The Oreo War

June 1, 2011
By Anonymous

It was a warm, sunny afternoon in a small suburb of St. Paul, Minnesota. Peter Scat was enjoying Oreos from his family’s huge cookie jar and a glass of milk. Peter had blond hair, with blue eyes, and looked quite athletic – which he was. He was of average height for a twelve year-old. Peter enjoyed sports. He was a people-person and was quite pleasant to be around. He was a brave and determined soul, who could hold a grudge. In spite of this, however, Peter could be forgiving.
Peter’s younger brother, Jim, slowly slunk into their kitchen. Only ten years of age, Jim was very intelligent. He possessed a troublesome trait of curiosity. Jim had always used great effort, and never gave up. He was seldom apologetic for past events. Jim knew he was quite tall, and tried to crouch down as he walked. He often dressed nicely, and sported dark, blue eyes and curly, blond hair. Jim began to pick from the cookie jar his favorite snack – the Oreo.

“Nice day today, isn’t it Peter?” asked Jim cheerfully.

“It’s pretty nice outside,” agreed Peter.

“I hope you’ve been enjoying your day.”

“I normally do.”

What does Jim want with me? Peter asked himself. Is he plotting something? Might he otherwise just be enjoying his day?

“I am only munching on this Oreo, Peter,” announced Jim, as if to read his mind.

The two brothers talked for a while as they snacked.

Later, Jim and Peter both reached their hands into the cookie jar at the same time. Peter was expecting to reach in the jar, and feel dozens of rough cookie edges. He was to pull out an Oreo, smell the chocolaty, friendly fragrance, and taste hard and soft textures mixed together for a delicious, mouthwatering, welcoming bite. That did not happen.
Instead, Peter had to reach further down, rubbing against Jim’s hand and the smooth, porcelain surface of the jar, only to find Oreo crumbs.
What happened to the Oreo cookies? wondered Peter.
“I can’t find anything,” he complained.
Searching around with his hand, Peter found the small extremity of Jim clasped around an object.
“I found it!” exclaimed Jim.
They both brought their hands from the cookie jar, with Jim’s fingers still clenched.
“Can I have the Oreo?” asked Peter in a slightly demanding way.

“No. I found it, therefore it goes to me,” Jim explained.

“I was here before you, Jim.”

“Exactly. I have eaten less, so, to be fair, I get it.”

“I’m the oldest!” Peter began to shout.

“I’m the smartest!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” retorted Peter.

Jim dropped the Oreo back into the jar, formed two tight fists and stepped back, ready to embrace his older brother in a fight.

Peter responded by leaping at him, almost landing on his target. He hit the floor and rolled along the ground, quickly jumping back up. He turned and faced Jim.

“It’s my Oreo!” he yelled.

“No, I want it!” responded Jim, flailing his arms.

“Then it’s war, Jim!”

“War it is!”
Angrily, the two stormed off to their rooms. Peter bent down by his light blue, twin-sized bed. From under the old, wooden bed frame he easily removed a dusty, ramshackle, cardboard box. Opening the box, Peter found two, transparent squirt gun pistols embedded in hundreds of Styrofoam peanuts. He picked them up, out of the box, and slid them into his pockets. Walking over and into his small closet, Peter lifted a large, Target bag containing several, unused, party balloons. He carried his bag of balloons and squirt guns down to his family’s kitchen, where he would fill up his supplies with orange juice, and turn the many party balloons into large, citrus-filled water balloons.

Meanwhile, Jim had gathered only a single water balloon, but did find a long, green, tube-like water gun, that would fire as he pumped water through the barrel.
Jim had positioned himself outside of the Scat’s house, by their gardening hose. He was filling his “weapons” with pints of cold water, and had placed three lawn chairs in front of him for defense. I’ll take on whatever you have Peter, he thought. Jim had just finished supplying his two items with H2O. Bring it on, Peter, bring it on.
Peter located Jim and marched to a thick, small hedge-bush about five meters from the garden hose. He talked to himself about the tactics he would use. I’ll walk
around the house and sneak up from behind. No, he’ll be suspecting that. Maybe I could wait for him to make a move, and attack then. That’s too dangerous; it will give Jim the upper hand. I know, I will toss my water balloons towards him, blind him for a few seconds, and go in for the kill.

