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By Ray Bearfield:
In the Spring of 1968, something wicked came to my hometown and killed more than 40 people with no warning at all.
A stream of natural gas, like the green mist in the Ray Bradbury film, gathered in the basement of the sporting goods store where I often spent my Saturday afternoons. When it ignited, it set off the cases of ammunition, the cans of gunpowder and the blasting caps stored there. Military surplus rifles – M1s and Mausers and Enfields – rained down on the roof of the library several blocks away. The explosion left a giant hole where the building once stood. It blew the engine out of a parked car and sent it screaming across Main Street, where it killed the kid brother of an elementary school classmate.
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