The scene: a tunnel deep below the surface.
The participants: two men methodically digging away using pick axes and shovels.
The moment: a casual conversation about the why.
Yancy: Hey Bob, I think the vein is done tapped out. We haven't struck anything in nearly two weeks.
Bob: Sure looks that way doesn't it.
Yancy: Then why in tarnation are we still doing it?
Bob: Because the company says so.
Yancy: But they're throwing away good money after bad.
Bob: Doesn't matter. We still have to keep digging. I know the pickings have been slime to none as of late, but the company still believes that there's still a few nuggets left in this vein.
Yancy: (kicks a few pieces of coal down a deep bottomless pit) Shoot, they ain't nothing left. We've been plugging away for nineteen months and I think we've reached the bitter end.
Bob: Yeah, but...(Bob stops speaking as the ground starts to violently shake and rumble beneath his feet)
Yancy: Bob! Look out!!!
Bob: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!! (the force of the explosion sends Bob flying through the air at the speed of slow, until he comes to a stop face first into a wall of blubber)
Yancy: Woah! (sees a bunch a large boulders blow out of the fissure that appeared where Bob was previously standing) Bob, you gotta check out this pile of rocks!!
Yancy starts to gather up the boulders and puts them into a wheelbarrow. As he puts each fifty pound boulder in, he reads the word that had been seared into the side of each one
Yancy: Let's see, this one says "writing", and another one over here says, "blogging", and this says...hmmm...can't seem to make out the word. Hey Bob, can you come over here for a minute?
Yancy: Okay, I see that you're still inhaling some of that whale blubber, so I'll leave you be...hey, you know what, I think I figured out what the word is. The word is---
Just when Yancy is about to say what the word is, the ground shakes and another fissure opens up and swallows Yancy lock, stock, and barrel. Then, just as quickly as it opens, it closes up again. In the meantime, Bob is still inhaling blubber and turning the darkest shade of blue this side of the daytime sky. Suddenly, Bob stops inhaling the blubber and becomes as quiet as a blade of grass.
Who knew that the awful calamity that had befallen our intrepid miners had the seeds first sewn when the company decided to make one last effort to boldly go where no mining company had ever dared to go to before.
One again, the mine known as The Terrible G has cruelly regained its reputation as the most lethal brain ever to come out of the badlands of Southern New England.