Children of teh Atom

snouty

Also known as 'egg boundary.' written by me and my mate for a writing competition on the theme of 'boundaries.' I have no idea if anyone has ever made it to the end except us (if you do, do let me know!). But it makes me laugh in it's ridiculosity... so I hope you also like this shaggy dog about an egg-smashing loon...

if nothing else it provides a very convincing argument for accepting trout into our world...

The Ovoid Foetus Farted, and the Broken Shell Wept

This is my story.

Wednesday. I was wearing my Boundary Road t-shirt. it signified my desire to change the world. The world is becoming my oyster, bound in string and plastic eggcups. my friend was knocking on the outside of the shell; or was it the inside, I don't know. anyway, George, my friend, fingered my buttonhole for treasure. yeah, oh my god, that was probing my boundaries, in a gung-ho poto chips way. He was drunk and rude. I was sober and polite. Maybe I was even boundary-less, because I let him wipe his feet... on my head. My bald, sorry head. My useless, poxy egghead. My bubbling head of steam. Time to reflect on the past, when I wrote the saddest appeal document ever submitted to a prison warder.

It was in 1998. I was detained at her majesty's pleasure, for crimes against a good man's boundaries. I was in the state penitentiary of Strangeways, Manchester. I was doin bird, to atone my overstepping the mark. I stepped over Mark, and jumped on his shopping, on his eggs. Over and over again, until his double-crossing shopping bag no longer sat by his side, but instead was in the tread of my Reeboks. (I am sorry if I have permanently hammily blotted the pavement with Mark's comestibles on my Reebok footprints). Mark jumped up, and said;

-get away from the door; I'm up off the floor, I'm calling the law! so do up your laces, or I'll break your jaw!

Mark had offended me. I only jumped on his shopping because I knew that the eggs he had bought are fattening, and can add to cholesterol build-up, leading to possible heart disease. I am pro-life, and anti-egg. And if this means attacking a good man's eggs, or a friend's innocent looking bag, I will not shirk my resposibilities. To crush the evil eggs.

Anyway, the police came, our boys in blue, and fitted me up. they could see my good will in terms of diet and healthy arteries, but of course the letter of the law must be upheld. So the detective in charge tied a rock around my ankles, strapped a goat to my teeth, ruffled my hair and tied my shoelaces together. He gave me a wedgie. His team put talc down my Boundary Road t-shirt, and they took a photo of my predicament, which was later posted to the National press, who had a field day. When they finally left the field, they saw my photo and laughed. they went back the to field, and continued to laugh, even showing my photo to the sheep, who joined the hilarity. Baaa! Baaaaa! said the amused sheep. It was in a sheep-dip. Or was it a cheese dip? Or a cheesy wotsit. dip.

So then I was hauled off to a summons. they summoned me to court. I was caught, in someone's net. Someone's net of summons and being summoned to be processed by the system. Crime and punishment. Is this the name of the system? Crime and punishment; prevention of freedom to explore protocol. Is it clear that this is lip-gloss on the name of the document? This is my document. My document ‘I'm very sorry’ on the nature of freedom. Or is it my document? No, it is the law's document, not mine. for I need freedom. I crave freedom. They sentenced me to twenty years of boredom. Do I have wait twenty years to be a free man again?

I sat in my cell, brooding over my crime. Crime doesn't pay when you're locked away. It's a shame about Ray. Ray was my cellmate. He died from eating too many eggs. Ray ate eggs for breakfast, dinner, and supper. If only he had met me before his incarceration, I thought, toe-toast, I wouldn't have had to be alone, because I would have stamped on his eggs, and got another twenty years maybe, but at least he'd still be here. He had an egg-related heart-attack.

I am not a bad man. My weird obsession with crushin eggs, other people's eggs, goes back to the army.

I was a sargeant in the Royal Marines, RAF division, submarine parachuting club. My division all died; they were all too fat from eating fried eggs for the submarine to keep flyin; it plummeted down.

down

down

down

and down a bit more, until;

-splosh!

followed by;

-Oooh!

and

-Ah! ya fat bastard!

I was the only one small enough to escape through the emergency escape hatch. the rest of my comrades perished, and from that day on, I have never eaten another egg, and I made it my insane duty to wipe the ovoid scum off the face of the planet. Sorry to those egg-loving liberal do-gooders, but I have my reasons for my dairy-intolerant rage. As detailed above.

My new cell-mate, Dave, was very dull. I wish Ray were still alive. He died for the love of eggs. He died in vain. He died in a pool of yellow yolk, and there were no soldiers who could mop up the mess.

I hatched a plan one day. A plan to escape. A jail-break. But could it be done?

Yes, it could. I was a free man. Free, free at last. I was a free-range man, free to range around, lookin for the lion stamp, to stamp on it, stamp it out for good. once and for all.

