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| Now it's got patina. |
Last autumn I went for a drive to clear the cobwebs. I was driving my Grandfather's old Chief; I loved that car. He sold it to me for a dollar shortly before he died. It was flawless; garage kept for the majority of its existence, there wasn't a spot on it. Beautiful.
I was planning to watch some television that evening, to relax a bit and tune out the stress that end of semester finals can bring. But no channels would come in. So, I decided to take a drive, maybe pick up some fast food on my way home and finish reading the Stephen King book that I'd been working on.
Part way down the road, I found that the radio was picking up nothing but static as well.
I stopped at the Taco Bell and got a Mexican pizza and a nacho supreme and headed home with it, and that's when I noticed the fog.
The fog was like nothing I'd ever experienced. It looked like you could literally cut it with a knife it was so thick. I ended up rolling up the windows as well, because it had a smell that felt like it crawled down into your lungs like a super-strong Menthol cigarette, sticking to everything inside you.
I figured there must be a chemical spill somewhere, but there was no way to know, since the radio and television weren't picking up any stations.
I arrived home, parked the car, wrapped up my Taco Bell goodies so they wouldn't get whatever was in the air on them, and went home.
The next morning the television worked fine, but no news about the fog. I found the morning paper on the porch, and no word was written there of it either.
Later on in the morning, I went out to the garage to mow the lawn. When I opened the garage door, I found the car had aged forty years. Surface rust covered what was once a pristine, well-kept automobile.
No one spoke of the fog. I started bragging about the car's patina, to keep other folks from looking at me strange when I tried to explain The Fog.
--Cornelius Hatch, International Pan of Mancakes, or Mouse of Handshakes, or Land of O'Lakes, whatever (quit looking at me)
