He stood looking at it for fifteen minutes.
A thirty foot tall wooden horse sat in the middle of his ranch’s open field. It had no eyes, no mouth, no openings in the nose. On the top was a comically large, red ribbon tied in a bow; an exclamation point of sorts—It’s a gift, and I MEAN it! If Mike hadn’t recalled the story of the Trojan Horse from his schooling years, he wouldn’t have recognized it as a horse at all.
Still in his slippers and pajamas, morning coffee in hands, he crossed the open field to examine it further. He could hear the soft creaking of the wood as it swayed in the breeze, teasing him with answers he didn’t have. Who put it there? Why? Was it a joke?
Under his hand the wood was cool, contrary to the July heat. It was smooth, almost silky, as if sandpapered and polished recently. Whoever had put it here had put some elbow grease into it; as a piece of art it was astounding. As lawn furniture, not so much.
He made his way around the first wheel—and that was when he heard it: wet, slopping sounds from its hollow inside. He looked up to see its underside soaked and grimy, the occasional gooey drip landing in the grass.
Having dealt with these things before, Mike headed back to his house to get the matches and gasoline.
