Yolk

“Yolk! I’ve struck yolk!” I call out to the rest of the kitchen. A fountain of gloopy golden ooze erupts from the cracked surface. It coats me head to toe, filling my ears and nostrils with the sweet nectar. Toby climbs the shell, bucket in hand.

“We’ve hit the motherload baby! We’re gonna be rich I tells ya, rich!” He laughs and wipes the yolk outta my eyes with a dusty handkerchief and thrusts the bucket in my hands.

“Don’t just stand there, ya dingus! Get scooping!” More buckets are passed up, miners clamber the shell face, a pump is connected and precious liquid is pumped out, down off the carton, down off the kitchen table and into a tin can on the dusty tiled floor.

“You and me buddy,” Toby says, one arm over my sticky shoulder, “All our problems are over, Everything’s gonna be alright now.”

“No, Toby.” I say, “Our problems have only just begun.”

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