Peter stood in front of the hedge-bush, which he planned to use as a shield.
“I will attack you Jim. I’ll win this battle. Just be warned,” Peter broadcasted to his enemy.
“Give it your all! You can’t beat me!” Jim yelled as a comeback.
Both ducked behind their defensive wall, – Peter’s shrub and Jim’s lawn chairs – and waited for the other to make the first move. Peter, quick to react, gave a surprising, bone-chilling scream. Jim looked up from his only defense, and saw a perfectly fine Peter, swinging his long arm forward, and releasing a yellow, orange juice-filled balloon into the air. Startled, Jim squatted down behind his lawn chairs with hands over his head. After milliseconds he heard a loud splat, and looked over his shield to see a water balloon – reduced to yellow balloon fragments, dispersed like shrapnel, and orange juice?
“No, fair, you’re cheating!” complained Jim.
“When it comes to war, there are no rules,” Peter declared.
Peter then began to toss all of his balloons at Jim. His arms were moving at an incredible speed, throwing one, then another, then another, in seconds. To Jim, he was feeling like he was the city of London in the WWII air raids, with one bomb hitting the ground next to him, missing his left arm by centimeters, then another, grazing the top of his head. More and more bombs would keep falling, and the Germans would just keep firing and firing. Peter seemed to have infinite water balloons.
Finally, it was over. Jim had closed his eyes. The hail of water balloons had struck fear into his soul. Jim thought the bombing would never end. He opened his eyes, and took a deep breath. He sniffed the air. It was filled with the slightly acrid smell of orange juice. He felt his clothes and limbs. He was not wet. Jim had not a scratch on him. I am alive! I have survived the attack from Peter! I have made it! Jim stood up, and held his arms in the air victoriously.
“I have won! I have won!” Jim shouted out to Peter.
No you haven’t Jim, at least not yet, his conscience spoke to him. You still have to conquer your brother.
Jim grabbed his long-ranged water gun, and held it in the air for his brother to see. Peter responded by picking up his squirt guns. Peter stepped out of the protection of his hedge-bush. He began to charge at full speed towards Jim. Jim copied him and ran into a destined collision course.
“Yaaaaaahhh!” Peter yelled at the top of his lungs.
At the distance of about three feet, they both jumped to a stop. The two brothers began to fire their guns, directly at the other. It felt like a war zone from a movie. To Peter, time began to slow down, if not stop. His short life appeared to flash before his eyes. When he saw the battle, it appeared to be as if he was another person, watching from the heavens. Soon both of the brother’s water guns emptied of liquid, and time sped back up. Peter felt a sudden loss of energy, and collapsed. As he fell, all Peter saw was the blurry shape of Jim sprinting back to three lawn chairs, picking out a water balloon, running back to him, and chucking an explosion of water into his gut.

Peter awoke in the same spot. He was not sure why he had fainted; he just knew it had to do with Jim. Jim and the Oreo War. He felt around his body to look for broken bones, but there were none. He tried to sit up, and found he still was sore. He began to stand up, but found the small hand of Jim in front of his face. Jim was the cause of this mess. What does he want?
“Need a hand, brother?” spoke Jim in a friendly tone. “I’m sorry about all this Peter. I messed up, and I’m sorry.
“No, you didn’t mess up. It was my fault. I should’ve just given you the Oreo.”

“You can have it Peter. I don’t need it.”

“Why not split the Oreo?”

“Good idea. Let’s do that.”

Jim helped Peter up onto his feet. The duo walked inside their house. They found their sister, Emily, reading on the sofa.

“You look well fed today,” said Peter.

“I am,” agreed Emily, “I just ate the last Oreo.”

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