Having been through this several times, I had no trouble silently lip-syncing to the sound of the mudslide voice which emanated from my phone saying, “Bananas.”
    I then heard several clicks and short silences, during which I walked out of my kitchen and into the living room, eying the foreboding form of the Franklin Mint shipping crate.
     “Good time of day, sir. I am Bananas with Franklin Mint activation tech support. How are you today?”
    I plopped down into my recliner, aged hinges squeaking as they gave way easily and tilted me nearly supine. Looking down the length of my nose, I could still see out the front window, harsh daylight putting stark relief between the sunny-side of the great box and the dark shadows which seemed to point directly at the right toe of my Cookie Monster slippers. Reflexively, I moved my foot to avoid the sharp edge of shadow, shaking my head even as I did so. Oh, yes, it was customary to answer.
     “Puzzled, Bananas.”
     “I am sorry to hear that,” and he sounded quite sincere, continuing, “perhaps I can help. I take it you are at home now, Mr. Minnetola?”
     The sun was well past its prime and whiled away the afternoon in my chilly front yard; from its vantage point, the house was the same as always. Here inside was another matter entirely. My bedroom was wrecked, a goopy robotic corpse hid in the basement, a massive contraband coffee pot darkened my kitchen, and this wooden obelisk from the Franklin Mint stood before me, very nearly filling my living room; more changes had been wrought in the last eight hours than in the previous year of living here alone. So it was that I answered,
     “It was home.”
     Furious tap-a-tap-tapping could be heard through the earpiece of the sticky Nokia. “The address we show, Mr. Minnetola, is 28303 David street. Is that not correct?”
     “That’s where I am.” I lolled my head a little, then, and counted the number of light fixtures on my ceiling. One. I counted them again. One.
     “Good. Did you receive a shipping crate from us today?”
     I counted the crates in the room. There was one of those as well. “Yes. I’m looking at it.”
     “Good! Good!” he sounded very relieved. “Have you opened it, yet?”
    I patted myself down, checking to see if I had my carefully selected tools in my pockets. Moot point, as I didn’t even have pockets. I rolled partially onto my side and craned my neck to see into the kitchen. Yep, there they were, next to Boba Fett on the table.
     “No, but I was about to. I have some tools, but I left them by Boba.”
     “Boba?” was Bananas worried?
     “He’s just a cardboard head.”
     “Oh, OK,” the worry left his voice once more, “well, then, let me be the first to congratulate you–” it sounded as if he were about to swing into a prepared speech, yet I found myself interrupting him.
     “Besides G. A. Davis, right?”
     “What..?” he answered uncertainly, certainly derailed again. Why did that make me feel a little better?
     “The letter. It was the first to congratulate me.”
     “For what did the letter congratulate you?”
     “I dunno, really.”
     “Then perhaps I am still the first to congratulate you for winning our monthly national Franklin Mint prize! It is a complete collection of 1:48th scale aeronautical models, including the rare Accordion-wing MIG 29 and our limited edition British Pogo Plane of Pago Pago.” Airplanes? Bananas continued, “I’m sure you are eager and excited to see the planes. They are the final result of our long-standing-traditions-of-excellence-and-attention-to-detail we here at the Franklin Mint have grown famous for. And that’s why I’ve called you today.”
     “A box of planes? I’ve won a box full of little toy planes?” I sat up then, leaning forward and ogling the box-o’-jets in incredulous wonder.
     “1:48th scale, actually. Hardly small by your standards.” I wasn’t sure what standards I might be using to judge the relative size of miniature aircraft, but it wasn’t worth debating. I itched my shoulder through the burnt hole in my robe.
     “Well, damn, Bananas. I don’t know what to say.”
     A chuckle like a rock-tumbler shook the phone, paradoxically sounding gently paternal. Bananas spoke jovially, “you don’t need to say anything, Joe, this is just our way of showing the American public just how great our accurately scaled aeronautica is,” he then continued more seriously, “the security crate we use to ship loads of die-cast crap this valuable requires telephone activation. I’ll be happy to help you with that, but first we need to open the shipping crate.”
     “OK, I guess.” I stood then.
     “You said you had some tools,” said the rumbling voice of Bananas, “if you like, you can put the phone down while you open the package. I’ll wait for you.”
