Inside the capsule is a smaller spherical capsule, sealed with no apparent opening mechanism. There is a letter taped to it, written in some triangle-based alien script, but a second page is stapled behind the first page with an English translation.
Take the letter and begin to read.
The other guard at the Arizona impact site shouts at you to look back at the goddamn sphere. Maybe he should have told you to run, because when you peeled off the letter, you had revealed an LED countdown underneath. Whatever it means, you have ten seconds left.
If the letter gave a clue, the deliverer hadn't given enough time to find it. You've only read as far as "Dear Terrible Planet, congratulations! You have pissed a civilization off so much that they've diverted funds from their interstellar exploration program to launch you the worst thing you could ever receive in a capsule: mother fucking - "
The rupture of the miniature capsule lifts you and your companion off your feet with a wall of compressed air and color.
You will later hear on the news that a tailwind carried most of the glitter to the east, where people from as far out as Kentucky were calling into stations with symptoms of craft herpes. Closer to home, scientists estimate fourteen thousand years before the Colorado River no longer sparkles. From where you lie, blown against the wall of the crater by the blast, you can see the painted hills on the horizon shining with a synthetic shade of fuchsia that no earthling has seen before yourself.
You - you two look like a couple of bulletproofed Twilight extras.
The letter flutters from the sky and lands text-down on your face. Earth's offenses include littering, radio noise and wireless interference; and the anonymous sender hoped their capsule would be opened inside an important government facility so it would get all over the furniture and bills.
Right now, you are more concerned with the loss of your job. "Clean this up before the boss gets back"? Is your partner insane? Did he land on his head? Barbers will still be picking this out of your scalp when you're eighty.