Beatrice was the
first to smell it. She had just sat down to her dinner of fried chicken
and mashed potatoes when the odor assaulted her nose. Ed, her husband,
who was in the kitchen loading up his own plate with chicken and potatoes,
caught the smell just seconds after Beatrice. "Ed," Beatrice
called out, "you might want to hold out on that chicken. Something
don't smell right." "It ain't the chicken," he responded,
"that smell is coming from outside." They met in the doorway
between the kitchen and dining room, both fanning their noses.
Meanwhile, across
town, Boris had just stepped out of the gas station restroom, shortly after
consuming four 7-11 cheeseburgers and regretting it. "Good
Lord," he uttered to himself, "I smell worse than I
thought." "Hey, Boris, you smell that?" Horace
called out from inside the gas station. "Yeah, Horace, sorry about
that. Those cheap burgers ya know." "No Boris, that ain't
you. That smell showed up as soon as you walked into the
bathroom."
Within hours, the
mysterious smell had enveloped the entire town of Lawrenceville, including the
state patrol office just outside of town. The public school was the first
to shut down, out of health concerns. Eventually, a hazmat crew was
called in from out of town to try and find the origin of the stink. But
no single point was found. The smell continued to grow, ultimately taking
over the entire eastern side of the state. The governor called a state of
emergency, again citing health concerns. Within the week, the entire east
coast reeked of the rotten egg/burning rubber/vomit smell that hung in the
air. The national guard was called in and set up stations every few miles
up and down the eastern coast. The president had begun entertaining the
possibility of terrorist attack. Late night talk shows began receiving call ins
suggesting alien invasion. Televangelists suggested the wrath of God.
Eventually,
America learned to live with the smell. Ed and Beatrice sat down with
their dinner of chicken and potatoes.
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