Discovering the north Poll

If you were creating a poll for the first time on Pollcode.com would you...

Sit for hours wondering what to make it about?

Customize it too look just right?

Impulsively make a couple polls on random subjects?

finish eating your lunch first?

pollcode.com free polls Haven't gotten the coding part figured out yet.

Chevylier

I am not officially restarting my blog. But my work is slowing down at last, so here is a little story I wrote. I may be writing full-time again soon.

Chevylier

Sir Track of Houston rumbled across the open plains of the Kingdom of Texas. His armored silver truck ripping over low bushes and hills, the suspension absorbing every jolt.

Track glanced at the passenger seat where his squire leaned on the dashboard, eyes closed. He turned back to the faint road, little more than a shallow trail. There was still plenty of biodiesel in the tank and it was five hours ride to Grease-pit village. Above the noonday sun glared down on canyons rising like scissors to pinch the silver truck. Sir Track narrowed his eyes and turned to punch his squire in the shoulder. The youth recoiled and instinctively reached for his combat knife. Sir Track grabbed his arm. “Steady Rigs.”

The knight pointed through the dirty windshield at the narrow pass that led through the canyon, the only pass to Grease-pit village within two hundred miles. “I need you awake here Rigs. Perfect place for an ambush. A squad of knaves with fire bombs could give us serious hurt from atop yon rocks. Look alive.”

Two thousand yards away in a cave tucked into the canyon wall a man named Barker stared at the silver truck through rusty binoculars. His practiced eye evaluated the target. This truck was no merchant or freewheeling mechanic. From its spiked bumper to the iron cattle pusher soldered to its grill it was a war rig. Barker did not recognize the pic of arms painted on the side. Doubtless this was some knight of Clothholm or Stockbarn. Or perhaps it was a marauder like himself. But no…this truck was well maintained. Certainly a knight on the road.

Normally a marauder would let the knight pass and wait for a weaker target. But Barker hated knights. He still carried the scars of a beating from a knight who caught him stealing food, years ago. The Barker stroked his beard and stowed the binoculars in the web gear that crisscrossed his ceramic body armor. He turned into the cave where his battle van sat parked, painted and stained black as midnight. Barker opened the driver’s door and kicked the teenager sleeping by his feet. “Razor, wake up.” He ground out at the grimy lad scrambling out of reach. “Wake up and pile in. We’re gonna bust up some wheels.”

Barker pulled the keys from the chain around his neck and jammed them into the ignition. No good driver went anywhere without his keys. Razor crawled into the turret welded onto the top of the van and loaded the heavy machine gun, snapping back the cocking handle with glee. He lived for hunting.

Sir Track flinched as a black van roared out of a cave seven hundred yards away. The knight yanked on the wheel and brought his vehicle to face the stranger. No pic of arms on the van, just a crudely spray-painted red sign. “Black Night.” Sir Track stuffed his head into his old riot police helmet. Rigs sat up straight next to him and loaded the knights assault rifle. “Sir, can we outrun them in the canyon?” Track turned to his squire. “Outrun them? Should we be afraid of some bandits in a battered rig?” Rigs turned red. “No Sire, I mean…” Track held up a gloved hand. “I know that you are brave, little Rigs. But we don’t know if this knave has planned a trap further into the pass. Here we will wait for him to make his play.”

Barker skidded the van to a stop and cursed at the fuel tank meter. He would have to siphon some biodiesel from this truck after he killed the knight. Above Razor bounced up and down with excitement. Barker accelerated. “O.K. Razor, let it rip.”

Razor opened up, the machine gun’s thumping beat shaking the whole van. Track saw the tracer rounds arcing towards him. Instinctively he yelled “Slits” and hauled on the chain hanging in the cab. A great slab of steel swung overhead and slammed down over the front windows of the truck. The machine gun rounds came dancing along the dry dirt, throwing up clouds of dust and slammed into the steel, ramming great dents in it. Track hit the gas and the truck surged forwards in a storm of spraying rocks and gravel.

The van lurched towards its target as Razor’s machine gun pounded the truck. Less than fifty yards separated the speeding vehicles. Barker bent his eyebrows in concentration. The knight’s truck was more maneuverable. He would try to ram the van. Barker decided that he would drive straight until the last moment and veer around the truck to hit its weak back area. It would take careful timing.

