It was black as pitch in the hollow vacuum that surrounded the bone-white bald-faced of the moon. The stars were cloaked in an evil, inky mist that enshrouded one's vision. Across the fields of never-ending wheat lay miles over unending miles of sharp yellow stalks perpetuated over and over in a monotonous fabric that clung tightly to the earth. Above it lay the smell of early morning mist, rolled in from the east. Across the plain, far off in an isolated remote corner of a corner less wheatfield, sat a house. The moon grinned on the house in baleful brightness, and the shadow of the chimney lay across the front lawn like an iron beam. The edge of the wheatfield lay 20 feet from the house, its serpentine shadow dancing on the lawn like a black satin cape in the breeze.  From a dark shed appeared a dark and ghostly figure. He wore grey, and his skin was pale under the cold moonlight. His skin was wrinkled and dusty, like the binding of an old book. His old, old hands shone like shimmering fish in the blinding moonlight. He gripped a long pole tightly in his cracked hands, and on the end of this pole was a long knife that flashed like an eye in the shadows of the night. He walked slowly with his menacing weapon of death. He trudged like a man under an evil spell toward the wheatfield.  Blade flashing, skin cracking, wind howling, wind shrieking, moonlight blinding. The wheat thrashed about in the wind that bulleted out of the black night like a thousand lost souls screaming their warning to the world. With murder in his eyes, the figure stood high like a massless demon, and scythed through the thick air like cheese as he brought down his evil blade in a deadly swoop of his arms and body. The wheat lay dead on the ground.  Farmer Bill had to get an early start Wednesday on his wheat harvest.