Several weeks ago Rusty over at the Rusty Hammer Hardware Store was in the Quonset hut warehouse behind the store looking for the back stock of WD-40.  It seems Mrs. Thatcher had come in looking for several cans and the shelf was empty.  She’d heard it was the only thing that would de-mat the hair on her schnauzer.  She’d been putting it off and now had a mess on her hands that Mr. Thatcher said he could no longer tolerate.

Rusty knew he had a case or two back there, but darned if he could find them.  The further he dug back, the dustier and dirtier the task became and the more he regretted ever undertaking the search.  But when he moved aside a stack of galvanized cattle troughs, a pallet of horse manure, and crates of 10 penny nails that had been back there so long they’d rusted into a sculpture worthy of Alexander Calder, something at the very back caught his eye.  It was a crate of some kind.

It looked like rodents may have attempted to  break in, but only skeletal remains were left. The lettering had faded to the point that it couldn’t be read, but it was large enough to hold something akin to a riding lawn mower or slightly bigger.  He called for Darryl and Raul to come out and bring a pallet jack with them.  They spent the entire afternoon clearing a pathway to pull the big birch box out into the sunlight.

It sat out back, next to the chicken feeders, for several days and folks soon started to speculate just what could be inside.  Based on what lettering was left it looked like it had been in the warehouse since the forties, so there was all sorts of speculation.  Side bets were being placed over at the Grounds for Divorce as to the contents.  Rusty debated whether to auction it off to those who were interested enough to bid or just sell tickets to watch him open it.  After days of controversy, he went with plan B and announced he’d pry open the mysterious crate last Saturday at noon.

The crowd that gathered to watch was larger than expected, about six people deep all the way around the box.  As Rusty started to pry the top of the box open, clouds began to gather and swirl above the store.  Several  long vintage Mercedes pulled up in the parking lot and stern looking men in black trench coats got out, their hands on sidearms hanging from the belts around their waists.

Chad, the cashier from the Piggly Wiggly, was sweating so profusely that it almost looked as though his face was melting as Rusty pulled the lid up from the corner.  Both Chad and Lucinda, who had just finished her waitressing shift at the Grounds for Divorce, had to look away.  What appeared to be a thin pillar of fire descended from the sky towards the slightly opened crate.  The shrill sounds emitted from Mrs. Thatcher’s still-matted schnauzer startled everyone except Mr. Thatcher who was so used to the noise he no longer even noticed it.

Thunder and lightening seemed to hover over all of Fort Stockton as black clouds swirled in a counter-clockwise motion and the pillar of fire reached all the way down to the top of the box.  Sister Thelma from Our Lady of Immeasurable Concern couldn’t look away as a force from within finally blew the lid all the way off.  “My God!” she screamed, “It’s a Ducati!  But what’s that golden arc underneath?”