As ice cream vans go it certainly wasn't the purplest that there ever was, yet its overall purpleness did draw unnecessary attention to it. As people passed they would often be heard "Ooh that ice cream van is awfully purple. In fact it's so purple I wouldn't consider buying ice cream from it unless I really needed one. I don't need one, so I won't buy one." Death soon followed and the ice cream van was sold off to a man in a wig, and a purple jumper with his name written on it in a slightly less purple colour - green to be exact.
This man, who for the sake of argument we'll call a fat, ugly fuck whose death wouldn't be noticed, sought the van to sit outside his purple house; upon buying the van all the pieces of his fiendish little plan fell into place. This feckless rogue who would have ground up babies if they would turn things purple had the fifth largest collection of post-war purple memorabilia in his village, and yet the fourth largest collection in the whole world - the world body of purple stuff measure things differently to their local equivalent. An accident with a heart followed, with death hard on the heels; once again the van was sold.
The van's purchaser this time was a lawyer acting on behalf of his mystery benefactor. The mystery benefactor's identity was revealed, and the first half of his title was negated. He was a rich cheat who as a young boy had once dropped an ice cream and received a replacement free of charge (although Zooms were a penny more expensive the year after to cover the losses). The van, our hero (of which we seem to have a disproportionate amount to the number of non-evil fuckheads there are in this shitfucky pissy world) was set to go to London and be a gentleman, after extensive surgery. Naturally a natural form of rebellion was the natural progression for this subnatural, actuo-mechanical, preterpriper, "Oh look I'm a van and I'm purple" van; he took to the trees to live amongst his appleian brethren.
At first the apples were wary of the intruder into their safe, acceptable world. Charisma's not something you can just bottle unless you're a really clever scientist ahead of everyone else in your field - and it helps too if your field is somehow related to bottling charisma. If charisma could be bottled and a purple van could be a bottle, then this would be a close proximination, or a reasonable facsimile of a close proximination. He wowed the apples with jokes and amusing tales of predominantly dairy-based frozen desserts; for that short but glorious summer things appeared to make sense.
All things come to an end, except happiness which just feels like it does. Autumn came and Mister Yellow Frutinovsky, the farmer, started harvesting the fields, while his wife concentrated more on what was in the fields. Some of the apples began to fall, some were picked, and eventually when most of the others were gone it was time for this purple van - by now a fully accepted member of appleian society - to take his place in the mouth of someone.
Dry your eyes, reader. Although the death of this heroic van is a sad and tortuous one, which saw his pig friend kill himself through grief during the cold lonely winter, the following spring a multitude of baby vans were born. Most of these caught the gentle spring breeze and drifted away to have great adventures elsewhere on this planet; three of them remained and made their homes in the orchard. To this day if you go to that orchard the descendants of that sweet ice cream van with a hint of purple can be seen perched happily in the apple trees, talking to a goose or falling on a small child by mistake.