“Dammit, stupid goddamn piece of-“
You swear as you jump from your chair and bolt out the front door and into the driveway, seeing dust settling on the dirt road as the engine fades off with distance down the hill.
“Who the hell...”
You turn back, running inside to get your keys, and catch your foot on a small brown wooden crate, maybe six inches on a side, sitting right on your front step.
Your bare toes jam into the hard wood painfully, sending both you and it tumbling through your front door and across the cheap linoleum of your entranceway.
Keys forgotten, you get up and limp to the kitchen, yanking open the freezer, and snatch a cold pack from the ice shelf. You limp back past the entranceway to the living room, which isn’t much more than a crappy old couch and a TV that gets two channels, both of which are fuzzy. You limp around a few boxes of old or spare computer parts, and sit down heavily on the couch, holding the ice pack to your aching foot.
“Ahhhh... damn that hurts, the hell was that doing there anyway?”
You wait a minute or two, then, inhaling sharply, you gingerly lift the cold pack from your toes to check the damage. Not as bad as you expected, only a little bleeding and still plenty painful, but it should be better in a few hours. You turn your head back over the couch toward the front door, and see the tiny crate lying where it had landed, not noticeably cracked or dented, owing, as your foot attests, to its durability.
“What the hell box. Not cool man.”
In apology, the wooden crate does a five star impression of a wooden crate.