    I hesitated a bit, but curiosity overcame me. No matter what sort of planes this box contained, it would undoubtedly be the least weird thing to happen to me today.
    So it was that I lay the phone down and made awkward work of the screws with my screwdriver/hammer/can-opener. I even used the flimsy bonus rasp thoughtfully included in the handle to saw slowly through the plastic band. Soon the screwdriver/crowbar flashed into action, prying one side of the box wide open. Inside was smooth, black steel. With its Franklin Mint logo embossed upon the center, sharply defined by the angled sunlight, the long steel box completely filled the crate.
    Next to the logo was a square perforation in the metal, almost invisible if it weren’t for the blinking red light drawing attention to it. I slid my fingers across the metal, pressing the logo firmly. The metal gave way not at all, feeling sturdy and thick, and it was warm to the touch. I found no handle, so abandoned my efforts and picked up the phone.
     “OK. So now I have the shipping box opened, how do I open this metal locker thing?”
     “Its an acoustic lock, and requires an audible code. Just place this phone up against the microphone grill and I’ll grant you access to your new airplanes.”
     Looking around the blank metal box lid, I saw no microphone. “I see no microphone.”
     “The microphone is a square pattern of holes about halfway up the length. Do you see that?”
     I did. “Yes. Right next to the blinking red light.”
     “Place the phone up to the holes, making sure that the earpiece is facing them.”
     Like this, perhaps? I thought to myself, pressing the nokia against the aforementioned holes. I heard nothing, but in a moment the red light turned green. Nothing else happened immediately, and after a few more seconds I hesitantly took the phone away from the box and put it up against my head again.
     “Hello? Bananas? You still there? The light’s turned green, but nothing–”
     “Yes, Mr. Minnetola, I’m still here, and I’m sincerely sorry,” he sounded very tired and resigned.
     “Sorry?”
     At that moment a loud, piercing boom filled the room, and I caught barely a glimpse of the black metal sheet, bright green light still mid-blink, as it exploded toward me from the box, clouds of some kind of vapor billowing around the edges. I’m not sure how I reacted so quickly, but I’d already turned my shoulder towards the hurtling mass just as the heavy door struck me. My phone went flying and I was knocked from my feet, landing painfully in a heap beside the recliner.
    My shoulder screamed in protest while my arm lay across my chest, twisted strangely, and my fingers tingled. I heard a yell and realized it was my own voice as I twisted and rolled, grabbing my fucked shoulder. Struggling onto my knees, I bit my lip hard enough to draw blood and squinted through watering eyes at the towering box, now wide open.
    The twisted black metal of the door lay crosswise over the recliner, blocking my view of his feet and legs, but there was no mistaking the beautiful form of Chuck, completely naked, standing in fine 1930′s mummy pose with his arms criss-crossing his chest. His eyes were already open and scanning the room, taking in the chair, the door, and the ceiling fixtures* before finally settling on me.
     With steady purpose his arms uncrossed and he stepped from his steel coffin, moving toward me with genitals dangling. I blinked away tears of pain and in that momentary clarity of vision I realized that this Chuck-thing looked as wrinkly as a prune. In fact, he was positively cadaverous, with hollow cheeks, sunken eyes and long teeth.
     “Chuck?!?” that was all I had time for as I was dragged roughly to my feet by my bad arm. I shrieked in shock and pain as this expressionless, saggy fleshed image of my best friend silently wrenched my already broken limb and used it to hurl me across the room in agony. I slammed into the television, rolling over it and landing upside down in the corner, my damaged arm splayed out in front of me at an impossible angle.
     My mute assailant, looking so much like a geriatric Chuck, casually picked up the 27 inch television and mercilessly threw it directly at my stomach. It struck heavily, forcing me to retch out what little air I had left for screaming and it then proceeded to bounce off my chin in a fine spray of blood before finally coming to a rest next to my head.
    Sparks filled my vision, but not so much that I couldn’t see those arms reaching toward me. His loose skin hung from his spindly fingers and arms, but they were not lacking at all in strength. He then dragged me from the corner by the rough, bloody collar of my robe.
    The ceiling filled my vision and dirty carpet slid past the back of my head as I mouthed silently, “not-Chuck…” I closed my eyes and I remembered a tongue, embossed in fine courier font, pleading with me to hide me, buddy….

* Pop quiz! How many were there?