Killing a King

 I see the tomato, grab it, and squeeze it. Its juice comes out with a splash, with chunks and occasional drips of blood. Its skin dries under the burning heat of my palm, turning into a shade of very dark red. I slice it with the cold, metallic, frozen knife and place it on the stale bread. I put it on the bright red plate and offer it to the king. The flaming hot dried tomato should kill him.