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Let me lay down a scenario for you.
Late one night, after a long, hard day of work at the plant, you arrive home, only to find an empty and dark house. “Odd”, you think, as usually the kids would be screaming and throwing their toys around by the time you got home, and your wife would be in the kitchen doing dishes and actively ignoring their shrieking. You step through the door, hang your hat and coat on the rack, and say, in a loud and burly voice, “Honey, I’m home!”.
No response. Now you’re worried. You’re sure you saw her car in the driveway, at least, you think you’re sure. You check again, yes, it’s there. You walk into the kitchen, and flip the switch, but to no avail. “The power must be out”, you think. You sigh, and resign yourself to trying the breaker box.
You begin towards the basement, minding your steps carefully. Despite your caution, one of your children’s toys catches under your foot, and you fall to the ground with a heavy thud, as your head bounces against the hard wood floor. When you regain your whits, many an expletive runs through your head, as you contemplate why you had children in the first place. You stand up, feel at your head, and pull your hand away as a warm liquid runs through it. “Great” you think, “I’d better not need stitches or those little bastards are grounded for life.” You are not a very forgiving man.
You return to your task, and finally reach the basement door. You unlatch the lock, and open it, revealing an even darker, more foreboding scene. The basement is the very epitome of pitch black. You take your zippo from your pocket, and use its faint light to make your way down the steps, one at a time. Midway down, you hear a creak, seemingly from behind you. You hold your breath, and listen, but other than a heavy sense of a presence emanating from behind, there’s nothing, and you brush it off to settling.
You get to the bottom, and look around the basement for the box. All around you, piles of boxes and forgotten or neglected things are stacked ceiling high. As you walk around, inspecting the boxes and looking at the walls for your goal, you hear a faint tapping, as though small padded feet were running across the cement ground. You quickly turn to meet the source, only to see a rocking horse, slowly listing back and forth. This disturbs you, you think “There’s no breeze down here”, just as the cold bites at your spine. You begin to feel anxious, as though you are not alone. You return to your search, more frantic now, just wanting to find the box so you can have a bit of light.
You tear through boxes of photo albums and old toys from your youth, desperately looking around. At last, you see its steel exterior jutting from the wall. You all but dive for it, and rip it open, flipping every switch you can find. The lights flicker on, and you feel a wave or relief wash over you. Just before you turn around, a soft humming becomes apparent to you. You stop, your eyes now wide, your heart racing. You slowly turn your head. You see it, a 35-ton black behemoth, aiming its gaping maw of a main cannon at you, and you let out a dead-wakening shriek. You never saw it coming.
Motherfucking stealth-tanks. Still don’t see a purpose?