George's house was a hubcap magnet. Hubcaps came weekly, flying through the air at his windows or car or yard like some sort of kamikaze attack. He didn't know why this was, it just was.

First he attempted to board his windows up. This left him with shards of broken wood and slightly bent hubcaps. Eventually he settled on iron shutters. He felt a bit like a drug lord huddling in his iron plated house. Only it was more like a drug lord who frequently wore red converse sneakers and chinos.

It wasn't as if he lived in a high traffic area either. No interstates or highways. No open thoroughfares. His house just seemed to attract the shiny flying discs of death.

At first he'd put up flyers. Is this your hubcab? Did you need a bent or slightly scraped piece of metal?

Eventually he started to attach them to wooden poles. Pole after pole went up. A graveyard to Nissan and Lexus and Jaguar and Kia. He hoped someone would come and see them and recognize that one of them was theirs. No one ever came. He sat in his shuttered house, waiting for the bang that announced a new hubcap had hit his home.