My hands tremble as I type. I feel a need to document my tribulation for I fear that my memory will fail me if I linger.
Today I took some rubber ducks and ventured into the dark ancient legacy code I uncovered. Our linters highlighted faintly the murky key worda as we slowly made our way to lower levels of abstraction. The ducks were superstitious and fearful. They argued loudly and I felt their strange language getting to me. I mustered my strength and yelled at them to continue pass the rotten code and broken tests.
The crudely coded subroutine confused me. It looked much older than the 21th century codebase we had expected. The twisting path emerged into a great 1000 line function. The lines were filled with cryptic comments unlike any I'd ever seen. Despite their unearthly quality I felt a strange familiarity toward them, which haunts me still. At the far end of the method, a macro obfuscated whatever lay ahead. I gave the order to open it in Vim, and as I searched using g# through the source code, I suddenly enter insert mode without a working escape key, sealing me inside.
I was trapped.