Tar pits

The helicopter was circling directly above the tar pits, making the thick liquid bubble even faster. The air above the pits was rich with poisonous gases. It seemed milky white in the sunshine, clouding over the the black pools. The helicopter threw out a rope ladder, and a man in a business suit and holding a briefcase in one hand appeared at the top. The tar bubbled faster and faster as the helicopter hung over the easternmost side of the field while the man made his way down the ladder. The man seemed to be accustomed to such exercises and was on the ground in just a few minutes. We watched silently as he descended. We didn't yell out greetings or expressed our impatience in any way even though the whole show with the helicopter and the tar pits was completely unnecessary. All we needed to know was a "yes" or a "no" and that could've been communicated in a number of much simpler ways. It was a "no," we guessed correctly while he descended, and even though we had already reached a point of despair beyond the possibility of disappointment, the rage was still there. There was this man in his business suit and with his shiny black briefcase standing directly between us and the side of one of the largest tar pits in the field. The tar pit, the man, and our rage. We didn't really have to think about it, we acted as though we were a single body.