Staring through slits in the steel slab, Sir Track studied the approaching van, ignoring the sweat dripping into his eyes. Rigs saw the look in his master’s eyes and braced himself for impact. Twenty yards between the two vehicles, now ten, now five and Barker made his play. The van twisted to the left. At the same moment Sir Track threw the truck on an intercept course.

Metal crunched and spun off in little pieces as the truck rammed the van right behind its right wheel. The cattle pusher crumpled its armored body like tin. The van skidded a dozen yards on two wheels and flipped on its side in an explosion of dirt. Razor was thrown clear of the gun turret and collapsed in a pile nearby.

The truck slowed down and turned about, dragging its cattle pusher. Rigs relaxed and released the breath he had been holding. Sir Track sat for a moment, then grabbed his assault rifle and opened the door. A wave of hot air flooded into the fan-cooled cabin. Track grabbed Rigs by the shoulder. “Stay in the truck, I will call you in a minute. Find that towing cable.” Rigs scowled and pulled his compact shotgun from a compartment. “I want to come. I am not a coward.” Sir Track’s voice got quiet. “But can you follow an order?” Rigs stopped short and the fire in his eyes faded. “Already have I lost two squires in combat, you will not be the third. By the code of chevilry I must not ride a rig against an unrigged enemy. Stay here.”

Barker felt his pounding forehead gingerly and coughed. Smoke seeped into his inverted cabin, something in the engine must have caught fire. He disentangled himself from his seatbelt and crawled through a window. Peeking around his hammered van he saw the truck parked close by. The knight had just stepped out of the cabin and was approaching. Barker reached inside the window and pulled out a compact submachine gun with one hand while brushing sparks out of his beard with the other.

Razor opened his eyes and groaned, his leg was broken. Rising from the dust on one arm he pulled out his pistol from a leg holster. He saw the knight advancing towards the van, ignoring him. Razor fired seven wild shots with one hand. Sir Track dropped to one knee as pistol bullets kicked up dust around him. Reflexes honed by years of training he brought up his rifle and shot Razor through the chest. The dusty squire collapsed and Track was already moving again, weapon trained on the van.

Barker saw the knight coming. The cunning marauder pulled a grenade from his web gear, armed it and flipped it over the van. Sir Track saw the object land, a second later he knew what it was. Track threw himself on the ground. A loud bang as the bomb threw a thousand invisible pieces of hot shrapnel over his head and a shockwave through his heart.

Rigs watched the fight through a gun slit, gripping his shotgun tight. He was torn between his desire to fight with his master and earn the trust of this noble knight by staying put.

Barker stepped from behind the van, gun leveled. As Sir Track rose shakily to his feet Barker shot him in the back plate armor with a burst of bullets. Track pitched forwards and went down. Barker advanced, firing a stream of rounds into the knight. Track writhed as the stinging copper bolts pounded him into the ground. The SMG’s magazine ran dry and Barker slapped another magazine in with practiced ease. Rigs watched the knave deliberately shoot Sir Track in the unarmored leg, that was the last straw. Track might not want to lose another squire, but Rigs was not going to lose a knight on his watch. He cocked his shotgun and twisted the door open.

Barker savagely kicked the knight and wiped his bloody nose. “Not so tough now, are yeh? This is what you get for ‘reckin my rig. I’m gonna tie you to my grill and watch you dry out.” He fired just next to his victim’s head. Sir Track rolled over and Barker was staring into the muzzle of a handgun. Track fired, missing Barker’s head by millimeters. Barker kicked the handgun away and stomped down on Track’s arm.

Rigs ran forwards and yelled. “Hey knave, have at thee.” Barker looked up, just in time to catch a handful of buckshot in the chest plates. The impact threw him into a complete backflip. Barker slammed into the ground, gasping, empty of air and fully surprised. Rigs ran up close and holstered his shotgun before whipping out his combat knife. Barker’s watery eyes cleared and he saw a young face above him, felt himself being flipped over. Leather gloves searched him, snatching away his backup pistol and machete. He was vaguely aware of a knife pressing into the soft skin of his throat and a voice echoing through his aching ears. “Yield villain or I will end you. Yield. I will not waste a bullet on thee.” And Barker was afraid. He strove to get some air in his lungs, to do anything but gasp and flail around. Rigs stared down on him with cold brown eyes. Finally, it came out. “I yield.” Barker said.

