Under an ominous and cloudy sky the small heard of botanists work industriously at their task. This water soaked hillside is infested with dandelions and the invaders must be eliminated as much as possible. There is a grim undertone to the task. In the tightly packed, root bound soil it is near impossible to get the entire tap root out and most of the ones that they pull will sprout again soon enough. This will be a long battle. The mist drifts ominously through the dense conifer forest that surrounds them, hiding anything that might be approaching. Also it is raining and cold.
No one notices when one botanist breaks from the herd and wanders off into the dense forest. They do notice when a Speilbergian velociraptor shriek echoes through the woods. Gone is a collective half century of natural history. Sheer nerd panic rips through the herd and they stager to their knees, trowels raised to defend or throw. It doesn’t matter that every dromaeosaurid is well and thoroughly extinct. It doesn’t matter that these cold northern forests are far too cold to support such large reptiles.
No, the nightmare of their childhood has screamed its battle call from the depths of the forest and they are prepared to fight! No getting dragged off to be raptor food for them.
The missing botanist stumbles out of the forest giggling with far less dignity than a man of nearly three decades should possess and the rest of the crew proceeds to skewer him with murderous looks and the sheer absurdity of the panic that fuels their still pounding hearts sets in.
“You nearly got a dozen trowels thrown at you,” another points out. “I would have had to report the stupidest injury ever to the supervisor!”
“Worth it,” the unrepentant ‘raptor’ replies, bending back to his task.
Torn between shame and amusement the others follow suit.