I started hanging around outside Sanjay's corner shop in Peckham High Street. I would wait patiently while looking casual. Maybe whistling a little tune, with my thumbs in my bag-lady pockets, or perhaps hooked in my braces. I would eye the shopping bags surreptitiously. I had become an expert on the shape of carrier bags. I could clairvoyantly spot an egg-carton inside a bulging shoppin bag from up to fifty mtres. My sense of smell also increased, and I could smell eggs from round corners, or cooking in a frying pan thirty miles away. like a shark senses blood, I sensed yolk. and albumen. Egg-toplasm.

Evil
Golden
Globe.

I would wait for a customer to leave Sanjay's, whereupon I would spy on their bag(s). Sometimes there were no eggs. I would let these goons go on their merry way. The egg-free way. The way to egg-lightenment.

-Oi! I would shout, you have no eggs! The egg-free way is the divine way. well done. Not well-done eggs, as in overcooked rubbery embryo, but well done shopping, customer! come again soon, etc

However, if a customer appeared with a tell-tale bulge in their knapsack, I would shout;

Oi! Hello! I am compelled, and driven, and mad. And I am crazy enough to stamp upon your eggs, to save you big fucking eggs from yourself.

So saying, I would get stamping and egg-sorcising the eggs. Egg-sterminating them. annihilating them forever in a blaze of goo. The broken shell wept, and I was ecstatic.

Some people were grateful, after I had told them of the dangers. some were puzzled, mystified. But most were terrified, and saddened by my impetuosity.

One man even had the temerity to challenge me;
-I saw your picture in the paper with a goat strapped to your teeth. This was most amusing to me, as I found it funny and amusing.

I was hurt. This was the end of my Sanjay operations. I decided to go for bigger fish. In short, I went for trout. Do trout eat eggs? Boy, you bet they might.

I stood in a stream of trout. I waited there for many hours. Time passed slowly. I concluded that trout do not eat eggs.

Back on land, I had my suspicions about the British Egg Marketing board. I felt their operations might involve the distribution and promotion of an egg-based life-style. And was I right? You bet I might have been!

I'm getting tired. My nerves are tingling, tickled by the need for some more drugs, and drums, and thumb drum drugs.

INTERLUDE

soft violins played, and Mr Whistle Weasel strummed a golden harp in a beautiful English meadow.

-what gracious delight you bestow upon us in this interlude of soft music and naked strumpets, said somebody, in a dream.

-The cornfields flower across my consciousness, Mr Whistle Weasel replied.

A swallow darted across the slow river in wild abandonment, to the tunes of the violin and harp. and An African elephant, the one with the big ears and large nose, skipped over the yellow harp like a ballerina.

The next bit

Morning... I woke up in my cold bed. I had been dreaming again. dreaming the nightmare that never goes away. I dreamed again that I hated eggs, wanted to destroy them all from the planet, and ruin the Egg Marketing Board forever.

I walked to the fridge. got out some eggs. boiled or fried? Maybe boiled today. Mmm, I LOVE eggs. I stuck five of them into a pan with water, flipped the egg-timer, and sat down to read the post.

the doorbell rang. Who could that be? I wondered.

I went to open the door. from behind the door I heard the gentle strumming of a harp, and violins. the rustling of wind. From the corner of my eye, I even thought I saw an elephant skipping past my... no. I went back to the kitchen. The eggs were done.

I running late for my job as Chief Assistant Director of the Egg Marketing Board. I couldn't be late and let down the team, so I hurried through my ablutions.

what about the eggs? I ate 'em. But I don't hate 'em! five delicious white eggs, boiled to perfection. Exactly how I like 'em- to perfection!

The broken shell wept, I rushed to the door, and then out the door, past the elephant, through Chingford, Essex; nearly knocked over the violinists, climbed over the harp, and caught the bus to Peckam, home of the fantastic Peckam pecker, the biggest chicken in the whole of Peckam. And also home of the Egg Marketing Board of Great Britain, ( the EMB of Great Britain). and great eggs.

-Do you want your letter?!, Mr Whistle Weasel cried.

-what I might do is find Clemency the tarantula running backwards, fly-fishing for bluebottles, I replied.

To continue, I washed my face in sweet yellow honey nectar, the delicious watery eggyolk. and soon, I was clean.

And I was ready to work hard at the egg-marketing board. Cluck cluck cluck, the egg-marketing board.

The front door rang again.

-Get that! I shouted, -somebody get that! uuuuurgh!

My secretary bird jumped up and down like Big Bird. But that is not the kind of apology I was after- I was mad! damn mad! Only jumping up and down like an egg-laying donkey would appease me now. My broken boundaries were withering thin. Wuthering heights. In short, I was becoming more and more disturbed by the second. And I was turning into an egg.

Bang! Bang! BANG! I was turning into an egg, with a newly polished eggshell boundary. I was withdrawing into my shell, regressing and re-dressing into a little girl in an egg. In a huge egg full of egg-contents. An unkinder suprise I could not be hatched inside.

