On the eastside of the bay sprawled between industrial warehouses and Morgan's ship repair and drydock, lays a three acre plot of ground. Or to be more precise, three acres of discarded bounty.  Vehicles that were once the pride of kine families who competed with their neighbors for vehicles that surpassed them and whose families now were probably in a law suit against the very company that produced their death chambers are stacked three and four and five high in rows that were once neat but now lean precariously as they await the crusher.  School buses perch in a zigzag tower, their back doors smashed but still proudly warning of the need to stop at flashing lights.

The edge of the salvage yard boasts a giant ship wench and frame that juts precariously out over the bay awaiting the next ocean going vessel that has kissed the silt of the ocean's bottom.  Rusted chains swing in the constant wind that comes in off the sea, their cry for another metal body filling the air with their shrill wailing.   Night gulls answer the shrill cry of the chains in a concert that defies the best bird watcher's ears. The sound of the sea battering the metal legs, the cry of nearby dock workers as they unload the ships lucky enough to survived their last trans-Atlantic voyage, the screech and pop of the vehicles meeting their fate in the giant car crusher, the clamor of yard dogs as they chase the rats and cats in and out among the almost comical collection of old refigerators and stoves, is surpased only by the sound of the welders torch as it blasts through the three inch  thick hull of the last unfortunate cargo carrier to dare Neptune's ire.  As the four foot square of metal crashes to the pile below it, the name painted on its side, Lucky Lady, seems bitter. 

In the center of this mountainous mass of rusty orange iron, fiberglass, and dreams stands a small rusted building measuring only 24 foot by 24 foot.  A dim light shines in the only window of the office of Shook's Salvage though no one appears to be manning the office at this late hour.  To those who would be foolish enough to climb the 8 foot  fence made up of welded slabs of sheet metal and brave the four legged black demons that patrol its length, it is a beckon for thievery. To those who know its true purpose, the light is a signal that below ground, in the chambers that open to the sea there is more going on than the destruction of the metal skeletons above.

It is here that Crossbones and his men (or to be politacally correct---his male and female employees) rest after plying their true trade.  The telephone at the main gate hangs useless during the night, prospective customers advised that the yard is open from ten a.m. until 4 p.m. It hangs beside the small sign advising a call for admittance to the office between those hours.

There is only one other sign that hangs on the gate

Welcome to the world of Crossbones Shook. Many have entered but few have returned through its gates alive.....or at least alive in the kine sense of the word.