The two young men had been drinking in the open field in rural Kentucky most of the night. “Billy Ray”, Jimmy said, “ya know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna shoot the next damn thing that moves.”

“Includin’ me, Jeemy?”, Billy asked.

“No, a course not you Billy. But anythin’ else, I’m gonna shoot it.” Truth be told, Jimmy knew it was late, and they’d likely just finish their beers and drunk-drive themselves home.

At just this moment Adam and his PT Cruiser appeared on the stretch of road running along the open field, with ELO’s “Don’t Bring Me Down” booming out the car’s open windows.

“Well, I’ll be. I’m gonna shoot me a loud music SOB,” Jimmy said, standing up to aim his rifle.

But just then the PT Cruiser did what it had done fifteen times before. “Damn Chrysler!”, Adam yelled. The dashboard that Chrysler couldn’t fix shorted out again, and at 70 miles an hour the headlights, dashboard, and engine all went dead.

Two months before Adam would have panicked, but by now this was routine: shift into neutral, drive straight, pound on the dashboard. But this time was different: the car wouldn’t restart, and he was coasting in total darkness. Panic would soon be appropriate. Finally, on the sixth blow the dashboard de-shorted, and the engine restarted. “Don’t bring me down baby!”, Adam yelled, shifting back into Drive, and gunning the accelerator.

“What happened, Jeemy?”

“I don’t know Billy. I was gonna shoot it over there, then it jus’ disappeared. Next thing I know it’s over there.”

“You reckon he’s got some of that Star Trek cloaking stuff?”

“I don’t know,” Jimmy said, slowly sitting back down. “I jus’ don’t know.”

“That’s okay Jeemy, you can just shoot the next damn thing that moves.”