Rigs of Houston cruised across the plains of the Kingdom of Texas in a crumpled silver truck. He was towing a still-smoking black van. A marauder named Barker lay chained in his truck bed. Miles behind him in a shallow grave lay Razor, his final resting place marked by a twisted machine gun bent into a cross.

Rigs glanced at the passenger seat where Sir Track reclined, tossing in an uneasy sleep, wounded leg wrapped in bandages. The bleeding had stopped but only at Castle Houston could he get the treatment he needed. Rigs took a deep breath, turned up the fan and sat back. Five hours ride to Castle Houston. Might as well relax while he could.  

Please comment and tell me what you think!

Farewell for now

So Long Everybody

So, because of circumstances beyond my control I will have to post less, or indeed no more articles on my blog for the foreseeable future. I will miss sharing all of my little stories with you and I sincerely hope to recommence blogging in the future some time. Thank you all for reading my articles and all your constructive comments. I am going now. I do not know how long it will be, but 

I Will Return !!!

And here is some really cool artwork from Deviantart.

So long everybody.

Honest Obi-One

Honest Obi-One

Luke Skywalker shook his head and smiled. "No, my father didn't fight in the clone wars, he was a navigator on a spice freighter." Old grey-haired Obi-Wan was unfazed. "That's what your uncle told you. He didn't hold with your father's ideals and thought he should have stayed here and not gotten involved." 

Luke grew grave. "How did my father die?" 

Obi-Wans Kenobi took a deep breath. "Sit down young Luke. It is time you knew the truth. C-3PO, pour a Jawa Juice. Luke will need a stiff drink after this." Kenobi turned back to Luke. "Originally I was going to conceal this information for your own good. But a Jedi does not lie just because he does not like to face reality." Luke cocked his head sideways. "Jedi?" Kenobi shifted in his seat and rearranged his tan robe.

"Your father did not die, Luke. He was my apprentice. I taught him everything I knew. He was the best starfighter pilot I had ever seen and a cunning warrior." Luke smiled. "So my father is still alive?" Kenobi continued. "Unfortunately he also grew up to be a spoiled, selfish and overconfident  young man. Apparently he also had anger problems. And he got married without telling me, or inviting me to the wedding.  He befriended the Emperor, the worst mass murderer in the history of the Galaxy. He ended up murdering all of the Jedi. Also he broke your mother's heart and helped found the Empire. He did try to kill me, so I cut off his limbs and left him in a pool of lava to die. But he was saved by the Emperor and now he walks around in a cybernetic suit and has a very deep voice." His name is Darth Vader.

Luke sat very still with his mouth hanging open. Obi-One continued. "Also Princess Leia, that girl from the hologram, is your sister." Luke managed to blurt. "So I am actually Prince Luke?" Kenobi smiled. "No, it's complicated. She was adopted." Luke grabbed for the Jawa Juice and missed, his eyes fixed on the old man. "How in the stars do you know all of this?" Kenobi glanced away. "Well. I have been watching you for your whole life. Also you can control a mystical energy called the Force. I lied earlier and I do recognize your droids. I know them well. I wonder what happened to R2-D2's jetpack rockets."

Luke staggered to his feet, knocking over the Jawa Juice. "My uncle Ben was right. You are just a crazy old man. I'm going back to the moisture farm." Obi-Wan jumped up, knocking C3-PO off balance. "Wait Luke, I need your help to rescue your sister." Luke yelled over his shoulder as he dashed out the door. "She is not my sister. You are crazy." Kenobi stood for a minute staring at the door, then turned to C3-PO. "Perhaps I should have broken it to him more slowly."

Luke raced across the vast dune sea in his landspeeder, forgetting the droids in his haste. He was so earger to get home he failed to notice the imperial dropship parked in his front yard. Luke skidded the speeder to a stop in front of his home and marched into the dining room. "Uncle Ben, I met Obi-One and he cooked up the kookiest story you ever heard..." Inside his Uncle Ben and Aunt Beru cowered at the table where a towering black robed figure sat, staring at Luke from behind the souless visor of a gleaming helmet. "Greetings. I was on my way to recover the droids and destroy my old master once and for all. But I thought that I would stop by the old homestead and visit my son." 

