Thursday, August 5th, 1982-
The regular industrial workings of the DeLorean Motorcar Plant in Dunmurry, Northern Ireland were about to have a spanner thrown in the works.
A scarecrow, of all things, stood aloft on the rail walkway above the assembly line and proceeded to drop a spanner from his straw hand. The metal tool spun through the factory air, even managing to sparkle by catching the fluorescent light before smashing into the gears and cogs of the machinery. This caused the DeLorean conveyer belt to grind to a high pitched halt. A few cars smashed into each other, and others toppled off the assembly belt.
The rattled Irish workers looked up at the out of place specter who had the expression of angry satisfaction creased over his burlap face.
Security was called and after an upheaval of straw and some well placed obscenities, the scarecrow was soon under the hot lights of the Plant's interrogation/break room. The bright bulb caused the rest of the room to fall away into darkness, leaving the attention squarely on the scarecrow. He sat with his arms crossed, dressed in a red flannelette shirt, denim overalls and topped off by a straw hat.
In comparison- Mr. Sinclair, a private detective retained by the DeLorean Motor Company, wore a dark trench coat. He had dealt with Irish protestors, the odd snooping journalist and the ever present Guinness intoxicated mechanics, but it was the first time he had sat opposite a man made of straw.
"You're sure to be in a lot of bother," the slim Irishman began, slinging his coat over the back of his chair to psychologically manipulate the scarecrow into thinking the hot lights were very hot. "How did you get past the front gate?"
"I'm made of straw." The scarecrow plainly answered.
"Ah, Mister funnyman," the interrogation/break continued. "Alright then, how are you made of straw and alive in the same instance?"
The scarecrow yanked off his hat revealing his giant bald, except for a few straw hairs sprouting through, burlap head. "I have a theory about that little matter- Farmer Peabody bought my clothes from a Thrift store. I cannot be certain, but I have a feeling they belonged to a dead man."
Mr. Sinclair scratched his head, "you're not telling me you are possessed by a ghost because of haunted flannelette, are you? Because I've heard saner yarns from the Guinness intoxicated mechanics down stairs."
"I'm not finished yet. I was once out protecting Farmer Peabody's corn when lightning struck the pole I was on. That also might have contributed to the beauty of life." The burlap face creased a smile.
"And then you got an urge to sabotage our DeLoreans?" asked Sinclair.
"Oh no," answered the straw man. "That agenda came much later- back in good old 1955."
