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One fine, brisk autumn day, a family of tomatoes was taking a walk: a father, a mother, and an adorable son, their only child. The son, through no fault of his own, was naturally smaller than his parents, and so continually fell behind. But the father's sun-ripened mind saw it as a character flaw, if not a studied insult--deliberate lollygagging, and he would take no such insolence from the fruit of his loins. In a towering, thundering rage, he stormed back to the boy, and with a roar of "No son of mine!" and a mighty stomp, crushed the little lad into the pavement, red juice squirting everywhere, splattering on his face and boots and the sidewalk, and even the wooden fence along the street. Shrieking in agony, the child tried desperately to free himself, too addled by the pain to try reasoning with his parent, which of course only inflamed his father further. He ground his foot onto the cement, as though doing something of no more import than crushing out a used cigarette, but his terrible expression, and the squeals of the little tomato, shattered the illusion. Finally, mercifully, the screams died out, though he continued grinding until the child was well and truly smashed flat, his remains strewn across the pavement.
The mother, too shocked by the horror to have spoken up before now, sobbed, "What have you done?! Why?! How could you do such a horrible thing to anyone, let alone your son?! Your only son..."
She dropped to her knees, weeping, and he turned around, his face now placid, and as if it was the most reasonable thing in the world, said, "He was falling behind. He needed to ketchup."