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In municipal work yards thousands of men and women (panel beaters in this case) are pegged out in a grid, each allocated a 120cm square. Amenities amount to uncovered channels from each work station, feeding into larger channels which facilitate the exodus of waste, like an irrigation system in reverse. However a lone figures' tributary remains unblemished. Yard Elders claim he hasn't relinquished solid nor liquid, neither eaten, slept, or spake a single word since his presence permeated sector eight. Preposterous this claim undoubtedly is, it was only talk of his strike rate climbing to nine hits per second that pushed the Elders' credibility beyond repair.

At work in his booth, this man's worn, nub-like hammers thrash away as though their true destiny lay a foot beneath the steel. It is his rhythm alone that welcomes the dawn, and continues on to exceed the standard work-day by God knows how long. The question being: what fuel then does this man-machine require to punctuate time's passing so relentlessly?

Somewhere in the sprawl an inaction sparks a pause. Metal workers exponentially drop out of the industrial orchestra, stillness rippling outwards til the whole yard rests agape. The figure everybody now beholds bears aloft a mighty hammer that with the inevitability of death, comes arcing down while impoverished lungs screech into the air "CHANCELLOR!!!"