In a cotton field outside Lubbock, adjacent to a spreading mesquite bush, the local smithy stands. His brow is wet with honest sweat. You’d be sweating too, if you had to stand next to that flaming forge all day, hammering on a piece of hot iron. For the last eight months, the roar of the bellows and sound of a small sledge have echoed through the lonely cotton fields around his shop.
He runs a large and sinewy hand through his long, crisp, black hair and keeps on hammering. No wonder that dude has muscles in his brawny arms. They’re probably strong as iron bands. What is he hammering on? Everyone knows nothing ever happens in Lubbock, so what on earth is going on here? Why is it going on now? I knew weird stuff was going to start happening---this is leap year.
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