Received: from [104.168.111.164] (port=43629 helo=goodorderss.com) by stodi.digitalkingdom.org with esmtp (Exim 4.87) (envelope-from ) id 1cHe2z-0000kc-QR for lojban@lojban.org; Thu, 15 Dec 2016 13:58:45 -0800 Date: Thu, 15 Dec 2016 15:20:17 -0700 Message-ID: <67174612538519406226-1746125378lojban@lojban.org2814> Subject: Shippied order #9406226: Best gadget ever-Sharktank- 17461253 To: From: "Priscilla Woods" Mime-Version: 1 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Content-Type: text/html; charset=us-ascii X-Spam-Score: -0.4 (/) X-Spam_score: -0.4 X-Spam_score_int: -3 X-Spam_bar: / bulk orders

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Order date: 12/15/2016

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Looking around for something that might do the job, I found a busted chair in one of the other rooms. I pried off a leg and went to town on the lock, raising the leg over my head like an executioner and bringing it down as hard as I could, over and over, until the leg itself finally broke and I was left holding a splintered stump. I scanned the room for something stronger and quickly spotted a loose railing on the bed frame. After a few stomping kicks, it clattered to the floor. I wedged one end through the lock and pulled the other end backward. Nothing happened. I hung on it with all my weight, lifting my feet off the floor like I was doing a pullup with the rail. The trunk creaked a little, but that was it. I started to get mad. I kicked the trunk and pulled on that rail with every bit of my strength, the veins bulging out of my neck, yelling, Open god damn you, open you stupid trunk! Finally my frustration and anger had an object: If I couldnt make my dead grandfather give up his secrets, I would damn well pry the secrets out of this old trunk. And then the rail slipped and I crashed to the floor and got the wind knocked out of me.

Then I had a brilliant idea. If I could find a way to break the trunk, I wouldnt have to worry about the lock at all. And what force would be stronger than me and my admittedly underdeveloped upperbody muscles wailing on the trunk with random tools Gravity. I was, after all, on the second floor of the house, and while I didnt think there was any way I could lift the trunk high enough to get it through a window, the rail along the top of the staircase landing had long ago collapsed. All I had to do was drag the trunk down the hall and push it over. Whether its contents would survive the impact was another issuebut at least Id find out what was inside. I hunkered down behind the trunk and began pushing it toward the hall. After a few inches its metal feet dug into the soft floor and it ground stubbornly to a halt. Undeterred, I moved around to the other side, gripped the padlock with both hands and pulled backward. To my great surprise it moved two or three feet in one go. It wasnt a particularly dignified way of workingthis squatting, buttscooting motion I had to repeat over and over, each slide of the trunk accompanied by an earsplitting metalonwood shriekbut before long Id gotten it out of the room and was dragging it, foot by foot, doorway by doorway, toward the landing. I lost myself in the echoing rhythm of it, working up a manly lather of sweat in the process.

I finally made it to the landing and, with one final indelicate grunt, pulled the trunk onto it after me. It slid easily now, and after a few more shoves I had it teetering precariously on the edge; one last nudge would be enough to send it over. But I wanted to see it shattermy reward for all this workso I got up and carefully shuffled toward the edge until I could glimpse the floor of the gloomy chamber below. Then, holding my breath, I gave the trunk a little tap with my foot. It hesitated for a moment, wobbling there on the edge of oblivion, and then pitched decisively forward and fell, tumbling end over end in beautiful balletic slowmotion. There came a tremendous echoing crash that seemed to rattle the whole house as a plume of dust shot up at me from below and I had to cover my face and retreat down the hall until it cleared. A minute later I came back and peeked again over the landing and saw not the pile of smashed wood that I had so fondly hoped for, but a jagged trunkshaped hole in the floorboards. It had fallen straight through into the basement.

I lay there and stared at the ceiling, catching my breath. The orphans tears had ended and now it was just plain old raining outside, harder than ever. I thought about going back to town for a sledgehammer or a hacksawbut that would only raise questions I didnt feel like answering. I raced downstairs and wriggled up to the edge of the buckled floor on my belly like you would a hole in thin ice. Fifteen feet below, through a haze of dust and darkness, I saw what remained of the trunk. It had shattered like a giant egg, its pieces all mixed up in a heap of debris and smashed floorboards. Scattered throughout were little pieces of paper. It looked like Id found a box of letters, after all! But then, squinting, I could make out shapes on themfaces, bodiesand thats when I realized they werent letters at all, but photographs. Dozens of them. I got excitedand then just as quickly went cold, because something dreadful occurred to me.

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