Presidential Soup

    

                                                          by Zack Mitchell

     Everyone has something in their kitchen they would eat last in the event of starvation. For Gordon McKenzie, it was soup. He had only bought four cans of it in his life. Lurking deep in the top shelf of the most inaccessible cupboard, dust-covered and potentially expired, were the same four cans. It was assumed he would never eat them. Yet something was different tonight.

     Gordo arrived home from work and looked in the fridge. Nothing much. He picked up the phone book and flipped through the take-out menus. Then he delved into the boring depths of the dry-storage cupboard. Probably nothing more than some jello packets, iced tea powder, maybe pasta (with no sauce or butter in the fridge, nor any oil), pancake mix (and not the kind that calls only for water, it called for milk and eggs, both of which were also not in the fridge, not to mention any sort of syrups or jams), maybe a sprouted potato or two and finally a bottle of honey, its ancient run-off crusted the surrounding surface.

     There was nothing in the cupboard other than what he had predicted. Except...the soup on the top shelf.

      Soup? He asked himself. His stomach grumbled. I'll see what kinds they are at least.

      He grabbed the canned undesirables. First up was an overdose of sodium in the form of a generic Tomato. It was likely the colour of neon orange glistening sickly in the reflection of fluorescent lighting. A misplaced radioactive substance that when ingested might transform one into a new type of superhero, or give one cancer, or merely bring on a case of heartburn, depending on what your story is all about. He could imagine the soup showing off its clusters of oily residue and ever-split watery-appearance. Next up was a weak broccoli and cheese. A pulpy matter devoid of any discernible broccoli, it had been blended to a hot smoothie of faded green. Also there was a strange specimen of a long-since discontinued chain of an immensely unpopular Chili-like substance (this beauty expired nine years ago). Finally there was a can of Plain Lentil.

      The Chili-stuff was ruled out for mere health issues, as was the sodium-bomb Tomato. He further inspected the Broccoli and Cheese and grew to suspect it did not actually contain any elements of real food, but was a clever rouse of flavouring made from a complex arrangement of totally synthetic materials. That left the Plain Lentil, which was actually the name of the brand. Gordo thought it was an honest name that didn't try to sell itself as more than it was. The wrapper was also very plain, listing nothing other than the scant ingredients and a complaint-line phone number. None of the usual indulgent hype about how the vegetables were supposedly grown and harvested by authentic, rustic farmers living on the slopes of some distant mountain.

      Gordo got a pot from the cupboard and placed it on the burner. He then opened the can of soup. Something rank beyond anything he had ever experienced emanated from the smell. He could have nearly passed out. He looked inside. There was no soup in the can. Taking up all the room was a dead rat. The smell escaped with a violent explosion. Gordo threw up. He didn't clean it up but instead went to lie down.

      He awoke several hours later. The rank smell of the dead rat had now permeated across the entire apartment, oozing into every forgotten nook and cranny. Gordo choked. He promptly made himself a makeshift gas-mask with a towel doused in something resembling Old Spice, as if he were a character in a movie that didn't show brand-name logos. He put the can in a plastic bag (not before writing down the complaint phone number), sealed the bag and placed it on the balcony.

      Must hold onto the evidence.

      Gordo phoned the complaint hot-line. He was greeted with a voice that was not organic.