The Word on the Street

Like most everyone else in his south Philadelphia neighborhood, Tony worked hard.  He’d rise with the sun, grab his lunchbox, and walk the mile and a half to the docks at the Navy yard.  There, he spent the better part of each day behind a welder’s mask and at the sound of the whistle in the evening he’d pick up his empty lunchbox and walk the same route back to his South 7^th Street home where his Maria would have dinner waiting.  He’d usually throw down a few bottles of beer in front of the television and shuffle off to bed.

But sometimes he’d stay up a little later if a game was on; like tonight.  Maria and the kids kissed him goodnight and left him in peace to his one little luxury.  With the Phillies and Pirates all tied up going into the 9^th inning, the television began to crackle.  Tony groaned and pushed himself out of the recliner, “Not now…”  Adjusting the antennas didn’t help and he whacked the side of the set.  Then, as the headlights of a passing car illuminated his front window, the static broke and a voice came through his television.

“… dead molecules will be put back together!”

Tony ran to the door and saw an old car driving away, a massive antenna protruding from the roof.  Tony had seen it before.

“God help me if I catch you!”

First, he’d tried to form a group, tried calling radio talkshows, and tried broadcasting on short wave.  This mobile transmission was his last effort to express himself before the Toynbee Tiler finally found his perfect medium.  It wouldn’t be until October 19, 1994, that media outlets around the Americas began to take notice and not until 2012 that a mysterious suspect was named.