By all outward appearances, Harold K. Johnson is an ordinary man. He’s a 58-year-old actuary, resides in a quiet suburban neighborhood, and finds solace in the predictable patterns of numbers. But on June 22, he unwittingly became the epicenter of a seismic event that rocked the very foundations of the clandestine world of competitive dessert consumption.
It started innocently enough, at the Johnson family reunion in the bucolic wilderness of northern Wisconsin. There, on a table festooned with Grandma Johnson’s collection of doilies, lay an array of pies—apple, cherry, pumpkin, rhubarb—each one more deliciously dangerous than the last. Harold, an unsuspecting participant in this covert culinary conflict, proceeded to unknowingly decimate the spread.
What he hadn’t anticipated was that the Johnson family reunion coincided with the location of Operation Pecan Thunder, a top-secret pie-eating competition run by the shadowy figures of the International Competitive Eating Bureau (ICEB). Harold’s innocent dessert consumption was, unbeknownst to him, being closely monitored by the ICEB’s sophisticated Pie Recognition and Integrated Tracking System (PRITS).
As Harold worked his way through pie after pie, PRITS flagged his consumption rate as unprecedented. The system, designed to detect potential threats to the competitive eating world order, alerted ICEB’s central command. The ‘Johnson Incident,’ as it is now referred to in hushed whispers within the halls of ICEB, sent the agency into a state of frenzy.
Harold's consumption rate, his efficiency—it was off the charts.
“We’ve never seen anything like it,” said an ICEB operative, speaking on condition of anonymity. “Harold’s consumption rate, his efficiency—it was off the charts. And he was just sitting there at a picnic table, chatting about the weather and local politics. I’ve seen trained athletes who couldn’t take down a rhubarb pie like that.”
Even more alarming was the discovery of what insiders have dubbed “the rhubarb factor.” Analysis of ice cream sales data, intercepted family phone calls, and satellite imagery of the Johnson family reunion revealed Harold’s uncanny preference for rhubarb pie, a dessert that has long been the object of intense scrutiny due to its suspected role in a series of government mind-control experiments during the 1960s, known as Project Sweet Surrender.
It is the connection between Harold’s pie eating prowess and this disquieting chapter in dessert history that has led some to wonder—could Harold’s extraordinary performance be the result of a decades-long deep state program or a fluke? Could there be more Harolds out there, pie-eating sleepers, ready to be activated at the next family reunion? The implications of these questions are as chilling as the pie Harold unwittingly consumed that day. Stay tuned as we further unravel this unsettling narrative in the second half of our investigation.
Could there be more Harolds out there, pie-eating sleepers, ready to be activated at the next family reunion?
In the wake of the Johnson Incident, the International Competitive Eating Bureau has implemented sweeping reforms to their Pie Recognition and Integrated Tracking System. Yet, despite these changes, the dark underbelly of competitive dessert consumption remains shrouded in secrecy, leaving room for speculation about the untapped potential lurking in the unsuspecting public.
An anonymous source within ICEB’s ranks, confirmed that Harold’s case had sparked an internal investigation into the potential existence of other unaccounted for pie-eating sleepers. “We’ve launched the project Codename: Apple Crumble. Its primary objective is to identify, track, and potentially recruit individuals who display eating abilities akin to those displayed by Harold on that fateful day,” the source revealed. “There’s no telling how many Harolds are out there, innocuously bingeing on desserts at family reunions, blissfully unaware of the disruption they could cause in the competitive eating sphere.”
Dr. Marjorie Creme, a leading psychologist and dessert behaviorist, conjectures that Harold’s exceptional pie-eating could be an untrained talent, a genetic predisposition, or even a post-hypnotic suggestion from his childhood. “The subconscious mind is a powerful tool. Harold may have been conditioned as a child to consume pies at an abnormal rate, especially if he associates them with positive memories or comfort,” she explained. “Project Sweet Surrender may have just been the tip of the iceberg.”
Despite these shocking revelations, Harold himself remains blissfully unaware of his newfound fame within the shadowy dessert-eating underworld. When approached for comment, Harold laughingly brushed it off as “a good day for pie,” seemingly ignorant of the disruption his sweet tooth has caused in the clandestine corridors of the ICEB.
But as Harold continues his life, unassuming and content, the world of competitive dessert consumption will never be the same. The Johnson Incident, as it will forever be known, has exposed vulnerabilities in a system that was once deemed impervious. The notion that a common man, merely by attending a family reunion, could inadvertently surpass the feats of trained athletes and professional eaters, sends a resounding message to the ICEB and other shadowy organizations alike: there are forces at work in the world that even the deepest of deep states cannot control.
And yet, beneath the maelstrom of speculation, one fact remains as clear as the glaze on a freshly-baked apple pie: Harold Johnson, a 58-year-old actuary from the quiet suburbs, has forever changed the face of competitive dessert eating. His legacy, as unwitting as it may be, will forever be etched into the annals of pie-eating history. As we grapple with the implications of his extraordinary feat, one can only wonder: How many more Harolds are out there waiting for their moment in the sun, or more precisely, their moment in the pie?