Colonist Competition

Colonist Competition

The massive colony ship Fragrance drifted through the vast emptiness of space. Built around a electrochemical artificial inertia gravity well it spun slowly, gleaming energy panels capturing every spare electron from the ambient energy swirling around it. Aboard one of its biome pods an ancient man sat in his hoverchair, gazing around at the artificial forest around him.

Three small children scrambled onto his lap. They were wiry and strong from constant exercise in the Biome Scouts program to counteract the weightlessness of space. One of them tossed the 40-lb iron weight she had been using as a toy to the forest floor and tugged on the old man's arm. "Gwandpa, tell us again where we came from." The old man adjusted his hearing aid with his connector pad. "Well, it is a planet called Earth. I was just a child that day, 204 years ago, when we blasted off for another planet, one our scientists said could support human life." The child was not satisfied. "But why Gwandpa? Why did we leave?" The old man shuddered. "Well, um, you see some bad people messed up Earth with garbage and wars, we don't have those things here." The child slipped off of his lap and tossed the iron toy to one of it's playmates. "Where are we going again?" The old man looked up at the artificial sky as if he could see the space beyond. "It is 20,000 years away. They call it E2. You will never see it, or your family, or theirs. But one day we will reach it and have a real home."

Aboard the Fragrance's bridge captain Harold Wipe stared out at the stars, ignoring the instruments before him. His first officer had reported an uncharted meteor from the Earth's solar system that would pass by them in moments. He stared as another ship instead rumbled past the colony ship. A video in crisp HD popped up on his screen.

Metal faceplate inscrutable, a robot peered at captain Harold Wipe and spoke in flat tones. "Greetings captain. I am 953, captain of the United Earth ship Touchdown. I command a retrofitted freighter containing five million human colonists frozen in state-of-the-art suspended animation, along with their pets and slaves. We have been in transit for 187 years 2 months three Earth-days. I find this encounter noteworthy because your vessel is so hopelessly antiquated. Without our metal-nanoparticle alloys and Ionic Fusion engines you cannot hope to reach E2 before your ship falls apart, or you are hit by a meteor, or suffer an internal war. I will recommend that a ship be sent after you to save you. It would be a great pity to have such a historical treasure be lost to space. Have a good day captain Harold Wipe, and fly safely."

Shining and swift, the Touchdown streaked by the Fragrance as the colony ship's human captain stared in disbelief, unable to comprehend that his voyage was now obsolete.

Six million miles later the Touchdown encountered an anomaly. It seemed that a beam of Zeta-particles, born in the heart of a Phlebotinum reactor field, was rippling past the freighter stacked with frozen humans and robots. As the ribbon of gamma particles glowed and bent past a subspace transmission beamed from it into the circuit brain of 953. The robot received an impression, a fuzzy image of a teenager with curly purple hair lounging on a dashboard pushing random buttons. The mind-message came through. "Hey clanker, this is chief Dude Boowap Uggie of the spacesurfer Dunno. We were just cruisin' over on a ten-minute ride to E2 when we saw your old barge driftin' along. By the way we fixed up Earth while you were gone. Tell captain Harold Wipe if you see him that his dad just came out of cryosleep for his 800th birthday and says hi. Id stop ta chat but Iv'e got six instant TV channels transmitting directly to me brain and a load of tourists who want to see that planet we were gonna colonize. Gotta go, stay golden metal dude."

The freighter Touchdown trudged stolidly along towards E2. But it's robotic captain stared after the ribbon of energy, it's circuits unable to cope with what it had just seen.

Greasy and liberally spraypainted, the spacesurfer Dunno slammed to a stop in front of the planet E2. Chief dude Boowap slapped deputy dude Jiggup on the back and flew towards the drop pods with his personal jetpack. "Hey Jiggup. Fly this thing while I be the first dude to ever step on E2."

Hot and spraypainted, the pod hit the rolling green hills of E2 and unfolded like a flower, revealing the tattooed face and gold-suited figure of Boowap. The kid threw a dozen spheres into the air, which deployed into quantum drones beaming footage live back to Earth. He raised his voice, high and squeaky in the helium-rich atmosphere of E2. "Hey everybody. That's right, it's your favorite space-bender, da big Uggie. Watch this. Boowap turned and raised his foot dramatically. "This is one big step for me, and you is all cool with that."

