It was a dark and stormy mood the coal miner was enveloped in in his tiny little Welsh mind. His quota had not been reached and he knew that the Foreman would be ragging his ass, once again; that's all the Foreman was good for, ragging his ass.
"I wish I had a magic lamp to rub and a genie to appear to grant me all the wishes I could think to wish," the miner told his loyal, yet sway-backed mule.
"You'd just muck up the wishes," said the literate mule.
"What makes you think that?" asked the miner.
"You're talking to a fucking mule, you asswipe," said the animal.
The light from his candle didn't reach far into the depth of the midnight-black pit. He had been toiling in this mine for nearly five years, just barely scraping by, but never getting ahead. He thought of quitting and leaving Wales altogether, but he knew he'd never be able to scrape together the passage over to America.
The miner looked down at his feet. Water and mud muckied up his boots. The mule had shit on them as well.
"Well fuck it, then," he said as he threw his pick against the wall. A bright spark shot through the darkness and the miner heard the sound of a metallic object hitting the tracks upon which the coal car rested.
He took the candle from his helmet and shown it on the tracks. A dull, golden gleam reflected back at him.
"What's this, then," he asked the mule.
"It's your wishing lamp. Don't fuck it up, now," the mule said.
The miner picked up the muddy lamp and wiped it clean against his trousers. Then he rubbed it. And rubbed it. But nothing happened.
"I wish I was setting fat and happy in America, surrounded by a bevy of willing women," he sighed.
But nothing happened.
Nothing good, that is.