B is American. B is happy.
B owns a small match factory. Every morning, the sun rises, B gets up and goes to work.
It seems matches are not being used anymore, yet logs are delivered to the factory every day. B moves the logs to the machine. The machine rotates the log while slowly pushing it to a long and sharp blade. The bark is gone, the wood gets cut to thin wood paper, like a red carpet being rolled out.
The long wood paper gets cut by the same size, stacked together, passed to another machine, and cut to tiny sticks. How are red phosphorus and other stuff attached to the match sticks? Only B knows. He considers it a business secret.
Unfortunately, or fortunately, B owns the last match factory in the universe.