The steel door to the engine room blew its bolts and out of the issuing smoke coalesced Black Master Chief Harold, radiant black with sweat like fresh-chiseled coal, his chin streaked and gooed from fuel-tasting, his asbestos jacket smoldering. Behind him were his fire lackey and his boiler monkey, hints of fume from their nostrils, them not much larger than myself, their bent helmets hardly protecting their hair in the places where it was singed to broiled nubbles. They looked shot from cannons.
The steel door to the engine room blew its bolts and out of the issuing smoke coalesced Black Master Chief Harold, radiant black with sweat like fresh-chiseled coal, his chin streaked and gooed from fuel-tasting, his asbestos jacket smoldering. Behind him were his fire lackey and his boiler monkey, hints of fume from their nostrils, them not much larger than myself, their bent helmets hardly protecting their hair in the places where it was singed to broiled nubbles. They looked shot from cannons.
- Mark Richard, Fishboy, pp. 67-68