Bang and the dirt appears
- Lawyers would like to point out that this article has nothing to do with Cillit Bang
My name is Sam the Mole. I am a dirt digger. I dig dirt for a living. I know it is not glamorous, but it is mine.
I will now recount the events which led me to give up walking shoes in favour of something with a little - a little better arch support.
A deserted street. Deserted except for people, that is. No moles to be seen.
Angry men with beards carry newspapers. Insolent children crush aluminum cans underfoot. Ladies give lascivious winks that seem to say, "Oh, your nose." None of that matters though.
My interest was held acutely by a drunk village idiot who liked to get everyone to call him Greg, just to annoy them. I knew his real name was Gregory. I never spoke of it.
Presently I glanced down at the wristwatch on my hairy paw. It said "half-past the danger hour." For the thousands of days I had been alive, I had assumed "danger hour" was a misnomer. I was wrong.
 BANG! and the dirt appeared
The once-fair city was covered in it. Even the poodles in their evening dresses, scampering around their town sampling ice cream stores, were soaked. Soaked in dirt. I tried to contain my excitement at coming into so much of my native element. I couldn't resist burrowing and burrowing to my heart's content.
That's when I burrowed through someone's face. Luckily, they were able to afford a makeover.
The dirt had ruined the buildings. Only their foundations were meant to be immersed, and this new influx of earthen stuffing turned them to Jello. They swayed back and forth, only to steady themselves with the help of a long-dead mannequin's severed fake-real limb.
I was tried for Excessive Acts of Gardening and sentenced to five years of being nonplussed.
I have since stopped wearing a watch. The shadows cast by a twig are my new timepiece. My days are fairly occupied by suspiciously watching these shadows for any sign of malice or independent movement.
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