Ever since he was a little, stupid baby, Mitchell Darrington had a simple, innocent dream: to put cheese in a can and then sell it. However, by the time he was 12, the last cow died, so all cheesemongers were forced to use a different source: cheese mines. These mines were often dangerous, but the cheese extracted was quite delicious and well worth it. And when Mitchell turned 19, he was able to purchase a chunk of land he believed held his fortune.

For two years, he dug tunnels. He didn’t have any friends or dames; all he cared about was getting to that precious, precious cheese. Unfortunately, he fell into massive debt. He had sucked his family dry of their remaining assets so he had no choice but to sell whatever radioactive materials and metals he found. But the materials were subpar, at best; however, the money was enough to keep his operation afloat.

One day, he accidentally hit some groundwater he forgot was there and, soon enough, some nasty stuff began to leach into the local town’s water supply. It didn’t take long for the town to locate the culprit. Mitchell did not have the power of a corporation behind him; he was merely a small, cheese-hopeful with hardly any money. He was screwed.

So Mitchell did the only thing he knew: he dug. His plan now was to finally find some cheese which would then finance a crack legal team, but he was running out of time. However, he had a brilliant idea. Mitchell took out loans and credit cards and hired a unit of migrant workers. His progress through the earth accelerated overnight.

“Excuse me, what’s going on here,” Mitchell asked the workers one night as they stood outside the south mine’s entrance.

“Sir, we had to stop,” said one of the miners, “the mines are too hot and the radiation too strong. We, unfortunately, have to unionize.”

Mitchell was aghast at this. “What,” he screamed. “Do you want to be deported?”

“Well, not particularly. But, given the conditions, we feel we can expose you to variouses presses. It’s also quite evident that you’ve been selling some of the radioactive substances to less-than-ideal individuals. We feel that these will serve as sufficient leverage in our favor.”

Mitchell didn’t know how to respond. He was about to blow a gasket. He knew that if they didn’t keep working, he was going to go to jail any day. He needed the workers. He needed the money. He needed the cheese. He stomped away from the site, went home and made a phone call.

The following day, the miners returned to find some shady looking men staring at them. It was apparent that Mitchell sold a portion of control to the local mob who were there to enforce his (and their) will. The workers were tossed into the mines. A week later, a miner died from exhaustion and radiation poisoning, but the miners kept digging as they were driven by the formidable mobsters. A week later, a tired miner hit a rock and a yellow substance oozed out. Within a few hours, Mitchell was a multi-millionaire.

With his well-earned fortune, Mitchell was able to defend himself in court and eventually paid off the poisoned town. His operations expanded and, with the aid of the mob, was able to intimidate the competition. Life was good. And his cheese came in cans.

However, it wasn’t all sunshine and apricots. His still had to give much of his earnings to the mob and as his business grew, they demanded more and more, until they decided to squeeze him out of the picture entirely.

The explosion tremorred the gated community. His gardener witnessed Mitchell’s car leap into flames in the driveway. But, fortunately, it wasn’t Mitchell who got destroyed, but his mistress who had wanted to take his car for a spin. However, Mitchell wasn’t going out without a fight. He stepped down as CEO but used his immense wealth to win control over his primary (and only) competitor. Now, he had his own cheese without the stink of mobster sweat.

In the intervening years, he started extracting cheese from countries with more lax labor laws and managed to tuck a number of politicians into his pockets. But the mobsters took control of the rival political party. After decades of corporate espionage, environmental degradation, assassinations and ill-timed car bombs, the two cheese entities finally decided to call truce and merged into one, with Mitchell at the top.

But, despite all his success, Mitchell felt a twinge of guilt. At the age of 95, he decided to start a charity fund for kids affected by exploding motor vehicles. So that was nice. And then he died. But his cheese lives on. At least until it runs out. For now, you can enjoy your pizza knowing you will never have to see a cow again.

Written for OLWG #283 using “a provacative cheese sauce” as the prompt. “this was a mistake” also fits this story and everything else I have written.