Here in Hangar Eighteen

Hangar Eighteen
Is where all the good stuff is at
All the captured UFO's
All the stored Doomsday Devices
All the mind blowing goodness
Is in Hangar Eighteen

The reigning hangar queen
Of Hangar Eighteen
Is the Roswell spacecraft
Once flown by little green men
Who are now stored in large sample jars
Somewhere in the back

On some days
That spacecraft still sputters
It wiggles in it's mounts
It arcs a bit when jounced
It's never wise to stand too close
To the artifact numbered as "1"

Once while cleaning up some broken stuff
I bumped one of the sample jars
You know, the ones in the back
And I could have sworn
That a little black eye
On a little green man
Blinked at me
So naturally I spooked and I ran

I got laughed out of the break-room for that

One day just like any other day
We brought in a keg of beer
All the supervisors were on vacation
So the timing seemed right for a bash
We drank until everything there almost made sense

The night culminating with opening a few crates
Marked clearly as "Death Ray: Do Not Touch"
"Zaaaap!" went the keg of beer
Then before we were through
"Zaaaap!" went Sam Goldstein

We put the steampunk death ray away after that
In the weeks that followed
It was assumed that Sam had quit
And we never spoke of him again

But you know what?
I personally don't think it was a death ray at all
Because things have started happening ever since
Cryptic messages written on the coffee table
The fridge letters arranged in angst

I think it's Sam myself
The others think it's just a ghost
But you tell me
Who else would write something like:

"You idiots, it's me, Sam.
I'm in a parallel dimension
Where I've met the makers of all those cool things we have
I can tell you how to get me back
Just get out the damn "Death Ray" again!"

See what I mean?
We have all the coolest shit
Here in Hangar Eighteen