Before Boowap's eyes the air shimmered and three figures appeared before him. Dressed in sensible green robes, with shining eyes and high forheads, the figures stepped forwards. The formost figure sent a telepathic broadcast to his companions. "Brothers, the teleporter works. Let us next transport the Fragrance and Touchdown here, for those pioneers deserve to witness this historic moment.
Boowap blinked as Harold Wipe and 953 appeared besides him in beams of light and quantum fallout. He smiled sheepishly and slapped them each on the back. "Hey dudes, glad ya could make it."

The three captains noticed the three teleporting scientists standing on the crest of the nearest hill and walked towards them over the alien meadow of waving solar fronds. They reached the top and saw what drew the admiration of the scientists. There, on the distant horizon bloomed a gleam of purple splendor. The sun was rising. And the six humans felt at home.

XF-41: Phantom Squadron

XF-41: Phantom Squadron

Somewhere in the South Pacific

Major Duncan swayed on the rolling deck of the aircraft carrier U.S.S. Hector. He stared off the 

port bow, where a tiny shape approached. The salty sea air stung his eyes. Behind him the sun was 

rising out of the ocean in a pale of spray. The aircraft was less than three thousand yards away now and Duncan could make out it's unique V-shaped fuselage. As it lined up to land the plane turned on its lights. The major smiled as the aircraft suddenly flew straight up, stopped in mid-air and swooped down like a paper plane to land effortlessly on the bucking carrier deck.

A sturdy figure rose from the cockpit and climbed stiffly down the ladder that groundcrew had deployed. Major Duncan jogged across the deck. The chilly morning wind whipped through him despite his wool-lined jacket, thick pants and boots. The figure staggered against the wind to meet him and pounded him on the back. "Man Duncan, it's colder than a wet Christmas up there, but I love flying that plane." Duncan's stiff, stubbly face creased into a smile. "I know what you mean Captain."

He glanced behind his friend's back at the strange, tailess aircraft. "The XF-41 is one strange bird, but it can pull a turn like nothing I've ever seen. I can turn so tight in it that I get queasy." Captain Charles Baker, or "Chum" as the squadron called him, began pacing the deck, suddenly sober. 

"Yeah, it can turn tight all right. Several test pilots died after blacking out on a tight turn, pulling to many G's. We got lucky that this plane ever got out of the laboratory." Duncan fell in step alongside Chum. "Another thing about that plane, you can fly it straight up and it won't ever stop. Doesn't stall or anything, just keeps going up. It's incredible, like the air currents don't even touch it." Chum reached the barracks door. "Yep, Incredible machine, make sure those powder boys don't overfill my 

fuel tanks." And he was gone.

Duncan leaned against the superstructure, sheltered from the worst of the wind, and glanced at the beautiful sunset. His blue eyes narrowed. A tiny speck rose from the sun-drenched sea. The carrier's radar seemed to see it at the same instant because alarms began blaring across the deck. Groundcrew 

sprang out of hatches and raced across the deck. Duncan slipped through the door and steel hallways crowded with red lights and piping towards the briefing room.

A dozen pilots met him there, buckling on webgear and harnesses. The squadron's chief officer, Burt 

Bannister, stood at the chalkboard. "Listen up boys. We have a problem. Nobody but the occasional fishing boat is supposed to be crazy enough to sail this far south. But some lost Japanese patrol plane has been spotted. Speed is everything. Our escorting Wildcat fighters are not fueled yet. So I am deploying  Phantom Squadron to take down that plane before it can tell the enemy anything. Remember

how important it is to keep these new planes secret. They could change the war. You think you can catch that nosy pontoon-scooter?" "Yes Sir" echoed the pilots.

Duncan charged back on deck and sprinted to his XF-41. He patted the blue sparrow painted on the nose for luck and jumped into the cockpit. He skipped the takeoff checklist, this was an emergency.

Goggles on, oxygen tank and electric heating plugged in, windshield lowered, fuel mixture full rich. He had done this too many times to forget anything. The twin engines roared to life as the groundcrew spun the props. Duncan wiped his foggy cockpit glass and taxied over to the takeoff strip. His XF-41 lurched across the icy deck, followed by the other four planes of Phantom Squadron.

Takeoff. Major Duncan swooped off of the deck and sailed into the blue sky, his controls throbbing and shaking from the twin engines. His four-plane command lined up behind him, sweeping the skies for the scout plane. Duncan raced northeast, the last known direction of their target. 

