A diesel engine uses the warmth of compression to ignite the diesel fuel flowing to this kind of engine so as for this to operate correctly. To check on a diesel engine for just about any electrical problems or emission problems, these kinds of electronic products may also be used on nondiesel engines however they all look for malfunctions occurring in automobile engines.

Stacey Ann stared down at the plate of homemade macaroni and cheese her mother placed in front of her. “Eat it, cheese is good for your bones,” her mother always crooned. Stacey Ann’s stomach turned. Maybe it was just the cooling, congealed thickness of it that didn’t sit well in her stomach. Or maybe it was the fact that cheese always smelled like the school’s locker room. Her mother loved cheese. When she wasn’t making her own cheese from their own cows, she’d spend hours at the town’s one gourmet grocery shop. “Gotta support small farmers like us,” she’d pronounce happily every time she entered the store. Rolling her eyes, Stacey propped herself against the ice cream cooler and texted her friends, ignoring her mother’s “What do you think about this one, honey, it’s got bits of real apricots in it?” or “Look, dear, real Eye-talian mozzarella. Imported, will you look at that?” Her mother ate cheese with everything; neon yellow cheese on grits, sharp cheddar cheese melted on toast, mild white cheese with apples, even ate Swiss cheese on pancakes with maple syrup and lots of butter. Always singing along with the latest country hits, her ample farmwife’s bottom hanging over each side of the chair. How her blue eyes always lit up when Stacey Ann returned from school; even as a moody high school student, her mother still seemed glad to see her.

Memory on top of memory continued to pile onto Stacey Ann—her mother cheerily making one of her cheese-laden casseroles at the same yellow tin table Stacey Ann now sat at, slowly pushing the last shell into the barrel of the family’s old rifle. “Come on, Stacey Ann, get your butt in gear,” her rough-and-ready brother called out to her from his watch post in the living room. She aimed her rifle between the wood slats that had been nailed over the kitchen window—the glass long-ago shattered in one of the earlier attacks. “Here they come,” he drawled, “ready to lock and load?” “Yes,” she hollered back. In the shadows of the trees, she saw them come, shuffling, oozing, groaning. As always, chills skittered over her skin. Shuffling faster now as the once-dead neared the front porch; weird how their sense of smell was retained. Stacey took down two in rapid fire, and reloaded, trying not to think how one of them looked like the old postmaster. She was just about to fire at a fat man squeezed into a red flannel when she heard it. “Cheeessse,” the voice slurred, “isss goo’ for youuuuuu.” She saw it clambering up the first steps to the kitchen door, its hands full of what had probably been their last dairy cow. “Stacey Ann, what you waitin’ for? That one’s almost at the door. Shoot, already,” her brother yelled. She swore she could smell cheese casserole; instead of dirty old socks, it smelled like liquid gold. Never in her life had Stacey Ann wanted to eat cheese so badly; when—if—this is over, I’ll eat nothing but cheese. I promise, Mama. Wiping her eyes, she tried to steady her hands, sighted, and fired, trying not to look into blue eyes as the body fell to the porch.

He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something unholy about the Emmenthaler.

The unsuspecting cheese monger had entered the cheese cooler in search of his next fromage to cull. Will it be the blues? No, they will be last so as not to infect the others with their venomous mold. Might it be the bries? No, they too can invade another cheese like the arachnids covering their prey with a soft white layer of fuzz.

He’ll start with the fresh cheeses—so approachable, so harmless, so friendly. Nothing dangerous about that. Towards the back of the cooler were the goat cheese pyramids he wanted to slice open. As he espied them, a sudden stark chill dashed down his spine. It wasn’t the cold edge of the refrigerator fans. It was something more sinister that turned his blood cold.

His heart pounded.

His pupils dilated.

His breathing became labored.

In front of him emerged the mummified marauder he had only heard about in cheese myth. From the goat cheese pyramids in the dark corner of the cooler, a wrapped, half-manchego, half-munster appeared. The mummy was of the haunted spirit of an ancient man once tortured, now clothbound like the cheddar of which he smelled. His bloodthirst now leveled on this poor cheesemonger, who had sliced and diced too many cheeses over the years to be forgiven. Now vengeance would strike down like the knife to the Stilton. The mummy could not rest until he had gutted this poor victim’s Brezain, er brain, like the extraction of creamy insides of a St. Felicien ceramic bowl. The cheesemonger stepped back, his eyes fixated on the encroaching beast. His fingers searched for the door handle, but his grasp slipped, and he knew he was now at the mercy of the munster.

Outside the leaves blew and the moon rose above the city, never before looking so full, so ripe, so raw.

The Milkwife

I am a cheese man, they say. My holdings in Norway are great, a big farm with many cows and livestock. But those I leave to my hired men. I am too unsettled, and prefer to go Viking among the red-heads the south. Always, though, along with lye fish, I bring the proud products of my dairy: great firm wheels of cheese piled in my hold, like the gouged-blind eyes of giants, which make my favorite supper. For that reason, I am called Cheese Eating Snorri.

I trade my cheese, but I would just as often take what I like. Those who know me know that it's best to let me have my way, and I've cut down many who disagreed, and taken their goods and daughters for my household.

