the fruit producing region, our guide stopped and
explained how we must walk the final 10 miles to insure we were not
observed, and also to insure that he would have time to get away.
Oliver had brought jungle camouflage and other survival implements, and
we proceeded in the direction indicated.   

We knew we were close when we saw a sign, "Blood Orange Production" on
a building hidden within the jungle.  Only a single dirt road led to
the building, and trucks packed with crates of what seemed to be
oranges or tangerines were just leaving the loading docks on one side
of the building.  Posing as workers who were just wearing camouflage as
a fashion statement, we slipped inside the building. 

We were met by an overwhelming site, and I quickly came to understand
Oliver's distress.  We were looking at the manufacturing process for
blood oranges -  yes, I said *manufacturing* process.  Blood Oranges
are not grown, they are *made*.  They start out as normal oranges, and
roll along a conveyor belt to a point where they are doused with a red
liquid.   

I followed the hoses that fed the mechanical sprayer to the ceiling,
where I was dismayed to discover three PEOPLE, throats slit in
"columbian necktie" fashion, their blood draining into a small trough
that fed the machine.  Oliver began to wretch, and I had to carry him
into a small subchamber.  I just barely had time to put him down
before I began to feel sick myself. 

I'd seen dead people before, in fact when I was an arms dealer I even
had to drink human blood for several days in order to survive a plane
crash in the Sahara.  These experiences had not, however, prepared me
for the sight before me.  Two early model 911s lay rusting on the
warehouse floor.  Wheels removed, windows gone, and some sort of
fungus growing on the factory-cracked dashboard.  Worst, and most
sickening of all, someone had shoehorned a chevy big-block V8 into the
back.   

Fully recovered, Oliver had to drag me kicking and screaming out of
the warehouse. 

"There is no way to save them," he said.  "They're already dead."

"At least I could help them die with dignity.  It wouldn't take more
than a few minutes to take those engines out." 

"Their throats were slit, there is nothing more..." he stopped.
"Engines?" 

"Throats?"  I said,  with equal confusion.  

We stared at each other for a few moments, each wondering how the
other could care so little about something so tragic, then we realized
something even more important to us than what we'd seen: our lives
were in danger. 

We dashed into the cover of the nearby jungle as the machine gun fire
trailed our heels.  Somehow we made it back to our car.  During the
ride back, I expressed my desire to reveal the truth to the world.   

"There are a lot of loose ends in this story," he said.  "For example,
what does this have to do with the US Government, why are they
covering this up?  Before we make a movie about this, we need some
more answers." 

"You don't get it, Oliver," I said.  "I now have evidence that even
further proves my point that there is something lost in translation
from the German word `blutorange' to the American, `tangerine'." 

He though for a moment, and said, "But they are different fruits."

"Oliver," I said.  "We're definitely two people who will never
understand each other.  Maybe we should get married." 

Keep an eye out for the movie version.