When I took my job at the Spam Museum a month ago, the outgoing Night Security Guard gave me a cryptic warning from his hospital bed. “You better learn karate” he said from the small mouth hole in his full body cast. At the time, I figured this was simply a macabre joke from a man recently involved in a non-suspicious workplace accident.
That night, I wished I’d headed his advice. Each shift at the stroke of midnight, every exhibit comes to life and attempts to murder me. A pile of vintage SPAM cans from 1937 gained sentience and nearly kicked my ass from here to Hawaii (where over 7 million cans of SPAM are consumed annually).
Since then, every shift has been a vicious onslaught of angry SPAM related items. Last night a large foam ham body-slammed me through the wall of the gift shop while the other exhibits watched the spectacle, shouting “FINISH HIM!” in a demonic chorus.
The night before, the sentient copy of General Dwight D. Eisenhower’s 1966 letter thanking the Hormel company for its efforts during World War II that had folded itself into an origami crane and tried to bury me alive in a pile of meat products.
At 7 AM, after seven grueling hours of hiding in ventilation shafts and fighting back flying cans with my growing repertoire of karate moves, the exhibits go back to their original locations and rest once more.
Why the SPAM Museum comes alive at night and tries to kill me remains a mystery. Could it be an ancient curse? A cadre of vengeful spirits? I have no idea. Some might say the greater mystery, however, is why I continue to work here but the answer to that, dear reader, is simple: I am the one man standing between this ungodly hoard and the good people of Austin, MN and if I don’t fight them, who will?