At 7:43 AM they saw it, gliding across the clouds. Duncan opened his throttle all the way. Slowly, so slowly it seemed, they drew closer. The scout must have seen them. It banked away and turned west.

Duncan wondered what the enemy pilot must be thinking. The five XF-41's made a strange sight, some sort of bat, not your usual bird. Scary. Duncan shook his head, to clear it. He needed to focus on the mission.

Duncan could clearly make out the blood red rising sun insignia on the scout's wings now. He glanced down the gunsights and fired a burst of shells from the twin canons mounted in the XF-41's nose. The bright stream of tracers fell short. Patience, Duncan scolded himself, wait until you can't miss.

Duncan maneuvered his flight until they were right above the fleeing scout plane. He gripped his radio, palms sweaty inside his leather gloves. "O.K. Phantom's, lets go get 'em." The Major pushed forward his stick and his plane responded instantly, swooping down on his target. A quick burst of shells and he raced past the enemy plane. One after another his flight followed him in. Purple shell bursts rippled through the scout. It's pontoon was blown off and whirled down to the water. One of the targets wings was shredded, it's tail rudders torn off. Somehow the scout kept flying, sweeping and straggling through the sky. 

Duncan came for a final pass from below, Flying straight up. This is why he became a pilot, to do the things that nobody else could, the thrilling feelings, of flying upside down, of rolling and even going straight up. Major Duncan pulled the trigger. The purple puffs of doom followed the scout as it dove in a desperate bid to survive. Duncan followed, and overshot his target. He yanked back the stick. The whole plane shuddered, diving towards the rolling sea. For an instant He thought that the ailerons had jammed. Then the XF-41 curved upwards, the wings slicing white trails in the wind. Duncan felt faint, 8 G's pushing his head back into the seat. His plane shuddered straight, his eyes cleared and he was flying point-blank towards the enemy scout. Duncan squeezed the trigger and rolled his plane to the side. The enemy scout whooshed past him, exploded into flaming debris and hit the Pacific Ocean in a burst of spray.

Duncan and his flight headed home. He removed his goggles to wipe them clear of fog. It was still extremely cold in this cockpit and the controls were stiff. But he would not trade it for a seat in any other plane in the world. This plane couldn't carry many guns, or fly very far, or fly very fast. But it 

could turn like no other. It was just plain FUN to fly.

Phantom Squadron settled in for their approach and one by one touched down on the aircraft carrier Hector. Duncan came to a stop, shut down the engines and raised the cockpit. He stood, stretching, the salty air stinging his eyes, wind rumpling his flightsuit, and gazed into the Pacific sunrise.

Metal Spring

Hi readers.

I am back and can begin replying to comments more often. My trip was quite inspiring and someone asked me to come up with a twist on the generic poems about spring. So here it is. Wrote it in the sunset while I was supposed to be studying. Please comment and tell me what you think of it.

Metal Spring

My ice cocoon cracks.

Oh! My hydraulics!

Spring.

Sensors click on,

and pick up sound,

trickling.

Memory banks crammed with data,

remember civilizations,

burning.

I rise from the puddle,

gears on green turf,

churning.

Programmed for war,

I watch peace,

returning.

Missiles hang useless,

I am a robot,

healing.

Not valid targets,

dappled deer,

spring.

Steel Beast Handler

Steel Beast Handler

Now For a much overdue post. My new job is the culprit for my recent tardiness. But it was also the inspiration for this little poem. Please comment below and tell me what you think and how you think it could be improved. I am always glad to see comments.

It roars to life, my Steel Beast.

Oil dripping from it's jaws.

Settles to a growl and roars again.

Hungry and eager to begin.

It's hot breath is on my hand.

I grip it tight, ready to stop

the Beast, to reign it in.

I lead it to the feast, and the Beast,

roaring in anticipation, bites deep.

It bites with metal teeth and spits,

 spraying me with chips and dust.

Devouring everything it can reach,

the Beast fills the air with howls.

Leaping up, it tries to bite me,

the filed teeth snapping at my face.

Now the Beast thirsts and I slake it, 

pouring a cocktail into it's roaring maw.

I file it's teeth as it sleeps, panting,

hot and always hungry.

Again I awake the tireless creature

and we walk through the forest,

A handler and the Steel Beast called

Chainsaw.