Elusive green apple bat orgy

Driving around town, we decide to head north and hit up the closest 7-11. I'm hoping that they'll have green apple in addition to the normal selection of Coca Cola and pina colada-flavored slurpees. The weather has been turning for the past few weeks, so nearly all the leaves now blanket the ground next to the street while only a few cling desperately to their branches. Church's white Ford rumbles down the hill along Mountain Road as the soundtrack of Gladiator blasts out of the speakers. He cracks a joke when we pass the spot where I obliterated a deer one night during the previous summer. Church and I have been friends for years now, for reasons that are as difficult to count as they are to remember. Conversation between us flows back and forth as it always has, varying from politics, to movies, to girls, to sports, and eventually back to how our characters are faring in our favorite video games.
Pulling up to the gas station, I notice that the tree next to the south wall is thrashing and squeaking violently. Not being accustomed to audible trees, I'm determined to investigate. Standing in the overcast dusk overshadowed by the vast face of Ben Lomond peak, shadow clouds my vision as well as my perception of what I could possibly be seeing. Cautiously I tiptoe right up to the trunk of the quivering tree. Peering above my head up into the dark branches, I at last realize that I'm witnessing some kind of orgy between hundreds of bats. So many bats shock me, having expected something... but not this. I can't help but leap backward.
 Suddenly I'm distracted by Church's inquisitive voice, "Dude, what the hell is going on in that tree?"
"Bats. Hundreds of them. Just swarming around. I've never seen anything like this before."
"Weird. Do you have a camera?"
I can't reply to the affirmative. Most cell phones, including mine, aren't readily equipped with cameras yet.
After taking a good long look, we get our slurpees. No green apple. That elusive green apple slurpee never lingers long in one particular place. Mountain Dew will suffice until I find the green apple again.
I pry open the door of the truck and hop in. The cloth seat cover scrunches up as we slide into place, so I arc my back and smooth it out until it's lying evenly as before. Glancing upward, the peaks of the mountains are already blanketed in snow. Before another month has passed, Church and I will be snowboarding again every weekend. Not even a year ago, we skipped out on as many days of our junior year as possible so that I could teach Church how to snowboard on the relatively empty midday slopes. Church and I started off as kids on our elementary school's playground, I pretending to be a jet pilot and he playing Jurassic Park with plastic dinosaur dolls.
"So, basketball game?" I ask.
"Sure, bro. Video games after?"
I nod my head in agreement. Our friendship hasn't changed much in nearly a decade, and that's just the way I like it.