The white Mercedes Sprinter van hummed along a backroad in rural , the kind of road where the mailboxes are more rust than metal. Inside, Mike Wolfe and Frank Fritz were squinting through the windshield, scanning the horizon for the telltale signs of a "honey hole"—overgrown barns, stacks of weathered wood, or the skeletal remains of a vintage tractor.
They pulled into a gravel driveway that seemed to disappear into a wall of weeping willows. At the end stood a massive, sagging tobacco barn. Silas, a man who looked like he had been carved out of a hickory stump, met them at the door. He didn't say much, just swung the heavy timber doors open.
After a tense round of "the art of the deal," handshakes were exchanged. The Indian was loaded into the van, alongside a stack of and the porcelain sign. As they drove away, the sun setting over the Blue Ridge Mountains, Mike looked in the rearview mirror at their haul.
Should I create a of the items found in this story to see how they would value in today's market?
"Danielle said there’s a guy named Silas out here," Mike said, checking a crumpled map. "Supposedly he’s got a barn full of and old gas station signage ."
Across the aisle, Frank was already knee-deep in a pile of wooden crates. He pulled out a pristine, double-sided for a local soda company that had gone bust in the fifties. "Found the meat, Mike. This is a five-hundred-dollar bill all day long."