Part I: The Rule

THERE’S A HIGH WALL, AND people are stacking up crates on top of it. The crates are kept up there rather precariously, so a strong gust of wind, or a negligent stacker knocking into the crates, could cause one or more to topple over and land on a pedestrian below. A lot of the time, it’s due to winches or forklifts failing in one way or another.

But the good part is that if a crate hits you, if anything that falls hits you, you’re allowed to keep it, legally, everything, all that’s inside. It’s like a gift from the sky. A sky gift. The people above you, through their obliviousness or carelessness or some other failure on their part, have shared some of their blessings upon you. It’s like a giant eating a cake and letting what are – to the giant – meager crumbs fall to the floor. But to the humans the size of, eh, let’s say, pill bugs to the giant, these are tumescent mounds of cake, cake that could theoretically kill them if it landed on them the right way. Think of how far that mound of cake could go if stored and apportioned properly by a pill bug human, though.

So the pain of it isn’t great, naturally, but the thing that landed on you somewhat makes up for the pain. Even though it might kill you, but, in that case, your next of kin gets to keep it. Someone gets to keep it.

Someone always gets to keep it. If you tend goats, your goats get to keep it. It’s theirs. And they’ll be able to have whatever’s in it. It might not be something a goat would want or have use of, but that’s the luck of the fact of the crate falling on you being useful. No one knows what fate has in store regarding each crate that falls.

So it’s actually sort of a nice thing. And who can complain about a nice thing? Even if it’s just sort of one? Nobody should ever complain.

People should be paying attention to what they have. This is an official decree, coming from the King of Our Fair World. No one shall deny the decree. If you don’t like dying when you walk under the crates, wear a safety helmet or go another way. There are plenty of other ways to go, after all. This is also part of the official decree. Reach out to learn about all the other possible ways there are to go.

This has been an official decree from your King, King Kraig – and that’s Kraig with a K, and I have spoken.

Part II: The Cautionary Tale of Crosby and Sander

So, a reader might rightly ask, was the narrator King Kraig? The narrator was, indeed, in fact, King Kraig. And so I remain.

Your humble narrator is King Kraig of all the land. You might be further wondering, what was the point of all that exposition above? And the answer is, here is the story of two of King Kraig’s subjects, gentle idiots, who were directly affected by “if it falls on you, you can keep it,” as a decree, as the inviolable law of all my land. And again, if you want to know about other ways to go, you need to ask. You need to call one of our many monarchical call centers, and you need to inquire about where to go, or use the internet, or use the GPS. We aren’t just forcing you to accept your fate and making you cross underneath where they stack the crates. We would not do that to you, so just get going and call or investigate. You have options, so take them.

“You know how ants are attracted to piss?” one of King Kraig’s subjects, Crosby, said. The two were on a path toward the high wall, and nothing seemed to be diverting them from this course, nor would anything intervene to divert them before they made their way to it. 

“Are they? I’ve never noticed that.” Sander, Crosby’s friend and roommate, said.

“They are. Trust me. They are,” Crosby said. “If anyone would know, I would know.”

“Well, you’d better take the trash out when we get home. The house is beginning to smell, not like piss but still really bad,” Sander said, heavily implying the smell was all Crosby’s fault.

“No, I’d like to avoid doing that if possible. If possible, I’d rather not. I haven’t even noticed any trash.” Crosby was lying again, but he thought he was at least lying pretty well, smoothly, a believable lie that ideally Sander would say nothing more about.

“You’re still afraid of those teens who hang around the dumpster back home, aren’t you?”

“One hundred percent not,” Crosby said, except that he was. He was still afraid.




There is a flashback to the last time Crosby had to carry a large bag of trash to the dumpster.

Crosby struggled mightily with the bag, looking around it as best he could while he waddled toward the dumpster. He could just barely discern the chatter of youngsters.

“I like the sound my leather coat makes when I bend my arms and move around in a chair with it still on. It’s this plasticy, ruffling sound. That’s why you wear leather,” the teen in a leather jacket said.

“Real smooth,” another, wearing a baseball cap, affirmed. Then the leather jacket teen did a move mimicking a karate chop, and all of them went wild.

“Not a lot of jackets make enough sounds,” the tallest teen by the dumpster said. “You want a good stretchy, rubbery crinkle, at least.”

They became aware of Crosby’s looming presence, a gigantic armload of trash making it into their orbit.