So it was when I beached my ship in the western lands, and found a village there, mild pasture all around and fat ewes on top of it, I was very impressed. My countrymen had been there before, and only old women, girls, and a few green boys gathered together at our approach. It was a toothless hag who led them:

"North man, we have nothing for you. Our treasures are taken, and mostly you've killed our people. You see all who are left."

"That is not true, for your land is very good. I might make camp here, for a settlement, and make you my slaves as well."

"Who is it that makes to be the new master?"

"You will know me by my name, Cheese Eating Snorri."

"Give us time to decide among ourselves. It is a hard offer to be lorded by a Viking."

"Do not think on it too long. Tell me your answer at sunset."

And they saw that I had men enough and arms enough to make good on the prospect, and so they went into their turf storehouse to discuss.

Outside, we sat on stumps and waited, sharpening our swords, while within we could hear much commotion. As I said, I am an unsettled man, and so when the sun was red and low, I went to their door and demanded an answer.

"My lord," came the reply, "Though we don't like it, we have agreed to give you what is ours. Come inside and see our treasure."

So I stepped inside the low storehouse and saw in the dim there the old women, all fixing trinkets on a pale girl who lay propped in a corner.

She was beautiful, with straw-yellow hair and milk-white skin. And her smell was a most mouthwatering smell, the great reeking smell of a freshly opened cheese, and I fell upon her with great hunger. I am a lusty man, and so I did not feel the point of the old and rusted sword they had concealed within her bosom until it was straight through my stomach.

And as her cheese body all fell to pieces, and I bled my life away, I heard the hag say, "And here's a proper wife for Cheese Eating Snorri."

I’m Melting

Julia sat as she carved. She used a paring knife to get the initial shape right, then pulled out a razor to hone the fine details. It was chillingly lifelike, a true work of dark art.

Dean had broken her heart last week. Citing his own inability to commit as the reason for the breakup, it was soon painfully obvious that he’d meant he didn’t want to be tied to HER. Three days after a phone call that had left Julia in tears, she happened to be having lunch with a friend, and spotted her ex. He was seated in a corner booth, laughing and smiling with a tall, leggy blonde, suavely seizing her hand when she left it on the table unattended.

Her appetite suddenly gone, the dejected young woman threw down enough cash to cover her meal, rose onto trembling legs that threatened to send her tumbling, and blindly hurried from the restaurant. The drive home was a blur; how long had he known this mystery girl? Had he been cheating on her all along?

Sorrow turned to fury as Julia mentally replayed the incident. She deserved better, and someday she’d find it. In the meantime, she would personally see to it that Dean paid the price for abandoning her. There was only one way with which she was intimately acquainted; he would be dispatched, with no evidence to tie her to the crime. It had worked before, and she was sure it would be just as effective this time.

Rummaging through the dairy section of the supermarket, she’d found what she sought. It was perfect; not too soft, hard yet pliable. This little gem was merely a small block of cheddar, but that would soon change.

Julia had returned home with her prize and set to work. With a photo of her former beloved propped up before her, she was now fashioning the piece of cheese into a faithful likeness of Dean. After the face was perfect, and the stiff peaks of his hair were carved to her satisfaction, she took a few moments to admire her handiwork. Then, laying it down on the kitchen table, she set up her fondue pot.

Once the tealight’s flame was steady and strong, she withdrew a toothpick from its cut glass holder and held it aloft, whispering softly and focusing her anger. With a swift downward thrust, she poked the wooden point into the heart of the figure, pushing it through the cheddar body. It held fast; Julia lifted it with care, and slowly lowered it into the makeshift cauldron.

With a pungent bubbling hiss, the cheese immediately began to melt. In just a few minutes, there was nothing left but an orange blob and a gooey toothpick.

That Friday, Julia saw a familiar face peeking out at her from the local paper’s obituary section. She sighed; perhaps the next one would be Mr. Right. If not, at least he’d make a tasty snack.

(Since I'm one of the judges, this is not in consideration for the bag o' good stuff. But just to get the cheese wheel rolling...)

After Midnight in the Dairy Section

My name is McAvoy. I’m the head of loss prevention for a well-known supermarket chain. Our store in Sanders Grove had suffered an overnight vandalism incident. Security cameras showed no one entering the building and the doors were all still locked in the morning when the manager arrived and found the destruction. The police were baffled, but I had dealt with problems with that store before. I wanted to close the store years ago. It was one of the chain’s smallest and least profitable locations, but management refused. If they sold the building, someone might discover the source of all the difficulties - they built the store over an ancient Indian burial ground.

I looked around the store. The damage was limited to the dairy section. Specifically, the cheese display cases had been destroyed and cheese lay scattered across the floor. The Parmigiano-Reggiano wheels looked like someone had smashed them with sledge hammers, but at least they were still recognizable, which was more than you could say about the Goudas and fetas. If I wasn’t lactose intolerant, it would have broken my heart.

The only products that had survived unscathed were the Roqueforts, Stiltons, Gorgonzolas and Cambozolas, all nestled quietly in the corner of the one refrigerated case still intact. I sighed. It was exactly what I suspected.

As I walked over to the harried manager, I pulled up a calendar on my smart phone and cofirmed my suspicions. I tucked the phone back in my pocket, turned back to look at the cheese splattered mess and then looked at the next soon-to-be-former store manager. “Poltergeists. It won’t happen again for a while.”

The manager looked relieved, and then confused. “How can you be sure?”

I turned to head back to my car. “Simple. It only happens once in a bleu moon.”