TIG torch, TIG torch, burning bright
In the workshops of the night
What immoral hand or eye could frame thy dreadful symmetry?
Eyeing the ruined remains of the deservedly scuttled Iron Butterfly, and Honey Buzzard - cut down before her time, Deadblow's fevered imagination hatched a plan: graft the undamaged parts of each ship together into something new and unprecedented. Threespeed was intrigued by the idea and quickly agreed to join the vile experiment. Soon, metal was abraded and cut, files and hammers (of course) were applied, and an entire loosely-assembled ship was seen being dragged into the welding bay and shrieking under the application of an electric arc. These deranged experimenters showed no mercy and knew no morals in their quest for eldritch knowledge. The first shocking product of their labors is that forced union of a buzzard with a butterfly, named for the mad genius who inspired their method: Doctor Moreau
. . .
The voice in the dark began intoning a mad litany, line by line, and I and the rest to repeat it. As they did so, they swayed from side to side in the oddest way, and beat their hands upon their knees; and I followed their example. I could have imagined I was already dead and in another world. That dark hut, these grotesque dim figures, just flecked here and there by a glimmer of light, and all of them swaying in unison and chanting,
“Not to go on all-fours; that is the Law. Are we not Men? “Not to suck up Drink; that is the Law. Are we not Men? “Not to eat Fish or Flesh; that is the Law. Are we not Men? “Not to claw the Bark of Trees; that is the Law. Are we not Men? “Not to chase other Men; that is the Law. Are we not Men?”
And so from the prohibition of these acts of folly, on to the prohibition of what I thought then were the maddest, most impossible, and most indecent things one could well imagine. A kind of rhythmic fervour fell on all of us; we gabbled and swayed faster and faster, repeating this amazing Law. Superficially the contagion of these brutes was upon me, but deep down within me the laughter and disgust struggled together. We ran through a long list of prohibitions, and then the chant swung round to a new formula.
“His is the House of Pain. “His is the Hand that makes. “His is the Hand that wounds. “His is the Hand that heals.”
And so on for another long series, mostly quite incomprehensible gibberish to me about Him, whoever he might be. I could have fancied it was a dream, but never before have I heard chanting in a dream.
“His is the lightning flash,” we sang. “His is the deep, salt sea.”
A horrible fancy came into my head that Moreau, after animalising these men, had infected their dwarfed brains with a kind of deification of himself. However, I was too keenly aware of white teeth and strong claws about me to stop my chanting on that account.
“His are the stars in the sky.”