The whole ordeal began innocently enough. My dad had finally decided to tackle his ancient detached garage—a structure he hadn’t touched in any meaningful way since I was in middle school, sometime around the early 2000s. It wasn’t just cluttered; it was a mausoleum of forgotten domestic projects and expired technologies. He had enlisted me and my closest friend, Liam, to help—a seemingly straightforward task of turning decades of dusty chaos into organized sanity.
The place smelled faintly of stale motor oil, damp cardboard, and the metallic tang of forgotten ambition. It was packed wall-to-wall with relics: a lawnmower from the 90s, boxes labeled with my baby pictures, a precarious stack of broken furniture, and random metal parts that looked either like spaceship remnants or components for a medieval torture device. It was the classic “Dad Archive,” where every object had a story but was too covered in grime to tell it. We worked slowly, methodically sorting through a back shelf near a perpetually dirty window, tossing rusty screws into one pile and half-empty cans of paint into another.
I reached deep behind a stack of tangled Christmas lights and an old, chipped snow shovel when my hand closed around a small, distinctly non-metallic object. I pulled it out, brushing thick dust away with my thumb. What I held was black, made of durable, slightly stretchy rubber, and disturbingly shaped. It was punctuated by a complex weave of small metal chains ending in rubbery, textured spikes. At first glance, the thing looked, to put it mildly, suggestive. Way too suggestive for a suburban father’s garage.
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