As he cut the packing tape, a chilling cold wind gusted through the room. The triangular flap folded down. He peered inside. Wads of newspaper with a cryptic script typeface were tightly packed into it. The sharp gusts of wind turned to sheets of snow, blasting the papers and what remained of his Whataburger lunch off the table.
A strong smell of incense was carried on the freezing wind, and he heard chimes, as if from a buddhist temple, and voices, speaking in a language he didn't understand.
No hallucinagenic drug could have prepared him for what happened next. With trembling hands, he removed the heavy object, revealing a curved lump, firmly wrapped in the unearthly newspaper.
Fear and an odd joy gripped him as he unwrapped it, revealing what appeared to be a leather triangular object with a bone handle.
He looked around and noticed the livingroom was gone. The comfortable leather recliner had become a wooden bench; the table, a well-stoked coal fire.
Suddenly a wizened old man appeared in front of him. "Moses?," he asked, trying to understand what was happening. But why would Moses be smoking a cigarette?
Suddenly he realized the man was frowning, pointing at the triangular tool. Though the voice was in a foreign language, he understood the words. The old man was angry.
"ANOTHER time-space khukuri?," he was saying. "I just sent that one to Reno! Sher! Kumar! We have GOT to stop using the metal from the crashed flying disc.
"Too many are coming back..."
