Very delicate, with a hair of silence. As a child Oppenheimer was procoucioucly brillant and often ill. Frail like an old lady, he sat in a wheelchair covered with a blanket while his mother rubbed lotion onto his scalp and made his drink through a straw. Very little contact with people his own age, Oppenheimer instead preferred the company of adults as he could charm them with his astounding knowledge. He wasn't mischievous, in fact he was too brilliant to put buckets of water above door frame. Though brilliance isn't necessarily an important card to have in a hand, it passes the time. His parents treated him like a little jewel, like a bitter and cruel thing, they gave him no normal or healthy years to be a bastard, too many years for toilet friendshsips. When he started school the ethical teachers often called him 'boobie', as he was a mewling mother boy. Oppenheimer increasingly became more aloof and a harvard material grade a physics asshole, english, western chinese were just a few things he learned. Smelling the ethical world cultural fuck nuts and a real tit suckin arrogance personified, embezzled with jewelrry, chemistry, maths, whatever the hell you thought about this protoscientist had a finger wedged deep in the pie. A real sponge, wet with knowledge occupying an artic desert. Cold, wet. Revulsive. An angry little snatched face pillock, spitting his own teeth out after biting on a metal stick. He had to be tied down and has nurses stick pills in him as the needle would cause ulcers on the muscles. He fell into despair, depression. Wondering if he was able to become a scientist. At Birmhingham he studied Quantum Mechanics, a new weird kind of voodoo science. In fact there was only one lecturer, a half blind old coot with a hard on for any bust. There was terror, exhaustion. He flourished, like a bat. He had knew it all anyway. He was friend with a little japanese wiz-kid and a nineteen year old child prodigy who had tried to grow a moustache. He fostered his own cultivation, knowing everything about Quantum Mechanics, even surpassing his master.
The sad thing about Oppenheimer was he was unable to read. This compacted depression like a fecal hammer, jamming him right up. The man machine gears and circuit boards were smeared in a thick brown veneer, a foul funk called 'Suicide'. One night while sucking on his pipe, he took the big chance and played happy go lucky with his lifestyle. In a back room of his tiny bungalow, he constructed a huge lead box. Inside was a geiger counter rigged up to release wasps (which Oppenheimer was allergic), thousands of them crawled overhead in a glass cage. The only chance of escape was if the small radioactive substance didn't decay, which worked out to have around a fifty/fifty chance of happening. All of this would work out mighty fine, quantum suicide. He was all set up for the big night when a rogue wasp flew in through his bathroom window and stung him on the back of the neck. As he collapsed onto the shag pile carpeting, he managed to thoroughly inspect how dirty it was. When the paramedics pulled him out, all he could keep repeating was how he needed to hire a cleaner. It was in this unwell state, passing in and out of conciousness, that Oppenheimer first theorized on black holes after being inspired by a particular swirl in the skirt of a possible cleaner he would almost hire, but never got around to.
After this event, Oppenheimer became more and more radical in his manner. He would talk to anybody who would listen to him about his far out scientific theories and if they were still around after a while, politics. In fact, the dangerous lines of dialouge would lead him to get into extreme trouble with Johnny Law. It was either rot in prison or start to build one of the most powerful weapons on this gay earth. After a laid back afternoon of talking to his friends, Oppenheimer decided on the latter. The project was code named Operation Manhatten Project, the mission Oppenheimer was given was to detonate plutonium using a theory somebody had written in the margins of a Physics book found in Yale.
Oppenheimer chose his team wisely for the most part, though he ended up making a mistake that would snowball out of control. He hired Edward Teller, who had declared himself one of the most wittiest men on the planet. He wore cheap suits and bullied Oppenheimer from time to time. It was nothing major at first, though some of the cheapshots about Communism lead to full blown ejaculations calling Oppenheimer a traitor. His dick was linked up to a plastic ring that measured miniscule changes in organ size, then Oppenheimer was shown photographs of Communists. But that is getting ahead of the story. For the time being Oppenheimer was building the world's first and smallest atomic weapon.
It was a sizzling hot day in the middle of World War 2. In New Mexico Oppenheimer had slight misgivings for the last few years of his life. He had buried hatchets, struck up deals, lit matches on the back of a snake, conducted small scale explosions under his desk and various other ways and means so he could build the twenty tonne nuclear weapon. Just under twenty men and women had died during the creation of the bomb, dubbed Starfish Prime, and on July 16 they received the equivalent of a billion gun salute. The Trilogy test was successful, the nuclear strike had managed to knock down several buildings and kill a few cactuses. Oppenheimer's sperm perished on that fateful day, relegating his gonads to beyond useless. Enough sacrifices had been made, Oppenheimer may have thought. But in fact he was the most wrong he had ever been. Just two days after Trilogy, the first atomic bomb was dropped onto Hiroshima. Nobody knows for certain how many people were injured, though it turned the tide of war. Oppenheimer didn't even have any idea they were using another atomic weapon, this time on a living person.
Instead, July 18th was a sad day for Oppenheimer. After not sleeping well due to pains, Oppenheimer simply sat by a window and looked at the neighbours dog. It was an alright dog, perhaps a little nervous. Oppenheimer sometimes cut it off a little bit of pork or lamb and threw the chunks out of his window towards the dogs feet. After the attack on Hiroshima his work colleague Edward Teller ran around to his house and demanded to know how he could design a weapon that could kill an innocent person instead of building one of Teller's theoretic Hydrogen Powered Cars. It escalated into an emotional argument and Teller, through a series of confusing conversations, ended up being trapped in Oppenheimer's suicide box that hadn't yet been dismantled. While Oppenheimer went to fetch the key, wasps ate through the jelly of Teller's eyes and into his brain. For just a few seconds afterward, Teller himself was controlled by a wasp and bit off his own thumb.
The investigation after the death of Teller unburied many of Oppenheimer's secrets, such as his Communist sympathies or the fact he built a weapon of mass destruction. The main piece of evidence the District Attorney relied upon was the penis measurements supplied by the ring machine. Luckily for Oppenheimer, his sack was fried and the test returned a false negative. Even upon being delcared innocent of treason and murder, Oppenheimer was publicly berated by the D.A and even his best friend Einstein wouldn't talk to him. Oppenheimer was a pariah, a misfit. And he would soon learn the actual meaning of being a valued member of society.
After he did that, he was struck down with multiple cancers. A lifelong habit of tobacco made his lungs act like soggy walnuts. As he lay on his death bed with only his younger sister sat next to him, Oppenheimer demanded he be taught the basics of reading so that he could finally read the classic book 'A Tale of Two Cities'. He died before he could even read his own name. Oppenheimer's story is a sad one, but also a valuable source of information. This shrewd scientist had given everything he could, but in the end it didn't even come close to being good enough. There was blood on his hands from Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Chernobyl, and several more decades of potential nuclear anarchy, all thanks to him being stung on the neck. It didn't matter too much though, towards the end of life he came to terms with it. If he didn't do it, Teller would have after all. A wasp flies through a window attracted to the sweet smell of urine as does a nuclear bomb fly over a Japanese album tucked away in the womb of Enola Gay. The only children Oppenheimer had was a fat man and a little boy.
The man who couldn't read
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