Rogue Gouda

Rogue Gouda

George Doubletoot Woosh didn't like surprises. He prised open the
omelet before him and took a careful peep inside. "Tuna and mushroom.
Brain food and yummy", he thought and then he forked it into his mouth,
keeping an eye on the Washington Post beside his grapefruit juice.
After breakfast, Woosh would be straight in with his thinking tanks to
best provide a solution for how the United States would defend itself,
now that it was possible that some of the nations they had been
slapping around in distant deserts for years might have nuclear
weapons. He had been pushing forwards the idea of a missile defense
system that annihilated airborne nukes making their ways to America
from three carefully positioned satellites. Woosh liked the thought of
shooting stuff from space, but the tanks were now worried about the
likes of the late Tim Mcveigh getting their hands on a suitcase of
nukes and throwing a haymaker into their own faces and those of their
fellow Americans.

Conrad Summers worked little miracles in the kitchen each morning he
cooked for his nuclear family. His wife, Sandy slept tightly as did
their young son Flemming, who would have to wake soon and start getting
himself together for school. Conrad looked at his Post as he waited for
the bread to become toast. He didn't think Woosh was that dumb. "
Lowest I.Q of any American Leader", the front page read. Summers had
voted for Woosh and now thought that the president was doing a good
job. The sort of no-frills, hardworking, firm but fair performance that
at least ensured suburbanites like the Summers family kept their places
in the sun. He was keeping his promises.

The tanks were in frenzy. They were swarming around a little man in a
suit who had and enormous turban on. Woosh swarmed too, though right at
the back of the melee of tanks. It was a scrum, a ruck. He gave it all
he could, nuzzling his nose into the thick material of the suit in
front. "Sir! Mr. President sir, the demonstration sir." The meek voice
came from the tank on whose back Whoosh had his face flatly pressed.
Everybody had taken their seats, save for the tank, the gentlemen with
the massive turban and George Doubletoot Woosh, who gave a little
victory pump with his arm and clenched fist and then made his way to
the seat with the highest back in the room.

Flemming Summers had risen to the sound of his electric clock and was
diligently getting ready for school. Breakfast was his last stop on his
way out. In the kitchen his father had spaced out all the perfectly
brown pieces of toast on a tray and was carefully adding chopped green
pepper, tomatoes and bacon bits. This dish was known as " Conrad's
Breakfast Pizza". Sandy would get hers in bed. This routine was set and
took place in the Summer's home from every Monday to every Friday. All
that differed from day to day was what breakfast Conrad decided to
conjure up. Now he just had to add finely sliced Gouda and then slide
the lot into their spacious microwave.

The funny little man was unraveling his bulbous turban and the thinking
tanks and Woosh sat in suspense. Finally the last of the seemingly
endless bandage fell away to reveal a regular sized brown briefcase.
There was a collective intake of air, followed by a silence and then a
collective groan. The man, who now looked much like the other tanks put
the briefcase down and opened it with a smooth flick of the
combinations. Woosh could make out a piercing blue light that flashed
on and off and then his view of whatever it was they had in the case
was lost as the tanks formed another huddle. Woosh went in with his
shoulders this time and got is head between two of the tanks and his
arms around their waists. This time he had purchase and could really
give it his all.

Conrad reached far into the cavernous refrigerator and took out the
Gouda. He checked the dates and then peeled back the plastic covering.
Then he unsheathed the fine cheese-cutting knife from its wooden
holder. The trick was to get the cheese slice so thin that when it
melted, it formed a transparent covering over the other ingredients.
When a knife passes through cheese, the tiny atoms that make up cheese
simply choose which side of the enormous blade they want to be and then
calmly divide. Picture something the size of a Manhattan skyscraper,
shaped like an airplane wing passing slowly through a gravity free
atmosphere of soft, fine rice. The rice just blows and bows aside. This
was the case until Conrad's third slice. Then a remarkable,
unthinkable, unprecedented thing happened. One slightly out of shape
Gouda atom got caught between the last, hard knife atom and the
plastic, germ free breadboard and got split. As it did, it spurted out
its protons which wacked another Gouda atom, which in turn lost its
feisty innards onto another and so on.

George Doubletoot Woosh didn't like surprises so the tanks that had
gathered around the huge window of the White House meeting room didn't
tell him of the giant mushroom cloud that had formed to the east and
now towered over all of Washington. He was still gamely shoving the two
tanks he had gripped earlier into a far corner of the room and thinking
that his lunch break couldn't be too far off.

end