The story goes way back, they say, to the days when this city was just a humble mining town. Little Timmy Johnson had fallen down the mine shaft where they stored all the TNT, nitro glycerine, blasting caps, gelignite, sulfuric acid, roman candles, sparklers, plus 24 quarts of diet cola and a case of Mentos.
None of the good townfolk knew what to do. Should they lower a rope, go in after him, or keep making thoughtful muttering noises? But Timmy’s dog Skippy weren’t having any of that. Quick as a wink, he grabs a torch in his mouth and dives down into the shaft. And that was the last they ever saw of Skippy. Or Timmy. Or the town. And that’s how we came to be known as Craterville.
Now, some folks say you can still see Skippy, chasing through the clouds, looking for his master. Buncha nonsense, if’n you ask me.