The device reminded Bryan of something unpleasant a dentist might use. It could have been a small flashlight, except one end tapered to a sharp, curly point like the tail of a mechanical pig. The shiny, gold object he had in his hand was no drumstick, though. His white suit and shoes made Bryan think of a preacher or perhaps Colonel Sanders, the fried chicken king. Now, from a few yards away, he watched first an arm and then a long, spindly leg crook over the crate's open edge. Bryan had nearly jumped out of his sandals. Without even a creak, the lid swung open wide. "Bryan heard the snick of some invisible latch. Yes, Bryan knows that something strange is going on.if only he could figure out what or who this stranger is. Keen, the man who arrived in a crate bearing the label: WARNING DO NOT LICK. Bryan is the only one to witness the arrival of Mr. Yet here was a crate, a big one, squatting atop the road's dotted line, and somebody odd was about to climb out" (1). "People did not usually travel down Route64 stuffed inside wooden crates. Bryan Zilcher always thought he was quite an ordinary boy living in an ordinary town, South Wiggot, until one day he saw something quite unordinary happen right in front of his LemonMoo stand.
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