And so I fell down another internet rabbit hole. You know how it is. It started with digging through archives of American comics and current affairs magazines from the 1950s and 1960s. At one point, I was hooked by an ad on the back page of one of the magazines. It promised true wonders for a dollar.
The giant 7-foot tall walking-flashing monster robot!
Look at that artwork. It’s menacing! It has flashing eyes! For just one dollar, this technological marvel could be yours. What a deal, right?
Well, of course, the reality was far humbler. After mailing in your hard-earned dollar, which was a lot for a kid back then, you didn’t get a crate of polished steel and advanced electronics. What you received was a set of plans to build your own robot out of cardboard, wire, and some flashlight bulbs. It was the ultimate lesson in — some assembly required. The magic wasn’t in the product, but in the promise — the chance for a kid to feel like a mad scientist in their own garage.
Why were these ads everywhere? It’s simple, they were riding the massive wave of the sci-fi craze. The 50s and 60s were saturated with movies featuring giant robots and alien monsters, often with ray guns that could vaporize anything. These ads tapped directly into that fantasy. They weren’t selling a robot. They were selling a piece of the dream!
I spent a long time trying to find the full, original instructions for this particular model. How fantastic would it be to actually build this piece of nostalgia? No such luck — the complete plans seem to be lost to time.
But my search led me to something else. A real gem.
“TRAGEDY ON WASHINGTON AVE”
The Greeneville Post, Oct. 20, 1974
A 12 year old boy is dead, shot to death by police, and the grieving parents can only wonder how this tragedy could have been averted.
On Sunday afternoon, as the autumn leaves blew down the street of this average suburb, what started out as a young boy’s craft project ended up with a terrified neighborhood, stunned police, and a bereaved family mourning for a budding scientist cut down in his youth.
At 6:18 PM on the eve of the 19th, the Greeneville Police Department received a panicked call from Mrs. Crinklecut, the elderly retired schoolmarm beloved by the whole town. Her frantic report of a “monstrous, horrifying mechanical man” terrorizing her and her dog were at first met with disbelief by the dispatcher. But the patrol car sent to calm her down soon reported back a confirmation of the description.
With a request for backup, Lt. Spooner’s radio call described a “hulking metal creature” on the rampage down the street. It stood seven feet tall, with “flashing, glowing eyes,” with giant-sized arms that defied everything in its path. “It acts just like a creature from outer space” he radioed in, and as soon as the other cars arrived the police surrounded the mysterious being and demanded that it surrender.
Ignoring the commands crackling over the loudspeaker, the menacing metal monster slowly raised its left arm threateningly toward the armed authorities. The command to fire was given in response, and when the smoke cleared the thing lay on its side, blood leaking from holes left in the silver body by the policemen’s bullets.
It was with shock and horror that they then discovered that inside the thing was the body of a boy. Identified by a neighborhood friend as Bobby Theakson, the saddened police realized that the “alien creature” had only been a suit made of spray-painted paneling wood and cheap scrap items available anywhere. The inventive young man had apparently tinkered it together in his garage, over the course of several weeks each day after school. He had been controlling it from the inside, via an ingenious series of levers. Plans for building the incredible machine were found in the garage, and were seized by the authorities to be turned over to the F.B.I. for investigation.
Wiping his eyes, Lt. Spooner bemoaned, “I’m sorry that this turned out so badly. When it raised its arm, we could only assume it was about to fire some kind of ray-beam that would turn us all into skeletons.”
The tearful parents did not blame the brave police as the ambulance took away the body of the boy. “We never dreamed he was building such a dangerous weapon,” sobbed his mother, Helen. “We thought it was a doghouse.” “He was too smart for his own good,” agreed the father, Bill Theakson, as he held his wife close. “Always reading those comic books. We knew it would get him into trouble one day.” Motioning for Bobby’s younger brother, he drew him near. “At least we still have Randy, who is on the PeeWee football team, which is more normal and safe.”
The machine that caused the horror was burned by the neighbors on a curbside leaf pile, as they gathered that evening to console one another and try to purge the fear that for one brief fall afternoon gripped this quiet town. But few will be able to forget the nightmare that stalked the street with blinking, glowing eyes.
It’s a classic piece of fiction, perfectly mimicking the tone of a local newspaper. The structure is a hoax staple that’s been used for decades — the fake news clipping. Why does it work? Because seeing something that looks like a legitimate newspaper subconsciously makes the reader believe it is legitimate. It lends an air of authority and fact to a complete fabrication.
Back in the 70s, 80s, and 90s, this was a popular device among writers in sci-fi fandom, on early forums, and eventually, in email chains. You’d get an email with the subject — Shocking story! — and this text would be pasted inside, presented as a weird archive find from a local paper. It was the perfect format for a pre-social media viral hit.
Sound familiar? Today, we’d call it a fake news story and share it across our social media feeds, warning all our friends. We might use different technology, but the core of it — the desire to share a shocking, emotionally charged story — hasn’t changed a bit. We’re still forwarding the same kind of chain letters, just in a new envelope.
It’s funny to think that a cheap, cardboard robot from a 1950s comic book could, decades later, inspire a story that so perfectly captures the enduring nature of our own credulity and our love for a good, scary tale. The monster didn’t just walk out of a garage. It walked right out of our collective imagination.