The Thing in the Truck

There's nothing peculiar about a load of potatoes going to market—but we knew something was wrong when the spuds suddenly came to life!
It started with a load of potatoes.
Joe Loftus and I were driving the big semi-trailer back from Montauk that night after delivering a load of fishing gear to one of the big resorts out there and wondering if we'd be able to pick up a truckload of anything on the way back to increase the take when Joe spotted this sign.
It was one of those standard hand-painted Return Load signs, so we pulled in and I climbed down from the cab while Joe remained behind the wheel, ready to roll if they had nothing for us.
The sun was going down in a bank of heavy black clouds. I figured it might rain before the trip was over. I went over to the door of the farm house and knocked. Pretty soon I heard footsteps inside and a man chewing a mouthful of his supper opened the door for me. He needed a shave and he had tired, defeated eyes.
What's the load, friend, I said. I saw the sign.
Potatoes. He named a price.
Well, I said in surprise. That's cheap.
Tell you the truth, bub. They got blasted.
Blasted? What do you mean?
Well, now, it's hard to say. Something fell and hit the storage barn.
Fell?