So there I was, waiting for the doorbell to be answered, sitting pretty but hidden and distant in the hard shell, for from my secretary bird, who was now imploring me to cook myself for her breakfast and amusement. As much as I like her, as much as I like breakfast, I was not prepared to be fried, poached or boiled for her breakfast or amusement. didn't they used to make seeds in an egg, and draw silly faces on them, and the cress seeds would become the hair? the fools. Not this egg for easter frolics. I started to roll a fat one inside my magic globe den. I made it long and handsome. 'Is this a spliff?' I asked myself. 'no', I replied, 'it's a sausage roll'. 'But I don't eat meat!' I cried to the roll I had rolled.

And so I rolled another one. 'It could be a spring roll!' I cried. But no, it was a spliff.

Perhaps, at this point, I should point out the dangers of sausage rolls. they are bad for your cholestrol. Whenever I see a sausage roll, that shape of hate, I see red. for example, who do you think it was who destroyed the Walls sausage factory in Tooting Beck, and demoralised the workforce with amplified heavy metal. who was it? Come on, it was me. The mad health boundary loving crowbar wielding egg-squashing sausage roll snatching trout-stalking Sanjay's mart fart taker-apart Avenger of fast food and eggs. Not me! I'm IN the egg-marketing board in an EGG! with a sausage roll! hey kids, don't do DRUGS! don't do SAUSAGE! don't do ROLL! keep your BOUNDARIES! lock them away in a house made of boundaryless hay. HEY! Boundary-less hay, I said, boundaryless HAY! look at me now, who would have thought, that I would be insane.

INSANE! INSANE! INSANE! INSANE!

...and the broken shell wept, wept for joy.

FINALE
A huge piano chimed beautiful waltz music across the sunny desert. A camel hooted. A weasel wept tears of joy. Mr Whistle Weasel whistled with his penis, as the tall tortoise strummed a saintly harp. soft dancers danced and pranced and stomped to France on the merry ferry to Londonderry.

-how does sound to you, Mr Whistle Weasel crooned, to an elegant ostrich

-simply marvellous, marvellous I tell you, the silly octopus replied. where's the watermelon?

-I'm over here! a waltzing watermelon replied. -lovely weather for landloving seamonsters.

-Yes indeed! replied the shark, as he basked his legs on the fire.

The end was always a mere accident, a freak of nature, usually a tornado in an ice-cream cone. the end is near for the dance of the spheres. the time is now. The now is gone. We are stalling for a second, and then the universe is suddenly toast. Brown bread.

The egg won't bend.

The fisherman's friend.

The end.

The Interlude of the Penultimate Epilogue of the Finale.

Spark plugs greased up a pole-vaulting egg. God, god help me. they are coming, coming through the pipes. help me! help ME! oh egg!
my cheese, add the flour and stir for three minutes.

beat the yolk of one egg, until frothy.

Add the nuts, the herbs and pour over the potos.

Open your arga, and place on a hot shelf for 30 minutes, or until burnt in the microwave.

Put it all then upstairs at room temperature for Big Bird. Big Bad Bird, Bad Bird, oh no! oh NOOOooo! I've got stuck! ruptured! and a big bird t h i n k s I'm an EGG no, I've lost it now I'm an egg. can't write anymore. in fact I hate it all, it all. My penis is shrinking, shrink wrapped, I am POLYUNSATURATED, need to see a shrink bird, shrink bird, big bird...

...and the broken shell wept...
THE END

Finale- the author reflects

I bet no-one gets this far. What I hoped to achieve in this narrative was to explore the arguments between differing and even opposing parts of the same brain, and to make them real for the reader. As for boundaries, the dialectic of thought fits neatly into the topic- the conflict between two ideas within the boundary of one personality. In the environment of many brains, ie society, this is a poignant and topical postulation; that all are one, and therefore all boundaries are contained within one egg. The egg is a metaphor for the universe. Diverse life cells all growing within a single cell.

I have learned while writing, that most realities contain their opposite within them. Perhaps it is a Buddhist idea- the yin and yang, push and pull of existence. which came first, the chicken or the egg? It was of course the egg, as dinosaurs laid eggs long before birds had evolved.

I wanted to write this story from the perspective of a madman. Because that's what I am- a mad, mad man.

I hope my story succeeds in creating a healthy argument for accepting trout into our world. For as I have discovered, they do NOT eat eggs.

Pom-pa-pom-pa-pom!
tra-la-la-la-la!
Tee-tiddly-hee!
Pom-pa-POM-pa-POM!

EPILOGUE

Of course, I was fired from the Egg Marketing Board, for not answering the door, and turning into an egg. This brought about a schizophrenic episode where I believed I was a dog. I then remembered the traumatic episode that had sparked my terrible dreamlife- the deaths of my comrades. somehow I had blamed myself for their deaths, and my later success at the egg marketing board had only fuelled my guilt, turning me into a Jeckyll and Hyde character, alternately promoting and destroying eggs.

This dichotomy is now ended. I neither love, nor fear eggs. In fact, I sometimes enjoy a couple when the homeless shelter gives them out on sandwiches.

Yes, I lost my home when I lost my job, and I have been living under a park bench for a couple of years now. But I am happy, because my brain is healed. the thin shell, the protective boundary that had formed between my two personalties is now fractured ...and the broken shell wept ...tears of joy.

.