You've forged your hammer into your foot. Maybe you shouldn't have worn sandals, but that's something to think about in the ER.
You're a blacksmith at a historic park. Kids are running between you and the anvil. Someone has lit a firecracker using the steel at the end of your tongs. Yet another great case for getting that vasectomy.
You're a blacksmith at a Renaissance Faire. You have a deal over at the turkey leg booth. Life's not too bad, but if you have to make one more iron dragon, blood will be shed. And not in the jousting ring.
You have set up your own studio. The local historic society has commissioned you to do some work for them, and other clients are pouring in like hot molten steel.
You are a nationally famous blacksmith—at least among those who read Blacksmithing Monthly. Your wrought ironwork is the best there is, bar none. A documentary crew is over at your studio filming you masterfully forge a decorative sculpture. You don't like anyone watching you work, but at least it's better than those rug rats at the historic park you where you used to spend your summers.