“What you doing with all that trash, man? Trash man?” the leather jacket teen said, to raucous, mean-spirited teen laughter of approval for mocking some dork.

Crosby tried to be cool, “Just taking it over there to the open mouth of the dumpster,” but he caught some of a break in the pavement with his toe and very nearly toppled over, bumping the leather jacket teen.

“Watch the jacket,” the leather jacket teen said, really squeezing his arms together so that the jacket made a lot of very satisfying noise. “Just whoa, dude. Whoa.”

The tallest teen by the dumpster said, “Absolutely whoa. Whoa, dude. Whoa absolutely.”

“Maybe you should just take off, bro. We don’t really want to see you around here anymore if you don’t know how to walk right,” the teen with the baseball hat said.

Crosby ran back to his home in tears, castigating himself deeply under his breath.




And then we were back to the two walking toward the high wall where they stacked crates. Crosby was staring glassy-eyed ahead, looking at nothing, just recalling the fear he’d felt in that moment. It was an inescapable fact that he would have to continue to lie about and hope Sander never realized.

Sander had gotten pretty far ahead after Crosby was visibly lost in catatonia after he’d been obviously lying about not being afraid of the teens.

Crosby realized where Sander was. “Watch out for the crates, Sander! Or let them hit you, because if they hit you, you can keep them. That’s the rule. Nobody is allowed to say different!” Crosby yelled out a warning, but by then it was too late, or had gone exactly to plan, because Sander had been hit by a crate, his left leg appearing mostly crushed underneath it.

“Oh god, Crosby, this hurts so bad, and also what’s in the crate?” Sander yelled.

“Oh my fucking god, there’s blood everywhere, AND you get to keep that; it’s legally yours because it fell on you, and no one is allowed to tell you differently. Those guys up there, who seem really mad about tipping this crate on you, are absolutely beside themselves because, probably, what is in there is pretty valuable,” Crosby said, and then momentarily stopped shouting for help and directed his shouting at those guys up there, “Hey, you guys up there, suck it. This crate is Sander’s now.”

The guys up there started pacing around – visibly, even from this distance, red-faced and fuming. They clearly wished they could drop a crate on Crosby, too, but all realized what’s in their crates was way too valuable, and Crosby was way too welcoming of the prospect; they do nothing but continue fuming instead.

“You guys are done-zo. Schwashee-dunzo!” Crosby taunted the guys up there further.  That really riled them up. They were clearly so irritated. If only Crosby had thought to say something like that to the teens. They’d never have known what hit them.

Sander had passed out from blood loss, but he was still visibly clenching his hard-won prize, the crate that had crushed him.

“This is an emergency, and we need a doctor! But we also need a decently sized truck bed that we might be able to get this crate loaded onto with some kind of rudimentary conveyor, maybe rolling it under a boulder and a plank would suffice!” Crosby howled and went on, “If you’ll help me load this up in a truck, I think we can get Sander to agree to give you a little of what is in this crate. A small percentage. I can’t promise you much because it’s not, at this time, mine to promise!  At least not at this time, but I think he will! I have good reason to believe!”

Sander gurgled.

Eventually, a horse-drawn ambulance showed up, and an understanding was reached about what percentage of the crate would be given to drive Sander to the hospital. The crate itself was hitched tenuously to the wagon in a way that was sure to slow the horses down. But Crosby insisted, and perhaps Sander, in his own way, insisted, too – as he was coming in and out of consciousness. Neither man was willing to let them just stow the crate somewhere. It was that important. Sander’s leg would eventually be amputated, but he did get to keep everything else. He’d wake up screaming in the night, but was often reassured back to sleep with the thought of what he’d been able to keep from the crate, then he’d wake up screaming again, and the cycle would continue.

Crosby gave those guys up there one last extended middle finger as they rode away. One of the guys up there threw his hat on the ground and stamped it into the pavement really hard.

Epilogue

This is the best system there is, and not just because it’s the only one there is. It works for you, the consumer of things, some of which fall on you.

So say I, King Kraig. And remember, once again, you can always email about other ways to go. There are safer ways to go. Or you can wear a helmet.

Good night. •





Matt Rowan lives in Los Angeles, a place he never imagined he'd live until he (almost suddenly, it felt like) did. He founded and edits Untoward. He’s author of the collections Big Venerable, Why God Why, and How the Moon Works. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in hex, NUNUM’s 2026 Opolis Anthology, Twin Bird Review, and Bluestem, among others.

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