mr. venison ate toast and sipped coffee. the tv blathered softly. a news report caught his ear – a massive pancake had just set the record for world’s largest. mr. venison hated pancakes.
at 1:31 that afternoon, mr. venison looked up from his work and clapped himself on the forehead.
“toast.” he said, to no one in particular.
he allowed himself the luxury of a brief chortle, picked up the phone and called mr. catskin. mr. venison was an idea man, so he was quite content to let mr. catskin take over when it came to execution. mr. venison was also mayor of a midwestern town, whose waning fortunes once centered around coal, and whose struggling economy could always use a boost.
*****
work began two weeks later in a large clearing outside of town. crowds of townspeople gathered to watch, growing larger each day, and curiosity seekers soon came from throughout the region. construction proceeded briskly. soon two shiny new structures stood in the muddy field. one measured sixty-one feet at its highest point. the other was just as large, but lay low to the ground.
they began mixing on a friday afternoon. a large crowd turned out. the field was quite festive, with marching bands, hordes of news trucks and food stands selling various permutations of monster-mega toast.
they mixed massive quantities of flour, water and yeast in a swimming pool, specially constructed for the occasion. the dough was transferred to the low structure with bulldozers, where it baked until morning.
the great day dawned sunny and warm, but by mid-afternoon dark clouds hung on the horizon. mayor venison eyed them as he stood for the national anthem. his heartfelt speech was the apotheosis of small town boosterism.
three helicopters appeared, circling overhead. they dropped long cables, which were attached to the metal latticework that held the bread. they slowly took up the slack. the crowd gasped. the choppers flew in neat formation, cargo swaying beneath. they carefully maneuvered the bread into the tall structure. several men squirmed inside, loosening the latticework.
mayor venison beamed, flipping an absurdly large power switch on stage. there was a loud hum as electricity surged through massive coils. soon the superb smell of toasting bread wafted across the field. the mayor pushed the release button. the exit trajectory had been carefully computed and part of the field was roped off. nothing happened. he tried again – nothing.
the wonderful aroma was gone. the crowd fell back as thick smoke and orange flames poured from the slot. the mayor stabbed the button again. there was a screech. the crowd scattered in panic as a fifty-foot high piece of burning toast shot from the world’s largest toaster and plunged into their midst.
*****
months later and mr. venison still had no appetite. he poured syrup and picked at his pancakes. his wife had downed toast and coffee and hustled off to work. he refused to enter the kitchen until she was finished. mr. venison hated toast.
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