Deep into the bowels of earth did I roam, inhaling the dust and scent of old, cool metal as I ventured forth. Weapon in hand and partner at my side I felt no fear, only a sense of acute anticipation tempered by nervousness and uncertainty. As we turned the corner the black behemoths came into vision, not in the position we had left them and were thus thrown- why had they moved? What had made them move? Suddenly fearful we advanced slowly, circling our prey. Satisfied they had not noticed us we attacked in waves, gears whirling, stripping their steel hooks, decimating their skeleton.

Sweating and exhausted the beasts lay in pieces at our feet and we proceeded to throw their carcasses into the pit, piece by well won piece. It was only after that I felt the stinging pain and looked to my right hand to see my palm dripping with blood and realized that one of the buggers had gotten me before its death. Smiling to myself, I cared not of the blood and reveled in my victory.

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Okay, so maybe dismantling the last of the risers used in the variety show with a drill wasn't nearly as epic as that, but it was rather entertaining to use a drill of such strength and power. And the bloody hand is true, though it was not dripping. Most of the blood had already dried.

Still, I look on it as a war wound and bear the sting with pride.

Don't mess with me and my power tools...