The rain splashed down around him, the soft earth recently uncovered splashing up. Coating his trousers, staining his shoes, running down his coat and dripping back into itself. The solitary figure toiled onwards though, digging down deeper and deeper, stepping back occasionally to examine his craft. Whenever he did so, it was with a look of disappointment, shaking his head and tutting to himself. And then, reluctantly, he would dive back into the abyss, into the torrent of mud, flowing around but getting nowhere, and he would continue to dig, or knock at the walls and widen his crevasse.
So he continued for close on an hour, his shovel endlessly rising, then plummeting down, his brow furrowed and dripping, mud coating his person. Another half hour passed, and he emerged from the pit once more, seemingly satisfied by his inspection. Discarding his spade for now, point first into the most solid pile of solvent soil, he walked a few metres from the pit to a small track, almost obscured by the rain and the flowing topsoil. He followed this trail for maybe a half-mile, arriving at a large, empty dump-truck. Fumbling in his pockets, he found the keys, entering the cab and reversing his vehicle to the pit dug some distance from the road.
Arriving at the gaping maw of earth, he tips back the truck, spilling forth the unwanted cargo, eager to hide his goods from the view of the skies. Sadly, squelching, squeaking, honking, they fall from the truck, filling the hole whole, eagerly swallowed by the mouth he has constructed. This duty done, he fills in the hole again, the soil floods into the crevice and makes his job easier. The rain will hide his crimes, leaving no trace of his tire-tracks, nor the freshly turned earth. This done, he drives the truck away into the dawn-light.
His name is Oscar, and he regrets killing all those clowns.
Still, it's a living.