(I should have taken a photograph. Maybe it's not a bathysphere; maybe it's an old Soviet re-entry capsule. But it hadn't ought to be in the front yard, in front of a doghouse and next to an old truck up on blocks).
Update:
They had moved it by Friday evening, and cleared away the cables. I was just able to snap an image as I sped by. Whatever arrived it in is in the house now.
I'm really wishing you had a photograph ...
ReplyDelete?
ReplyDelete~blink~
~blink, blink~
Rx? Have you been drinking?
Sounds like the opening scene of a SciFi movie I would watch, or a short story worth reading.
ReplyDeleteSeriously, what happened next?
Gentleman, I think that fevers back and its spiking...
ReplyDeleteI'm glad I'm not your neighbor! If you feel that way about that, I can't imagine how you'd feel about the stuff in my yard!
ReplyDelete:^)
Sounds like a job for those American Pickers guys.
ReplyDeleteYou found my 'Scape! The police said the chances of me getting it back were slim when those punks stole it. Tell you what, you bring here to Cleveland and you'll get a $10.00 reward, okay?
ReplyDeletewhat is this i dont even
ReplyDeleteThe footprints are easy to explain.
ReplyDeleteProfessor Ransom walked through the house on his way to the nearest pub, where he said 'A pint of bitter, please.'
Best wishes.
Mr.Wolf.
If this is supposed to be one of your stories, I have to say it's sub standard.
ReplyDeleteAntibubba
Antibubba, it is the end of someone else's story.
ReplyDeleteChecked the date, lately?
Best Wishes,
Mr. Wolf.
Miss X, I'm sorry. Please wipe this comment and my second one. Didn't mean to pull aside the curtain too early. Thoughtless of me.
ReplyDeleteBest wishes,
Mr.Wolf.
;)
ReplyDeleteAh, it runs to more levels than you might think: I'll try to take a photo today. The footprints will have dried and the cables may be coiled up -- or stolen, it is indeed that kind of neighborhood.
And I have no idea what the darned thing really is.
The PADI and NAUI in my soul force me to defend any bathysphere, any place, any time. Sorry, ma'am.
ReplyDeleteReminds me of the Tom Waits song, "What's He Building in There?"...
ReplyDeleteLook, I know it's improper, but since I had to close the shop down, I ended up moving all the machine tools into my living room... and I haven't had a gig since Dec of 2008!
ReplyDeleteWhen these guys offered me the chance to do some work on their bathyscape, I jumped. Their krugerrands spend as good as anyone else's.
And hey, it's in my yard, I'm not even leaving the cables strewn out into the street easement. It'll be gone in a couple weeks, and until then, if it offends yer sensibilities that much, just ignore it. I'll get the SEP field up shortly.
The footprints are easy to explain.
ReplyDeleteProfessor Ransom walked through the house on his way to the nearest pub, where he said 'A pint of bitter, please.'
Winner of the Internets, right there.
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteMore scardey cats, installing a fallout shelter or one of them there new-fangled radiation-proof air filters?
ReplyDeleteMr. Wolf,
ReplyDeleteRead it again, and put the emphasis on the second-to-last word.
Cheers!
Antibubba
Great for Hallowe'en. But Easter?
ReplyDeleteAntibubba,
ReplyDeleteas you can see by my other posts today, I forgot to fill my prescription for Clever Tablets.
You see me exposed as a fool. And I was hoping to keep it a secret for at least a little longer.
Curse you, wicked New Worlder !!!
Best Wishes,
Mr. Wolf.
Oh, I thought you were clever, too, Mr. Wolf. Possibly my favorite book by the man.
ReplyDeletelooks like the type of shipping crate they use for engines these days.
ReplyDeleteDear Miss X.
ReplyDeleteI do wish you had taken the photographic image previously. Upon seeing it, I drew back from the page with a gasp, as the house in question had a chilling familiarity.
Last month, when the moon was waxing gibbous, my .... studies had driven any chance of sleep from me, and I found myself wandering the empty streets, my mind filled with strange images.
A little after midnight, a horse-drawn cart passed me, the hunched, cloaked carter fighting to control the wild-eyed horses at every step. I flinched from the loathsome stench emanating from the bundle of tarpaulins concealing its cargo, and had to sit on a nearby bench to recover. When I had regained my equilibrium, the cart had vanished.
My curiosity aroused, I traced its passage, following the small drops of glowing, sickening slime that marked its trail. Outside the house shown in your photographic reproduction, I was pulled unceremoniously into the bushes by a tall, pale man with a strong New England accent.
'Who the devil are you?'I demanded,'and what are you doing here?'
He studied me for a moment, as one might study a scientific specimen. 'Not the devil,' he said.'But there are worse than devils here. Men sometimes call me.... Humphrey Littlewit. You can call me your last chance. As you value your sanity, man, GO, and never look back.'
At that moment, all the dogs in the neighbourhood howled together, as if their very souls were being wrenched from their bodies, and the vile stench increased a hundred-fold.
I turned and fled, and never looked back, dreading what I might see if I did.
Miss X, I beg you, please do not return to that terrible place. For the good of your soul.
I have the honour to remain, Madam, your obedient servant.
Mr. Wolf.
Obviously a crude attempt at an implosion-assembly nuke. Don't they know that all the cables to the detonators need to be of identical length?
ReplyDelete