Solar Flare Clash

Woke up wedged in that cast-aluminum floodlight hood with desert glare blasting straight into my face! Crawled right onto the tarred parapet gravel. Right there, mounted flat against a rusted ventilation cap, sat an old brass grounding rod clamped to a thick braided copper strap. Oxidized dull green, but the raw tip was sheared off clean—glinting like polished gold! Think you outshine me? Never! I charged straight in, locked both clawed fists around the cold copper braid, and yanked with full engine torque! *SKRR-TWANG!* The strap pulled taut as a bowstring, whipping against the corrugated cap with an electric crack that rattled my jaw pins clean into overdrive. Glare stared right back. Didn't blink an inch!